He has watched from a chair that he has positioned outside in the hall. He watched the people that go in. Lovers. Gods. Friends. Enemies. People from all sorts of places across the many lands, people who have done things both incredible, beautiful, dastardly, and wonderful.
He knows he's going to be the last one in. The kit in his lap assures that. So he waits, and he watches, and he counts the hours go by. He has nothing better to do then play at this silence, until finally there is a stretch with no one, nothing--
-- nothing but him.
He grips his cane, pushes himself up and enters the room in silence; he shuts the infirmary door a moment later, and turns the lock. There is no one else here now.
Just him, her, and the eternity that stretches after.
"Hey," he says, and his hand finds her shoulder. "Natalie."
House tilts his head; he has seen this before -- those who would like to go on their own, not helped -- simply ... fighting.
"Then, I lied," he says helpfully, his voice still light. "Is there anything you want to do? Because in my generous estimate -- you don't have long now. You can either go down fighting... Or you can shut your eyes, and just not wake up."
"Do you want those hours, Natalie? And how do you want to spend them?"
Her eyes are on the kit and don't rise to him - but she's listening, don't mistake. She's listening very hard and her chest rises and falls more quickly - labored breathing.
She grasps and there is a hand there, larger then hers, just as strong, something to grasp and hold on to. It is an accidental contact, but a moment later his palm is turned and he grips back.
"Do you want to go outside?"
It's the next logical step-- to not die in a hospital bed, she'll have to walk.
Assuming she can-- which is likely if she moves now before the drugs wear off.
"...Yes." And she uses that grip on his hand to start to sit up. The pain gives her something else to focus on, a way to work through the drugs that try to keep her muscles limp.
It's awkward; she's in pain, she's not moved -- he's a cripple who hasn't had drugs in weeks. But a moment later, there she is, drawn up, his arm around her, his hand in hers.
"... where too, gorgeous? Been a long time since I got to have those long, romantic walks on the beach -- sadly, we have no ocean."
She nearly belts him for the 'gorgeous' line but-- he'd hardly know about Harper.
She smirks, though, a soft sound of amusement as she starts to walk, trying not to lean on him too heavily. "Plenty'a sand, though," she says softly-- and has to throw her arms out to brace against the wall before she smacks it with her face.
She glares at the offending bit of concrete and pushes herself to a better standing position. Focus on the growing pain in the belly, the burning there, ignore the pins and needles of unused legs as she makes her way into the hall.
Not a chance in hell with her legs protesting, making her knees buckle, ankles weak, the numbness leaving her stomach, leaving cold fire that makes her swallow hard, sweat starting to bead at her hairline.
She grips the rail, vice-like, and tries to lean on that more than the man.
He understands. Nay, even approves. With dogged, miserable persistance -- he marches down the stairs with her -- as much his pain as her pain keeping them slow. He hobbles, she stumbles, and it's a beautiful dance of bodies that long ago betrayed them.
"Now-- to the door. Where do we want to go. Playground?"
"I don't care." She shakes her head, words come faster, bitten out. There is the squeak of grinding teeth and her hand is pressed flat to the wall to take her weight, insides twisting.
"Just-- somewhere. Out. Get-- a gun or something, stupid, so you can-- get back."
He knows he's going to be the last one in. The kit in his lap assures that. So he waits, and he watches, and he counts the hours go by. He has nothing better to do then play at this silence, until finally there is a stretch with no one, nothing--
-- nothing but him.
He grips his cane, pushes himself up and enters the room in silence; he shuts the infirmary door a moment later, and turns the lock. There is no one else here now.
Just him, her, and the eternity that stretches after.
"Hey," he says, and his hand finds her shoulder. "Natalie."
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And slowly drift to the kit.
"Got a--nother ques--tion f'er me-- doc?"
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After that, there's no more questions.
"Are you ready?"
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"Never-- gave y-you no-- answer on that."
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"Then, I lied," he says helpfully, his voice still light. "Is there anything you want to do? Because in my generous estimate -- you don't have long now. You can either go down fighting... Or you can shut your eyes, and just not wake up."
"Do you want those hours, Natalie? And how do you want to spend them?"
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"Gemme... off the-- the drugs."
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No, not all the way. No, not like this. No, help her stand and she'll walk out, she'll use her own knife. No, this isn't right...
But it's another fight. It's the last fight. Against herself.
"All the way," she whispers, hushed, and nods, turning her gaze to the ceiling.
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"Do you want to go outside?"
It's the next logical step-- to not die in a hospital bed, she'll have to walk.
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"...Yes." And she uses that grip on his hand to start to sit up. The pain gives her something else to focus on, a way to work through the drugs that try to keep her muscles limp.
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"... where too, gorgeous? Been a long time since I got to have those long, romantic walks on the beach -- sadly, we have no ocean."
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She smirks, though, a soft sound of amusement as she starts to walk, trying not to lean on him too heavily. "Plenty'a sand, though," she says softly-- and has to throw her arms out to brace against the wall before she smacks it with her face.
She glares at the offending bit of concrete and pushes herself to a better standing position. Focus on the growing pain in the belly, the burning there, ignore the pins and needles of unused legs as she makes her way into the hall.
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"Think you can make the stairs?"
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"Yes."
Not a chance in hell with her legs protesting, making her knees buckle, ankles weak, the numbness leaving her stomach, leaving cold fire that makes her swallow hard, sweat starting to bead at her hairline.
She grips the rail, vice-like, and tries to lean on that more than the man.
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"Now-- to the door. Where do we want to go. Playground?"
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"Just-- somewhere. Out. Get-- a gun or something, stupid, so you can-- get back."
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