Psych! This is the real epilogue! You didn't think I was going to end this fic abruptly, now did you?

Okay---put down the tomatoes!!! Here it is!!!!!

Must Get Out – Epilogue

Mr. and Mrs. Medina raised their two daughters and two sons to look at life pragmatically, to learn from mistakes, to rise above tragedy—and always look at the funny side of things.

It is with one of these outlooks that made me ask myself one day: How many people get run over by wheelchairs? If there is a reliable statistic, sign me up. Suffice to say, I lived to tell another tale, yet all I got out of this accident was a scrip for one of those corrective glasses; the concussion screwed up my 20/20.

Here's what happened since I rose gracefully up from my unconscious state (never mind that one side of my face smelled like dried drool):

--

The people at my clinic stopped by to see me the day I woke up. I got boxes of Reese's chocolates (my favorite—I love these guys!) and good-natured ribbing from my fellow surgeons.

"Want me to fix up that damage, Dr. Medina?" Dr. War asks in a plainly insincere tone of voice. "Since you work at the clinic, I offer you a 40 percent discount and a free shot of Botox."

"Just gimme the chocolate, Dr. War," I muttered.

As for Al—even though I'm in her turf, I only see her during her lunch, when she does her rounds, and before she leaves for home. Unfortunately, Al has become very shrewd since we met up at that pizzeria—what kind of mushrooms did they put on their topping?!—and I was unable to interrogate her for four days since I woke up.

During lunch, she doesn't just bring her lunch with her, she brought her colleagues along. Drat—she knows I wouldn't be able to ask her incredibly personal questions in the presence of men. I was introduced to Dr. Eric Foreman—a black man sporting a nifty-looking goatee—and Dr. Robert Chase—a good-looking Australian with an unusual taste in ties. Now that I think about it, I believe it was Dr. Chase's voice I heard sometime ago over the phone—glad to know the voice matches the face. Wonder if he has a girlfriend?

The only good thing about these visits was that I got to witness Al in her element. The threesome discussed possible symptoms, environmental aspects, and even the questionable fidelity of the patient and his girlfriend over their packed lunches. Hey, I even got to share my own theory during their debate!

(I also found out that Dr. Chase is available. I got his number!)

Al does pop in every now and then during her rounds. Oddly enough, whenever she comes to see me, I'm zoning out on the pain medications. And I wonder who told my parents and nosy, nosy, nosy Aunt Ruby that the best time to visit me at around the same time Al checks out from work?

By the third day, I wanted to go home immediately.

--

The day before I was discharged from Princeton-Plainsboro, HE arrived.

I was minding my own business, eating the second to the last bland breakfast I'll ever have here, when Dr. House shuffled his way inside. The moment his cane touched the floor of my room, he pulled the blinds, closed them, and made to shut the door, once again shocking the hell out of me again with his speed.

He was also holding something in his left hand; I hadn't noticed it until he finished securing the glass-walled side of the room and turned to face me. Now that I had a clearer view, I saw that it was a backpack.

I rolled my eyes. "I knew I should've taken that offer of a restraining order." I made to send an alarm to the nurse, but the man suddenly raised a large paper bag in front of my face. The wonderful smell of freshly baked croissants invaded my sinuses, involuntarily (I swear!!!) making me close my eyes and breathe in very deeply. When I opened my eyes, Dr. House was holding the bag a few inches away from my face, moving it from side to side.

I was mortified.

"You--are--EVIL!" I whispered dramatically. "Is this how you treat ALL your patients?!"

Dr. House just grinned evilly. "You're not MY patient," he said in a low voice. He shakes the bag again and continued, "I offer a truce; I share some of this, for the use of your TV until the end of the 'General Hospital' two-episode special."

"Let me think about it," I said, pushing the movable table away from me, the bland breakfast ignored. I look up for one second before whipping out the remote control I tucked away on my left. I held it close to my chest, looking at the paper bag. "Let's see the goods first. Then we talk."

Dr. House made a show of rolling his eyes (with matching dramatic head turning) before opening the paper bag and showing me its contents. Satisfied that it did contain freshly baked croissants, I placed the remote on the other side of the bed and grabbed the paper bag. Dr. House snatched the remote off the bed, sat on a nearby chair, and began to flip through the channels until he reached the home of "General Hospital". Dr. House took another paper bag out of the backpack, which contained a sandwich, a large bag of Doritos, and a can of beer.

Into the first thirty minutes of "General Hospital" (and the second of about ten croissants—sneaky little devil!), the glass door slid open. I expected to see Al striding inside, but the brown-haired man wearing the doctor's coat and a mixed expression of shock and outrage proved me wrong.

"Hou--" he began in a loud voice.

Dr. House cut him off with an "Annoying oncologist, meet my insatiable victim."

I snorted. The "introduction" sidetracked Annoying Oncologist for a bit, making him turn to face me and give me a brief, adorable smile. Well, that's not fair—Dr. War's clinic being what it is, it should have its fair share of good-looking MALE doctors. I wonder if it's too early for me to set up my own practice at this hospital...

Annoying Oncologist waved his hand in my direction. "You left Coma Guy for her?!"

I almost choked on my croissant. Dr. House looked at Annoying Oncologist in mock outrage. "And people wonder why you've married three times, Wilson," he said derisively. To me, "Careful with this guy--he steals food!"

Annoying Oncologist--or rather, married-three-times Dr. Wilson--rolled his eyes (lots of eye-rolling in this hospital today, eh?). "Right; I steal food and watch cable TV in the room of a comatose patient whenever its Clinic Duty time."

Obviously, Dr. Wilson is giving me an insight into Dr. House's proclivities around the hospital. I wasn't born yesterday. And even though Dr. Wilson sounded angry when he came in, he just sighed and sat at the chair on the other side of the bed.

