House fanfiction - "Shot"
Author: sgr11
Format & Word Count: Ficlet / Word Count: 2386
Rating: PG
Prompt: Prompt #12 "Certainly"
Warning: Spoilers from "No Reason"
Summary: Cameron deals with the aftermath of House being shot - a continuation of what might have happened in the S2 finale... (a little AU/OOC - you know what I mean).
Author's Note (if desired): Written from Cameron's POV.
I really hope I caught all my typos, but it's late and I'm really really tired, so please let me know if I missed any. I haven't had a lot of time to work on these prompts (b/c of work) and I didn't have a chance to have someone beta them :( . Well, this started out as a short drabble, and geez, look what happened!
Blood. It’s everywhere. The floor, covering your once white lab coat, your slacks, slathering your gloved hands. House is lying on the floor and you move without thinking and feeling, just instantaneously. Your motions feel so slow, as if you are watching yourself removed and apart from your own physical figure. Your blood is rushing through your body, pulsating hard within your heart; your heart is overtaking you -- it is in your throat, your stomach, and pounding in your ears -- it is driving you in all your movements. Actions, feelings, emotions so intermingled you could not even begin to define them if you had to, you just follow what your body is demanding of you.
Rush. Fast. Quickly. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry! Now! Now! Now! Now!
‘On-demand’ does not even begin to explain the equivalent of how your emotions are directing you to treat House. He can’t die. He just can’t. You keep from shaking by becoming a slightly different doctor and barking out orders with distinct control and fervor, House and his eyes always in your sight.
You can see him staring at you from the corner of your eye, his eyelids half closed, he’s quiet. He’s never quiet. You’re holding pressure at his neck, he’s still warm, but he’s losing blood so quickly. You hold on tight, you don’t want to let go. You don’t look at him directly, you don’t want him to see your fear. You hear him mumbling something.
Leaning down, you brush your long hair back with a bloody glove. “What is it, House?” You gently ask in the mayhem.
“Tell Cuddy, I want Ketamine,” he ekes out before closing his eyes.
You bite your lip, now entrusted with this information -- this, this want. Ripping off your gloves, you toss them, and yell, “No anesthesia,” as you strut out of the room calling everything to a halt.
+
Foreman’s running labs for Cuddy, Chase is prepping House for surgery, you melt into a chair in the hall, totally useless, shaking with dry tears, your body moist with spattered blood.
What was the point?
You argued with Cuddy. You told her what he wanted, and somehow, from her desk, she stared you down with her big eyes and said “Absolutely not!”
After the quarrel and her put-downs, you were too tired to have a serious debate with her over morals and ethics and a patient’s wishes.
She demanded that she is his doctor, and she would make the decisions that she felt would be in the best interest of his medical care. You actually laughed out loud at her. She thought the Ketamine was insane, and had no guarantee. Plus, she had no assurance that he had said he wanted it. No one else heard him. Just you. And maybe you want something for him that he doesn’t want. That’s what she accused you of.
You try not to cry. For too many reasons. You want to rip your hair out. (And hers). You know he will not be happy. His desires will be disregarded again, and this time she doesn’t even realize she is actually disregarding them. She thinks this crazy idea is yours, because she knows how devoted you are to him. You think a certain jealousy stops her from really hearing you. You would never suggest something like this for any normal patient; you would never suggest something like this for House, unless he wanted it!
You have no say here. You refuse to crumble.
So, you sit. And after the surgery he’s touch-and-go, you sit at his bedside, not allowing anyone to convince you to leave. You wash you hands and face, and put on clean scrubs. You will not remove yourself from his side, from the noise of the machines helping him breathe, from the beeping of the heart monitor that reassures you when you close your eyes that he’s okay, and from the warmth of his hand underneath your own. You won’t leave these things that let you know that he’s tangible, that’s he’s here. You may have failed him in communicating his request for his medical treatment, but you just can’t leave.
+
There is a insurmountable grief rising within you that you are attempting to keep compartmentalized. But you feel it, a blackness that is invading your body, forcing you to keep your head bowed at his bedside. You care less that you are losing your teacher, your mentor, a genius -- but that you could be losing this man. This man that you have had few gifts of glimpses of getting to know better. A man who seems to capture you whole in his eyes, understanding you more than you understand yourself at times. You want to cry in despair -- in grief -- over what you may be losing, of what you may never know, what you never had the chance to know.
