(no subject)
TITLE: Salvation 3
AUTHOR: dragynflies
PAIRING: Cameron/House
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: You throw a pack of preemie diapers in the cart and try not to think about what could go wrong between now and the baby’s birthday.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Author’s note: Sequel to Eradication
The next weeks pass in a horrible haze of exhaustion and fear. Allison is ready to jump out of her skin; she hasn’t spent this much time in bed since she was a child, and while she’s willing to do this for her baby, she hates it and you can tell.
You feel like you never stop moving. You go in an hour early to work to see Allison and bring her breakfast (she hates the hospital food and you want her to eat something), you rush to your office to catch up on your patient, and send your three fellows scattering to run tests.
You stop in to see her at lunch and bring her whatever she wants. She’s read every single book on her “to read someday” list. You won’t let her read any medical journals or any patient folders, because you know she will stress herself out, not able to see the patient.
After work, you stop in and bring her dinner before you rush to the Wilson’s to pick up Nathan and Blythe. You pick up the kids, feed them (typically something drive through and greasy), take them home, put them to bed, and pass out. In the morning, you frantically feed Blythe and Nathan breakfast, stick Blythe on the bus, drop Nathan with Emily and speed to the hospital.
You don’t know how long you can keep up this pace, but you refuse to tell Allison anything but positives.
Your leg hurts, and the pill count that you’d so carefully whittled down starts to climb again. Two to get out of bed, two before you eat lunch, one pill at three, two before you pick up Blythe and Nathan from Emily after work. If you can get the kids fed and in bed within two hours of picking up them, you don’t have to pop pills in front of them.
You find yourself watching the clock as Blythe sits with you, telling you about her day, and you tuck Nathan in without a story more than you read to him. Twice, you’ve caught Blythe sneaking into his room with a book tucked under her arm.
You can’t go on like this. Eventually, Allison and the baby are going to come home, and you’re not going to let her see you strung out on Vicodin while your 7 year old daughter plays mommy to her little brother.
Emily watches you unravel and offers to take the kids for a night; you sit in front of the TV with a glass of Scotch and remember when this was your life, when you had no Allison, no Blythe, no Nathan.
The next day you dump the bottle of Scotch down the drain, the Vicodin down the toilet and pick up Blythe from school during your lunch break for an impromptu lunch at China Garden.
You are not going to fuck this up again.
After lunch, you take Blythe to the store and she helps you pick out a little white basinet for the baby, and a little dresser that’ll fit in the corner of your bedroom. You give her a basket and point at the baby clothes, and a half hour later the basket is overflowing with purple clothes.
You’re better at this whole baby thing than you were when Nathan was young, but apparently new technology has rendered “new baby shopping” into something akin for shopping for a new computer. Which parts, which brand, and do you really need the little spinning tower to hold baby socks? The machine for diapers that is “biologically friendly”?
You wish Allison could be here to help with this.
In the end, you get the basinet and dresser. The baby has to take up residence in the corner of the Master Bedroom anyway, and while it’s a big room, it’s not huge. If you move and the baby gets her own room, you’ll get more furniture then. Blythe has a handle on the baby clothes, as well as stuffed animals and a fish mobile for the basinet. You buy several packages of bottles, wipes, and you glance at the diapers.
Blythe...wasn’t that small when you brought her home, you think, but you don’t really remember. You wonder if you’re ever going to stop regretting what you did, but you doubt it. You can picture Nathan the first time you saw him, though, and your guess is that this baby probably isn’t going to be much bigger. You throw a pack of preemie diapers in the cart and try not to think about what could go wrong between now and the baby’s birthday.
By the time you pick up Nathan from the Wilson’s and get the baby’s supplies unloaded, your leg is screaming. Probably dumping out your Vicodin was not your smartest move.
You mumble, “Be right back,” to Blythe and take off for your room. Blythe does her best for Nathan, pulling a Lunchable out of the fridge and sitting him down to eat dinner with a glass of milk before she comes to find you sitting on the edge of your bed.
“Your leg hurts, Daddy,” she said quietly, offering you an ice pack wrapped in a towel.
“Yeah,” you grunt, taking the ice pack. You know it will do no good, but your little girl is trying so hard.
“If you want to lie down, I can tuck Nathan in tonight,” she offers, sitting on the bed next to you and taking your hand.
“I’ll be right there,” you tell her firmly, “I just need a minute.”
“Where’s your medicine?” she asks innocently, and you want to crawl under the bed and die. You should have known she was too smart not to notice.
“I don’t have any,” you shrug, trying to change the topic. She is seven, she’s not old enough to have to deal with your problems. She will never be old enough to deal with your problems; you want to protect her forever.
“Do you still have some in the office?” she asks, and now you really feel like a horrible father. Not only have you taken enough pills in front of Blythe to allow her to figure out they are for your leg, you’ve taken enough for her to realize you have them stashed all over the house. You feel even worse because you are relieved you have Vicodin left.
“Why don’t you and Nathan go watch a video?” you say, instead of answering her, “You guys can stay up a little later tonight.”
She grins, “Okay,” she says, giving you a little hug before she stands up, “I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, Blythe,” you manage, and you want to cry.
She takes Nathan into the family room and you limp to the office, finding the Vicodin in your drawer and dry swallowing two.
You sink down into your desk chair and drop your head into your hands. You feel like you’re trying to juggle eight hundred things at once, and you’re scared you’re going to drop everything - and this time, there will be no picking up the pieces.
