Disclaimer: I'm fourteen years old, can I even legally own things?
Gregory House woke up a while later to familiar hospital beeping sounds. His mind focused in and he squinted his eyes, only to realize he was lying in a hospital bed with Wilson above him, standing with his hands on his hips. House automatically bolted upright and grabbed for his right leg to confirm it was still there. Upon sitting up, his head felt like it might explode and his heart began racing.
"Hey, House, nothing was done to your leg. It's still there and in nearly the same condition it was before. Lie back down," Wilson calmly instructed his friend. He pushed him, slowly, cautiously, back onto the bed and repositioned his head so he could look up. "What the hell?" House asked. He remembered arguing with his patient's father, punching him, then finally swaying and swooping backwards.
"Your team informed me that you and Cameron's father left the room after giving the diagnosis. You, like an idiot, must have started arguing with him and started a fight, because they said it looked like you hit him first and then swung out your cane. Apparently, he grabbed it and you lost your balance, and now here you are," Wilson looked at him sternly. "Why would you do that?"
House remained silent and stared ahead. He knew why he did it. He didn't regret any of it.
"Of all the things you've done, and all the questions I could ask- of-of all the stupid things you've made me done and dumb games I've been tricked into playing, I can't believe you actually instigated a fight between yourself and a patient family member. What the hell were you thinking?" Wilson glared as he paced. "Not only could you have hurt yourself seriously, you could've hurt him and gotten the hospital sued! How immature and irresponsible can you be, House?"
House sat uncharacteristically quietly still. He had his reasons. He had his valid reasons. He needed nothing else. "Where is he?"
"The same place as you. He's got a concussion from the blow to his head and a nasty black eye, but he'll be fine. However, the hospital won't be if he decides to sue-" Wilson rambled on and House just looked on, ignoring his words and reading into everything else. The oncologist was still pacing, throwing his hands around, lecturing... House saw some hallucinated vortex form behind his best friend. It started small, then grew and grew around Wilson, forcefully sucking in everything from around the room. Finally, it reached House and slurped him up as well, and all he could do was see and analyze Wilson.
His tone had changed so quickly - starting with reassuring that House was okay, then changing to frustration, anger, and now to that of a lecturing, punishing father - the thought almost made House let out a dark laugh to himself. Wilson standing over a little version of him, pouring ice into a bathtub he almost always inhabited, pushing his shoulders down... then pulling him out and tossing him carelessly into a wall, but just so that his head would crack into the sink, and yanking him up by his shirt collar to spit and scream into his face. That he would never be a man, how weak and pathetic he was that he couldn't even stand... Wilson's usually gentle, all-knowing but stressed voice being used to torment an eleven-year-old child. His calloused and wise but still young hands coming across a little boy's face. Wrapping themselves around a skinny, pale neck, then locking that limp body out of the house for the night. Shivering. Cold. Back cut by the ice, legs a frozen, but burning red. Toes and fingers purple, and curly hair dripping wet.
He'd whimper through the first hours of the night, shake and shiver and curl in on himself and hope for death itself. Then, after a couple of hours of suffering, he'd regain most of his feeling back and pull himself together, then sit straight-backed against his tree. His tree. The only stable object that's ever been there in his life - was always for him when his Dad- no, Wilson - shoved him outside. It never left, never changed. Contemplating life and how to get out of it, a young Gregory House bounced his ball against the fence and back towards him, against the fence and back towards him, against the fence and back towards him until his lower back ached and the bark from his tree was itchy against his skin. Finally, he'd stretch out, right next to his tree, and fitfully sleep on the grass until it was 6 AM and he could ask to go inside. Goosebumps would still pop up on his arms, his back would display angry bruises, and his neck would ache from sleeping on the ground all because of Wilson, Wilson hurting him like this.
Somewhere, House knew he was hallucinating. Or seizing. Or dreaming. Or something. This wasn't real. It was never Wilson that did that.
But wasn't it?
[Line Break]
"So I'm gonna die?" a little voice asked his doctors several hours after his father and the man with the cane left the room. They didn't really tell him what would happen. It just got really quiet, kind of like when his kindergarten room was loud and his teacher turned off the light. For some reason, it made all the kids get really quiet and sit down. But anyway, it was quiet in this room, too. And nobody had shut the lights off. Why was it so quiet? Had he done something wrong?
