Parallel lives
"Why are we doing this again?", asked House.
"You know why", replied Cuddy, glancing across at her passenger.
"It's just a new place. I mean, who really gives a crap where someone lives? As long as it has a roof, running water, and an internet connection fast enough to stream porn in ultra-high quality, what's the big deal?".
"Because, as friends, our friend has invited us".
"Would we say you're a friend? More of an acquaintance, surely". House glanced out of the window at the passing shopfronts and pedestrians. As ever, the weather was bad, and the sidewalks were slushy with melted snow. Not even a year ago, such a sight would have filled him with existential dread. Canes and ice didn't really mix.
"What you say is true", she nodded, eyes scanning the route on the phone screen. "All the stress you've caused me since day one…not particularly friendly".
"This is why I keep saying that managing stuff isn't really a woman's job. You guys are best suited to cooking in the kitchen, rearing children, and sucking-".
"-if you finish that sentence I'll force you to hire a Cameron replacement tomorrow".
"Ugh, you're so…vanilla".
She frowned at the directional markers. "Hmm, my phone seems to be on the fritz. Can you doublecheck the zip code again?".
"I know where it is. Just go straight and I'll say when to turn".
"Could've told me that before we set off. Spent like ten minutes trying to input it into my navigation".
Cuddy had bought a new phone and had not yet mastered the finer points of its control. House, who was actually pretty good with technology, had feigned ignorance, even complaining with a straight face that he yearned for a return to the days of maps and road signs. "Sure, but then I'd've missed out on ten minutes of pure comedy".
"Whatever makes you happy".
"Nothing makes me happy anymore".
Cuddy let out a little chuckle, assuming that he had meant it in the same light-hearted vein as the rest of their conversation. But as the silence extended and the sound of the wheels on the road filled the car, she glanced across. House was looking out at the passing buildings and trees, his face close to the glass, like a curious child. But there was nothing child-like about the dark mood she sensed suddenly washing off him.
"Sorry, I didn't mean-".
"-s'fine; was joking anyway". The resulting smile didn't reach his eyes.
"No, you weren't".
"No", he conceded. "But I'm fine. Honestly. Next left".
"Have you thought about whether you'd like to hire another staff member? I have a pile of CVs at the ready".
"Bit pre-emptive, no?".
"I always have a pile of CVs for Diagnostics. For some reason people wanna work with you".
House knitted his hands together. "Give it a week or so. Need to see for myself how things are. If we end up struggling, I'll look into it".
"Fair enough. Do what you need to do".
Cameron's first week back in the ER was busy albeit weirdly disappointing. On the plus side, unlike Diagnostics, there were many patients to treat at once, each needing a different approach. This at least gave the impression of variety. But as she sat in the break room sipping a cup of lukewarm coffee she realised that this variety was actually superficial. For instance, the last two patients had both suffered broken bones, and although these bones were in different parts of the body, the procedure fundamentally remained the same. It's only the first week, she thought. Give it time.
"Hey there. Allison, right?".
Cameron looked up at the woman hovering over her. "Hello, yes".
"Pleased to meet you. Beverley Pritchard. May I…?".
"Of course". She gestured to the neighbouring seat, trying desperately to remember if she'd seen this person before.
Pritchard saw the uncertainty and laughed. "Oh, don't worry; wouldn't expect you to know many here. It's a large hospital, isn't it, and we all belong to our little platoons".
"True enough".
"You've just come from Diagnostics?".
"Uhuh". Cameron didn't know how familiar her new colleagues would be with the circumstances of the transfer. Hopefully, and probably, not at all; though the fact that this woman seemed to be aware of her origins was at least something to consider.
"Just fancied a change?".
"Yeah, pretty much. How did you know I was in Diagnostics, by the way?".
"Fred sent round an email introducing you; said to make you feel welcome. So: welcome!".
"Thanks". The immunologist filed away the casual use of Porter's first name. It had taken roughly three minutes to remember that the doctors and nurses in this place were on a first name basis. It would take a while to get back into that habit even though part of her disliked its informality. Medicine was, after all, a serious business.
"Yeah, it's not bad down here. I mean, obviously, it's pretty busy, but ERs always are".
"Where were you based before Princeton?".
"D.C. Yeah, my family all work for the government in some capacity. What about you?".
"Minnesota, though originally from Chicago".
