Disclaimer: I don't own House or any of its characters, but I wish I did.

Remy

I stood at the door to her apartment. I was nervous as hell. I took a deep breath and recalled everything that had led to this moment over the past few days.

"I feel like I've finally come to grips with this disease," she had told me. Our argument continued to ensue in the garage of our chronic pain patient. I told her that she needed someone to help her get through it. She said "I don't want a relationship because I like you."

"Yeah, because that makes complete sense," I replied, the cynicism obvious in my voice. She looked at me and said something else, but all I really caught was 'I don't want to drag anyone else down with me'; I was too busy gazing into her eyes. Thirteen and I ended the conversation there and finished our search of the patient's home. She found quail in their fridge. It could have explained the patient's symptoms.

We were on our way back to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I was driving and she switched on the radio, obviously not wanting to talk. After some fumbling with the dial, she tuned into a jazz station, though she didn't much like it. I like jazz. She was doing it for me, her way of apologizing. We didn't talk much throughout the rest of the case, except when we were drug trialing, and even then our conversation was either medical or out of obligatory courtesy. In one incident, I checked her hand for chorea formation as she cast sheepish glances my way. I guessed what she was thinking and assured her that I received no intimate feelings from the act. The truth is, I lied. With every bit of contact we made, a tingling sensation sent ripples across my skin. I attempted to control my emotions as she again attempted to explain her reasons for not wanting a relationship.

I had kissed Thirteen on Christmas. I remember every moment of that kiss in explicit detail, from the second her soft lips first met mine, to the instant in which she let her tongue glide with grace and seduction into my mouth. My hands were wrapped firmly around her waist, hers entwined around my neck, our lips moving in perfect synchronization with one another as our bodies swayed. I also recall the moment we parted, an expression of internal conflict evident on her face. It was like she wanted it as much as I did, but that she knew that she couldn't have it. Ever since then, our relationship as friends had been strained. But then came the miracle.

We had diagnosed the pain patient with epilepsy. It was later that day, and I was meeting with drug trial patients. I walked in to find Thirteen hooked up to her IV, early for her appointment. She sat in the chair, writing something, smiling like a school girl, looking almost excited. "You're early," I said.

"I'm feeling better," she replied, her grin becoming a glow when she saw me.

"I'm glad to here it." I noticed her bag was leaking, and fixed it. "I'll be right back." I turned to leave and got halfway across the room before she called after me.

"Foreman!" I stopped and twisted around. "You busy tonight?"

I smiled. "No." Then I left to confront the nurse about being careful. I didn't want any dosing errors, especially not with Thirteen. My realization upon doing so, however, was one that I couldn't shake from my head, at least not until she found me after the other patients had left. She was my colleague, my friend, and the person I was beginning to love, and when I saw her, I realized that she was somewhat happy for the first time since we had met. I couldn't ruin that for her by telling her. She couldn't know she was on the placebo, at least not now. I chose to erase the thought from my head, for at least the night, with a surprising array of success.

Thirteen approached me, and to my own astonishment, hugged me. "I was thinking," she began. "My place around seven? I can make dinner."

"Alright," I replied. "You're on." I allowed my lips to brush hers for a split second before walking away. Her cheeks burned red.

"I'll be waiting," she called with anticipation.

My mind flashed back to the present. It was five to seven and I wondered if it was too early. She had said around seven, right? I didn't know why I was so nervous, we had kissed; we had already been intimate, I had even broken into her apartment once. I gave myself a minute to settle my nerves before knocking on her door. She answered, smiling as she invited me in.

"I'm glad you could come," she said.

"I am too," I replied.

"Dinner's almost ready," she said as I removed my coat and placed it on a wall hook. "I have some wine if you want it."

"Thanks.' She poured a glass for me and one for herself as I took a seat at her table. Whatever she was making smelled good. Thirteen glanced at the clock on her stove and removed from it a pan of sautéed vegetables and meat. She spooned some onto two plates, each over steamed white rice and doused them lightly in a sauce. I didn't know she liked Asian.

She strode over to the table with her signature grace with both plates, setting one in front of my place, the other in front of hers. I picked up the fork from the dish and both of us began to eat. The food was absolutely delicious. "This is great," I said. "I never knew you could cook."

"Thanks," Thirteen replied. "And there are lots of things about me that people don't know."

"Because you find them irrelevant to everyday life or because you've chosen to hide them?"

"For the most part, because I've chosen to hide them. When my mom was diagnosed, I didn't really understand what was happening to her, but one thing I did get was that it could happen to me. I figured that alienation was the best way to avoid hurting not only myself, but others. Of course, when I was nine the word alienation wasn't part of my vocabulary; I went with not talking to people." A small grin crept up her face as she spoke that last sentence, and I even laughed a little.

"Alright," I replied, contemplating, "I bet I can tell you three things about you that most people wouldn't know."

"And the stakes?"

"No stakes. Just for fun."

"Okay, Foreman. Go."

I took a deep breath before speaking. "Okay. You still use Teen Spirit deodorant, even though you're twenty-eight, every once in a while you hit the slopes on a snowboard, and…" I paused as if I needed to think for a moment, "your most played song on iTunes is the Smashing Pumpkin's Landslide."

