bek (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aliora) wrote,@ 2006-10-19 14:28:00 |
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| Current mood: |  could do with sleep... |
| Current music: | Falling Again - Lacuna Coil |
| Entry tags: | cyclical, fic, house, house/cameron, incomplete |
[FIC] Cyclical 7/11 - House, M.D. - House/Cameron
So...yeah. Not quite sure what to make of this chapter. There are some Wilson moments I'm really happy with, but again, it's only inching the story forward at an excruciating pace. I used maybe one line from my plot outline because I'd already done everything else in the chapter, and I'm really hoping I haven't stuffed up the timeline too much.
*bites hand*
In good news, I finally managed to get season one on DVD, so now I can rewatch all those awesome moments when everyone was still trying to find their niche at the PPTH. I'd really love to go back and do some season one post-eps, but first things first, and this is first. *is tired*
Title: Cyclical
Series: House M.D.
Length: 5333 words
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating/warnings: M. Just language, I think.
Author's note: I know not much happens this time around, but I thought it was high time for Wilson to get some thoughts on the situation. And Cameron needed to learn the truth about her vests, even if my most excellent multi-purpose beta darkenedsakura doesn't think she has that many. :P
Summary: A moment changes everything. Not all change is bad.
The crosse is a familiar weight in his hands as he stands alone in the empty field. His legs are tensed and ready; he's all set to go. The sun is out and the leaves are still – it's perfect game weather.
So...where is everybody?
He turns in a lazy circle and takes in the deserted bleachers and empty grounds. The lines are clear on the field and the grass is clipped short. Everything is in place, including him.
He lowers the crosse, lets it drop to the ground, keeping the net end in his palm as the grip falls to the grass. He holds it like a branch, a stick, like a piece of wood that's not a sporting rod. He presses it down and takes a step --
-- and then the grass bleeds to carpet and walls form from nothing and another scene comes from nowhere to take its place.
Of course. He's dreaming. He knew there was something different, something wrong. He glances down and the crosse is his cane, the net is the handle, and everything is back to normal again. He wonders if there's a disorder of some sort, because it can't be healthy to know that he's dreaming. (He thinks it's just that he's too lazy to wake). No doubt there is a psychological term for it. For once he can't remember, and for once, he doesn't care.
“I don't care,” he tells Stacy, who's sitting in his office in one of the visitor chairs. She raises her eyes from a folder on her lap as he makes his way past her and sits down in his own chair.
“I know,” she agrees pleasantly, leaning forward and handing the file across. “You've never let yourself.”
He drops it on his desk and gives her a look. “Why are you even here?”
She tilts her head but before she can answer the door swings open and Cameron walks in. There's a folder in her hand and concentration on her face and she stops when she glances up to realise he's not alone in the room. “Oh!” she says in surprise, looking between Stacy and himself. “Am I interrupting?”
He's not sure what to say to that because he doesn't even know why he's here. He shifts in his seat. “I don't know.”
Stacy looks approving. “No,” she tells Cameron, even as he thinks she's speaking only to him. “I was just on my way out.” She rises and offers Cameron her chair. “Here – it's all yours.” She looks at him and gives a sad sort of smile before setting her shoulders and gliding out of the room.
Cameron watches her go and he finds himself watching Cameron. She hesitates a moment before taking the seat. “Was Stacy here long?”
“Five years,” he tells her, looking up at the ceiling and wishing he was back on the field, in his uniform and headgear, where he knew where he stood. They were speaking in riddles and undertones and everything had a cryptic meaning and none of them were being truthful because everybody lies.
Cameron nods and leans forward, handing her file across. It's a repeat of a repeat and he thinks he knows how this movie ends. “I just came so you'd look at this. I wanted to get your opinion, if I could.”
He glances over and its her resume. Allison Cameron, M.D. Instead of previous positions it lists her stats and vitals and she's 5'5” with a blood pressure reading of 121 over 79. She likes pasta and Billy Joel and her favourite colour is blue.
“Why would you give this to me?” he asks, and again (of course) it's layered, it means something else.
She stares at him and her eyes are clear, they're full of understanding and trust and something else. “Because I wanted to know,” she says, after a second. She indicates the folder. “What do you think?”
He opens his mouth to answer but then the door swings open and it's him again, a hand under his jacket and sweat on his face. “Which one of you is House?” he says, swallowing hard, eyes darting from him to Cameron and back to him again.