"I thought I detected a twang. Or are we not classifying Chicago as the Midwest?".
"It's up for debate", she smiled.
Pritchard nodded and they lapsed into silence. Although the breakroom itself was sparsely populated, hospital sounds were never far away given their location on the ground floor, adjacent to the busiest area in the place: sirens, ringing phones, a few raised voices. Unlike most other departments, which followed a normal work pattern, the ER stayed open throughout the night and indeed often got busier into the evenings as people left the relative safety of an office or a school.
Cameron finished her coffee and was about to make her farewells when Pritchard piped up: "can I ask you something?". The tone implied that she had been sitting on this question for a few minutes.
I don't know, can you? "Sure".
"Dr. House…what's he like? I've heard rumours about him, but nothing concrete".
Cameron managed to supress a sigh. The last time she had been here, in the reassignment period after House's shooting, similar questions were asked. Back then, it had been somewhat humorous, even exhilarating, as if her status as a diagnostician afforded a mystique impenetrable to others. But now the inquiry left a bitter taste. "He's interesting", she spoke shortly. "Now, I really have to get back".
"Oh, of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to pry".
"It's fine. Thanks for the chat; guess I'll be seeing you around".
"Yep, definitely. Enjoy the rest of your shift. Remember, if you need any help with stuff, just holler".
"Will do". Having quickly rinsed her paper cup, Cameron tossed it into the recycling bin and headed out, feeling Beverley's curious eyes on her back.
House sniffed the food suspiciously. "Smells weird".
"I followed a recipe", replied Wilson, setting a second plate before Cuddy.
"What's it meant to be?". Even she looked somewhat warily at the fruits of their friend's labour.
"French stew. A holdover from my McGill days. I'm sure it'll go down nicely. Remember my stuffed peppers, House? You liked them".
"I did", admitted the nephrologist. "But at this point I'm starting to believe the whole thing a fluke".
Now that he had sat down with his own portion, Wilson's confident façade showed signs of cracking. The smell was somewhat harsher than he remembered and his nose wrinkled reflexively. "Bon appétit!".
House liked food, and Wilson had credit in the bank. It wasn't just the stuffed peppers, but also the macadamia nut pancakes in maple syrup, the Mexican rice and pork, and the roast chicken. All of these dishes had appeared during the period in which he had slept on the couch at 221B Baker Street. Though not as good as himself, the man could cook.
So, House took a bite, munching tentatively.
"What d'you think?".
"Ughjyummhguh-", he managed, the chews grinding to a halt.
"Say again?".
"Vin'gar!", he tried again, voice thick. "S'much vin'gar".
"There's no vinegar in there…".
House's face went white and he spat the mouthful into a napkin, coughing loudly. "How, how can there not be vinegar in that? What the hell am I tasting?".
Cuddy, like any good scientist, had waited for the results of her colleague's experiment before putting a forkful into her mouth. This fork now fell back to the plate untouched. "If House says it's vinegar…".
"It's not".
"You try, then".
"I…I'm not sure I want to".
"You made it, you eat it". House scarfed half his beer.
Wilson looked mournful. With a worried glance at both his friends, he cut up a small piece and chewed it slowly. Straightaway he knew that something had gone catastrophically wrong; the flavours, which were meant to be mutually complementary, clashed. And there was indeed an unmistakeable streak of vinegar.
"I don't understand…".
"Did you follow the recipe?".
"I just don't understand what's happened here; made it loads of times at university". As he spoke, Wilson examined the rest of the dish, plunging his fork into the middle and turning over the composite parts suspiciously.
"Either you messed up or, and this is just as likely, Canadians eat weird shit". House pulled out his phone, swiping to a delivery app. "I'm getting KFC; you guys want anything?".
Cuddy shrugged apologetically at Wilson and shuffled over to examine the screen. Before long, the man himself conceded defeat and did the same. Having ordered their replacement food, they sat back, talking about nothing in particular. None of them would admit it aloud, but each felt a degree of satisfaction that the group dynamic appeared to be recovering.
House remained deeply conflicted about everything: the end of his relationship; Wilson's role in that ending; and, most recently, Cameron's departure from Diagnostics. But nothing could be done—life had forced him to decide between medicine and love and, at this moment in time, it wasn't something that he wished to revisit. The die had been cast.
