(no subject)
Chapter eleven
Cameron
Today has crept along at a snail’s pace, I decide, as I walk unhurriedly toward the office. I drop the patient file onto the conference table when I arrive back with the blood work House sent me to get from the lab. He won’t be pleased, because nothing in the tests reveals what’s wrong with our patient; it’s been a long, frustrating week.
We’re working on a tricky case; our twenty eight year old patient is in a coma. Not through anything we’ve done to him; he arrived in that state. His wife came home from work to find him passed out on the kitchen floor, completely unresponsive
I glance in at House; he’s not even trying to look busy today. He’s reclined in the chair that lives in the corner of his office, feet up, left hand spinning his cane around slowly as he gazes out of the window, lost in thought. I also notice he’s rubbing his right thigh, absently, with his left hand.
I walk over to the board. There are a few reasons why someone would fall into an unexpected coma; all of the good ones are written on our whiteboard. Foreman was given the honor of writing everything up; that’s why all the S’s look curly.
House couldn’t resist baiting him, saying, “Do you want a pink marker to go with those girly capital letters of yours Foreman?” before snorting distastefully. And of course, I wasn’t happy with the sweeping generality of his statement, and had to offer, “Yeah, because all of us girls just love the color pink.”
And then everyone started sniping for a few minutes, until Chase finally started firing suggestions for Foreman to write up.
It’s the number one tell tale sign though, when House’s leg is really bad; either me or Foreman write everything up. I have noticed, with some amusement that it’s never been bad enough for Chase to take over; not yet anyway.
I scan the list: seizure, stroke, drug overdose, brain hemorrhage, uncommon infection, metabolic irregularity, and toxins. All but three things have a line through them.
I pick up the red marker pen by the board, and then I place similar lines through the words, stroke, hemorrhage and toxins on our list.
House leans up a little in his chair so he can look in at me: his marker alert must have gone off. Perhaps the high- pitched squeak of the nib against the board ratted me out.
I place the red pen down and I realize I’m in desperate need of some caffeine; House enters the room and stands by the board.
“So, nothing fits,” he says thoughtfully.
“The CT revealed no evidence of a hemorrhage or a stroke. His respiratory rate is normal, as is the heart rate,” I reply, turning to look at him briefly, before returning to the preparation of a well earned coffee. I take a mug from the cupboard and rinse it out.
“Drugs?” he questions my turned back. I shake my head once.
“His tox screen came back clean, and the ER pumped his stomach when he came in the night before last, but found no evidence of pills or alcohol.”
“Healthy but completely unresponsive,” House says, I think more to himself than me.
“Foreman is going to do an electroencephalogram,” I say, deciding not to cream my coffee, because I need something strong to wake me up. I finish making my drink and turn and lean on the sink.
House has focused a thoughtful look on the board; this case really has him puzzled. I move to the conference table, pull out a seat and sit down.
I notice him shoot a quick glance at me, before he returns his attention to the board.
“Wilson’s cancer thing,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, as he speaks. “Are you going?”
I turn my head and look at him properly. “The black tie ball to raise funds for the playroom?”
House nods once. I try and hide my surprise that he’s going, and offer a miniscule shrug over his enquiry.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I reply. “Probably because I don’t have a black tie,” I say, smiling, realizing instantly that the joke couldn’t have been lamer if I’d tried. I reach for the file I placed on the table and flip over the cover. “Are you?” I ask weakly, trying to recover from my bad joke.
He offers a beleaguered sigh, before answering, “I have to go.”
“Right, of course, he’s your best friend…” I begin, but he breaks in with a reply before I can finish.
“Yeah right, that sounds just like me. No, actually, black tie balls really aren’t my scene, but I broke his DVD player. It was either turn up to his thing or buy a new one, it’s bribery.”
I smile and laugh slightly, that sounds more House, “Oh.”
“It would seem there is a limit to the amount of rewinding you can do on a DVD player…” he turns to make sure I’m listening, before he continues. “…when watching porn, before the thing gives out.”
He likes to watch my reaction when he thinks he’s said something outrageous or rude. That was tame as far as House goes, so I smile and flip over another page on the file.
“A little too much information,” I offer calmly, and then I flip through the sheets in the file until I find the blood test results. I scan them again; I always read over them a few times, checking for something I may have missed, first time around.
House will tolerate an unavoidable or accidental error on a case better than some doctors I’ve worked with, we’re not superhuman like him; but he won’t accept simple mistakes.
He comes away from the board and appears by my side; I can tell he’s reading over my shoulder.
“I should probably take someone to this thing, and you do look better in a dress than Chase, albeit, only just.”