She gazed at me in astonishment, and in embarrassment. "How do you know that that's my most played song?"

I laughed. "I found some things when I broke into your apartment. Deodorant was in the bathroom, the snowboard leaning against the wall by the door, and your laptop was open to iTunes."

"Oh," Thirteen said. "At least I know you're not stalking me."

I could tell she was still embarrassed. "Is the deodorant the bit you find humiliating? I haven't told anyone any of this stuff, I just…"

"It's the song," she said, cutting me off.

"Why? I mean, I'm into jazz; I've never even heard it, but I figure it can't be that bad."

Thirteen sighed. "It's not bad at all. The embarrassing part is that it's one of the only songs I've heard that manages to be extensively beautiful, but not extensively sappy. The fact that the song is beautiful makes me think of the prospect of having real relationships with real people, which up until now, I had deemed impossible. It's embarrassing because that song was always my fantasy. I would fantasize about having meaningful life as I listened to it. That alternate universe I created in my head became to me what Vicodin is to House. That was as a teenager. Now, I just listen to it for comfort." She finished her explanation looking ashamed.

"That's not embarrassing," I said compassionately. "You were looking for an outlet; imagination is the purest form of that. Besides, someone who is capable of carrying the creative part of their mind into their teenage years is a person who is extremely clever. Most adolescents figure that imagination is for small children and drop it. Then as adults, they regret it, because imagination is required to think outside the box."

At this point, we were both finished with our meals. She smiled at me and blushed a bit as she got up from her chair and walked around the table to mine. When she reached me, I stood as well. She cupped my face in her hands and gently, she kissed me. It felt as if electrical energy coursed from her lips to my own. I didn't want to stop, I didn't want to need to breath; I wanted it to progress. "Thank you," she whispered as we parted, "for making me feel like I wasn't a complete nutcase. Like I'm not a complete nutcase." She let out a small giggle. Since when did she giggle?

"Anytime," I replied, with tenderness in my voice. Thirteen grabbed me by the wrist, and at first I thought she was leading me to the bedroom. I couldn't help thinking that it was a little too early in the date, but she had had a few, and the fact that she was aggressive while drinking was made known when Spencer had been admitted as a patient. To my surprise (and I must admit to my partial dismay), she brought me to her couch. I had a seat as she brought her laptop and placed it on the low table facing us. She sat next to me and logged on to iTunes. She began to surf her library, and at finding the song she wanted, hit play. In the second before the track began, she rested her head on my chest and wrapped her arms around my torso. I in turn held her as she began to speak.

"I want you to hear it." I nestled in closer to her as the song commenced. She was right; it was beautiful. It was soft and acoustic, and Billy Corgan's voice accented the lyrics perfectly, providing the adequate amount of emotion to fit each individual line. The word beautiful was an understatement, and as I thought this, I thought the same of Thirteen, who I could see was silently mouthing the words as a stray tear made its way down her cheek. I bent my head and pressed my lips to her forehead, her clinging to me harder. "I'm scared, Foreman," she spoke softly.

I didn't need to ask what she meant to know how to answer. "We'll get through it," I promised. "I swear that I won't let you go it alone. I'll be here." I tried my best to muster up some sort of strength, but when I looked at her face, witnessed the bittersweetness of love and pain, I saw someone who was broken. I realized that in time I would be broken, faced with her disease.

After I spoke, we simply gazed at each other, both our eyes exhibiting great admiration. As the song continued to play, we both leaned in and kissed deeply, echoing the experience we shared on Christmas. This kiss was full of passion and love, but unlike the last time we had kissed in that manner, there was also desire. Before I was aware, Thirteen was on me, one knee on either side of my waist, parting briefly to lift her shirt over her head and toss it behind her. As our tongues continued to dance behind our lips, she proceeded to unbutton my own shirt, though began to realize the slightly awkward position in which we found ourselves. She nimbly leapt to the floor and took my hand as I stood, and this time I was sure I would be led to the bedroom.

"A lap dance only provides half the experience," she explained. "Anyway, it's a little hooker-ish." We made our way to her bed, though progress was slow as our lips were locked as we moved and we paused at irregular intervals to fling various articles of clothing from our bodies. When we finally arrived, she pushed me backwards onto the bed, our naked forms becoming completely entangled in one another. In the struggle for sexual dominance, when I finally had her pinned, I brought my lips to hers, and then slid them down her neck and to her breasts. She smiled devilishly at my eagerness to please as our physical longings were reduced to some instinctual, primeval state. That became the night that would bring the most meaning in my memory, because that was the first night that Thirteen and I made love.

The following morning I found myself waking up in her bed, clutching her bare form to mine as if I had developed an incurable need for her presence. I glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Her alarm would go off soon. I kissed her softly to wake her, and when her eyes opened, my face lit up in a way no person before her had managed to do.

"Morning, Foreman," she said with a contented sigh.

"There's no way anyone is that good, Thirteen," I responded. Again, I kissed her.

"Like I said, there are lots of things about me that people don't know." She smiled as she pressed her forehead to mine.

I realize that after that night, no matter what I called her to her face, she was no longer Thirteen in my head, no longer just a number, but a person who was willing to share with me even her deepest emotions. She wasn't Thirteen. She was Remy.