Getting Hit By A Bus

Getting Hit By A Bus

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Sometimes she wanted to get hit by a bus.

She wasn't suicidal, far from it, but if the test was positive, if her death sentence was in that envelope, then she'd rather the momentary panic then the darkness, from being hit by a bus. Her mother's death had been long, she'd cried more in those last few years of the woman's life than she had done since. Hadn't really cried since at all. Nothing to cry about, she was alive, and she was too busy living to cry anymore.

That's what she told herself. That, and she'd rather be hit by a bus, wanted to be hit by a bus.

Moments of pain, then black, over months of pain and fading through the shades of gray. She hated the shades of gray. She wanted one over the other.

She didn't want to be one thing or the other though, black or white, good or bad.

She took risks that she didn't think she would have the bravery for if she knew there was no chance she'd die young. She kissed the girls that she'd shy away from otherwise, fuck the boys she'd probably avoid otherwise.

Take the safe jobs, the safe choices. She wasn't safe. Not from death and not to be around. Which meant for a lonelier existence, and that not everybody knew her name, only her number. Thirteen seemed to apt, and knew House thought it too without saying so, and she'd half expected him to have opened her test results, had expected him to tell her anyway, which made her wonder what it was about her that made him that microbe less of a bastard.

She didn't think about what she would do if the results were positive, because she was already living that life. Had already done the reckless stuff (college had been fun) and now had turned it round, gone for jobs she'd never get, bought a house that needed more fixing than she had money for (seemed like a good idea at the time). She was living a life as a reckless grown-up, which was working out so far.

Her mother would be proud of her.

Which did make her want to cry, and as she bundled her white coat into her bag, she remembered the part of her life where she didn't cry, she just did amazing things (or tried to, she wasn't always amazing). She heard House limp through the corridor outside, his cane hitting the floor a quickly familiar sound, and she was glad for that part of her life, letting your hopefully-would-be boss seeing you cry wasn't good for job prospects.

"I run out of distractions," he said. She turned around to see him leaning against the wall inside the room, tapping his cane on the tiled floor of the locker room. "I never had any hope. I run out of questions, I run out of distractions."

"Distractions from what?" He didn't answer and she continued to pack up her things, forcing more into the already over stuffed rucksack. "So, I was a little bit wrong, still miserable, still looking for answers to keep you distracted."

"I don't think it's any different for you. Screw hope, you want the distractions too."

"Can't it be both?" she asked, zipping up the bag.

"Seeing as it's you, no." She smiled. "Wanna get a drink?"

"Sure," she said. He nodded, pushing off the wall and walking out of the locker room, Thirteen by his side in a second, rucksack over one shoulder.

"You like jazz?"

"Not really."

"We're not going to get along are we?"

"Because I don't like jazz?"

"Because you told me you don't like jazz." She laughed and stepped into the elevator beside him. Maybe she and House would both be hit by a bus on the way to a bar, hopefully they wouldn't.