He turns away again then, his last words fading in volume as he moves back to face the board.
“Are you’re asking me to go with you?” I say neutrally. I suppose it’s mean to make him work for this sort of thing, but this is the only situation where I have the edge over him.
“Sure, but I know Foreman is just dying to try on that new ballgown of his, so don’t feel bad if you can’t make it,” he says quickly, using his usual sarcasm to cover up the uncomfortable formality of asking me out.
We’ve been seeing each other at least three times a week out of work, yet he still finds this challenging. Asking me to attend is something that could easily be explained away as a compulsory work function.
I make an obvious show of thinking about his offer, before tilting my head to look over at him. “Will you be wearing your tux?” I enquire, curiously, and then I look down at the blood work again. “Potassium’s a little low,” I note, after glancing at the next page of the file: the urine test results.
He turns away from the board and looks down at me. One eyebrow quirks upward as he thinks about my words. “Will it increase my chances of getting laid?” he asks, a second eyebrow rising up to meet the first; he then leans over to look at the lab results again.
“Potassium isn’t that far off normal, not enough to put him in a coma.”
“Sample was taken yesterday; I’ll get another one and do the tests again, it’s not like we’ve got anything else to go on,” I reply, then I look down and close the file. “And I think a tuxedo would probably quadruple your chances of getting laid on Friday night,” I add.
“Run the test again if you want, then get Foreman to inject him with some dye and CT his head again; I want to know exactly what’s going on in his brain.” He limps toward his office, but pauses at the door.
“And yeah, now you mention it, I will be wearing a tux on Friday,” he says thoughtfully. “So, you coming?” he asks, glancing back at me, looking slightly unsure.
I nod once then get up; I need to go and get some more urine from our patient, and then book him in for another CT. “Yeah, I’ll meet you down there on Friday,” I say as I pass him.
House nods then pushes the door to his office open, throwing a, ‘Good,’ behind him before the door closes again.
~
House
Finally, Cameron’s arrived back with the lab work; hopefully something showed up that can explain why an otherwise healthy twenty eight year male decided to play dead on his kitchen floor, until his wife arrived home from work.
It takes two squeaks on the board and the click of a marker lid to snatch my hope away, like gravity yanking a helium filled balloon from the hand of a four year old at a fair.
We’ve just run out of causes for coma; suppose I’ll have to invent some new ones.
I ease back in my seat and stare in at her. She’s all business, glasses perched on her nose, and brow furrowed in concentration as she reads through the list of reasons why our patient isn’t in a catatonic state.
Her lab coat pulls taut at the back as she folds her arms and leans in toward the board slightly. It’s like she’s expecting another option we hadn’t thought of to miraculously appear on the board.
We’ve been seeing a lot more of each other out of work recently; more than I thought either of us could tolerate, and I’m surprised it doesn’t seem to be affecting things here at the hospital, even though Foreman, Chase and most of the nurses seem to know about our extra curricula activities, thanks to Chase and his big mouth.
Sure, I’m sick of the questioning looks that nurse on reception gives me when I arrive to do my clinic duty, like she’s not sure if she had me all wrong. She obviously can’t comprehend why someone as wholesome and fluffy as Cameron would give someone like me the time of day, outside of work.
Truth is, I’m not sure myself, so I don’t really need that uncertainty reflected at me every time I arrive to do my job. Just being in the clinic, knowing I have two whole hours of penis problems and listening to people describing the color of their snot ahead of me, is painful enough.
Stuff here in the office though, remains unchanged, even though Cameron tends to stay at my place on Mondays, and Wednesdays; sometimes she stays Saturdays too. It isn’t something we’ve ever discussed; we never took the time to decide days. She shows up, sometimes with takeout, and a bottle of expensive wine, sometimes with a bag of groceries and a muttered exasperation about how someone with my appetite never seems to have any food in the kitchen.
If she keeps putting stuff in my kitchen, there is no point in my putting stuff in there too; it’s pointless. And she likes doing it really, I’m sure.
She’s a fine distraction, I suppose; certain things become a little more bearable when she’s there, it’s a simple fact I won’t deny. Well, I’d deny it to her, but not to myself.
I don’t need Cameron in my life, because I don’t need anybody, I’m sure of that, but I suppose I can admit I like her in it.
No great conversation needs to take place; we don’t sit around picking apart Bush’s foreign policy or guess when exactly Tom Cruise will go and seek psychiatric help. We definitely don’t discuss anything related to work or our current cases. We simply sit and watch TV, sometimes we might even watch a movie, but most of the time we’re in the bedroom.
