I haven't the slightest clue where this came from, but it happened and now I'm posting it. This is what I get when I re-watch season two of House as I begin dabbling in the second person narrative.

This is written from Cameron, Wilson, Stacy, and House's points of view, so keep that in mind.

This takes place during season two, starting while Stacy and House are having an affair. It's really Cameron/Wilson, Cameron/House, and I suppose Stacy/House. It probably accomplishes nothing other than furthering my own amusement.

It's completely a one-shot, but please review if you like it!

"He left," you say casually, looking up from your desk, adjusting your glasses slightly. Foreman's ears perk and Chase shrugs carelessly.

"Guess we can go home then," Chase smirks, reaching for his jacket as he slips out the door.

"Where'd he go?" Foreman asks, a bit more gently, a tone you don't usually associate with his personality.

Your eyebrows arch without ever really meaning to. "H...House?" you question quixotically. "He um..." You reach for excuses buried somewhere in the back of your head, but nothing seems fitting. Nothing sounds plausible enough, except the truth, and well, you'll be damned if you're about to admit that to yourself, let alone Eric.

He nods (sympathetically?) and offers you a small smile, buttoning up his coat as he stares at you. "Do you want to get a drink?" he asks, as if he knows you'll be needing one. He has you pegged for the joke that they all think you are, for the pining, helpless fool that you're sure Cuddy must see every time she lays eyes on you.

But still, he's offering, which must mean something, because a month ago, he wouldn't be caught dead showing you any type of empathetic emotion. Perhaps you're not as replaceable as you were beginning to think you were.

"No thank you," you say softly, smiling back at him, and with another nod of his head, he's gone.

You swivel around in your chair, staring out at the darkness engulfing the small city and exhale tiredly. The sky is dark and sleek and shiny. It reminds you of her hair.

"Be careful," you warn, eyeing him feverishly, hand gripped roughly against his left arm.

House laughs playfully, eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm just going to lunch Wilson. But thanks for your concern. It honestly means the world to me."

You roll your eyes at his mockery and follow him down the hallway, chest tight with displaced anger.

"She's married," you hiss, locking eyes with him. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

He stops short, glaring at you, irritation coating his expression. "Wilson," he begins. He says your name like a warning. "You do not want to start playing Devil's Advocate with me on this one."

You sigh, hanging your head in defeat as he steps into the elevator, because he's right, as usual, and you've no right to judge him. You've been no saint and you've paid for more than your share of sins.

But then again, he's no idea about what's been going on with you lately, a sure sign that he's happy in his own twisted way. He notices every frown, every jest, every eye roll.

Of course, when you need him to notice that something isn't right, he's preoccupied, doing exactly what she's doing.

You think.

"He's with her, isn't he?" you ask, all nervous anxiety dissolving with the need to know the answer to the question that's been burning inside of you for the past few months.

Wilson looks away, an acknowledgment of House's guilt, or so you take it.

You nod slowly, sitting down across from him, only Wilson's desk in between the two of you. "She's married. How could he...how could she..."

But you stop, because you're sitting across from Wilson and what he's done in the past is no secret between the two of you. You hadn't meant to implicate him, but you've done so without thinking, without ever meaning to.

"I'm sorry," you mutter quickly, because really you don't give a damn whether House has cheated before and you certainly don't care what Stacey's done. You just care about him being with someone else, someone who isn't you, someone who he already loves.

"I know," Wilson says softly and you smile through glassy eyes at him. He's too nice for his own good and somehow that makes the thought of him ever cheating on anybody bear less weight than it normally would. Wilson's innately good, you have to believe that. You think of House, of Stacy. You've all made mistakes. Maybe you're all just good people who've done some bad things.

It's almost a justification.

You're leaving her office when you see them, standing in front of the nurse's station in the clinic. You've pawned Cameron off on your clinic hours, and much to your surprise, she hadn't protested. She actually seemed relieved. She's been avoiding you for days, not quite making eye contact or lingering in your office the way she used to.

