fic: But gravity always wins.
title: but gravity always wins.
rating: pg-13
pairing: house/cameron
words: 1,040
notes: for shikinluv. hope you like it, and hb again. sorry for the delay. :)
And it wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.
Radiohead {Fake Plastic Trees}
Which one of you is House?
BANG.
Her shaking hands flew to her mouth and the first words to flit across her numb mind were House, get to House. But the gunman turned his gun on them and promptly ordered them to stay put.
Her breathing came out in spurts, her fingers still pressed against her lips, her eyes wide with fright. She didn’t dare glance at Foreman or Chase, even as the intruder faced House again, looking down at him and speaking to him.
Her mind felt irreversibly blank, as if all her thoughts and memories had been wiped clean in an instant, similar to the way the whiteboard across the conference room often was. The image of House crashing down and lying crumpled beneath that same whiteboard was burned into her mind, the only thing she could see in that moment.
The man’s words tore through the fog in her head. Shocking, isn’t it? Who’d want to hurt you?
House could be a real bastard at times, she’d said as much herself on countless occasions; but he didn’t deserve this. She stopped breathing momentarily as she helplessly watched the man shoot House a second time.
After a few minutes, she finally lowered her hands to her side and focused on the blood pouring endlessly from his abdomen and neck. His eyes were slipping closed. He needed help fast.
She turned to glare at the man behind this, but he flashed the pistol towards the three of them once more and then sprinted out of the conference room.
A rush of sound came back to her and suddenly she was back to reality. She screamed at Chase to get security and a gurney, before she followed Foreman over to House, both of them sinking to their knees beside him and putting as much pressure as they could on both wounds, attempting to stem the rapid flow of blood that seeped out.
She cupped his jaw with her left hand and told him to open his eyes. He watched her under barely lifted eyelids, murmuring something undecipherable.
The rattling of the gurney announced the arrival of help, nurses rushing in through the door. Foreman helped a handful of nurses hoist House’s limp form carefully onto the gurney, before rushing to press on his wounds again immediately.
And then they wheeled him down the hallway, towards the elevator, like some kind of twisted, rapid-paced marching band, two nurses in front, a few more pushing the gurney while she and Foreman tended to his wounds and one more nurse bringing up the rear.
It was as if she were a robot, or a plane running on autopilot; no thoughts whatsoever passed her mind. She mindlessly tended to House, not allowing herself to think at all.
When they reached the emergency room, she vaguely heard the attending nurse call out his stats, but when House’s eye fluttered open suddenly, she focussed solely on him.
He whispered hello and she was almost overcome with emotion from that one word alone. She’d never before seen him so vulnerable, and it was utterly heartbreaking to her.
It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.
She murmured these words in reply, as much to comfort herself as to assuage him.
You don’t know that. Tell Cuddy I want ketamine.
Her throat felt tight, his last words before his eyes slipped shut again, ringing in her ears. Pinpricks of hot tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she squeezed them shut for a moment. And then he was wheeled away from her, into the operating room.
Foreman nodded and patted her shoulder in what she was sure was meant to be a comforting gesture. Chase squeezed her hand and smiled sadly at her, before he too left.
She would have stood in the harshly illuminated hallway for close to half an hour, barely aware of people coming and going to her left and right, nor the curious glances she got from the passers by.
She continued to stare down the corridor at the double doors that led to OR 2, where House was being operated on, his condition critical. The small red, luminescent display above the door, which currently read Surgical Procedure in Progress, became an increasingly ominous image for her, as the minutes crawled by that he was through those double doors (so near yet so far, the old cliché). She knew she could watch from the viewing bay situated above the theatre, but she didn’t think she could handle watching him being operated on.
After remaining in the same spot for nearly thirty minutes, she finally ambled back to the Diagnostics Department. As she neared, she looked through the glass at firstly her things on the desk in the conference room and then over at House’s belongings still thrown haphazardly around his desk in his office.
Her heart constricted when she realised he had no one to get his things for him, or to even be there when he woke up.
Should she call Wilson? Cuddy? Surely Cuddy would know by now, and Cuddy would have called Wilson for sure.
She meandered weakly through the glass door, barely aware of where she was going. She saw his red mug sitting innocently on the side of the sink in the kitchenette, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
He had to be alright, he would be alright.
She still couldn’t believe that the man who had done this had managed to get away. What kind of fucking security did they have here? Boy, she felt so safe, knowing that a man sprinting through corridors clutching a gun would be allowed in and out of the hospital without question.
She only just remembered that they had a patient. Swollen-tongue guy. She presumed that was where Foreman and Chase had gone after seeing House into the operating theatre.
While she didn’t feel at all able to face a patient and fully focus on the case at hand, she knew the boys would need the help; even it was just helping with running tests. She set her resolve and a determination filled her. She would be strong. He was going to be alright.