It’s just sort of turned out that way. It doesn’t really warrant thinking about. If something works it works; no point in pulling it all apart to wonder why it runs so smoothly, because you have to break it to work that out.
Last week, I left a key to my place next to her laptop and she took it without asking me what it was or what it meant, we don’t seem to need to talk about these things anymore. Words are not our thing. Actions always work better.
I keep waiting for the novelty of me to wear off; so far it hasn’t. It started off as sex, and we still have lots of that: her place, my place, every room in the apartment, in the shower, on the sofa. I keep waiting for the novelty of that to wear off for me.
It hasn’t.
I’ve gained one insight into the mystery that is Allison Cameron since we started this thing: she humors me more than I realized.
She could say a lot more than she does, but she holds off, maybe her self restraint is better than everyone else’s, maybe she dislikes confrontation. Or maybe she just secretly likes feeling superior to everyone else.
I suppose I should ask her to this thing of Wilson’s. I don’t think an email will do it. I’m going to actually have to invite her verbally.
It’s not like the whole hospital isn’t aware of what’s going on between us, but it seems a very public setting. It could be embarrassing, not for me, for her. She’d be too nice to admit that, so she’ll agree, and turn up, and hate the whole evening.
But then, who else am I going to take? I don’t want to invite anyone else. I don’t even want to go in the first place.
~
Friday evening.
Cameron
I step out of the shower and wrap my hair up in a towel before putting on my robe. I then go to my bedroom, I’m still not sure if I’m going to wear the red or the black dress. They hang side by side against my wardrobe like nervous first graders desperately not wanting to be picked last for a game of softball.
I like them both, in fact I think I like the black one a little more, and it’s classier than the red one. But the red one has one advantage. I already know House likes me in red.
Considering he’s going to be donning a tux for the second time this year, and that he actually invited me out somewhere other people are going to see us together, I should probably choose the one I know he’ll like.
I start to get ready; I’m feeling apprehensive, and I’m not really sure why. I suppose it’s something to do with this being my first public date with House. The other times we’ve been out, we’ve been away from the hospital, and in places other doctors would be unlikely to see us. This is a big thing for us, for him.
I know he won’t have taken the decision to invite me lightly. So I want this to go as smoothly as possible.
~
Friday evening
House
I scratch just inside the collar of my shirt; I hate having the top button done up. I look down at the invitation in my hand, written in tasteful silver calligraphy, it reads:
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
Black Tie Ball.
An evening of top class entertainment together with a three course meal, auction and six piece jazz band, organized in aid of the PPTH cancer appeal.
“Oh great,” I turn to Wilson, “Hired jazz band. I bet my ears will be picking out bum notes all evening.”
I’m not sure if he’s even listening to me; he’s nodding at the passers by and smiling at various people as they arrive.
“Remember that saying, if you can’t say anything nice…” he says out of the corner of his mouth.
“You should stay home and watch the OC?” I suggest. He turns and frowns at me, before finding his gracious face again and gurning at an elderly couple who’ve just arrived by his side.
I turn around and ask the bartender for a double scotch. I take a long swig when it arrives then turn and lean on the bar, facing the room again, just in time to watch as Cameron arrives at the door.
She looks around the room. Wilson waves his hand once, and my mouth hangs open, just a little, because she looks absolutely stunning.
Every other woman in the room now holds a barely concealed hatred of Cameron, because she’s just become the prettiest girl in here.
A strapless but elegant red dress looks perfect on her. Red is so her color; my eyes trail a journey over her slight frame and then she notices where Wilson and I are standing, and begins to head over. The material of the dress ends just above her knees; it looks like the dress she wore to the poker night, but it’s a little snugger, and classier.
I’ve only been here for ten minutes. Now I’m going to be spending the rest of the evening checking my watch, counting down the time as it moves to the point when we can leave and I can peel her slowly out of that dress.
Wilson breathes out a quiet ‘wow’ and I feel a twinge of jealousy prickle through my veins. I’m not comfortable with the thoughts I know he’s having about my girlfriend right now.
And I get a strange flashback, a visual of Cameron getting better acquainted with my penis, while kneeling on the floor of her living room, tanked. And I realize, as unlikely an event that was, it did happen, and we’ve gone from that to this. We’re an ‘us.’ We’re coupled…paired off.
She’s no longer just a colleague or an employee, or even a friend, and we are not ‘just having sex’, because this is not sex. This is a room full of people and she’s here with me.
And isn’t the disbelief at that fact written on every face in the room, as heads turn to track Cameron’s line toward myself and Wilson.
