Drenched
Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.
Disclaimer: If House was mine I think life in general would be better. For everyone, really. There would be no war, all members of society would treat one another with respect and consideration, cute things would be plentiful, Global Warming would cease to be an issue and all the cultures of the Earth would gather together, join hands, and sing 'Kumbaya My Lord'. Sadly, however, I don't own House, and the world and I both suffer for this. –wink- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's. Bah humbug.
Author's Note: Yarg. This chapter came out kicking and screaming, be forewarned. My attempts to have this posted in a week were hampered by a last-minute request to house/child sit whilst the couple is off on a week long vacation. Writing around little ones very difficult.
In any case, here it is now.
The last of the significant OCs are introduced here. I know there's a lot of them, but please, bare with me. Know that they are all plot devices, used solely for the progression of the characters from the show. Although, I must admit, I am quite fond of Clara. -grin-
I will be editing chapters up until Tuesday (no way am I going to continue to try work off of this house's one computer…), so if you see something saying that the story has been updated before then, ignore it. Unless you want to see the ends of the dreaded 'O' and the horrible one 'l' 'Alison'. –grin-
This is the section where I ruthlessly kill "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This." Sorry Nicole Burdette.
This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."
My medical knowledge is nonexistent. Take the things I say about the subject to heart at your own peril!
My General Hospital knowledge isjust as bad.
Reviews/Reviewers are loved.
Thank you and enjoy!
---
Chapter Four: I Want To Forget, I Want To Remember
I
want never to say goodbye to you
Even
on the street corner or on the phone.
I
want to forget.
I
want to remember us.
-Nicole
Burdette
---
The awkward silence was back.
That horrible quiet he had somehow managed to forget in the past three and a half weeks. It was a dreadful sound, nothing. It blared over the calming noise of the rain on pavement from outside to completely fill up his office with its gaping void.
And this wasn't even in person. It was just a phone call.
It was kind of funny, if he thought about it. A conversation with Julie was the equivalent to a fierce vortex that sucked up everything in its path to leave a great void in Wilson's universe, like a black hole.
Was this really what he had lived with for the past five years? Day by day, just trying to avoid these pauses? He repressed an internal note of relief, grateful that he had saved himself from a life of attempting to fill the quiet with something significant.
Only to be instantly ashamed for the thought.
He knew that his third wife had never loved him, but he also knew that he had meant something to her. Provided her with a certain respect and security that she had cherished deeply and likely felt lost without. His leaving had hurt her, and here he was, grateful for her absence.
Wilson hated to cause others pain. He had always been a relatively considerate person, but time and time again he hurt the people he loved, often for selfish, stupid reasons. And every time he felt like a lesser person, like a disgrace.
He had to say something, make an effort. She deserved that much. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," Julie sounded mildly surprised at the pleasantry, taken aback, "I've been living with my sister. You remember Margie?"
Wilson tried his best not to be offended, "Of course I remember Margie. We went over to her house last New Year's."
"Oh, right. Yes, well. It's been very nice." A momentary pause, "And you? How are you doing?"
"Just fine," James wasn't an idiot. Talking to his ex-wife about his other ex-wife was a disaster waiting to happen, one that he was more than eager to avoid. "How's work?"
"It's actually been a little hectic lately, with Mr. Pratt gone and the China deal," he could almost see the small, side of the mouth, smile she was bound to be giving. "Luckily the presidents have been very understanding; they keep sending us candies and other sweets. But, the rest of the office is falling apart at the seams without the boss around to pick up after us... How is he doing?"
"Alright," Wilson leaned back in his chair, ignoring the files on his desk. This just might turn out to be a pleasant conversation. "He's stable right now, but we still don't know what caused the episodes."
Julie snorted from the other side of the line, "I'm not surprised."
"Really?" Wilson suppressed his initial reaction of anger, instead summoning up a genuine curiosity towards her feelings. "Why do you say that?"
"The fact that House isn't actually working in the manner he is supposed to is far from astounding to me."
Julie, the ever hard-working perfectionist, hated House. Hated that he felt as if he could cost on his talent alone rather than combine that natural skill with some elbow grease to reach a new level of excellence in medical treatment. Hated that he treated his job as a curse rather than a blessing. Hated that House had encouraged the distance between Julie and her husband.
When they hadn't been staring at one another blankly during their marriage, they had been screaming. Each blaming the other (or House) for problems that had nothing to do with what either of them had or hadn't done. Problems that neither wished to admit were inherent in their relationship before it had even been fully formed, and that they had simply chosen to ignore.
James took in a deep breath. "He's doing the best he can."
"If he was really doing his best Pratt would be back at work by now."
The twinge in Wilson's neck gave a painful flare and he kneaded the spot. "You assume that because you don't like him, he isn't doing his job."
"No, I assume he isn't doing his job because I've met the man. He's never devoted his full effort into anything, much less his work, which he uses as a playground to toy with people's lives."
"He saves dozens of people-"
"But he could save hundreds if he chose to. He doesn't. Just like I'm sure he's choosing to waste time now instead of caring for his patient."
James scowled. "If only your accusations were supported by actual evidence."
"Evidence? House is a great doctor. If he really was doing all he can then how do explain why Pratt is still at the hospital due to an allergic reaction, one of the most simple maladies?" She paused, halting her angry pace. "The man is not doing his job."
Many things could be said about Greg, and many were, but once a person became his medical responsibility, that patient became his first priority. It was rarely out of a sense of human generosity, obviously, but more out of a twisted sense of professional obligation. House did everything he could to ensure his patient was cured, even if those things weren't necessarily moral or right by the traditional definition.