Picking up Cameron's folder, House tucks it under one arm. “I am,” he says clearly, words meaning something, nothing, everything. He closes his eyes and hears a gunshot, but there's no pain, only acceptance, and as he falls back his shoulders hit the grass-covered field.
“Get up, Eighteen!”
A clash of sticks and an angry voice. He smiles at the memories and opens his eyes.
The question of how someone woke from a dream they knew they were having was a conundrum that hadn't presented itself to House before. He refused to think about it and scowled, rolling over on the couch and blinking up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the invasive sun streaming in.
Sometimes he hated his subconscious. It tended to have the subtlety of a brick.
There had been no real mystery to the dream, unless he counted Stacy's appearance, considering she hadn't foisted herself into his thoughts (really) since his hallucinations a few months ago. He'd been far too occupied by his recovery and subsequent decline; there had been no room for anyone other than himself to fill his mind. Why Cameron's accident had prompted this sudden – weakness? regression? - thing, he wasn't quite sure, but it didn't present a pleasant distraction and he had other things to take care of, besides.
He craned his head from where it had been resting on his bicep and eyed the videocassette he'd left on top of the TV. It had taken over an hour to get the officer to make a copy, sixty-odd minutes of persuasion and cajoling (and he simply did not cajole) until the other man had cracked. He'd battled the law and then driven home to battle himself, eventually deciding against watching the tape and dosing himself into much-needed sleep.
It was a test, maybe. A punishment. Some kind of slap on the wrist for being less-than-gentle with Cameron the day before. She'd asked an honest question and he still couldn't bring himself to give an honest answer. One step forward, two steps back. Story of his life.
Really, he could have watched it last night. He still hadn't figured out what had actually stopped him, aside from some half-assed notions of bias and distance and working it out. Maybe what he'd really wanted was objectivity, a voice of reason. Usually he had no difficulty distancing himself from the case at hand, but this was different. This was Cameron. Whatever she was to him didn't matter. If his ketamine dream had taught him anything, it was to know when to draw the line.
The tape eyed him. He eyed it back.
Coming to a decision, he sat up on the couch. Perhaps anticipating his own thought process, at some point he'd moved the phone close enough to just reach out and pick right up. Bringing the receiver to his ear, he punched the first speed dial entry and then let the phone drop on to the couch, closing his eyes again.
Wilson answered after the second ring. “Shouldn't you be working?”
“My mind never stops working,” he replied truthfully, scratching absently at the bristles on his chin. “What time is it?”
A sigh. “There's actually another number you can call for this. I believe they call it something like...a clock.”
“Yeah, yeah. The one with the robot voice. Nothing compared to your dulcet tones.” Wincing, House leaned forward, cradling the phone to his neck. His watch wasn't on his hand – maybe he'd left it on the bathroom sink? “So, the time?”
A pause as Wilson checked. “Eight thirty-six. Don't you have a job to avoid, patients to ignore? How are you going to juggle that busy schedule if you stay at home all day?”
Pulling his cane off the coffee table, House got to his feet and made his way into the kitchen, opening the fridge in the vain hope that some food had magically appeared within. “Damn. No pixies.”
“Yes, you are crazy.” He could almost hear Wilson rolling his eyes. “Was there an actual point to this call, or were you just wanting to waste my time? I don't have any minions to make coffee or answer my mail, so I hope to get a start on doing those at some point.” Wilson paused. “House?”
“I'm hungry.” He slammed the fridge shut and limped to his bedroom. “Do you want to come around tonight?”
“Were those sentences even related?” Wilson sounded surprised. “You're usually quite amusing to deconstruct, but I have to say, today I'm coming up empty. Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” he replied, surveying his room. “I can't find my pants.”
“Okay, that's it.” Wilson's voice took on an exasperated edge. “I'm hanging up now. Good luck on the pants-front, if I get a chance I'll see you at lunch, and yes, I'll come around tonight. Bye.” A click and then the dial tone.
He threw the phone on the bed and went to check the bathroom, finding his jeans slung over the towel railing. He reached into the shower and spun the tap, letting the water heat before pulling off his boxers and shirt. It was lukewarm when he stepped in and he scowled, resolving to get home early so he could 'accidentally' park in one of the Asian couple's spaces.