Something's changed.

Wilson's leaning casually against a wall and she's brimming with laughter, eyes squinted and bright. They seem relaxed and comfortable around each other, not at all professional, a sure sign of familiarity.

You wonder what you've been missing while filling your head with thoughts of Stacy.

A curious jealousy claws at you and you're so surprised you actually take a step backwards. You don't love Cameron. You don't want Cameron. (Or at least you didn't when you could have had her.)

But you also definitely despise the way Wilson's looking at her, all admiration and shyness, silly smile plastered onto his ridiculously genuine face.

Luckily for you, there's Julie, and while Wilson may be lax in the adultery department, Cameron would never...

Of course, you never really thought Stacy would either.

"I think my wife's cheating on me," you tell her one evening, standing outside her doorway, whiskey lingering on your breath. She doesn't look startled to see you, unnerved maybe, but not bothered.

She lets you inside.

"I'm going to make you some coffee," she insists, smelling the alcohol on your breath. You watch as she disappears into the kitchen, a clamor of dishes and water filling your ears. She returns quickly, tucking a stray strand if hair behind her ear. "It'll be done soon," she tells you, inviting you to sit down on the couch.

"Julie," you manage, shaking your head vigorously. "Maybe this is karma or my penance or something proverbial like that."

She leans forward, hand resting on your shoulder. You can smell her shampoo. Cinnamon. "No matter what you've done, that doesn't make what she's doing right," she insists. "It doesn't mean you deserve this. You don't."

She disappears again, returning with a cup of coffee which you accept gratefully. You sip it slowly, mind still hazy with booze. You try to picture Julie, but all you see is Cameron. No, Allison.

"Have you talked to her about it yet?" she asks gently.

You shake your head. "No," you admit meagerly. "I know what will happen if I confront her. I'm just...I can't...I'm not ready yet."

Three marriages and nothing to show for them except an alimony debt large enough to feed a small country for decades. The word failure's in there somewhere.

She nods understandingly, eyes glued to the cushions on the couch. "You should make sure first," she prompts, still not looking up at you. "I mean, before you throw your marriage away. You should make sure you're right."

It's funny to you, her sweet sense of justice and belief that everyone should be given the benefit of a doubt. But what's even more curious is the fact that you never once considered you may have gotten it wrong, that Julie may not be guilty.

You want her to be cheating on you. You want your marriage to be over.

You've wanted it for a long time.

Your frown deepens as he glimpses up at you, all pity and sympathy, all of the empathetic emotions that Wilson's composed of. He squeezes your hand awkwardly and you shake him off shrugging.

"I knew what I was getting myself into," you insist, leaning forward on the bench, smoke filling your nostrils. You've never been able to smoke without thinking of him, and now, you're certain, you never will.

"He thinks he's being righteous," Wilson all but chuckles, shaking his head, unable to understand his friend's logic yet again. "He's being an idiot is what he's being...."

You smile warmly, because in spite of it all, he's still there and he's doing what a friend should be doing. You can hardly roll your eyes at his naive disbelief.

You flick your cigarette automatically, well-versed at your double life. Hide the cigarettes, hide the past, hide your feelings. He's the only one who's ever called you on your flaws, and perhaps that's why you were always so drawn to him. Always will be.

"Don't think he doesn't know," you add skeptically, winking charismatically at him.

Wilson blinks back surprise, fumbling over his thoughts, cheeks tinged with pink. "Know what?" he asks, fooling with his tie.

You laugh, and it feels good, to be back on the outside, looking in at other people's relationships. What a mess you've made. Now it's your turn to sit back and survey everyone else. "Dr. Cameron," you say haughtily. "It's extremely obvious, Jimmy."

"I...we're...I'm married!" he protests as if that's any sort of consolation.

You grin. "Aren't we all?" you joke. His head lowers. You inhale deeply, letting a soft trail of smoke slip out through your chapped lips. "He's going to figure it out, if he hasn't already."