This didn't mean he liked his patients, but they were his. And because House was possessive and selfish, he always got the best for his things. He would make sure he did everything possible to improve their health. Whether they, or anyone else, wanted it, consequences be damned.
Many people didn't understand this about House, and James generally didn't care. They still respected his abilities as a doctor and, to an extent, trusted his judgment. Those who didn't typically had PhDs backing up their claims rather than a four year grudge.
"Did you call just to berate me about how House's work ethic isn't up to your standards?" Wilson asked, his tone less than polite.
"No," Julie sounded meek, rebuked.
"Then why did you?" Still harsh.
His question was met with silence.
"Fine. Then I'm going back to work," Wilson started to hang up the phone.
"Wait!" Frantic, pleading.
Wilson put the phone back to his ear. "What?"
"I'm pregnant."
---
Foreman was holding on for dear life as Chase made a wide turn into the parking lot of the Pratt mansion, the doctor grinning broadly as he brought the vehicle to a halt in front of the large building.
Foreman glared at him as he opened his door, "Never again."
Chase looked a little dissatisfied, "Aw, come on Foreman!"
Eric ignored him as he made his way out of the car, closing the door and heading to the entrance of the house. As soon as they dropped Cameron off at her apartment all of Chase's attempts at 'cautious driving' (which had been pretty damn pathetic to begin with) had been thrown out the window, resulting in more than a few close calls.
He didn't care what Chase had to say. He almost died in that damn car. Three times.
Australians.
"Don't tell me you didn't have fun!" Chase said as he ran to catch up.
"Oh, right. Because seeing my life flash before my eyes is my definition of a good time." Foreman rang the doorbell. "I'm driving next time."
Chase grumbled. "Spoil sport."
"Maniac."
"I drive fast! That hardly makes me mentally deranged."
"But cutting in front of no less than five people and then laughing at them as they flipped you off does."
"Sissy."
This was how Foreman and Chase's relationship worked. They argued about everything, drove one another insane, and if they hadn't been forced to work together every single day, would likely hate each other by now. But, due to an immeasurable amount of hours spent at the hospital, more rode-trips to patients house's and places of work than Foreman wanted to count, and sleepless nights at the lab, they had learned to deal with, and even appreciate, each other.
Normally, no circumstances could have brought the two doctors together. And although they still had moments of tension, they had somehow, through continuous exposure and mutual suffering, eased themselves into a reluctant friendship that had grown over the years. A friendship that, surprisingly, Foreman enjoyed.
This did not, however, mean that Foreman would ever allow Chase to drive him anywhere again.
"Call me what you want; I'm still driving back."
"You, Eric Foreman, are a kill-joy."
The door opened and a woman, the maid most likely, ushered them in. They had called on the way, so she merely pointed further inside of the house and went about her business.
Foreman couldn't blame her. The place was huge. It would be hell to clean.
And it was going to be hell to search through.
They swept through the bottom floor in an hour, going from room to room, looking under cabinets and loose floorboards, finding the most remote of corners and searching for anything unusual.
They found nothing. Except for several bowls of candy from China, apparently from the presidents of a company Pratt was trying to sell to. Chase took a handful of the colorful things and stuck them in his pocket.
"A snack for on the way back," he said as they made their way back to entryway, "You'll thank me later."
Foreman rolled his eyes, reaching where they had entered the house.
"I've decided," Eric said with a sigh as he started up the large staircase in the entrance of the mansion, "I'm going to get a new job."
Chase was right behind him, "Sure you will." He was smiling as he said it.
Foreman glared behind him, "I'm not joking. I'm tired of this."
They reached the top of the stairs and split up, Foreman going to the left and Chase going off to the right.
"Would you stop whining?" Chase yelled from his side of the floor. "Someone had to do this; might as well be us."
"You only say that because you don't care that you're running errands instead of being a doctor."
"Sure I do," Foreman heard as he went into one of the spare bed-rooms, heading straight for the closest. "If I had to choose between scrubbing-in for a surgery or doing this, I'd go for the surgery. But, hey, if looking through this place is what I'm stuck with, oh well."
"It doesn't bother you that you spent all those years at medical school for this?" Nothing in the closet. Not even clothes. On to the dressier.
"Not really," he heard a small thump and Chase's muttering before his colleague continued to talk to him through several walls. "It's not as if we're doing these things for shits and giggles. We do it to get our patients better faster. You like them well enough, shouldn't you understand that?"
"This," Foreman said with his voice raised, reluctantly fingering through undergarments that hadn't been washed in at least a year, "isn't getting Pratt better." He shuddered and closed the drawer.
"Just because you think it's not going to help him doesn't mean that it won't. If House has us doing it, there's a reason. You need to learn to be patien-" Chase trailed off. "Foreman, you're not going to believe this."
Intrigued by his friend's interest, Foreman raised an eyebrow and left the room, following Chase's voice to the master bedroom.
"What?" He asked from the doorway.
Chase gestured him to come closer from his spot in front of the closet, standing up from the floor with a large book in his hands. "I was looking in the closet and I dropped the box from one of the shelves," Foreman took a closer look at the floor to see a large cardboard box on its side, pictures, books and slips of paper scattered around. "I was riffling through it and I found... Just look at this."
Chase handed him the book, already opened to a page. Foreman looked down at it and then back up again, "It's a college yearbook. So?"
Chase sighed. "Look at the pictures."
Foreman, still suspicious, did so. And then saw it.
"Oh, wow."
"Wilson was really scrawny when he was younger, wasn't he?" Chase went behind Eric to hover.