I suppose most males in the room now harbor a secret hatred of me too. Barely concealed looks of ‘How the fuck did he manage that?’ are written on their faces.
How ironic then: the man that has an answer for everything can’t answer that one, doesn’t even know where to begin. I suppose the make or break of this whole thing will be whether I can live with that, or not.
Cameron reaches us. “Hello Dr Wilson,” she says politely then she flashes me a quick smile.
~
The mix of scotch and Vicodin turn my stomach enough to put me off the food, and make me tipsy a lot more quickly than I was expecting. I’m not an obnoxious or rowdy drunk, which surprises a lot of people.
When I mix my pills with hooch, I tend to just get drowsy. I barely touch my meal and I wrestle with tiredness as Cuddy, Wilson, Cameron, some cardiologist, and a surgeon called Goolash, or something, talk shop This is why I hate these things: mind numbing conversation mixed with boring people. You make one slightly off-color observation about the scary overspill on the cleavage of the woman on the next table over and you’re frozen out of the conversation for the rest of the dinner.
And then the band start playing, safe boring jazz, loudly enough to give a deaf man a headache. I have to excuse myself at this point and escape to the bar. I order a Coke though; another alcoholic drink and I’ll be asleep before I get the chance to see what color underwear Cameron has matched with that crotch teasing outfit.
Wilson joins me a few minutes later, wearing his concerned face.
“I’m bored, not drunk,” I say before any lectures start, Cameron, he informs me, has excused herself to visit the bathroom.
And then it happens, I was wondering if he’d have the balls to do it, because what the hell else are they going to do now.
“Do you mind if I ask Cameron for the next dance?” he says cautiously. I shrug and straighten up, out of my lean on the bar.
“Why should I care?” I reply, before taking a sip of my Coke; now I wish it was something stronger.
“It’s just Morrison is about to ask her, I don’t think he knows that you two,” Wilson wags the air between us and then shakes his head, “Ahh, you know, and he’s a complete pervert, so, someone should probably-”
“Rescue her?” I say.
Wilson looks down at the floor, as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s just one dance, but if you’re uncomfortable, I won’t.”
“Why should I be?” I counter, irritably.
“Because she’s your girlfriend,” he says softly.
“No, she’s not,” I correct him. “We’re fucking, not dating.” I don’t know why I said that; stupid really.
“So that’s a no, then?” Wilson says, as he places his hands in his pocket.
“It’s a do what you want, I don’t give a crap. I’m staying another thirty minutes, and then I’m going home,” I say, loosening my tie with a quick movement of my left hand.
“You said you’d stay until ten,” Wilson reminds me. I did, I lean up from the bar, so I’m looking down at him, “And I lied.”
Cameron returns then and Wilson goes ahead and asks her; well done Wilson, for creating such an awkward situation. Of course her eyes flit to mine and of course I look away. She then asks if I mind, which I knew she would, because she’s too polite to decline a gesture like that but too polite to accept without checking. I say I don’t give a crap again - I’ve said it enough to almost believe it - and they make their way to the dance floor.
The minutes their bodies inch closer, I do give a crap; it bothers me greatly to watch the easy smile appear on her face as they turn effortless circles on the dance floor; her hands around his neck. I turn to face the bar, but I realize I don’t want to be here any longer. I hate these fucking things as it is.
I ditch the Coke, grab another scotch and leave the room; I can just about hear the bartender telling me I can’t leave the area with the glass. But he’s wrong. It’s actually very easy to leave with it.
~
The hospital is as quiet as it gets: tired nurses check in on sleeping patients and a couple of workmen in faded blue overalls are fiddling with the switch panel on the wall by the elevator. Something expensive has been broken in the hospital and it isn’t my doing. Cuddy will think I’m losing my touch.
I limp toward the one that works and hit the button for my floor.
I’m going to lie down in the lounge on the same floor as my office. The booze has tampered with my motor skills and it takes me twice as long to reach the room as a sober journey would take.
When I arrive, I elbow the lights off and sit on the cheap blue sofa next to the foosball table; I should call a cab and go soon. I don’t want to wake up here on a Saturday morning.
I can’t help but feel trapped. Part of me wants to progress things with Cameron and another part wants to cease things completely because I keep finding myself in places like this; unable to give her something as simple as a dance, and not just because I can’t, because even if I could have, I wouldn’t.
It’s not just the physical limitations that have me holding back, there are plenty of psychological ones, too.
I swipe a hand of frustration down my face and find a sigh to go with it. I’ve drunk too much, the alcohol has brought me down; it happens. None of this will matter in the morning.
