Chapter 25: The Morning After the Deal
The trauma bay smelled of iron and fresh bleach. Y/n leaned against a supply cart, watching a team two curtains down work on a GSW victim, their voices a tense, professional cadence over the beep of monitors. She was unwrapping a new pair of gloves when Wilson appeared beside her, his expression a mixture of curiosity and delight.
“Saw Cameron in the lobby. Had a ID badge. Looked like she was heading upstairs.”
“Good,” Y/n said, not looking up, methodically pulling the latex over her long fingers.
“Just ‘good’?” Wilson nudged the cart with his hip. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Ah.” The sound was full of understanding. Wilson grinned. “You knew. Of course you knew. He couldn’t get her back on his own. He had to broker a deal. What was it? A signed confession that he’s human? A lifetime supply of organic kale?”
Y/n finally looked at him, her glass-blue eyes cool. “Shush.”
“Oh, come on. You can tell me. I’m his best friend, which means I’m legally obligated to enjoy his suffering. What did he have to give up?”
She snapped the second glove into place. The sound was sharp in the bustling room. “The terms are between him and Cameron.”
“But you’re involved. I can see it on your face. It’s the same face you make when you’re about to intubate someone. Resigned inevitability.” His grin widened. “He traded you, didn’t he? Like a baseball card. ‘One slightly aloof, genius sister, lightly used.’ What did she get? A dinner voucher?”
“A date.” The words were flat, factual. “She gets a date. I go. She comes back to work. Transaction complete.”
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. He let out a low whistle. “He actually agreed to that? He pimped you out for a diagnostician.”
“It’s not pimping. It’s a negotiated condition of employment. And it’s one evening.” She turned away from the cart, her tall frame straightening. “It maintains team efficiency. It’s logical.”
“Logical.” Wilson repeated the word, savoring it. “Y/n, you’re about as romantic as a biopsy report, and she’s… Cameron. She feels things for a living. This is going to be a masterpiece of awkwardness. I want pictures.”
“You’ll get nothing.” She began walking toward the elevators, her stride eating up the linoleum. “And if you mention it to him, I’ll redirect your next oncology consult to pathology. Permanently.”
He kept pace, undeterred. “So when’s the big night? Should I loan you a tie? I have one with little cartoon platelets on it.”
The elevator doors opened. She stepped in and turned, blocking him with a look. “Goodbye, James.”
The doors closed on his laughing face.
The diagnostics office felt different with her there. Not louder, but fuller. The light seemed to catch differently.
Cameron placed her bag by her old desk. It had been cleared, wiped clean of the previous temp’s clutter. In the center of the blotter sat a single, perfect white rose, its stem in a small vial of water. A simple note card lay beside it.
No greeting. Just two words, in a handwriting that was all decisive angles and clean lines: ‘Terms accepted.’
It was signed with a single, sharp ‘Y’.
Cameron touched one of the petals. It was cool, slightly damp. A laugh, quiet and disbelieving, escaped her. It wasn’t romantic. It was a confirmation of contract. And yet, it wasn’t thrown at her. It was placed. Considered.
“You’re keeping the florist in business. How touching.”
House’s voice grated from the doorway. He limped in, his eyes going immediately to the rose. He didn’t comment on it further. “You couldn’t have just asked for a signing bonus like a normal mercenary? You had to make it weird.”
“You agreed to the weird,” she said, not taking her eyes off the flower.
“I agreed to get a functional team member back. The rest is collateral damage.” He dropped into his chair and spun it toward his computer, waking the screen to a cascade of lab results. “So. The contract you emailed Cuddy. The one you didn’t let me see. It says I can’t schedule you for doubles on weekends without 48 hours notice. It says you get first refusal on any consults from peds oncology. It has a clause about ‘maintaining a respectful work environment’ with arbitration options.”
“Those are standard protections.”
“They’re handcuffs. With velvet lining.” He swiveled to face her. “The date. When?”
“That’s not part of the contract. That’s between me and Y/n.”
“She’s my sister. My problem. My mess to manage.”
“She’s not a mess,” Cameron said, her tone firm. “And she’s not yours to manage. We’ll figure it out.”
Before he could retort, Foreman and Chase walked in. Foreman stopped short, taking in Cameron, the rose, House’s simmering annoyance.
“You’re back,” Foreman said, his voice neutral.
“Apparently,” Chase added, a slight smirk on his face. “Did we miss the welcome back party?”
“The party is the fact I’m not firing you two for incompetence,” House said, grabbing a file from his desk and slapping it down. “We have a new puzzle. Twenty-four-year-old male. Competitive swimmer. Collapsed at the pool. Presented with sudden, catastrophic muscle weakness. So weak he couldn’t lift his head off the gurney. CRP is through the roof, but no fever. No infection markers besides the inflammation. MRI shows diffuse, non-specific myositis.”
He tossed a photo onto the desk. It showed a young man, painfully lean, his body slack on a hospital bed.
“He was fine yesterday. Champion of the five-hundred meter. Today, he’s a noodle.” House looked at each of them, his gaze finally landing on Cameron. “Welcome back. Your first job is to figure out why his body has decided his muscles are the enemy. And do it before he forgets how to breathe.”
The professional shift was jarring, absolute. The rose, the deal, the unspoken date—all of it was shoved aside by the immediate, consuming mystery. Cameron picked up the file, her mind already clicking into the familiar, brutal groove of differentials.
House watched her for a second, then looked away, toward the window. The transaction was complete. The team was whole. He’d gotten what he wanted.
Now he just had to live with the bizarre, unsettling cost.