The thought soothed him and he reached for the shampoo. Humming victoriously, he lathered his hair, choosing to ignore the unsubtle, annoying dream, as well as the hurt look on Cameron's face when they'd reprised (unknowingly to her) the conversation that seemed to determine her worth by his like. He was fairly sure he had their little chat to thank for his nighttime viewing, and he wasn't too thrilled by that at all. The sooner he could work on explaining (and presumably curing) her current situation, the sooner he could go back to his usual dreams of sporting victories and girls gone wild. He missed them.
He missed Cameron.
Leaning back into the cooling spray, he rectified the thought. He missed the old, capable Cameron. The one he didn't have to look out for, the one who looked resigned when he made rude remarks, instead of looking stricken and then annoyed. The one who was always the first to his office, a pile of sorted mail and a coffee the only interferences he'd accept without comment.
He soaped up quickly (water temperature dropping) and got out, towelling himself off and slipping into his jeans. Padding back to the bedroom, he scrounged up a t-shirt and a button-up, before grabbing his jacket and his bag and making his way outside.
A tin of motor oil caught his eyes as he crossed the pavement, and he filed it away in the list of possibilities for pissing next-door off. Suiting up, he straddled the bike and peeled away towards the hospital.
The tape remained untouched on the TV set. He'd leave it until the evening. He'd have perspective, then, and more time to think.
The taxi ride was an awkward one and Cameron couldn't wait for it to end.
In fact, she couldn't wait for the day to end, because so far it was off to a terrible start.
It was partially her own fault, although she wanted to blame House a little bit as well. After his gruff departure and flat-out dismissal of her question the night before (why had she asked him that? She was so stupid and it didn't matter and if she was so nice then why didn't he like her?) she'd sat in a stupefied silence for a while. By the time she'd snapped out of it, her drink was warm and sticky and the late afternoon sun was sliding down in the sky. She'd decided against going (back?) to work and had instead gone through her entire apartment, trying to piece together and then add to the idea she was getting of herself.
The memory thing was confusing. She still had no recollection of her friends and family, although thanks to her previous self's somewhat anal method of photo-organisation (labels, labels, everywhere!), she knew what her father and mother looked like, and had experienced a moment of surprise at how similar she and her sister appeared. The majority of the pictures were labelled from a few years back, and she wondered why not only were there less photos of more recent times, but also why she seemed to be smiling less as well.
Was she happy here, working in the hospital, working for House? Maybe it was a different kind of happiness, one that didn't need photographs to capture moments in time. She pondered that and supposed she enjoyed helping people (hoped that she liked that part) but if her boss was always so...confusing, why on earth did she stick around?
A couple of the medical journals she'd leafed through later in the evening cemented her suspicion that he was a brilliant man. A leading figure in the still-fledgling arena of diagnostics, the articles had described his methods by turn 'risky' and 'extraordinary'. He got results and the journals recognised that, but as someone who'd experienced his bedside manner first-hand, she couldn't help but wonder what really lay between the lines.
It was only one of a hundred puzzles that had haunted her through the night. Once she'd finished with the living room, she'd ransacked her bedroom, sorting through clothes and other possessions for signs and clues of who she was. There had been nothing enlightening, nothing that triggered anything, no switch in her head that had magically been turned. Hours later (completely exhausted) she made her way to the bathroom with the beginnings of a headache and the unsettling conviction that she seemed to own an inordinate number of vests.
Once in the bathroom, her vest count flew from her mind. It seemed her old self (strange, how she referred to them, her two selves in this way) had foreseen this situation somehow, because there on the wall was a sheet of shining salvation – a full-length mirror at last! She stared much longer than she planned to, but there was no one to time her and she had every right because it was her, it was Cameron, and her reflection looked back out like a familiar stranger, a curiosity in baggy scrubs.
She took them off.
She'd been right – she was too skinny. Hip bones and rib bones and a collar bone jutted out from under her pale skin, a flat stomach and small breasts sitting awkwardly in between. Her arms were thin and wiry. Her legs were kind of long for her height and muscled but they were narrow as well. She ran, she decided suddenly; she didn't eat very much and she ran to keep fit. She wasn't a gym person, didn't like the sweaty camaraderie found there. She was certain she preferred deliberate solitude, the oneness, aloneness that came with one foot after the other, padding down hard along the track.