Kutner and Thirteen were the only ones in his room. He wondered where the other doctors were. The girl doctor gave him a soft smile and sat down at the edge of his bed and took his small, chewed-up hand into her long, thin one. Cameron noted how pretty her hands were - the nails were long and sharp and a deep midnight blue, the skin was soft, and the fingers were long and agile. She gently removed the tape and gauze from his hands and discarded of them.
"Shouldn't you be wearing gloves?" Cameron asked innocently.
"I'm not scared of you, Cam, and I don't really need them right now," Thirteen answered quickly, but gave him another of what she hoped was a reassuring smile. He seemed to accept the answer and settled for nipping at his tongue.
"Your hands look good there, Buddy," Kutner grinned down at the child, who then looked down sheepishly. It was true. The bandages helped deter him from biting. The nails weren't chewed down to the end and the tips weren't bleeding.
"Why would you be scared?" Cameron asked of Thirteen's earlier statement, ignoring Kutner other than flashing him a toothy smile. It was small, but there.
"Well, before we knew why you were sick-" she paused and Kutner handed her more gauze and tape. She went back to work on the little hands in front of her and resumed talking- "we had to be scared that you had something you could give us to make us sick, too. But now that we know what's wrong, and know that you can't give it to us, we're not scared. Got it?" she answered simply, hopefully in child's terms.
"Oh, okay." All that the two adults heard.
The truth was, though, he wanted to say a lot more. He wanted to ask so many more questions. Why hadn't anyone answered him? Tiny droplets of sweat formed beneath Cameron's sandy blond curls and his breathing pace quickened. He was going to die. They would answer if they had good news. Wouldn't they? Why wouldn't they?
He was never taken seriously when he wanted to know something. His dad never told him where his mom was, just told him it was his fault she was gone. Never told him what he had done to drive her away, just told him she hated him. Never even told him why she hated him, just told him how terrible of a child he was... and on and on and on. It was a never ending cycle. He didn't he even know who his mom was, why did she hate him? More importantly, why did his dad hate him?
He asked his teacher, Ms. Ramsey, the same one who turned out the lights to make all the kids be quiet why his mom wasn't there. He thought teachers knew everything.
"Ms. Ramsey, I have a question!" a little boy with light freckles approached her desk at recess. All the other kids were outside playing, and it was just him.
"And what's that, sweetheart?" she answered in a kindly teacher way. She'd taken a liking to the skinny, sweet boy who sat quietly in class, even though they'd only been in school about three weeks.
"Where's my mom?" he asked. He looked up at her with big eyes, waiting expectantly for an answer from the smartest lady on earth.
Her smile faltered. She didn't know if he meant that she had walked out or just her current location. She had hoped it was the latter. "I'm sure she's just at work or running errands, Cameron," the thin, young teacher responded, hoping that was his answer.
"But she never comes home. Do people stay at work and do stuff all the time? And not come home? Or call or something?" He was getting nervous. This didn't sound like where his mom was, but she was a teacher. She knew everything.
"Well, has your father told you where she is?" she hoped desperately that nobody had walked out on this child. It was too sad to see her kids this young already in separated families.
"He told me she just left because I came. Why would she do that? Does she hate me?" He was almost begging for an answer that proved he was loved by someone. His eyes filled with crocodile tears when it took Ms. Ramsey a while to respond. His dad must have been right.
The teacher looked down at this boy and tucked her dark hair behind her frail ear. She urged herself to think on her feet to reassure him. Quickly, she knelt down to his level and gently grasped his grubby, five-year-old arm in her hands. "Oh no, Cameron, she doesn't hate you. Nobody could ever hate you. She's your mom, so she loves you very, very much." He accepted the answer with a nod and a sniffle, but knew he was being lied to. She must have left because of him. He was convinced.
Back in the present moment, he was also tired of being lied to. He wanted to know what was going on. All he needed was someone who would tell him the truth. The two young doctors in his room right now weren't really the type. As they charted something, he bit his lip and thought hard, then finally settled on one person he knew.
"Where's the doctor with the cane?"
A/N: Oh God, I am sorry, I am so sorry. I'm awful. I haven't updated in like three weeks. I'm terrible and I apologize. I've just pushed it off and procrastinated horribly. I would say that I'm taking some kind of pledge to update once a week, but I know I won't stick to that... oops. Anyway, I think we only have one, maybe maybe maybe I could stretch to two chapters left of this story. Major sad face. :(
On the bright side, I have a homecoming date! I hope y'all are excited for me.
See you in the near future! I hope. Reviews make me feel bad about not updating ;)