"Pass the chips?" he asked Dr. House, hopefully. Unfortunately, Dr. House was feigning deafness and focused too closely at the saccharine dialogue playing on the tube. I sigh and offered Dr. Wilson some of my croissant.

"Thanks," he said before biting into the pastry. After swallowing that one bite, he said loudly, "Its nice to be offered the croissants I bought earlier and that disappeared from my office."

Well, THAT made me choke. Good thing about having a couple of bickering doctor pals (Dr. Wilson did seem resigned when he mentioned about the stolen croissants) in the room is that at least one of them knows how to dislodge a piece of food from my windpipe. Specifically, Dr. Wilson did the back-thumping while Dr. House calmly offered me a newly opened can of beer; I gulped it gratefully, relishing the cold stuff that soothed my sore throat. If only it could assuage the return of the pain to my shoulder.

After things settled down, Dr. Wilson gruffly told me that I could have his croissants and that House "is going to have to have someone else write his Vicodin scrip for him from now on."

He left the room in a huff, not bothering to close the sliding door behind him. Dr. House just shrugged and offered me some Doritos. For Dr. Wilson's pilfered croissants, I took a big handful of chips and dumped them on my blanketed lap. We munched quietly for a while, focusing on "General Hospital" for him and focusing on why he wants to watch TV in my room for me.

"Is 'Al' applying for a position at Penn?" he suddenly asked.

I fought off the urge to smile--I knew he was here for a reason.

"I dunno," I said nonchalantly. Actually, that was one of the back-up plans I worked out with Al weeks before, in case Yule at Jefferson didn't work out, but I'm not going to tell him that. "Why do you ask?"

"Uh—she had me sign a recommendation letter for Penn," he replied furtively, almost hesitantly.

I sneakily looked at my dining partner, who had finally pried those baby blues away from his beloved soap opera to bounce his cane on the floor. I gave up on the sneaky looking and shifted around to stare at him, memories of the past several weeks swimming alarmingly inside my head.

I kind of exploded:

"You took all the trouble of sending Al on a fact-finding mission, hacking into her e-mail, faking an appointment at my clinic to try and convince me to convince HER to not resign—and now you just willingly signed a job recommendation letter she typed out?"

I grabbed the edge of my blanket and flicked the wrist of my good arm, sending Doritos crumbs to the floor and all over my snacking buddy.

"What—the moment you convinced her not to resign, you suddenly became bored?"

Dr. House stood up from his seat so fast, I almost tumbled off my bed in surprise. He then leaned forward until the tips of our noses almost touched.

"I am not bored," he said softly.

Then he left.

--

The following day, even though she knew I would be pestering her, Al helped me to prepare leaving the hospital. She packed the essentials she brought to the hospital on Day One and helped me into the wheelchair. I didn't say anything at all during the pack-up; I had a nagging suspicion that she'd leave me on the curb in front of my apartment if I started in on her. However, after leaving me in the dark for a week, I am not making it easy for her to sit me in the wheelchair.

The silence reigned as she pushed me down the end of the hall to the elevators. I took this moment of silence to gaze at all the transparent hospital rooms. What kind of hospital has glass walls? I ask you…

Finally, we reached the other side of the hospital lobby. I carefully, slowly look up at Al and broke the mutual silence: "Are you going to push me all the way home?"

Al looks down at me, with a straight face, and replied, "Why not? I need the exercise."

I snorted—Al called a cab earlier—and went down to business. "So—I hear you got old man House to sign a recommendation letter to Penn…" Then I made a twirly hand gesture with my good hand. "Come on, Al, share! Haven't you heard? Share and share alike…"

It was working; Al's lips were twitching. Ah yes—my cajoling powers are still thriving! She can't resist my cutesy "I'm hurt that you won't share" tone of voice—the fact that I'm also sitting in a wheelchair kind of helped complete the "pity me" look.

Finally, Al looks behind her, then she checked the surrounding area. Satisfied that the CIA and FBI weren't in the vicinity, she leaned down, cupped a hand over my ear, and whispered the words that finally verified my suspicions.

"There was tongue."

I risked whiplash when I jerked my head away from her fast and hissed, "No!"

Al smiled—a truly brilliant smile that lowered my eyesight points to nil. "I initiated the kiss; he established the tongue!"

"He didn't!" I cried, scandalized. Then, with a perfectly reasonable scientific curiosity, "Was it good?"

The 100-megawatt smile increased in incandescence. "Oh, yeah."

"Tell me more! Don't you dare go all secretive on me…!"

--

So, that's what happened.

I was right about quitting as her "mentor". Allison Cameron didn't need any more pep talks from me since she did the tongue-locker with her boss. We do occasionally meet at the hexagonal pizzeria for more girl-talk and doctor-patient confidentiality gossip—and updates on her life.

According to Al, Dr. House became a bit flirtier with her. He keeps trying to get her alone at different parts of the hospital, shooting R-rated quips at her every chance he gets. Sometimes, Al says, she launches a counter-quip; other times, she shrugs it off. One time, she surprised him again by impulsively giving him a quick one on the kisser before running out the door to do some test.

"So," I ask her, as I help her remove the giant curlers out of her hair. "Now what's going to happen? Still going to play horny cat and nympho mouse with him?"

"I'm—not sure." Al shrugs. She turns around and views herself at the full-length mirror in my room.

There's a rap of wood on wood and a muffled, "Ready, Cameron?"

I snort. "Dr. Sunshine has arrived."

Al grins. "Hope this date ends in play."

I just cross my fingers as she sauntered out of the room.

Fin---for real this time!