Taking a few steps closer, she leaned in until she was almost pressed against the glass. Everything was so different with perspective. The small mirror had been a godsend (thank you, Dr. Wilson!) but the larger one let her see so much more. Blue eyes or green? It was hard to tell. She had some freckles, too, she noted, a sprinkle across the bridge of her nose. Her eyebrows were weird and her mouth turned down but her ears were okay and that was probably for the best. He hair was long and (at the moment) oily and, she thought, utterly impractical for someone in her line of work. She hoped she tied it back on the job.
Abandoning her inspection, she turned the shower on, soaping herself up slowly and reacquainting herself. By the time she was finished and dried and ready for bed, it was past four am. Sleep had been a long time coming.
“I said, hello? We're here!”
She came back to the present with a start. “Oh, I'm sorry.” The taxi driver hadn't liked her in the first place because apparently ordering a cab to pick someone up from a specific address required the phone number of that address and amnesia – however true – didn't really convey as a good excuse for not knowing it. Biting her lip, she reached into the satchel she'd found on the sideboard. It had had a few files inside, so she'd assumed it was the one she took to work.
Her hand came out empty.
The taxi driver developed another wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Lady, I haven't got all day. You got the fare, or am I going to have to get angry?”
Get angry? If he wasn't already the sourest man she'd ever – oh, hang on. She gave him a winning smile that she hoped covered her sudden anxiety. “Um, can you just wait a moment? My purse seems to have...been left at work. Back in a second!” Opening the door before he could reply, she raced up the path, through the clinic and took the stairs to level four, bursting in to the office and surprising a rumpled-looking Chase.
“Hi,” she said brightly, trying not to pant too much. “Can I borrow some money?”
Not breaking eye contact, he lowered his mug to the table and stepped back, raising his hands carefully. “”What did he do to you?” he asked worriedly. “He's brainwashed you, hasn't he?”
She blinked. “House? No, nothing like that. I think he took my purse, that's all.”
Chase relaxed. “Okay, that sounds about right.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out his wallet and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill. “That enough?”
Cameron nodded, taking it. “Thanks. I'll pay you back!” Flying out of the office, she retraced her steps downstairs, offered the driver the money and her most sincerest apologies, then trundled back into the hospital, completely spent.
She hadn't even started work yet and she already wanted to go home. Today was definitely not a good day.
House strolled out of exam room one and tossed his file on the reception desk. “Dr. House finished and signing out at five oh two – make sure Cuddy notes those two minutes of overtime.”
Brenda didn't even look up from her paperwork. “It's just after four-thirty.”
He let out a gasp. “That can't be! My watch must be broken.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like your work ethic.”
One of the elevators opened and he saw Wilson get out and look around. Pushing off the counter, House gave Brenda a mock salute. “Well, as much as I love our little tete-a-tetes, I'm going to have to cut this one short. My dinner date is coming and he's the jealous type.” Waggling his fingers in a little wave, he limped across the floor.
“There you are!” he said loudly, amused by the way Wilson's shoulders tensed at his approach.
Turning, his friend sighed. “Why do you feel the need to page me ridiculous messages and distract me from my job?”
House affected an air of hurt. “I get so lonely. And really, define ridiculous.”
“'It's Cuddy, meet me at reception for a good time'?” Wilson shook his head. “Well, I suppose you're in luck. My last patient took the news of her impending death quite well, really, and she's decided to set off on a spontaneous tour of the world. Tonight. She just couldn't get out of my office fast enough -”
“Hmm,” said House. “I too have that effect on women.”
“- and so my afternoon has unexpectedly freed up.” Wilson ignored the interruption and tipped his head towards the doors. “I'll meet you at your place in an hour?”
House nodded. “Bring money or food,” he instructed, and then they went their separate ways. He waited till he'd kicked off and was riding home before allowing himself to reflect on the day.
Foreman had been absent when he'd arrived (late) that morning. He could see Cameron and Chase chatting in the diagnostics room when he made his way into the office, dumping his bag beside his chair. He was all ready to go and make ripples when he noticed his mail was sorted neatly into piles and the computer monitor glowed smugly, his emails having been organised as well. Frowning, he moved through the connecting door. He opened his mouth to interrupt but Cameron turned at his footfall, getting up and surprising him with a relieved smile.
“Oh!” she said, moving automatically to the coffee machine. “I think I left my purse in your bag.”
“Damn,” said Chase, sitting back and tapping his leg. “From the way you worded it, I thought he'd stolen the thing.”