For so long you made a fool of yourself, blushing inwardly at your very forward words, so sure of your feelings, so sure you thought you knew his. But she came back, Stacey. And she haunted House, disrupted him, and if there was ever anything going to be between you two, it was lost in the catastrophe of her arrival. And you were discarded to the side, refuse from the storm. And it hurt. It hurt bad.
Yet, slowly your seas calmed. And in time, the two of you were cordial to each other in more then just a boss-and-underling relationship, you were becoming friendly again, even though she was still around and he was playing his own games. There was some flirting that you tried to keep at a distance, though with his eyes, it was difficult. The two of you would have the occasional close conversation, he once opening up without prompt about his family. You two worked together like a well-oiled machine, which made it difficult, your motions so synchronized. And though you often disagreed, debating with him turned you on, and he always loved to debate. But, he ran so hot and cold, and you knew for your own health and sanity that you needed to keep him at arm’s length. It was just safer.
And then she left. You don’t know what happened, you didn’t inquire after the details, you didn’t want to know. House’s behavior was out of the norm, to say the least, varying from one extreme to the other. You tried to stay out of his path of destruction. You know how unhealthy he can be at times, yet you still continued to be drawn to him. You can’t seem to help yourself.
You know you keep wandering down your own path of change and self-discovery, but for some reason, he seems to be the only one to understand it, even when he’s watching you from afar. The connection you two seem to share -- that chemistry, that spark -- just haunts you. You feel like you are holding your breath in. You’re just not ready yet. You’re not ready at the possibility of losing him, just when everything started opening up again. Just when the fogs were clearing, the storms dissipating, the waters calming, the prospect of swimming, even if it got a little rough, was still a possibility.
You put your hands on his larger one, grip your fingers around his. You lower your head to the side of the bed, your cheek against the scratchy hospital issued sheets. You’re still holding back tears, and you contain the want of wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him tight. You just keep your head lowered to the bed in your first prayer in years.
+
You fall asleep. A gentle sensation in your hair is arousing you from your slumber. It is early morning, the sun rising up the pale hospital room wall. You glance up, lifting your head a bit, you see House, his blue eyes barely open. You reach to your hair, and you find his finger twirling a long end of it, his eyes focusing on the tress between his fingers.
He’s waking up.
You start to smile. You don’t want to snap him out of his concentration or jar him out of what seems to be a quiet peace.
“Hi.” You say quietly, slowly moving your hand into his, squeezing it.
He nods slightly and blinks a few times, his eyes deep, emotionally raw, bewildered, and pained. He squeezes your hand back, closing his eyes again, as if he needs the rest already and the need to just block out everything else around him.
However, you are relieved that he is awake. You can breathe again. You continue to hold his hand and sit and let the day continue.
+
Hours later, you have ignored most visitors, doctors, and nurses in and out of his room. He has been asleep most of the day. He’s still in critical condition. Wilson has tried to be reassuring, but he hasn't been. Chase and Foreman have spoken words to deaf ears. And Cuddy doesn’t even bother speaking to you. (You never had a war before, you don’t know why it’s starting now.)
You are trying to convince yourself that you are getting more comfortable with the sounds of the hospital room, that the machines are calming and more and more assuring, but your nerves are end and you are emotional and exhausted, all sense of logic disappeared in the night hours as you kept your vigil.
Amongst the dull sounds, you hear a distinct clicking on the hard linoleum floors. The closer it comes, the louder it becomes and the more impending it feels. You try your best to ignore it, patiently watching House’s scruffy sleeping face.
“Doctor Cameron.”
Your name is drawn out as sweetly as possible. You recognize the voice in an instant, and the small hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Stacey.
“Stacey?” You are shocked, and you look at her that way, as you watch her gracefully charge to the other side of the bed, quickly discarding her belongings on a nearby chair. “What are you doing here?”
“Lisa called me,” she says quietly, not looking at you, her eyes focused on House, her hands immediately going to his face, stroking his cheek lovingly... like she never left him.
You are stunned. Astonished that Cuddy would call Stacey after everything that happened between her and House, shocked that Stacey would come...
You are deflating, all the air and hope that you had gathered has been punctured and is now leaving you -- a slow leak gaining momentum.
You watch Stacey as you try to hide behind your hair. Her face is pale and serious, her eyes dark. You’ve never understood this woman or her motivations, you’ve tried to, but you couldn’t. You can’t read her face, she has a mask on.