All the same, as their chicken arrived and they tucked in, House's mind couldn't help but flick to his ex-girlfriend. The morning after her leaving he had checked the ER rotation and been unsurprised to learn that she had volunteered for a gruelling schedule in the coming weeks, beginning with a series of on-off night shifts. The woman was a hard worker anyway, but he knew from experience that when dark thoughts needed burying, business often proved a valuable cover. A façade of professionalism could hide anything.
Having worked through the night, Cameron was in the locker room feeling completely exhausted. A patient had admitted themselves coughing up blood and some of the spatter had missed her white coat and landed on her top; she eyed the stain in a mirror, patting at it with a wipe. The act achieved nothing practical since the blood was by now long dried, but it did have the unfortunate side effect of calling to mind a time in the past when something similar had occurred—on that occasion she had needed a battery of tests and a course of anti-viral medication.
And a mouth swab from House, preceded by an unexpected declaration: hey, Cameron, I love-
-stop. She screwed her eyes shut, thinking of something positive. Today had been a productive day.
After a fortifying breath Cameron left the room, nodding a farewell to similarly sleep-deprived colleagues. While signing out at reception, she observed Oscar Townsend talking on the phone and their eyes met. He smiled, finished his call, and walked over: "ah, hello, Dr. Cameron. How are you?".
"Pretty well, thanks, Mr. Townsend".
"Oscar".
"Then I'm Allison".
"Fair enough", he smiled, noting her coat and bag slung over a shoulder. "You out to a patient or something?".
"Oh, no…I'm done for the day-, actually, night". At his confused head tilt, she added: "I'm in the ER now".
"Really? How come?".
"Fancied a change". Best that she stuck to the story offered to Beverley Pritchard earlier this morning.
"Right". Unlike Pritchard, though, who had accepted the explanation at face value, Townsend gave the distinct impression of perceiving her evasion, his grey eyes still, mouth fixed in a line. But he evidently decided not to press for a deeper explanation, instead shifting the conversation to Diagnostics. "Well, I imagine the department", his eyebrows gestured upwards, "will manage without you for the time being".
"Undoubtedly. Does my leaving affect-, I mean, I know Diagnostics was a big motivator for your investment strategy". Cameron referred to knowledge she had gleaned from conversations with Cuddy at the bar last year, and with Townsend himself at the Christmas party.
"I have no input on staffing", he shrugged, "and you need to do what's best for you. From a purely selfish perspective, however, I hope you come back in due course".
"I'm still here; just a few floors further down".
"Come back to Diagnostics, I mean".
"I think you overestimate my contribution, Oscar", she smiled, pulling on her woolly hat and gloves in preparation for walking across the snow-filled parking lot.
Townsend grunted and half-turned away, but he spoke again, quietly: "I was in love once".
"Oh?". Cameron was so surprised at this confession, which on its face had nothing to do with their conversation, that she wondered if she had misheard.
"Yes; long time ago".
"Fiona's mother?". The lack of a wedding ring suggested that they were no longer together.
"No, no. She, this person, was a colleague of mine when I was just starting out with the company. I didn't think it appropriate to…admit my feelings, and, y'know, I was a single father by this point; still young".
"Must've been a pretty hectic time".
"Mmm".
"So what happened?". Ordinarily the immunologist would never dream of asking such a personal question, but the inquisitive part of her nature sought to peek behind the veil of this enigmatic individual. His admission invited a response anyway.
"I missed the boat". Townsend's grey eyes momentarily lost themselves in a thousand-yard stare, a posture she had seen so many times with a certain grumpy nephrologist. "Anyway", he snapped back to her eventually, "you should never overestimate your impact on those you…work with. I'm sure House'll see it eventually".
"See what?".
"Your value".
Cameron didn't know what to say to that, so rather than overstay her welcome she throat-cleared. "Well, I guess you've got a few things to do while you're here, so…".
"Mmm, of course, of course. I hope you enjoy a long sleep!".
"I will", she replied, suddenly aware, once again, how tiredness seemed to have seeped into her bones. Night shifts needed practice and acclimatisation, none of which she yet possessed. But the resilience would come in time. "Bye, then".
"G'bye, Allison. See you round".
With that, one left the hospital for home while the other strode into its bowels. Both, however, felt their just-completed conversation had been one worth having.