Cameron flashed him a disapproving frown. “Why would a doctor need more money?”
“To support my secret drug habit.” House took the mug and watched her sit again, before moving to the condiments and ripping apart a sugar packet. “So, how's the patient?”
Chase glanced at the whiteboard. “Well, we can rule out diverticulitis. No further abdominal palpitations and no mass in the usual haunts. Foreman's down with her now, testing for peritonitis.”
House sipped his drink. “And you're here because..?”
Scowling, Chase met his eyes. “Because I didn't think that Foreman needed me to hold his hand while he did the test.”
“A tragic oversight on your part. Run along and give him the emotional support he craves but has always been too afraid to ask for.” When Chase didn't move, he made an impatient noise. “Go, mush. If I need you, I'll stand in the hall and do a big coo-ee.”
Belligerently, Chase got up, shoving his chair back with considerable force. Cameron watched him leave before turning back, a calculating look on her face. “You really like needling him, don't you?”
“You really like the lab,” he replied, moving back to his office, “you just don't remember it yet. Go down and run some tests. Perhaps the familiar lure of the microscopes and the siren-song of the centrifuge will trip something in that broken memory of yours and all will be right in the world again.”
To his surprise, she followed him. “I need my purse back before I do anything. It's hard enough getting along with no sense of identity in this world. It's next to impossible with no money.” She held out her hand.
Staring at it for a moment, he let out a long-suffering sigh and made a great show of putting his coffee down. Picking up his bag, he rooted through it until he found her purse. “Here.”
She took it and went to walk off.
“If it's any consolation,” he said suddenly, unexpectedly, “I forgot it was in there. I didn't mean to take it.”
She paused at the door and threw an evaluating look over her shoulder. “I know,” she said eventually. “Maybe if you hadn't left in such a rush?” The question hung in the air between them and then she pushed through the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He still didn't know why he'd felt the need to defend himself, even as he eased the motorbike to a stop outside his apartment. But she hadn't mentioned the conversation again, and everyone had spent the remainder of the day in their respective hidey-holes. He'd kept himself busy and tried not to dwell, and as he'd expected, he was now calm and ready to tackle the rest of the puzzle without bias.
Getting off the bike, he tried to determine what would help them work this through. Chinese. To figure this one out, they'd need no bias, and Chinese. He made his way inside, mind turning over, and as the time came near for Wilson to arrive he'd already decided on Peking Duck.
House was playing something classical (Bach?) when Wilson let himself in, so he knew immediately it wasn't going to be a 'catching up' sort of night. Classical, House had once explained to him disdainfully, was easy. It was all laid out, precise little notes lined up across a page. He played classical music when he was ruminating over a problem, because his fingers could move independently, letting his mind still process and think.
Jazz, and the other stuff? That was just for fun. When he played something he liked, he put everything into it. It was almost frightening, because having House's complete and undivided attention was an intense, unsettling thing.
He shut the door behind him and plonked down onto the couch, eyeing the unmarked tape sitting on top of the TV. “Oh, one of those nights,” he said knowingly, pitching his voice above the tinkle of the keys. “Got one of your special packages today?”
House stopped playing with his left hand, the loss of the chords bringing some quiet to the room. “I prefer to watch my porn alone, thank you very much. It should still be thrilling viewing, however.”
Wilson craned his neck around. “So, what are we watching? Should I have brought popcorn?”
“No need.” House shook his head. “I took the liberty of ordering out.”
A knock sounded on the door and Wilson's heart sank. “Let me guess – you used my name?”
House brought his left hand back into the piece. “Better get the door, Jimmy. I'm betting it's for you.”
Sighing, he got up, taking some Chinese boxes off the delivery guy and scavenging in his wallet for the bill and tip. He dumped the cartons on the table and went to fetch a couple of drinks; by the time he was done the music had stopped and House was on the couch, remote in one hand and chopsticks in the other.
“Down in front!” House called as he moved in front of the TV.
He handed over a drink. “Apparently I'm destined to repeat myself. What are we watching?”
Chewing, House pressed the remote. “I call it, 'Dude, Where's My Memory?'”