He was skinny, humorously so, wearing glasses that were far too big for his face, standing to the side of the picture with a guitar slung around his back and smiling. Various other students were gathered around him, all with different instruments and holding a sign that read 'Recreational Band' in large block letters.
"What are the odds..." Foreman muttered quietly as he continued to study the picture.
"There's a note in his writing too, but I can't read it," Chase spoke up from behind him.
Foreman shot him a look and rolled his eyes, "You call yourself a doctor but you can't read scrawl?"
"Well look at that! It's like a chicken stuck it's feet in ink and walked all over the paper."
"Allow me to demonstrate," Foreman gave a dignified cough and began to read.
"'Sara,' Pratt's wife then, 'It's been a week since we've met you and you're still resisting my charms,'" Foreman stopped briefly and he and Chase exchanged a sardonic glance. They were both aware of Wilson's reputation.
"'However, I am not discouraged. As it turns out I heard we will be seeing a lot more of one another in the next four years (who would've thought we'd end up at the same grad school?), and I have every intention of using that time to my best advantage. Of course, you could spare me (and yourself) the pain and humiliation that my attempting to 'woo' you will cause, and just agree to go on a date with me. You should be aware by now that I am extremely persistent. What do you say? I know you have to like me, at least a bit, and I can tell that you want to give me a chance. Come on, it'd be fun.
"'Think on it, and expect some flowers later this week.
"'Jimmy Wilson.'"
There was a pause as Foreman lowered the book and closed it, neither of the men knowing quite what to say about this sudden insight into their colleague's past.
At last, Chase snickered. "Oh man," he said, taking the book from Foreman and beginning to gather the other items off of the ground, "House would be having a field day right now if he was here."
---
Cameron woke up with a jerk to the vibration of her cell-phone in her pocket.
After Chase and Foreman had dropped her off she had staggered into her apartment, dragged herself to her bed and had then promptly passed out, only just shrugging out of her lab-coat before she had hit the mattress.
The sleep had been blissful. She couldn't remember enjoying being unconscious so much since med school, when she would rather forego showering, eating and down-time just for a two hour nap. Working with House was almost a pleasure cruise in comparison to those days.
Her phone gave another vibration and she groggily tugged her phone out of her pocket and flipped it open, "'Lo?"
"Cameron? It's Chase."
"Hmm…" She rubbed at her eyes with her free hand. "Should you really be talking on the phone while driving?" She asked as she sat up, her mind latching onto the last fact she could recall; Chase driving.
Her colleague grumbled. "Foreman took the keys away from me."
Allison's only saving grace was the fact that she was still too bleary to summon up the energy to laugh.
Chase made an unidentifiable noise. "You don't think I'm a bad driver, do you Cameron?"
"Err…" Cameron stood up from her bed and stretched, "I wouldn't say bad, exactly…"
Chase let out an audible sigh and Cameron heard Foreman chuckling in the background.
"What time is it?" Allison was wandering through her apartment, heading for the kitchen to get some coffee.
"About 3:16 in the afternoon."
Cameron stopped in her tracks. "It's almost been five hours?"
"Yeah," Chase muttered, "Pratt's house is big."
"I suppose that's one of the perks of being a multibillionaire," she had reached her kitchen turned on the coffee machine, grabbing a mug. "So why did you call?"
"We're about a half an hour away. Do you want us to come and pick you up on our way back to the hospital or you going to skip out on the rest of the day?"
"No, come pick me up, please. I still need to visit Clara." Her sister had a three hour radiation session that began at one. Clara, being Clara, had arrived three and a half hours earlier than her appointment with every intention of watching her soaps, claiming that she hadn't had the time earlier in the week and that, if she had cancer anyway, she might as well milk it for all it was worth.
"Alright. We'll be there in a bit."
"Wait, Chase, how did you find out about Clara?" In her sleep-deprived state, Allison had forgotten to ask earlier.
She was met with silence.
"Chase?"
"You're not going to like it Cameron."
She put down her cup of coffee and straightened. "What is it?"
"House called me up to her room to send Foreman and me to Pratt's mansion."
Cameron was momentarily shocked. "House was with Clara when he sent you two out?"
"Yeah," Chase paused and she could practically see the puzzled expression on his face. "They were watching General Hospital together."
Cameron was torn between amusement and horror. "Does he know she's my sister?"
"I don't think so. I was going to mention it, but she stopped me before I had the opportunity."
Cameron gave an internal sigh of relief, instantly grateful that Clara knew her as she did, or else Allison would have a very unpleasant situation on her hands.
House was like a woodpecker.
He would find a weak point in a person's armor and keeping poking at it, unceasingly, until it gave way and he was allowed access to a person's insides. Cameron had felt the sensation before, that of House crawling under her skin and fumbling with her emotions, toying with her head, sometimes in self-defense and sometimes just for his own amusement. And yet, she had no one to blame for the experience save for herself. He didn't need to poke all that much before she was opening the door and allowing him in.
It had been a mistake, one she was not eager to repeat. You gave House an inch and he destroyed you, despite his claims to the contrary. 'I'm not going to crush you,' indeed.
"I'm sorry, I know I was being an idiot for almost letting it slip,"
Cameron exhaled, "No, don't worry. No harm done. Thanks for telling me. I'll see you guys in a bit, alright?"
"Okay, be there soon."
Chase hung up and Cameron contemplated her situation. Clara was a weak spot, and she wouldn't put it past her boss to manipulate her sister in order to press Cameron's buttons. Granted, the thought of anyone manipulating Clara was laughable, but, how Allison felt about her older sister's condition... That would make an easy target for House to exploit.
She shook herself. No need to worry over it now. At this moment she needed coffee, a mirror to fix her hair, which she was sure was a complete mess by this point, and a change of clothes. With a sigh she took another large gulp of coffee and set about making herself presentable before the boys showed up.