"Nothing's going on," he says simply.

You shrug. You believe him. "Yet," you add.

He begins to defend himself. "Julie is...she's...Allison was just...."

You chuckle. "Allison, huh?" you smirk, grateful for the sudden shift in conversation. It's easier not to think about Greg.

"I've always called her Allison," he insists.

You tilt your head slightly. "Yes, that does sound like something you would do," you admit, leaving well enough alone. You're not here to destroy Jimmy's world.

"He was saying goodbye," you note sadly, leaning your head back to stare at the blank night sky. You feel nothing for nature, yet somehow the vast, dark emptiness above you is making you dizzy. You're lost.

"I...." he begins, trailing off quickly. He's not understanding you. You hadn't really meant for him to.

You stand up, kicking your cigarette butt to the ground. You step on it expertly, smudging it into the ground with the toe of your shoe. "For good," you tell him. "He was saying goodbye for good."

Wilson looks forlorn, torn between two different friendships. There's no need to ask for him to back you up. You know who he'll always stand behind.

"I'll miss you Jimmy."

He's moving in with you. You can hardly say no though you do protest. You wouldn't be you if you didn't. You see him at work and now you see him at home. There's hardly time in between for him to be up to anything. But he is. You can sense it.

It's not until you come out of the shower that you hear the soft click of the telephone receiver and frantic movements back to the couch. You take your time getting dressed. He's pulled out all the theatrics this time, might as well play along.

You amble into the room ten minutes later, heading to the kitchen in search of a beer. He yawns loudly, too loudly, and you furrow your brow. He's tired, he says. Going to bed early.

He's in the bathroom by the time you re-enter the living room, setting your beer down on a bookshelf. You reach for the phone, the house line, and your eyes widen when you scroll through the recent calls. You're half-expecting to see Stacy's name. You're prepared for it.

You swallow. You hadn't been ready for this. Cameron comma Allison with the number twelve next to it.

He's been here no more than a week. And they've called each other twelve times and you had no clue.

You forget your beer as you stumble back into your room, too shaken for sleep but too perplexed to venture back into the living room.

It's not until three a.m., after a rerun of Lost that it hits you.

He used your house phone. The bastard knew what he was doing. He did it on purpose.

He wanted you to find out.

"You can come in for one drink," Wilson insists, smiling boyishly.

You shake your head politely. "Probably not a good idea." You mean because of House. You're not sure what he thinks you mean.

"He's out," he says, ending your curiosity there. "It's a Thursday night," he grins. "He'll probably be out until close."

You smile slightly at his little joke. "One drink," you agree.

There's something unsettling about walking into House's deserted apartment, about creeping around his house while he's out. You feel like a criminal of sorts and as your eyes lock with Wilson's, you realize he's fighting the same battle. You both feel like you're betraying him by...doing what? Becoming friends with Wilson?

He disappears into the kitchen and your cheeks flush as you sink into his couch, his couch, because you've imagined this moment so many times, but never was Wilson a part of it.

Something went wrong.

Wilson's back in an instant, two vodka tonics in his hand, and you're sipping your drink nervously, your hip barely touching Wilson's thigh as he takes a seat next to you.

The front of watching a movie is presented and you go along with the game. You don't know the name of the film, something with Brad Pitt, and your eyes hone in only on your drink, except for when you're stealing secret glances at Wilson's face.

Suddenly there's an overwhelming pressure where their once was calm and your hearts' racing and your face is hot.

He stands up to grab the remote and when he sits back down his arm is resting on top of the back of the couch where you're sitting. You lean back instinctively and his arm comes to rest around your shoulders as you slide even closer to him.

It's all an act, a mechanical breakdown of what to do when alone with a boy, you think. It reminds you of old dates in movie theaters and goodbyes in cars before retreating home to the safety of your familiar room.

