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Potassium/Water
by Treacle_A
"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."
Carl Jung
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She's in the ladie's room when they call her name, splashing cold water on her face, and doesn't hear it. Only when she steps out again into the corridor - pale and still feeling sick to her stomach - does she realise she's missed her place.
The Asian guy with the pocket protector was after her, but now she sees him at the end of the corridor, standing, shaking hands with the dark-haired doctor she spotted earlier. As he steps ahead of him into the glass-fronted office, he looks back and grins: shit-eating grin. So fine. Whatever. Let him get in there ahead of her. If she's last, she'll make the strongest impression anyway.
"I'm sorry doctor, I couldn't find you."
The nurse at her elbow frowns at her apologetically and, stepping around her and back to her seat, Cameron sighs.
"It's ok. It was my fault. I'll go next."
"You'll be the last of the day."
"I know. It's ok," - wait - "The last of the day? You mean there are more interviews tomorrow?"
"There were five yesterday. And a no-show Dr. House has re-scheduled for Thursday morning."
A feeling like a descending elevator in her stomach.
"He re-scheduled someone?"
"Obviously someone he wants to see."
"Obviously."
The clock behind the nurse's station seems to be standing still. At the far end of the hall, she can see the hospital administrator Lisa Cuddy. Studying her closely from the safety of distance, Cameron purses her lips. A small, curvaceous brunette, her clothes are far more revealing than any senior doctor she's ever met before, and her lips seem permanently painted red. Wiping her own sweating palms on the legs of her gray trouser suit, she frowns, tugs at the front of her vest and adjusts her collar. Her hair, twisted back into a neat chignon, is starting to itch and, snapping the barrette open, she pulls her fingers through the roots, re-secures it.
"Thank you...we'll be in touch."
It's way too soon, but the Asian guy is out already. The dark-haired doctor looks uncomfortable, embarrassed even, as he watches him walk - stiff-legged - swiftly away and, when she catches sight of the other man's face, she realises why. Oh jesus is he...crying?? Why the hell would someone be crying during a job interview? And after only five minutes?
"You're next."
The nurse has returned. Her expression, if anything, is slightly more apologetic than before. Watching Cameron lurch to her feet and nervously gather her things, she clears her throat.
"Can I give you some advice?"
There is a sound from the office, a moan followed by a full-throated wail, something that sounds a lot like: "Ojesusfuck...does it never END?!!" Cameron head jerks back on her neck at the sound - a violent reflex - but somehow she manages to nod.
"Don't take any of his bullshit," the nurse's tone is a little too vehement, a little too much zeal, "He may seem like he doesn't give a shit about anyone or anything, but I've been here a long time..." she lowers her voice, "I've seen him..."
"Allison CAMERON!!!"
The shout seems to still pretty much all activity in a twenty metre radius. Way down by the elevator, Cameron sees Lisa Cuddy flinch visibly before slowly looking her way. As does the doctor she is talking to. Everyone is looking her way.
Her purse feels strangely cumbersome in her hands, as does the leather-bound resume that seemed like such a nice touch when her Mom suggested it the previous week. When she tries to grip it in her sweating palm, it slips to the floor and the nurse stoops to retrieve it, tucks it in under her arm. Her "thanks" is barely above a mutter, but it's all she can manage.
The ten paces to Diagnostics seems like a mile. At the end of it, the kind-looking, dark-eyed doctor is looking at her with a strange mix of pained exasperation and deepest sympathy. She's not sure which emotion is meant for her and which for his hidden colleague, but when he mutters "I'm sorry about this" he answers her question.
Inside the office, a gangly, dishevelled looking man is sprawled out behind his desk. One leg is resting on the rim of the wastepaper bin, the other sticks out at an angle in front of him, exposing several inches of bare ankle. For some reason, the fact that he is not wearing socks seems more shocking than the absence of a lab coat. Because this cannot be Dr. House.
"Jesus Christ Wilson, stop fawning over them. No wonder this is taking all goddamn day."
Insanely cobalt blue eyes flash up at her. Narrow. Zero in.
"I know it's unorthodox, but we took a vote earlier and we decided that entering the room was a pre-requisite for an interview," the outstretched leg slides to one side, hooks the leg of the chair opposite and shoves it out an inch or two. The eyes narrow a fraction more, "That and not lying on your resume about having recently undergone transgender surgery."
"Do I need to state any future intention to?"
She is surprised at how steady her voice sounds. How calm she suddenly feels. Beside her, Dr. Wilson shifts back a step, smiles faintly. House's expression does not change.
"Only if you don't intend to use your vacation time."
"It's a fairly major operation. How much vacation do I get?"
He has a ball in his hand. A grey and red outsized tennis ball. Palming it with a practiced familiarity, he extends his finger, drops it forward to roll the length of one arm, before catching in again in the other hand.
"Officially? 15 days. In reality..." the eyes move back to her again: crazy, crazy blue, "If you have even a semblance of a personal life, you don't want this job."
A shiver, silver-silk down her back. He isn't so much looking at her as looking into her. Something hisses and crackle - potassium in water - and his long, well-muscled forearm sprawled out on the desk in front of him. Stepping forward, she lets her purse drop to the floor, folds herself down into the chair opposite him. His sneakered foot is still hooked around the leg, pressing into her calf muscle, but he doesn't attempt to move it.
"I want this job."
He stares at the celing, "Why?"
"Because they told me you're the best diagnostician in the country..."
He closes one eye, "Did they also tell you how I feel about suck-ups?"
She shakes her head, little shake, little smile, "You didn't let me finish. They told me you're the best, but now I've met you, I really think I need to see it with my own eyes."
Behind them, Dr.Wilson begins to cough violently, but it seems the look House shoots him is a instant cure. His eyes slide back to her. His face is so rough and unshaven, she wonders if you could strike a match on it. If he's ever tried.
"You've got the job." He looks past her, out through the glass, at something or someone outside in the corridor. "Congratulations. You start Monday,"
It takes four seconds for her to react. She doesn't know whether to stand - no-one is going to tell her to - but she does. Slides the purse back onto her shoulder. Palms the resume she never got to open. When she gets to the door though, she turns, curious.
"What about the guy on Thursday?"
He has the ball again, palming it like a friendly rock. Draws back his arm and throws it downwards. Perfect 45 ricochet, up and back into his waiting grip.
"You start Monday," he says.
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FIN
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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