Twenty minuets later and she was in the back of Chase's car, with Foreman driving and Chase glaring at him all the while.
"I can't believe you won't let my drive my own car. I feel like I'm sixteen."
"If you didn't drive like you were sixteen this wouldn't be necessary."
"Have you been arguing about this the whole way back?" Cameron asked with a grin as she sat up in her seat, trying to have easier access to the conversation.
"He's been arguing," Foreman remarked blandly as he switched lanes, "I've been ignoring him. So, about Clara," Foreman looked back at Cameron while at a stoplight. "How's she doing?"
Cameron shrugged, "As well as can be expected. She's got stage Three A breast cancer, and they're trying to shrink the tumor with radiation therapy so that they can do a lumpectomy in two days."
"Really?" Chase asked, turning and facing Cameron just as Foreman turned back to drive. "Is it working?"
"Surprisingly, yes." Cameron knitted her hands together on her lap. "Clara wanted to avoid a mastectomy if it was possible, so Wilson decided to try the technique. It's not very popular here, with most doctors just wanting to hack off everything, but it appears to be showing positive results."
"Wow," Foreman's eyebrows furrowed, "I wouldn't have taken Wilson for being so creative."
"Me either, actually." Cameron sighed and smiled slightly, "You guys have no idea how reassuring it's been to have Wilson as her doctor."
"Wilson's overseeing the case personally?" Chase looked thoughtful at Cameron's nod. "I thought he was just supervising the attending."
"No, Clara's his patient." Cameron blushed and looked down at her hands, "I actually asked him to take her on, and transfer her from her regular hospital."
Foreman tilted his head, "And he did it?"
"The same day I asked," Cameron grinned, "It's the only reason I'm not out of my mind with worry now."
"Is he really that good?" Chase asked.
"Yes," Cameron answered without hesitation, causing both boys to send her odd glances. She shrugged. "I've done research, he's one of the best in the country. The only reason he hasn't gotten more notice in the medical community is because he's so young."
"Well obviously," Chase said as he pulled a couple of ornately wrapped candies out of his pocket, handing one to Cameron and unwrapping the other himself, "If the doctor's not prehistoric they think he hasn't suffered enough to have earned any title of merit."
Foreman smirked from the driver's seat, "Speaking of Wilson being young, you wouldn't believe what we found at Pratt's."
"What?" Cameron asked, fingering the tin-foil covered bit in her hand.
Chase chimed in before Foreman had the opportunity, "Wilson's college year-book. Apparently he was played guitar in the recreational band and lusted after Pratt's wife."
"Go figure," Cameron didn't trust things wrapped in so many bright colors. "Small world."
Chase pointed to the candy that Cameron was still staring at "They're actually pretty good," he popped the piece into his mouth, "swiped them from 'the palace'."
"Are you should you should be stealing from our patient?" Cameron was still eyeing the sweet suspiciously.
Chase rolled his eyes, "There were a million of the things in five bowls in the kitchen." He got another out of his pocket, "These won't be missed."
"What did you find at Pratt's anyway, besides candy and college pictures of Wilson?" Cameron began to unwrap the candy.
Foreman snorted. "Some mold on one of the pipes to the sink in an upstairs bathroom."
"You don't think that has anything to do with his attacks, do you?"
"No," Chase grumbled, "But if we find it we have to check it." He gestured to the candy again, "Just eat it already. It's good, I swear."
Cameron sighed and placed it in her mouth. "Huh, it is good."
Foreman perked up, "Here, give me one," he held out his hand expectantly.
"No way," Chase said with a smirk. "You took my car. You don't deserve a treat."
"I am driving you know. I could slam us into a wall."
"But you're far too responsible for that, Doctor Foreman. Poor innocent Allison would be hurt."
"Sacrifices can be made for the sake of some sugar for an empty stomach. Don't tempt me. Give me a damn candy."
"Nope."
Cameron sighed and listened to their squabble for the rest of the trip, only barely resisting the urge to smack them both on the back of the head for being ridiculous.
Foreman finally did get a piece of candy after they had arrived at the hospital, exchanging Chase's car keys for a sweet as they walked through the front entrance.
"Alright guys," Cameron broke away from the boys as they headed for the lab, "I'm going to go visit the infirm family member. If House asks, I'm not here. Got it?"
Chase waved his hand and kept walking, but Foreman came up and gave her a quick hug. "Hey, if you need anything, just let me know, alright?"
Cameron smiled up at him, "I will. Now go study that fascinating mold why don't you."
Foreman sighed, "Oh yes. The highlight of my day,"
They grinned at each other before going their separate ways, Foreman following Chase and Cameron rushing to the elevator, managing to wrestle her way in before the doors closed.
"Al?"
The small compartment was packed, but it was impossible to miss Mark.
"Mark!" She, as politely as possible, weaved in between people to get to the back of the elevator, practically leaping into her brother-in-law's embrace when she reached him.
He gave her a big squeeze and lifted her off of her feet, "Al, nice to see you!" He set her down and she staggered for a moment as she regained her breath and footing. "What're you doing here?"
Allison smirked at him, "Visiting my ungrateful sister. Not to mention that I also work here, in case you forgot."
"Oh, that's right," he narrowed his eyes, "You're the doctor, right?"
Allison hit the big man lightly on the arm. "Funny. You're getting a crappy Christmas present this year." Mark held his hands up in mock-surrender and Cameron grinned. "Does Clara know you're coming?"
"Nope. I'm surprising her."
Cameron raised an eye-brow, "You know she hates those."