AUTHOR: dragynflies
PAIRING: Cameron/House
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: You throw a pack of preemie diapers in the cart and try not to think about what could go wrong between now and the baby’s birthday.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Author’s note: Sequel to Eradication
The next weeks pass in a horrible haze of exhaustion and fear. Allison is ready to jump out of her skin; she hasn’t spent this much time in bed since she was a child, and while she’s willing to do this for her baby, she hates it and you can tell.
You feel like you never stop moving. You go in an hour early to work to see Allison and bring her breakfast (she hates the hospital food and you want her to eat something), you rush to your office to catch up on your patient, and send your three fellows scattering to run tests.
You stop in to see her at lunch and bring her whatever she wants. She’s read every single book on her “to read someday” list. You won’t let her read any medical journals or any patient folders, because you know she will stress herself out, not able to see the patient.
After work, you stop in and bring her dinner before you rush to the Wilson’s to pick up Nathan and Blythe. You pick up the kids, feed them (typically something drive through and greasy), take them home, put them to bed, and pass out. In the morning, you frantically feed Blythe and Nathan breakfast, stick Blythe on the bus, drop Nathan with Emily and speed to the hospital.
You don’t know how long you can keep up this pace, but you refuse to tell Allison anything but positives.
Your leg hurts, and the pill count that you’d so carefully whittled down starts to climb again. Two to get out of bed, two before you eat lunch, one pill at three, two before you pick up Blythe and Nathan from Emily after work. If you can get the kids fed and in bed within two hours of picking up them, you don’t have to pop pills in front of them.
You find yourself watching the clock as Blythe sits with you, telling you about her day, and you tuck Nathan in without a story more than you read to him. Twice, you’ve caught Blythe sneaking into his room with a book tucked under her arm.
You can’t go on like this. Eventually, Allison and the baby are going to come home, and you’re not going to let her see you strung out on Vicodin while your 7 year old daughter plays mommy to her little brother.
Emily watches you unravel and offers to take the kids for a night; you sit in front of the TV with a glass of Scotch and remember when this was your life, when you had no Allison, no Blythe, no Nathan.
The next day you dump the bottle of Scotch down the drain, the Vicodin down the toilet and pick up Blythe from school during your lunch break for an impromptu lunch at China Garden.
You are not going to fuck this up again.
After lunch, you take Blythe to the store and she helps you pick out a little white basinet for the baby, and a little dresser that’ll fit in the corner of your bedroom. You give her a basket and point at the baby clothes, and a half hour later the basket is overflowing with purple clothes.
You’re better at this whole baby thing than you were when Nathan was young, but apparently new technology has rendered “new baby shopping” into something akin for shopping for a new computer. Which parts, which brand, and do you really need the little spinning tower to hold baby socks? The machine for diapers that is “biologically friendly”?
You wish Allison could be here to help with this.
In the end, you get the basinet and dresser. The baby has to take up residence in the corner of the Master Bedroom anyway, and while it’s a big room, it’s not huge. If you move and the baby gets her own room, you’ll get more furniture then. Blythe has a handle on the baby clothes, as well as stuffed animals and a fish mobile for the basinet. You buy several packages of bottles, wipes, and you glance at the diapers.
Blythe...wasn’t that small when you brought her home, you think, but you don’t really remember. You wonder if you’re ever going to stop regretting what you did, but you doubt it. You can picture Nathan the first time you saw him, though, and your guess is that this baby probably isn’t going to be much bigger. You throw a pack of preemie diapers in the cart and try not to think about what could go wrong between now and the baby’s birthday.
By the time you pick up Nathan from the Wilson’s and get the baby’s supplies unloaded, your leg is screaming. Probably dumping out your Vicodin was not your smartest move.
You mumble, “Be right back,” to Blythe and take off for your room. Blythe does her best for Nathan, pulling a Lunchable out of the fridge and sitting him down to eat dinner with a glass of milk before she comes to find you sitting on the edge of your bed.
“Your leg hurts, Daddy,” she said quietly, offering you an ice pack wrapped in a towel.
“Yeah,” you grunt, taking the ice pack. You know it will do no good, but your little girl is trying so hard.
“If you want to lie down, I can tuck Nathan in tonight,” she offers, sitting on the bed next to you and taking your hand.
“I’ll be right there,” you tell her firmly, “I just need a minute.”
“Where’s your medicine?” she asks innocently, and you want to crawl under the bed and die. You should have known she was too smart not to notice.
“I don’t have any,” you shrug, trying to change the topic. She is seven, she’s not old enough to have to deal with your problems. She will never be old enough to deal with your problems; you want to protect her forever.
“Do you still have some in the office?” she asks, and now you really feel like a horrible father. Not only have you taken enough pills in front of Blythe to allow her to figure out they are for your leg, you’ve taken enough for her to realize you have them stashed all over the house. You feel even worse because you are relieved you have Vicodin left.
“Why don’t you and Nathan go watch a video?” you say, instead of answering her, “You guys can stay up a little later tonight.”
She grins, “Okay,” she says, giving you a little hug before she stands up, “I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, Blythe,” you manage, and you want to cry.
She takes Nathan into the family room and you limp to the office, finding the Vicodin in your drawer and dry swallowing two.
You sink down into your desk chair and drop your head into your hands. You feel like you’re trying to juggle eight hundred things at once, and you’re scared you’re going to drop everything - and this time, there will be no picking up the pieces.