Another few moments pass by before his hand lingers on your thigh, and fed up with the game, you wriggle out of his grasp, placing your hands on his arms until he's facing you, a look of both surprise and longing etched across his face.

You can't be sure whose lips make the first move, only certain that you're actually going through with this, you're kissing Wilson, and that his body's pressing onto yours as he climbs on top of you, your legs stretching out under his weight.

"James," you whisper, because that's his name, because it's what you're supposed to say, or maybe because you're trying to warn him, to get him to stop.

Your minds a haze as his lips burn on your neck, your back arched as your hands tangle through his hair, pulling him back up to your mouth. Your tongue massages his hungrily, your fingers sliding under his shirt, moving to the tender skin at the small of his back.

He shudders under your touch and you smile knowingly, watching as he fumbles with the buttons to your shirt. He's sliding your shirt off now, tongue trailing the line under your bra, when you notice the picture across the room.

It's a picture of House and Stacy, but another smaller photo is now stuck in the bottom corner of the frame, blocking most of Stacy's face. You squint, because for some reason, it's important to know what's in that photograph. Your eyes widen as Wilson reaches for the clasp of your bra, but you push him away as you realize that it's you in the picture, a picture that was taken out of boredom by Chase on a particularly slow day at the hospital. You're not even sure how House got it...only that he did get it. That he has it. Here. In his house.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asks, disappointment already glazing over his eyes.

You bite your lip, throwing your shirt back on and struggling to re-button it hastily. "I can't," you manage, voice wavering, looking at him helplessly. Your eyes are piercing his and you're hoping he can understand. Don't you see that I can't?

He bows his head quietly and you squeeze his shoulder, lump rising in your throat. "I'm sorry...I...."

He shakes his head, forcing a small smile, for your benefit, you're sure. "You don't have to explain," he says genially.

You squeeze back tears as you slip back into your shoes. "If things were different...." It's a pitiful excuse and you know it. But it's all you have. It's the truth.

Wilson nods, because he's the only other person in the world who could understand what you're going through right now. You should want him.

But you don't.

You're on your motorcycle as she comes barreling through the door, your front door, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, hand clasped over her mouth as she darts to her car.

She fumbles with the keys for a minute before throwing them to the ground in frustration, and she's crying now, sobbing into her hands as she leans down against the door of her car, head shaking violently as she reaches the ground.

You swallow painfully, because for once, you're not sure what you should do. You had this all planned out, but you'd forgotten about this part, the part where she's feeling ashamed and embarrassed and all those other emotions you wanted her to feel. You just weren't thinking you'd have to actually watch her go through it.

Sheer idiocy carries you over to her, cane dragging you along reluctantly, halting just before you reach the driver's side door. She peers up at you through the darkness, eyes frozen with a mixture of emotions, none of which you can read.

You use your cane to slide the keys over to you, bending slowly to retrieve them. You're eye level with her now and you can't look away. Somehow, she's got you trapped, hanging onto her silence anxiously, craving her words, her eyes, her warmth.

Then she laughs hysterically, breaking the moment and shattering whatever momentary spell you were acting under. She's grinning at you wildly and you're about to ask her why she's laughing, when you realize, that honestly, it is funny, this game you two have been playing, and anyway, you'd rather see her laughing than crying. Something inside of you snaps when she cries, something you can't control. You know how to handle her when she's laughing.

You twist her key into the lock, turning it quickly and opening the door for her. She climbs to her feet, studying your face, never faltering.

You roll your eyes, backing away, rationale returning to you.

"Emotional breakdowns aren't acceptable excuses to miss work," you tell her, frowning slightly as you begin to amble towards your door. "If you're even five minutes late, I'll...."

But you don't know what you'll do, because she's already slammed the door, shutting you out, and you're at your door and really you both know you'd do nothing.

Haven't you done enough?

You're chuckling when he walks through the door, an empty bottle of scotch at your feet. You figure that so long as he wants to play games, you'll drink the rest of the bottle that comforts him. Let him get no sleep tonight.