"Nah," Mark smiled and shifted his position, quickly apologizing to the people he bumped into. "Keeps her young."
Allison shook her head and turned back to the front of the elevator. "You're funeral."
"My wife loves me. And if she kills me she'll have to pick up Matt every day from school. Her hatred for that parking lot alone is enough to ensure my continued existence."
"Where is Matt anyway?" Cameron asked as she looked down, scanning for eleven-year old boys.
"I had a meeting with a client, so Sammy took him after school today."
"Ah yes," Cameron stopped her search, smirking. "His other favorite aunt."
"Seeing as how he only has two, that isn't a very impressive title, I'm afraid." Mark grinned, "They should be getting here any minute now."
"Oh good," the smirk turned to a full smile, "I haven't seen either of them, especially Sammy, in ages."
Mark groaned, "I know. We never hear the end of it. Every time Sammy calls she's always asking when we'll invite you both over for a dinner again, and you know how Matt adores you."
Allison laughed, "What can I say? I'm likeable." She caught Mark rolling his eyes. "And how are they both doing?"
"Good," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, "Matt's doing great in school and Sammy's got three books lined up." He pulled out a slip and gestured to the pack, silently asking if she wanted one.
Cameron shook her head, "No thanks." She looked intently at her brother-in-law. "And how are you doing Mark, really?"
He sighed, "As well as can be expected." Everyone in the lift shuffled a bit as they got to the next floor, over half of the occupants leaving, giving those who remained more breathing room. "I wish I could do something to help, and I try to, but I have a feeling I'm irritating her more than anything else now." He stuck the piece of gum in his mouth, starting to chew as he looked down at his hands playing with the small silver slip it came in.
"It's Clara," Cameron sent him a sympathy-loaded look, "You know how she is about these sorts of things." If someone else was ill Clara would spend all of her effort and energy on trying to get them better, ignoring herself in favor of those who she thought needed her attention more. The second she was in a similar, desperate, situation she instantly insisted that she didn't need the 'fluttering,' as she called it, of her loved ones.
Mark nodded, "I know," he gave a small, sad, smile. "It's just hard."
Cameron looked to the front of the elevator, staring at her reflection in the silver panes of the doors. "Yeah. I know."
There was a flash of Brian in a hospital bed, IVs, heart monitors and other medical equipment seeming to suffocate him, taking up all of his air, making him look smaller, weaker. Entirely too fragile. His features sharpened due to a drastic loss of weight, the hollows of his cheeks apparent. The nearly constant pain he was in. Still, he had smiled at her when she entered to room, and she had smiled back, ignoring that seeing him like that had made her feel more helpless than any sight before or since.
There was nothing worse than watching the person you love die.
Allison looked up at Mark again, doing her best to suppress the memories. "So, do you want me to take you to the shrew's room?"
Mark grinned at the nick-name, "Only if you're not too busy to help me through this maze you call a hospital."
"Not busy at all," Cameron said as the elevator dinged upon reaching the oncology floor. "My boss' boss let me leave early. I'm officially off duty. This is the floor," she and her brother-in-law stepped out of the lift.
Mark slowed his pace to match hers as they began to walk down the hall. "Your boss' boss?"
Cameron sighed, "Yeah. The guy I work for is a bit... demanding."
---
House sighed and clicked the remote in his hand, pausing the image on the television screen. "I don't know if you're in a proper state to fully appreciate the drama unfolding before us here."
"I just had radiation and I'm tired. This does not mean that I am not appreciating the drama of General Hospital."
House eyed his companion suspiciously. "You didn't even gasp when Alexis woke up and the first person she saw was Jason. No comment about her amnesia and how she doesn't remember the he's the one who pushed her off of the train tracks. You're obviously not enjoying this properly."
Clara glared at him. "Well if you would've brought some more Skittles to replace the ones you ate earlier today, I would be more enthralled." She scowled at him. "But you took away my sugar and, therefore, my ability to focus for more than three minutes."
"I don't come with food. Just witty commentary."
House had managed to avoid Cuddy since their consult-encounter, hiding in various obscure areas of the hospital (for no more than a half an hour in each location, mind you. House wouldn't have survived his first week of work without mastering the art of avoidance) ever since he had left Wilson's office in the morning. Fifteen minutes ago he decided that some General Hospital would do him good, seeing as how sneaking around all day could really wear a man down. Not to mention the fact that he still needed to wait for his minions to return from their Pratt-house escapade, and all the lurking was getting rather boring. Unfortunately, he couldn't go to his office as he was sure Cuddy would bully him down to the clinic. She had radar set up in there, he just knew it.
So he had slowly, and very cautiously, made his way back to Clara Samson's room, arriving just as she returned from her radiation session, ready to continue the General Hospital wonderment.
Only to be disappointed by her weakened state, and as such, a noticeable lack of interest in the show and a greater fascination with the insides of her eyelids.
"Well let this be a lesson to you then. You want me to be entertaining, come bearing sweets. Understood?"
House grumbled and tapped his cane on the floor repeatedly. "Yes mother."
"Good boy. That being said, it wasn't that surprising that Alexis woke up, given that someone," she glared pointedly at him, "told me that she would. Several hours ago, I might add. The wait really killed the excitement. As for Jason, obviously he's going to be the first person she sees. He is her doctor after all, which has made the story line fantastic. You can practically see the guilt dripping from him."
House stared at her intently, Clara staring innocently back. All of that, when a moment ago she appeared to be nearly unconscious? Greg stared at her thoughtfully. "Nice."
Clara blinked, "What's that?"
"You were paying attention the whole time, weren't you?"
"Of course I was paying attention. This is General Hospital, what do you take me for?"
