r e w r i t i n g . t h e . s t a r s

Rewriting the Stars
[by victoria p.]

Rating: G

Summary: Their story may have started once upon a time, but she doesn't think it will end happily ever after.

Notes: For the House rareathon, my participation in which is All Nichole's Fault. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta.
My prompt was:
Either the sky was lying, or what was left of his eyes.
The city was just the same — buses, panhandlers,
Ambulances stalking the suburbs. But the stars
Seemed completely rewritten.
~ T.R. Hummer

Date: November 27, 2005

There are only so many hours she can sit at his bedside and cry. He's out of surgery but not out of the woods; the fairytale language of it doesn't surprise or amuse her. Their story may have started once upon a time, but she doesn't think it will end happily ever after.

Of course, she won't know until he wakes up, so she sits at his bedside and waits, the heavy night-time silence of his room broken only by the beeping of machines and the soft hiss of their breathing.

She's tired of waiting -- for a diagnosis, for Greg to come to his senses, for the goddamned elevator so she can get out of this place for a few minutes. She pushes the door to the stairwell open and starts walking, up, up, up, the smell of illness and antiseptic intertwining to produce an unhealthy miasma she thinks will never, ever leave her nose, her hair, her skin. She will always smell like pain and death and the fruitless human effort to cover up the stench. She breathes through her mouth, forces her legs to take step after step, reveling guiltily in the stretch and pull of her muscles, the way her heart races, the loud hitch of her breathing in the silence. She speeds up, nearly running, as if she can get away from the pain and the guilt if she can just get high enough, fast enough.

Lost in thoughts she can't escape, she's surprised to find herself at a dead end, a closed door that says, "Roof Access," and, "Authorized Personnel Only." She pushes at it and it opens, letting in a rush of cool, clean night air, welcome after the stifling stink of the stairwell.

She goes outside, thinking of insurance claims and liability -- the door should be locked, people shouldn't be allowed onto the roof, it's dangerous. She thinks about malpractice lawsuits, misdiagnoses, about taking the hospital for every cent it has, and knows none of it will ever give Greg back what he's lost, ever take away the pain or make him whole again.

The stars all seem unrecognizable tonight, as if the earth has shifted on its axis and she's seeing them from a whole different angle; she's living in another country now, and she can never go back to where she was. The stars look small and cold and far away, and she wonders how anyone could have ever thought them charming and kind enough to grant wishes, or stable enough to sail by. She's more inclined at the moment to believe in cruel fates and dark forces beyond her sight or control than she is some benevolent presence guiding her actions. She shivers, the night air cool against her slightly sweaty skin, and her shirt clings uncomfortably.

She gulps down fresh air, waiting for her heart to slow to normal, and runs a shaking hand through her hair, which is damp at the temples. She slips out of her shoes, low-heeled, professional, and places her feet on the cool tar of the roof, the roughness of it grounding her when she thinks she might tumble off, even though she's nowhere near the edge.

Silently, she starts counting -- it calms her, gives her a goal, something to focus on that isn't the incessant cycle of what if that's been playing on an endless loop in her brain since she signed the papers authorizing the surgery. When she reaches one hundred she'll go back inside, seventeen, eighteen walk down the stairs and sit by Greg's bed. Twenty-one, twenty-two. She will stop crying and be strong. Twenty-five, twenty-six. She will prepare herself to face the worst, whether that's his anger or his pain.

The creak of the door opening startles her and she whirls around to see Dr. Cuddy, who looks just as surprised to see her there.

Cuddy takes out a pack of cigarettes. "You look like you could use one."

"I don't smoke." She takes one anyway. It feels delicate between her fingers, not dangerous.

"I'm trying to quit." Cuddy smiles as she slips out a cigarette and taps it twice against the pack. She puts it in her mouth and lights it, hands cupped around the lighter to stop whatever random breeze there is from putting it out. She closes her eyes and inhales, the tip burning orange like a falling star, her face lit in some private version of nirvana, and exhales a stream of smoke. "It's a filthy habit."

"Oh, what the hell." Stacy puts the cigarette in her mouth, the paper surprisingly thin against her lips, the scent of tobacco (and a hundred tasty additives, all meant to suck you into an addiction, whispers a little voice in her head that sounds a lot like Greg) oddly sweet.

In the orange flare of the lighter, she sees herself reflected in Cuddy's eyes, thin and pale and nervous, trying hard to hold it together. She'd always been the calm one, but then, she'd always had a lot more faith in doctors than she does at this moment.

Cuddy steps away and Stacy inhales, the trick of it -- learned in college and not practiced much since then -- coming back to her. It tastes terrible, but after a few drags, she can feel herself calming down -- her nerves jangle less and her hands stop shaking. Better than counting by far.

"You saved his life," Cuddy says.

"I know." She laughs softly, slips her feet back into her shoes. "He'll probably never forgive me."

Cuddy frowns. "Do you think he didn't know what you would do once he was out? It's what he would have done."

"He trusted me to put his wishes above my own."

"Even if it would have killed him?"

"But we don't know that it would have. He'll always cling to that chance."

Cuddy shakes her head. "It was a slim chance. He knows that." Her reasonable tone is supposed to be a comfort, but it's not.

"It was still a chance." Stacy takes another drag, then folds her arms across her chest. "He'll accuse me of splitting hairs or engaging in some kind of legal sophistry to justify acting contrary to his wishes, I'm sure."

"He wouldn't have made you his proxy if he didn't trust you to do what was best for him."

"He trusted me to follow his wishes," she says, sucking hard on the cigarette and choking on the burn. When she's done coughing, she says, "He's going to be furious."

Cuddy doesn't argue. "At least he'll be alive to be furious."

She nods, because it's true, and she knows it may be all she has to hang onto when he wakes up.

She takes one last drag and flicks the cigarette to the ground, then grinds it out, taking savage pleasure in dousing its light. Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, she dredges up a smile for Dr. Cuddy. With one final look at the stars, an unreadable map to an unfamiliar country, she heads back inside.

end

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