You look at House, sleeping, not knowing what’s going on around him, totally unaware of the emotional wars and treaties being created and broken. You wonder how he would feel about them all. How will he feel when he is fully aware and awake? And with Stacey here?
“Dr. Cameron,” Stacey interrupts you from your thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Could you please excuse us?” She says motioning to herself and House.
You raise an eyebrow in question. For thirty-six hours, you have not left his side, and now you’re expected to leave? You play dumb. “I’m sorry?”
“Would you please leave for a while,” she smiles warmly at you, dripping with honey and charm. “I’m sure Dr. House would be so grateful that you have been here for him, but I’m here now. And I would like to be alone with him.”
She continues to stun you. You stand like a newborn fawn tripping over your own feet.
“I’ll call you if he should require anything,” she smiles again. “And I’ll be sure to let him know that you've been here for him.”
You are stuck in concrete. You feel blind and deaf. Everything around you feels cloudy, hazy, unreal and lost. How can this be? All hope you had is draining right out of your fingertips. You are standing in quick-sand, drowning in what were the golden grains.
Somehow, you inch towards the door. You turn around to take a last look. Stacey is sitting on the bed, her dark head leaning towards House.
She turns and looks at you, surprised that you’re still there. She gives you your final dismissal. “Thank you, Dr. Cameron.”
You notice that House is waking up. You see his deep blue eyes, but you can’t look at them, you just can’t...
“Certainly, Mrs. Warner.” You turn on your heels and leave.
Wilson tries to catch you in the hallway, but you don’t stop walking. You think he’s trying to explain Cuddy’s actions, or make some sense of them, but you can’t understand them. You don’t want to hear it. You’re soul almost died last night with House, you can’t hear it. Because you know whatever could have been, might have been, should have been...was gone now. And you couldn’t fight for it for yourself. You can’t vocalize this to Wilson, but you know he knows or he would not be trying to stop you from walking out of the hospital and trying to prevent you from getting into your car. Wilson’s smart and he knows you well enough to know that once you get in your car you won’t be coming back. What he doesn’t realize is just how strong you are, how willful you feel, and how much you need to go swimming in the ocean today. The sky is blue and cloudless, and you just know the sea will be calm.
end
x-posted hc_challenge and house_cameron
Format & Word Count: Ficlet / Word Count: 2386
Rating: PG
Prompt: Prompt #12 "Certainly"
Warning: Spoilers from "No Reason"
Summary: Cameron deals with the aftermath of House being shot - a continuation of what might have happened in the S2 finale... (a little AU/OOC - you know what I mean).
Author's Note (if desired): Written from Cameron's POV.
I really hope I caught all my typos, but it's late and I'm really really tired, so please let me know if I missed any. I haven't had a lot of time to work on these prompts (b/c of work) and I didn't have a chance to have someone beta them :( . Well, this started out as a short drabble, and geez, look what happened!
Blood. It’s everywhere. The floor, covering your once white lab coat, your slacks, slathering your gloved hands. House is lying on the floor and you move without thinking and feeling, just instantaneously. Your motions feel so slow, as if you are watching yourself removed and apart from your own physical figure. Your blood is rushing through your body, pulsating hard within your heart; your heart is overtaking you -- it is in your throat, your stomach, and pounding in your ears -- it is driving you in all your movements. Actions, feelings, emotions so intermingled you could not even begin to define them if you had to, you just follow what your body is demanding of you.
Rush. Fast. Quickly. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry! Now! Now! Now! Now!
‘On-demand’ does not even begin to explain the equivalent of how your emotions are directing you to treat House. He can’t die. He just can’t. You keep from shaking by becoming a slightly different doctor and barking out orders with distinct control and fervor, House and his eyes always in your sight.
You can see him staring at you from the corner of your eye, his eyelids half closed, he’s quiet. He’s never quiet. You’re holding pressure at his neck, he’s still warm, but he’s losing blood so quickly. You hold on tight, you don’t want to let go. You don’t look at him directly, you don’t want him to see your fear. You hear him mumbling something.
Leaning down, you brush your long hair back with a bloody glove. “What is it, House?” You gently ask in the mayhem.
“Tell Cuddy, I want Ketamine,” he ekes out before closing his eyes.
You bite your lip, now entrusted with this information -- this, this want. Ripping off your gloves, you toss them, and yell, “No anesthesia,” as you strut out of the room calling everything to a halt.