The screen fuzzed for a moment, and then a black and white image swam into focus. Wilson studied it until he recognised the tiled floor and pillars. “You have the security tape?! I don't even want to know how you got your hands on this! This is police property, you--”
“Oh, relax.” House waved his protestations away. “It's just a copy, and Officer Fenton was only too happy to oblige.” He speared a piece of duck, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Ah, here's our leading lady. What do you think – is it true that the camera adds fifteen pounds?”
Wilson sat back, massaging his temples. Sure enough, Cameron had just entered the frame, joining the end of a small queue and surreptitiously checking her watch. Nothing happened for a moment, and then a young man came up behind her, bumping her slightly and causing her to turn and give him a look.
He chanced a look at House and was surprised to find an almost-smile touching the edges of his mouth. “Are you enjoying this?”
House dropped his chopsticks and hit the pause button. “There! Did you see that?”
Wilson didn't move. “You are, aren't you? Just then you were smiling. That feeling you're experiencing? That flood of warmth melting the icy, jagged edges of your heart? That's human decency. Wanting to help Cameron is showing your caring side. I told you that you couldn't be exposed to that much niceness without some of it rubbing off.”
House gave him a quelling look. “If I wanted to be psychoanalysed, I would have become a shrink. Stop projecting your hopes onto me and look at something that's actually there.” He rewound the tape a bit. “Watch.”
Sighing, Wilson watched dutifully, his eyes widening as the robber pushed Cameron to the ground. “Well, that's not on.”
“Not that bit, after she does her martyr thing.” On screen, Cameron got up slowly, glancing over her shoulder at what looked to be a wounded boy. She backed up carefully, almost falling at one point, and whatever she was saying seemed to be having some effect on the robber because the gun was gradually lowering and things seemed to be going okay. And then she said something and the robber was striding over to her, waving and gesturing before he pulled back his arm and beat the gun against the side of her head.
Wilson flinched. “Yes, thank you for inviting me over.” He pushed away his food, barely-touched. “I'm certainly glad we cleared up the cause of that giant bruise on the side of her face.”
House shovelled some rice into this mouth. He looked excited. “No,” he said, chewing rapidly, “we cleared up the cause of the amnesia.”
“Yes,” said Wilson patiently. “She hit her head. Well done.”
House rolled his eyes. “Not that, Helen Keller. Watch again.” He rewound the tape for a second time and Wilson steeled himself as Cameron took a tumble again. “There.” The tape froze as she hit the ground, her skull whipping up from impact. He pressed play and her head went down again.
“I still don't know what I'm looking for.”
Plonking the carton on the coffee table, House turned and gave him an exasperated look. “Initially, we thought it was the hit from the gun that fried her brain. Then we decided it was the impact from hitting the floor.” He paused and waited for some sign of comprehension. Wilson shrugged. “Well, something occurred to me last night, and the footage confirms it. It wasn't one hit that caused the amnesia – it was both.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly and it was Wilson's turn to sigh.
“Yeah, okay. So what does this prove?”
“That I'm right.” House picked up his food again and tucked in with gusto. “The first hit from the side of the gun pushed her brain a bit to the right. Then, when the ground gave her a love tap, it sent the brain jerking up and to the left. It jostled around in the skull, dislodging the sylvian fissure and jarring the parietal lobe – only a little, but a little is more than enough – and causing amnesia.”
“Yes,” said Wilson, crossing his arms. “So aside from your vaunted astuteness, what does this prove? There's still nothing you can do to fix it.”
House scraped the last of his rice from his carton and reached across for Wilson's serve. “Sure there is,” he said, winding a hokkien noodle around a chopstick. He met Wilson's eyes and gave him a satisfied grin. “We can recreate the variables. We can jostle it right back.”
Wilson gaped. “You're not serious.” He tried not to make it a question, but his voice rose slightly anyway. This was House. One could never be sure.
“No,” House said eventually, and for a moment it seemed like disappointment crossed his face. “Not in the literal sense, anyway, more's the pity. We'll still jostle her memory, but we'll do it by showing her the tape.”
It was definitely better than the alternative, but Wilson wasn't sure they weren't going to do more harm than good. Regardless, he kept silent, because he thought for an instant that the desperation on House's face had warred very briefly with hope.
Long chapter, I know. Longest yet. Hope it didn't drag - my beta asked me if I could split it, but I was like, "Then it would be two chapters that don't really go anywhere!"
Thanks for sticking 'round - I'm hoping there's more action next chapter. But at least this one had Wilson, right?
Wilson rules.