"You had me seriously considering bringing you sugar," House grinned and leaned back into his seat. "I'm impressed by your ability to guilt-trip. Give lessons? Cancer's great and all, but what angle do you use with a bum leg?"
"Well then you go with the pro-longed suffering routine, that much should be apparent. You don't have the whole, 'I could die' thing going for you, but there is definite potential in the fact that you're stuck with the leg every day and that you 'will never be the same.'" She looked down to his idle hands. "You taking notes?"
House tapped his head, "All up here."
"Hm. You're one of those irritating students, aren't you?"
"Me," Greg gave a look of shock, "Irritating? Madam," he clenched a hand over his heart, "you wound me."
She ignored him, tilting her head and squinting her eyes, as if she was studying a particularly interesting container of leftovers that had been in the fridge for over five months, more mold than food by that point. "You never write anything down but you remember everything, and you shove that fact in the collective face of all of those you think are lesser than you."
"Well obviously." House continued to tap his cane. "How else will they learn their place?"
She sighed, "Alright, fine. Be a smart-ass. Now will you please turn the show back on?"
House grinned in satisfaction, convinced he was, once again, a member of a captive audience. He eagerly clicked the play button.
It was going quite well, House beginning to immerse himself completely into the drama once more, when they were interrupted by the entrance of a black man with pleasant features, no hair and who was (in House's mind), roughly the size of a small vacation cottage.
He looked to Clara who showed immediate signs of recognition. "Body guard?"
Clara raised an eyebrow at Greg and smirked as the man walked further into the room, going to the woman and kissing her, causing House to flinch away from the display of affection. There were no studies yet proving that 'warm and fuzzy feelings' weren't contagious.
He scowled. "Ah, boy toy." Greg sighed and put the show on pause again. This was going to take a bit.
Clara grinned at House. "Husband," she turned to Man the Size of a Small Building (Indian name). "Mark, this is Doctor Gregory House. He's annoying but he likes General Hospital, making him bearable company."
His name was Mark? Greg resisted the urge to hit him with his cane, just on principle.
The man grinned and held out his hand, House reluctantly grabbing it, participating in the shake.
"Nice to meet you."
House clenched his fingers and tried to regain feeling, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the man, convinced he had tried to make his limb a raisin on purpose. "Mark, eh? Unfortunate name."
He shrugged. "It's worked well enough for me for the past thirty-eight years." Scratch that thought. House scowled. Samson was one of those 'unbelievably nice' types, Greg could tell already. He and Cameron should get together and have a tea party.
"So Mark, what are you doing here?" Clara asked her husband, surprisingly, seeming mildly annoyed. "I thought you had an interview. And where's Matt?"
"I'm visiting my wife, hardly a crime. The interview is over and Matt is with Sammy. They're both on the way."
"Oh, so its the whole family you've invited then." She sat up a little straighter and talked over House's head. "Did he call up Will too?"
House whipped around to see one Allison Cameron casually leaning against the doorframe, hands crossed over her chest, "I think that he decided to limit himself to relatives in state, so Will won't be able to corrupt Matt with motorcycles, sex and rock and roll. Your child's innocence is safe"
House had to physically restrain himself from letting his jaw fall open as the conversation continued.
"At least until high school," Clara glanced casually at him, as if just remembering he was in the room. "Greg, you know my sister Al, don't you?"
"Half-sister," Cameron clarified and stood on House's side of the bed, smirking at him before turning to her sister, "No need to confuse the poor man."
The pieces of the puzzle began to fit themselves together. How Clara had known who he was, why Cameron looked so horrible two weeks ago, why Wilson had taken on the role of 'poor sweet little Cameron' protector.
Wilson. He had known for at least a week and hadn't told House a thing. Wonderboy was on Greg's naughty list.
House regained himself, pulling himself out of his musings, and looked up at his employee. "I didn't know you had a sister."
She looked blankly at him. "You never asked."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Samson shoot Clara a confused look, at which she gave a small shake of her head.
Cameron turned her attention back to Clara once more, "He didn't bother you too much, did he? Because if he did, I can do something nasty to his Gameboy."
House, quickly realizing that he was desperately out-numbered, still a bit flabbergasted and not at all prepared to deal with this new realization, stood up and made his way around Cameron, heading for the door.
"You touch the Gameboy and I'll find a kitten and kick it."
Cameron raised an eyebrow.
"You know you wouldn't want that on your consciences, seeing as how you are one with all things cute and fluffy." He had made it halfway across the room without being summoned back, excellent. This might be a clean break, "Come to the office in twenty so we can diagnose Pratt."
"Cuddy let me off duty," Cameron grinned at House's scowl, "Which means you guys will have to find a way to cure the man on your own."
House turned around as he got to the door. "Well that's it then. No employee of the month for you."
With that he was out the door and limping down the hall, processing information as he reached the elevator.
If he hadn't been so annoyed at being out of the loop for so long, he would be positively giddy.
Between Cameron and Jimmy, House now had a fountain of anguish to draw from.
It was almost as good as General Hospital.
---
Chase was biting a pen in between his teeth as Foreman examined the mold from the Pratt mansion under a microscope, looking for anything that could have caused their patient's reaction.
From the disgusted look on his colleague's face, Chase was going to assume that they were no closer to finding the source of the problem.
"Let's just say we found it and send him home," Chase suggested as he removed the pen from his mouth.
Foreman let out a frustrated groan and flopped down into a nearby chair, looking defeated. "I would agree with you whole-hearted, if only I had abandoned all of my morals."
"You survived med school with them intact?"
"Yes, unlike some." Foreman stared at Chase pointedly.