+
Foreman’s running labs for Cuddy, Chase is prepping House for surgery, you melt into a chair in the hall, totally useless, shaking with dry tears, your body moist with spattered blood.
What was the point?
You argued with Cuddy. You told her what he wanted, and somehow, from her desk, she stared you down with her big eyes and said “Absolutely not!”
After the quarrel and her put-downs, you were too tired to have a serious debate with her over morals and ethics and a patient’s wishes.
She demanded that she is his doctor, and she would make the decisions that she felt would be in the best interest of his medical care. You actually laughed out loud at her. She thought the Ketamine was insane, and had no guarantee. Plus, she had no assurance that he had said he wanted it. No one else heard him. Just you. And maybe you want something for him that he doesn’t want. That’s what she accused you of.
You try not to cry. For too many reasons. You want to rip your hair out. (And hers). You know he will not be happy. His desires will be disregarded again, and this time she doesn’t even realize she is actually disregarding them. She thinks this crazy idea is yours, because she knows how devoted you are to him. You think a certain jealousy stops her from really hearing you. You would never suggest something like this for any normal patient; you would never suggest something like this for House, unless he wanted it!
You have no say here. You refuse to crumble.
So, you sit. And after the surgery he’s touch-and-go, you sit at his bedside, not allowing anyone to convince you to leave. You wash you hands and face, and put on clean scrubs. You will not remove yourself from his side, from the noise of the machines helping him breathe, from the beeping of the heart monitor that reassures you when you close your eyes that he’s okay, and from the warmth of his hand underneath your own. You won’t leave these things that let you know that he’s tangible, that’s he’s here. You may have failed him in communicating his request for his medical treatment, but you just can’t leave.
+
There is a insurmountable grief rising within you that you are attempting to keep compartmentalized. But you feel it, a blackness that is invading your body, forcing you to keep your head bowed at his bedside. You care less that you are losing your teacher, your mentor, a genius -- but that you could be losing this man. This man that you have had few gifts of glimpses of getting to know better. A man who seems to capture you whole in his eyes, understanding you more than you understand yourself at times. You want to cry in despair -- in grief -- over what you may be losing, of what you may never know, what you never had the chance to know.
For so long you made a fool of yourself, blushing inwardly at your very forward words, so sure of your feelings, so sure you thought you knew his. But she came back, Stacey. And she haunted House, disrupted him, and if there was ever anything going to be between you two, it was lost in the catastrophe of her arrival. And you were discarded to the side, refuse from the storm. And it hurt. It hurt bad.
Yet, slowly your seas calmed. And in time, the two of you were cordial to each other in more then just a boss-and-underling relationship, you were becoming friendly again, even though she was still around and he was playing his own games. There was some flirting that you tried to keep at a distance, though with his eyes, it was difficult. The two of you would have the occasional close conversation, he once opening up without prompt about his family. You two worked together like a well-oiled machine, which made it difficult, your motions so synchronized. And though you often disagreed, debating with him turned you on, and he always loved to debate. But, he ran so hot and cold, and you knew for your own health and sanity that you needed to keep him at arm’s length. It was just safer.
And then she left. You don’t know what happened, you didn’t inquire after the details, you didn’t want to know. House’s behavior was out of the norm, to say the least, varying from one extreme to the other. You tried to stay out of his path of destruction. You know how unhealthy he can be at times, yet you still continued to be drawn to him. You can’t seem to help yourself.
You know you keep wandering down your own path of change and self-discovery, but for some reason, he seems to be the only one to understand it, even when he’s watching you from afar. The connection you two seem to share -- that chemistry, that spark -- just haunts you. You feel like you are holding your breath in. You’re just not ready yet. You’re not ready at the possibility of losing him, just when everything started opening up again. Just when the fogs were clearing, the storms dissipating, the waters calming, the prospect of swimming, even if it got a little rough, was still a possibility.
You put your hands on his larger one, grip your fingers around his. You lower your head to the side of the bed, your cheek against the scratchy hospital issued sheets. You’re still holding back tears, and you contain the want of wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him tight. You just keep your head lowered to the bed in your first prayer in years.
+
You fall asleep. A gentle sensation in your hair is arousing you from your slumber. It is early morning, the sun rising up the pale hospital room wall. You glance up, lifting your head a bit, you see House, his blue eyes barely open. You reach to your hair, and you find his finger twirling a long end of it, his eyes focusing on the tress between his fingers.
He’s waking up.
