Title: Notes to Self
Character/Pairing: Cameron, slightly House/Cameron
Summary: These are the mental notes of Allison Cameron's mind
Disclaimer/Spoilers: Not mine. Spoilers up to Guardian Angels
Author's Notes: The prompt was date: A particular point or period of time.
Not really satisfied with the way it turns out. (Mostly because it's un-BETA-ed). I just can't come up with a happy Cameron. Maybe because I see ER as a place filled with dying people.
Some of the patients are reference to the movie, "Stay," which is the only thing I could think about when writing the fic.
Notes to Self
Somehow she knew this was going to happen. Sooner or later. It was as if she has been counting the days.
She blamed the night shift. She blamed the weekend shift.
He was only a boy. Henry was only a boy.
It was a car accident. His parents were in the backseat, her fiancée was beside him. No! His would-be-fiancée! He was just going to ask her.
Maybe he would blame the soft rain. Maybe he would blame the car behind his.
Maybe he would blame himself.
But she didn’t know which one Henry really blamed.
She told him to hang on. But he was gone as soon as she told him to.
Maybe she didn’t tell him loud enough.
Number of casualties: One (so far).
Why did she say yes in the first place?
Cuddy’s voice trailed off as she weighed down the bads and worsts that would happen. Chase said nothing, as if waiting for her to make the first move (maybe he did wait). When her wandering mind returned to where she was standing at the Dean of Medicine’s office, Cuddy had finished her speech and stared straight into her eyes. As if she knew all would be entirely up to her.
“Yes,” she heard herself sighing the word. Chase answered his “Yes” as soon as hers evaporated in front of her eyes. It was too late to turn back.
An exchange of few words later and Chase had already led their ways towards the exit. Cuddy, though, sensed her unwavering stance and knew she still had something to say. “Yes, Dr. Cameron?”
Chase turned on his heels. She swallowed before she could begin.
“Don’t tell House.”
Maybe she already knew the answer long before she stepped into the office.
Two is the new number.
This time it was Leila.
What was Leila’s job again? Oh yes, an actress.
She was going to appear in a play. Hamlet. She was Ophelia.
The truck didn’t see Leila crossing the street under the pouring rain. Leila’s head hit the flooded asphalt when the truck threw her 2 feet away.
She almost laughed at the irony.
First day. Somehow she didn’t feel so intimidated (like she used to). Perhaps it was the “Senior” attached in her title that did it. Perhaps it was the juniors smiling approvingly at her (they must’ve heard about the 3 years fellowship under Dr. House).
Perhaps it was the hair.
She hated that part of herself. A part that was so vain. She humored herself by saying that it wasn’t entirely her fault. That this was caused by other people.
But looking at herself at the mirror, she had to admit she thought the woman looking back at her was beautiful. And everyone seemed to think so, too. The guy who did her hair, the ladies pampered around her, the boys staring cravingly at her, Chase.
She ran her fingers through the blonde streaks. She felt good.
All patients went home healthy that day.
The patient wouldn’t tell her anything, no matter how many times she asked. No last name, no address, no job.
Didn’t that woman know she couldn’t help her unless she told her what went wrong?
But would she be able to save her if she did say something?
“Greta” was all she knew.
But she also knew the woman was unhealthy. She gave her his pager number.
Now she could breathe easy. The patient would be in good hands. She was already safe.
She couldn’t believe it took 3 days for her to finally spot a glimpse of him. She figured it was because he constantly hid from Cuddy, avoiding clinic hours as usual.
She thought their eyes met a moment before he stepped into the elevator. But the doors closed and she didn’t see him again that day. Maybe he didn’t see her.
Maybe he didn’t recognize her.
“3 weeks.” And it took you 3 days.
“Pulling pieces of windshield out of car accident victims and reattaching fingertips sliced off cutting bagels.”
Wiping pukes off patients’ mouths. And off your scrubs.
“I can do good here.” You can do other than good here, too.
“I didn’t rat her out.”
“Why lie?” Yes, why?
It was Tuesday. It was daylight. She couldn’t blame anyone else.
Mr. Duncan, the shop keeper, couldn’t blame anyone else.
He was brought in together with the other man. Two of them were on gurneys.
The other man’s wound (what was that mean thief’s name again?) was from the police. Mr. Duncan’s from that other man’s gunshot.
So why couldn’t she save him when Dr. Turner could?
She kept glancing back as if there was someone there, waiting at the hallway, watching her kill the old man. She could almost hear him saying, “You’re an idiot.”
But he did say that to her, didn’t he?
She heard House lost a patient, too.
She hated herself for smirking at the fact.
She lost her count. 5? 6? It couldn’t be 7.
David… No, it wasn’t even a boy.
Dana? Yes, Dana!
And why did they lose her?
Didn’t really remember. But the blood was still on her by the time they took her cold body away.
The victim was OD.
The patient lost a lot of blood. Too much to keep her from being not dead.
And the month was almost over.
She thought it should be over, too. You know, all of this.
Why did she say no in the first place?
“You can’t stop controlling me.”
“No one controls you.”
“Want your job back?”
She couldn’t believe how fast the word spitted out of her mouth. She bit down her apple before she ate her own word back.
And now she stood here, watching the abandoned office. She figured they must be in the auditorium. She thought about their new case. She thought about their new patient.
She thought about hers. The deads and undeads.
She wondered if he ever meant his offer.
Maybe he did.
The glass was a transparent barrier between past and present. Life and death.
She chuckled at what was laid before her.
She thought what was then was death. She thought she needed to find what was life. She thought she could find it when she crossed the barrier.
Then why all she smelled now was death and death only? Then all the past brought to her was life.
He must make a choice, soon. 3 choices in fact.
The paper she held crumpled in her tiny fist. Maybe she would do him a favor if she put the paper on his desk? Or on her old desk?
Her view shifted from that old desk to her own reflection. The confused look on her made her laugh.
She turned around and started trudging the way downstairs.
“No, you wouldn’t.” she thought silently.
Maybe there’d be a date when she would.