I start to doze off. I think this week has taken its toll on me; my mind has been working overtime and I’ve not been sleeping very well because my leg’s been bad. I think I’ll spend the weekend in bed.
Alone.
The sound of someone saying, ‘Hey,” stops me from drifting off completely. I open my eyes in time to see Cameron entering the room.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d gone home,” she says, the door clicking softly shut behind her. I lay my head back down again.
“Someone needed to check on the patient,” I reply.
“Is the patient still in a coma?” she enquires. She turns on the lights and I squint; her eyes glisten under the harsh light. She’s a little tanked, I can tell.
“Okay, I think I drank too much,” I mumble. I’m not drunk, well, not that drunk, but I’m not about to admit that a wave of jealousy carried me from the room after seeing Wilson turn her around a dance floor.
“Oh,” she comes to stand in front of me. “Do you feel sick?” I never doubted it; Dr Cameron is still under there, once you get past the wine, make-up and perfume.
I dismiss her. “I’m fine: you however, are drunk.”
“A little,” she admits, complete with coy smile. “And you’re not really here because you feel sick,” she observes.
“Okay, then why am I here?” I reply, watching her; she drops her gaze and thinks about it. She’s not sure whether she wants to pick up a particular line of conversation; I don’t want to have that conversation either.
Maybe she’s not as innocent as she makes out, maybe she likes that I got jealous. But then, that’s not really in her nature, but who knows. Women are strange like that sometimes.
“I figure you wanted me to come and look for you so you could get me alone,” she offers thoughtfully. I’m glad we’re going to avoid the real reason.
I shrug my shoulders, “Damn, I hate it when my evil plans don’t pan out,” I reply, sarcastically.
She edges up to me, until I can take hold of her wrist.
“I know you won’t believe when I say this, but I think you look very handsome this evening,” she says, with a shy smile.
“Yeah, well I can see your panties from here,” I return, pulling her down onto me.
Both of our heads fall down to watch where she lands. I think we’re both relieved she managed to miss my thigh.
Maybe I’m drunker than I think, because making out in the hospital lounge doesn’t seem like a big deal right now and it probably should.
She smirks, thinks about her options, and then decides it’s safe enough to kiss me. She pushes her tongue inside my mouth, then steadies herself by placing her hand against my chest.
Our tongues do a familiar dance, and I put my hand behind her head. She tastes of the wine she’s been drinking; something dry and white, something that probably went straight to her head because she works too much and eats too little.
There is probably a reason for that but I never care to ask her why.
When she feels steady enough, I feel her hands brushing gently through my hair, or as Wilson would say, what’s left of it.
I let my hands explore the thin material of her dress, smoothing my palms slowly down her back, then traveling upwards, hand on either side of her until I’m massaging her breasts, I’m definitely drunker than I thought I was.
I’m suddenly thinking we could maybe take things further in here.
We kiss for a few minutes longer, my hands retreating to the small of her back, all done blindly because my eyes are closed, but I always prefer this sort of exploration in the dark anyway.
Her smell, and the stroke of her tongue against mine, her taste, that fucking dress; I can’t help it, I’m getting hard.
I slide a hand to the hem of her dress, fingertips on her thighs, not sure where they should go, of course her dress has ridden up, making it easy to slide one hand under. I let my hand creep up toward the waistband of her panties. She doesn’t say stop, or no, she just keeps kissing me.
If I do this, we’re not going to stop. I’m not really into danger sex, not in the middle of the hospital lounge, and she slides forward a little and finds the lump in my pants with her crotch.
I shift slightly and groan into her mouth as she giggles into mine. Do we do this here or get a cab?
“Cab?” I suggest unsurely. It would be better to do this at my place, but getting to the cab, with a limp, reduced motor function and an erection might be quite a mission.
“Everyone’s at the party; it’s not like anyone knows we’re here,” Cameron says. l note the mischievous glint in her eyes, and the way her painted red lips glisten: it would be nice to have them wrapped around my dick about two minutes from now.
I bring my hand around to the front of her, palm sliding bravely under that waistband, meeting the soft hair and, slight damp at the front of her, then I slide one finger straight in and she sits up a little, her neck tilts back and her eyes clamp shut to the sound of her breath forced quickly out of her nose.
I’m about to add another finger, but then the door to the room opens and my hand shoots out of her panties as if I just got burned.
Cuddy is standing by the door; arms crossed, feet apart, full on attack Cuddy, oh shit. Cameron rolls sideways off me and rearranges herself as best she can.
I can feel that red lipstick has smudged all over my face, and I’m about ninety percent sure Cuddy knows where my hand just was.