You start to smile. You don’t want to snap him out of his concentration or jar him out of what seems to be a quiet peace.
“Hi.” You say quietly, slowly moving your hand into his, squeezing it.
He nods slightly and blinks a few times, his eyes deep, emotionally raw, bewildered, and pained. He squeezes your hand back, closing his eyes again, as if he needs the rest already and the need to just block out everything else around him.
However, you are relieved that he is awake. You can breathe again. You continue to hold his hand and sit and let the day continue.
+
Hours later, you have ignored most visitors, doctors, and nurses in and out of his room. He has been asleep most of the day. He’s still in critical condition. Wilson has tried to be reassuring, but he hasn't been. Chase and Foreman have spoken words to deaf ears. And Cuddy doesn’t even bother speaking to you. (You never had a war before, you don’t know why it’s starting now.)
You are trying to convince yourself that you are getting more comfortable with the sounds of the hospital room, that the machines are calming and more and more assuring, but your nerves are end and you are emotional and exhausted, all sense of logic disappeared in the night hours as you kept your vigil.
Amongst the dull sounds, you hear a distinct clicking on the hard linoleum floors. The closer it comes, the louder it becomes and the more impending it feels. You try your best to ignore it, patiently watching House’s scruffy sleeping face.
“Doctor Cameron.”
Your name is drawn out as sweetly as possible. You recognize the voice in an instant, and the small hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Stacey.
“Stacey?” You are shocked, and you look at her that way, as you watch her gracefully charge to the other side of the bed, quickly discarding her belongings on a nearby chair. “What are you doing here?”
“Lisa called me,” she says quietly, not looking at you, her eyes focused on House, her hands immediately going to his face, stroking his cheek lovingly... like she never left him.
You are stunned. Astonished that Cuddy would call Stacey after everything that happened between her and House, shocked that Stacey would come...
You are deflating, all the air and hope that you had gathered has been punctured and is now leaving you -- a slow leak gaining momentum.
You watch Stacey as you try to hide behind your hair. Her face is pale and serious, her eyes dark. You’ve never understood this woman or her motivations, you’ve tried to, but you couldn’t. You can’t read her face, she has a mask on.
You look at House, sleeping, not knowing what’s going on around him, totally unaware of the emotional wars and treaties being created and broken. You wonder how he would feel about them all. How will he feel when he is fully aware and awake? And with Stacey here?
“Dr. Cameron,” Stacey interrupts you from your thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Could you please excuse us?” She says motioning to herself and House.
You raise an eyebrow in question. For thirty-six hours, you have not left his side, and now you’re expected to leave? You play dumb. “I’m sorry?”
“Would you please leave for a while,” she smiles warmly at you, dripping with honey and charm. “I’m sure Dr. House would be so grateful that you have been here for him, but I’m here now. And I would like to be alone with him.”
She continues to stun you. You stand like a newborn fawn tripping over your own feet.
“I’ll call you if he should require anything,” she smiles again. “And I’ll be sure to let him know that you've been here for him.”
You are stuck in concrete. You feel blind and deaf. Everything around you feels cloudy, hazy, unreal and lost. How can this be? All hope you had is draining right out of your fingertips. You are standing in quick-sand, drowning in what were the golden grains.
Somehow, you inch towards the door. You turn around to take a last look. Stacey is sitting on the bed, her dark head leaning towards House.
She turns and looks at you, surprised that you’re still there. She gives you your final dismissal. “Thank you, Dr. Cameron.”
You notice that House is waking up. You see his deep blue eyes, but you can’t look at them, you just can’t...
“Certainly, Mrs. Warner.” You turn on your heels and leave.
Wilson tries to catch you in the hallway, but you don’t stop walking. You think he’s trying to explain Cuddy’s actions, or make some sense of them, but you can’t understand them. You don’t want to hear it. You’re soul almost died last night with House, you can’t hear it. Because you know whatever could have been, might have been, should have been...was gone now. And you couldn’t fight for it for yourself. You can’t vocalize this to Wilson, but you know he knows or he would not be trying to stop you from walking out of the hospital and trying to prevent you from getting into your car. Wilson’s smart and he knows you well enough to know that once you get in your car you won’t be coming back. What he doesn’t realize is just how strong you are, how willful you feel, and how much you need to go swimming in the ocean today. The sky is blue and cloudless, and you just know the sea will be calm.
end
x-posted hc_challenge and house_cameron