Chase rolled his eyes. "I am not wholly without ethics, despite what you may think."
"You sure do a damn good job at hiding it."
Chase shook his head and put the pen back in his mouth. Just because he wouldn't be willing to jump off of a bridge for a patient, people tended to assume the worst of him, and Chase supposed he couldn't blame them. He was a doctor, after all. He was supposed to care, be sympathetic and kind, strive for world peace and the betterment of all persons everywhere.
Really, Rob, upon receiving his PhD, had no idea that he had signed up for such things. He became a doctor because it was what was expected of him rather than out of any love or drive of his own. It had, in truth, been one of his mother's dying dreams for him, and Chase didn't have the courage, or the heart, to deny her of that last wish.
In much the same sense, Chase didn't particularly care for his patients. Granted, he didn't wish any ill upon them, but he wanted them in and out of his life as quickly as possible, no strings attached. The key, Chase learned, was apathy. If you didn't care about anything, about anyone, then you could never be hurt, never be disappointed.
Killed a patient? Tough luck. Broke up with a girlfriend? Time to move on. Father died? Try to ignore it.
Through the years, and a series of hard lessons Rob would never forget, he had learned that the only person, or thing, he could ever depend on was himself. That people were very rarely what they seemed, could never be fully trusted and caused little save for trouble for those who took a keen interest in their affairs.
He had made attempts, many, to have real relationships with people. He tried with his mother, despite the vodka, tried with his father, until he couldn't take the dissatisfaction any longer. There had been girlfriends, a few, who were more than a good time. He would have been willing to try, with Cameron.
But he had managed, somehow, to screw up every effort he had made towards honestly and truly caring for someone. Whether through bad selection of people to give a damn about, or an eventual loss of interest, every attempt he made was met with the bitter disappointment he had spent the majority of his life trying to avoid.
It simply didn't seem worth the effort any more.
So, he patted each patient on the head, told them the same fake stories, pretended to be their friend. And when they left never thought of them again. It was easier for everyone that way.
This, more than anything else, was what made Chase respect House. He cared about no one except himself, didn't need anyone and managed it all with a wit and intelligence that Chase could appreciate. He was good at what he did even if he didn't always like what he did, and Chase hoped that he could manage a similar feat of his own.
These, however, were the sorts of things that Foreman just couldn't understand. Why the man demanded excellence from himself Chase would never understand, almost as if he was trying to compensate for something.
Foreman stretched in his seat, and then quickly moved back to the microscope, "Maybe I missed something."
Chase grinned, "Maybe," he pulled a crossword puzzle out of his lab-coat pocket, taking the pen out of his mouth "What's an eleven letter drug that's used to treat insomnia, seizures, and convulsions, and to relieve anxiety and tension before surgery?"
"Barbiturate," Foreman mumbled as he put his face back to the eyepiece.
Rob marked down the name and let Foreman do the super-doctor thing, puzzling over the next word until he heard a small tap behind him.
Both he and Foreman turned around to the entrance of the lab, seeing a woman standing outside.
She was pretty, tall, slender and graceful while also possessing a muted strength, as if with the blink of an eye she could easily, capably, defend herself. She was in all shades of brown, with nearly black hair, cut to her shoulders, smoothed down and straightened, chocolate skin that seemed incredibly smooth and large honey eyes. From far away, her features seemed perfect. Neither too large nor too small, each aspect in symmetry to create a nearly ideal picture.
That, perhaps, was what was most remarkable about her appearance. Not that she was beautiful, but rather that she appeared so balanced, as if each feature was perfectly molded and placed in its intended spot.
Chase's interest was peeked. A beautiful woman had the potential to secure a solid two weeks of fun, at least.
Foreman waved the woman in and she entered, his colleague promptly going back to the microscope, leaving Chase to socialize.
"I'm sorry," she said with a laugh as she came in, walking right up to the men without any apparent concern for the odd looking substances that seemed to accumulate in the lab, "We were looking for the oncology department and ended up here."
Chase's eyebrow raised, "We?" He certainly hoped that she wasn't a psych patient, which was a possibility, with her standard-issue jeans and blank red T-shirt.
From around the woman's hip a boy, about ten years old, appeared.
And just as quickly as it was created, Chase's interest was destroyed.
"Yes, we." She grinned at the kid and then looked back up at the two men. "Could you guys help us out here, or should we continue to wander?"
The boy, with lighter skin, darker, curly, hair and deep-set brown eyes, grinned. "Dad says she has no 'sense of direction,' so you should probably help." He was examining everything he saw, glancing from microscopes to fluids on the shelves to the lights at every station, seemingly enthralled by every detail the room had to offer. Chase was amazed he had kept track of the conversation, with the fervor with which he observed his surroundings.
Rob sighed softly to himself, getting over his internal regret as he stood. As inoffensive as this particular child seemed, and as nice this woman looked, Chase and kids did not mix. "I'll show you were it is. Which room do you want?"
The woman smiled, and Chase swore it made the room brighter. "Thanks, it's 213."
Chase blinked. "213? Clara Samson's room?"
The smile widened, "Ah, already creating a reputation, I see. Yes, she's my sister-in-law."
"Aunty Sam," the boy was now peering over the counter where Foreman's attention was still devoted to the microscope, the young boy trying to see what Foreman was observing. "Can I stay in here?"
Aunty Sam?
Chase, in his head, danced a jig.
---
Jimmy closed his office door as he stepped inside, turning and leaning his forehead against the solid wooden surface.