(He had to be alright.)
fin.
rating: pg-13
pairing: house/cameron
words: 1,040
notes: for shikinluv. hope you like it, and hb again. sorry for the delay. :)
And it wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.
Radiohead {Fake Plastic Trees}
Which one of you is House?
BANG.
Her shaking hands flew to her mouth and the first words to flit across her numb mind were House, get to House. But the gunman turned his gun on them and promptly ordered them to stay put.
Her breathing came out in spurts, her fingers still pressed against her lips, her eyes wide with fright. She didn’t dare glance at Foreman or Chase, even as the intruder faced House again, looking down at him and speaking to him.
Her mind felt irreversibly blank, as if all her thoughts and memories had been wiped clean in an instant, similar to the way the whiteboard across the conference room often was. The image of House crashing down and lying crumpled beneath that same whiteboard was burned into her mind, the only thing she could see in that moment.
The man’s words tore through the fog in her head. Shocking, isn’t it? Who’d want to hurt you?
House could be a real bastard at times, she’d said as much herself on countless occasions; but he didn’t deserve this. She stopped breathing momentarily as she helplessly watched the man shoot House a second time.
After a few minutes, she finally lowered her hands to her side and focused on the blood pouring endlessly from his abdomen and neck. His eyes were slipping closed. He needed help fast.
She turned to glare at the man behind this, but he flashed the pistol towards the three of them once more and then sprinted out of the conference room.
A rush of sound came back to her and suddenly she was back to reality. She screamed at Chase to get security and a gurney, before she followed Foreman over to House, both of them sinking to their knees beside him and putting as much pressure as they could on both wounds, attempting to stem the rapid flow of blood that seeped out.
She cupped his jaw with her left hand and told him to open his eyes. He watched her under barely lifted eyelids, murmuring something undecipherable.
The rattling of the gurney announced the arrival of help, nurses rushing in through the door. Foreman helped a handful of nurses hoist House’s limp form carefully onto the gurney, before rushing to press on his wounds again immediately.
And then they wheeled him down the hallway, towards the elevator, like some kind of twisted, rapid-paced marching band, two nurses in front, a few more pushing the gurney while she and Foreman tended to his wounds and one more nurse bringing up the rear.
It was as if she were a robot, or a plane running on autopilot; no thoughts whatsoever passed her mind. She mindlessly tended to House, not allowing herself to think at all.
When they reached the emergency room, she vaguely heard the attending nurse call out his stats, but when House’s eye fluttered open suddenly, she focussed solely on him.
He whispered hello and she was almost overcome with emotion from that one word alone. She’d never before seen him so vulnerable, and it was utterly heartbreaking to her.
It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.
She murmured these words in reply, as much to comfort herself as to assuage him.
You don’t know that. Tell Cuddy I want ketamine.
Her throat felt tight, his last words before his eyes slipped shut again, ringing in her ears. Pinpricks of hot tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she squeezed them shut for a moment. And then he was wheeled away from her, into the operating room.
Foreman nodded and patted her shoulder in what she was sure was meant to be a comforting gesture. Chase squeezed her hand and smiled sadly at her, before he too left.
She would have stood in the harshly illuminated hallway for close to half an hour, barely aware of people coming and going to her left and right, nor the curious glances she got from the passers by.
She continued to stare down the corridor at the double doors that led to OR 2, where House was being operated on, his condition critical. The small red, luminescent display above the door, which currently read Surgical Procedure in Progress, became an increasingly ominous image for her, as the minutes crawled by that he was through those double doors (so near yet so far, the old cliché). She knew she could watch from the viewing bay situated above the theatre, but she didn’t think she could handle watching him being operated on.
After remaining in the same spot for nearly thirty minutes, she finally ambled back to the Diagnostics Department. As she neared, she looked through the glass at firstly her things on the desk in the conference room and then over at House’s belongings still thrown haphazardly around his desk in his office.
Her heart constricted when she realised he had no one to get his things for him, or to even be there when he woke up.
Should she call Wilson? Cuddy? Surely Cuddy would know by now, and Cuddy would have called Wilson for sure.
She meandered weakly through the glass door, barely aware of where she was going. She saw his red mug sitting innocently on the side of the sink in the kitchenette, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
He had to be alright, he would be alright.
She still couldn’t believe that the man who had done this had managed to get away. What kind of fucking security did they have here? Boy, she felt so safe, knowing that a man sprinting through corridors clutching a gun would be allowed in and out of the hospital without question.
She only just remembered that they had a patient. Swollen-tongue guy. She presumed that was where Foreman and Chase had gone after seeing House into the operating theatre.
While she didn’t feel at all able to face a patient and fully focus on the case at hand, she knew the boys would need the help; even it was just helping with running tests. She set her resolve and a determination filled her. She would be strong. He was going to be alright.
(He had to be alright.)
fin.