Grace

Author: Regency

Title: Grace

Fandom: House, M.D.

Pairing/Characters: House, Amber

Rating: G

Spoilers: House’s Head, Wilson Heart; season four.

Word count: 559

Summary: All the grace is saved for the dying.

Author’s Notes: Written for the comment_fic prompt House, House/author's choice, bus crash.

AN II: Bring on the constructive criticism. I can take it.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable as being from House, M.D. They are the property of their respective producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean

~!~

Would you believe she woke up when he walked into the room? She did.

He was lurching, somehow without his cane, from the door to her side before he could think anything snide to say. She was dying and they were both smart enough to know so without the two dozen tests that had poked and prodded and left her sore.

A sore back on her deathbed. I bet Byron didn't write about that.

She was staring at him, very much alive. He could read the bitterness and the anger in her eyes. Whatever she told Wilson, it was there. It would outlive her, too. He wanted to say, he needed to say, "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Her blonde hair framed her bruised and blood-caked face. She raised an eyebrow, but she didn't smile. She saved the charm for Wilson. "I take it you haven't started planning the party yet?"

He pursed his lips and dropped his eyes to her pulse-ox. Low. "No party, not for this."

"Suddenly, life and death are serious. Can't say I saw that coming." He deserved it, he took it. He wasn't in the business of making amends, but he'd come to do just that.

"You shouldn't have to die."...For love or vanity or the dozen stupid coincidences that had conspired to make this day the last day of her life.

"Believe it or not, House, that isn't up to you." He turned his gaze back to her briefly; she wore a half-smile. Coupled with tears that made her eyes bright, she seemed younger and more full-of-life than she ever had. "You're still not God. Let it go."

"I made a mistake," he admitted.

"You lived."

"You're gonna die," he told her because someone needed to say it out loud.

"Sometimes, people do."

He snorted. "You're not just people. You're Wilson's people." He rubbed his face with the hand he wasn't using to keep himself upright. The room was beginning to dim and his head was throbbing.

"So are you," she reminded, moving her hand till her fingertips were a breath from his. She wouldn't touch him and he wouldn't touch her. They weren't--and, now, would never be--friends, but they loved the same one and they shared an affinity in that.

"I can't save you."

She did smile, then. "I know."

"I'm just growing through the motions until he can let go of you."

She nodded; painfully slowly, she nodded. "I know."

"Then, I guess that's it."

"I guess it is."

He frowned and pushed himself to stand on his own two feet. They threatened to jerk from beneath him, but he forced them to press on. He would walk, lurch, or crawl out of this room. Either way, he would leave.

As he heaved himself pathetically toward the door, he heard her call his name. Maybe the last time she would. He turned a bit to see her, skin anything but yellow by the grace of hemodialysis, in time to hear her say, "Thank you for trying."

He didn't nod, he didn't even acknowledge what she said. He only limped away, somewhat comforted with the knowledge that he had. She would breathe and die in this room and he would lose everything. But at least, he had tried.

He wished he could have found some grace in that.