He had just returned from visiting Margaret Roberts before her first chemotherapy session. He had smiled, let the words of reassurance flow from his mouth as if he was reading from a script. Assuring her that the benefits of the treatment far outweighed the risks. That chemo saved thousands of lives each year, that if she needed any help there were support programs she could join designed for people in her situation. That he would be happy to answer any questions she may have.
She had given him a small, grateful, grin, thanking him just before she was taken to start the therapy, seeming as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
It wasn't enough.
So Wilson went to Diagnostics.
House wasn't there, nor was his team.
He searched the roof, the pediatrics lounge, the men's room. Greg had momentarily disappeared from the face of Princeton-Plainsboro, leaving James alone with his thoughts when he least wanted it.
So Wilson went down to the clinic and worked for six hours, treating headaches, runny-noses and coughs. Every time he finished with one patient, another file was placed in his hand, another task set before him. Tasks he could solve, illnesses he could cure. With a few words and a bandage he made the clinic patients smile and heal their pain, making it easier for him to ignore the current state of affairs that made up his life.
Finally, one of the nurses sent him away, informing him that the clinic was closing and that he could return to his office now. They had really appreciated his help today, she had said, as one of the doctors scheduled to perform clinic duty hadn't shown up.
He had nodded and left, at a loss as to what to do. Out of habit he went back to his office, his calm in the storm.
James closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of the pine of the door, savoring its texture. He was willing to latch onto anything if it meant he could forget.
--
Wilson felt his heart stop for a beat. "You're pregnant?"
"Yes."
Shock was the first thing to hit Jimmy, causing his mind to momentarily remain blissfully empty as he contemplated the word 'pregnant'.
This was shortly followed by an inexplicable joy that made him grin like an idiot to his empty office. Thank God House wasn't there to see it. Greg would never let him hear the end of it.
James had always wanted to be a father, perhaps foolishly. He was far from the ideal role-model for a child, but the thought of being a parent, of guiding and caring for another life, to hold his child in his hands and know that he had contributed to creating it. That was something he aspired to.
To be a parent was a role, a title, more significant than any claim he had to his life now, one that he had yearned for desperately for years.
"Julie, that's," how could he express how happy he was? What words could articulate how he felt? "Great." Understated, but hopefully she understood his basic sentiments. "How far along are you? Have you visited your doctor? Should I make an appointment for you?"
"James," her voice was steely, "I'm not going to keep it."
Another wave a shock ran through him, this time sobering. "What?"
"I can't. I won't." She sounded strained, but resolved.
"Why?" He found himself unable to form multi-syllable sentences.
"A baby would bring us back together, and I don't want that again," her voice hitched, "Feeling so alone and detached when you're supposed to be sharing your life with someone who loves you. I refuse to live that way again."
"We wouldn't have to be together," Wilson was not above pleading. Not for something like this, "plenty of parents are separated and take perfect care of their children. We could do it. We'd have to make a schedule, a few extra arrangements, but it's not impossible. We wouldn't even need to see one another, except when we were dropping the baby off. We could even-"
"James!"
He silenced at her outburst, and she took in a deep breath.
"We, what we had. None of it had any lasting significance. We were wasting our time, our lives, on one another. Five years that I will never get back are gone, all of them spent trying to convince you and myself that I was happy."
Her voice reached an unnaturally high pitch, but she continued talking, despite the attempts of her throat to close up on her. "I wasn't, James. I really wasn't. I was miserable. I hated what I had become, what you were becoming. We didn't love each other the way we needed to, and knowing that, that we failed at loving one another, is killing me. I remember each day we had with a growing resentment, a sense of guilt and anger that I allowed it to happen. Every memory of us is destroying me, making me hate you and myself.
"I'm tired of remembering. I want to forget. A baby won't allow me to do that."
"What about the good things?" He had to make her understand. To make her see that there was so much more than that. "You remember those, don't you? The day we met at the party? The dinners we used to go to every week? How we were so caught up in each other? Why can't our child be a testament to those things, instead of the bad? I want to remember us. The good part of us."
A pause. "I don't."
He sighed and rubbed his neck. "Julie, I can't let you do this. It's a mistake,"
"Are you saying that you're going to stop me? That I don't have the right-"
"No," James interjected quickly. "No, it's your decision, I know. But please, reconsider. After the baby is born you can give it to me, then you'd never have to see my face again. I swear, we'll be just like strangers."
"James, we already are just like strangers." Wilson could say nothing. He knew it was true. "I can't carry your baby. I'm sorry, but I've decided."
Wilson found himself frozen, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other latched onto the back of his neck in a hopeless effort to provide himself with some relief.
"I just thought you should know. Let you state your case," Julie paused, and he could hear the desperation in her tone. "Please, try to understand." There was a small sniff, a barely audible gasp of breath.
"Goodbye James."
And with that she was gone, taking with her the brief spark of hope that had kindled in Wilson, snuffing it out before it had the chance to really burn.
--
The smell of pine wasn't working.
Wilson pushed himself off of the door and went to his balcony, pulling off his lab coat and tossing it onto his office couch as he opened the sliding glass and stepped outside.
It was raining, and the water instantly soaked through his dress-shirt and pants, ruining his silk tie and matting down his hair.
He loved the rain. It was soothing, peaceful.
But it wasn't enough.
With the rain came Sara, who he had chased down outside of her new dorm at their grad school. It was in that downpour that he had convinced her to give him a chance, to let him prove to her that he was worth her time and attention.
Julie enjoyed the rain too, although she never told him. Instead she would smile, secretly, on rainy mornings in the kitchen, thinking that he didn't see or notice her private love for light drizzles.
Wilson ran both hands through his hair, only barely resisting the urge to scream.
Sara had moved on and Julie wanted to forget.
So why the hell couldn't he?