"You...you did this on purpose!" you remark, unsure of whether to yell at him or congratulate him on a job well done. His planted evidence certainly had served its purpose.

House narrows his eyes at you, ambling into the room slowly, cane stopping just before your foot. He joins you on the couch, cane falling forgotten to the floor.

"Oh," he says simply, grinning boyishly. "That."

You shake your head, tossing the picture of Cameron at him. "You put it in front of a picture of Stacy? I didn't even know you owned a picture of Stacy."

He smirks. "Planted that too."

"You're deranged."

He grins. "Worked, didn't it?"

"What exactly was your purpose?" you ask, a bit angry now. "If you didn't want me to see her, you could have just...."

"No, no," House insists, shaking his head. "If I had told you no, you would have explained the situation to her, she would have gotten pissed off at me, and then you would get all of the angry sex that I've spent years building up to."

You laugh outright, because it's the idea is just ludicrous enough to actually make sense. "You still shouldn't have...I can't believe she even noticed...."

He shrugs simply. "She notices everything," he says with an eye roll. He frowns at the empty scotch bottle, swiping what's left of the alcohol in your glass. "Shouldn't have hid your friendship from me."

"I didn't hide it," you insist. "You were just too preoccupied with Stacy to notice!"

"You like her," he says, a hint of surprise in his voice.

You shake your head. "No, I...she's nice."

He scoffs. "Nice."

"She is," you defend.

He raises his eyebrows. "Not with me."

"Oh, big surprise. No one's nice to you."

He forces a smile.

"You just don't like to share anything," you diagnose. "I'm your friend which means I can't be her friend as well, and she's your eye candy which means I can't very well start dating her or...."

"Or having sex with her on my couch?" House asks wryly.

You sigh. "It's not like that."

"And now it's not like anything," he says cockily.

"You're an ass."

"I don't care if you're friends with her," he admits, reaching for his cane as he rises to his feet. "Befriend the whole damn hospital for all I care. "

You roll your eyes.

"But you can't have her," House remarks coldly, looking at you over his shoulder. "She's mine."

"Gee," you reply sarcastically. "Does she even get a choice in the matter?"

He doesn't answer. But he doesn't have to.

Because you both know who she'd choose.

"You're late," you remark flatly, peering up at him through your glasses.

He feigns amusement before rolling his eyes at you. There's a sense of irony in his eyes. He stands in front of you, turning to Chase and Foreman. "Has our patient healed himself?"

"No," Foreman and Chase both reply.

"Then don't you think you two should be doing something to save him?"

You sigh, throwing your hands onto your hips. "What do you think we're doing here?"

He turns to you, eyes wide. "Well, I think you're touching my board again...." With that he rips the marker from your hand. "I think Chase is wasting my time and Foreman's staring at the patient's chart when he could be doing an MRI."

"We did an MRI and..." Foreman begins, not amused by House's petty games.

"Do another and this time, make sure the guy in the lab is over the age of let's say twelve. Chase, go with him and make sure he doesn't mess it up this time."

Foreman's fuming, but he rises to his feet, Chase following unenthusiastically behind him.

You scoff, removing your glasses and setting them on your desk. "MRI was fine," you comment. "Why are you having them...."

You freeze because he's right in front of you, forcing you to lean back against the desk for balance, the palms of your hands digging into the cool glass. You exhale quickly, heartbeat quickening.

"My couch smells like cinnamon," he says accusingly.

"Beats scotch," you joke, smirking. There's no need to deny what he already knows about.

"Yes, that's what Wilson smells like today," he remarks, eyeing you curiously.

You hold steady. "Where'd you get that picture?"

He grins. "What picture?" he asks innocently.

"The one you planted in your apartment to stop me from...." You pause, licking your lips before continuing. "Did you really think I'd believe that you had a framed picture of Stacy in your living room? That you'd actually buy a frame, let alone take the time to put a photo in it? Come on House."

He's smirking wider now, closing in on you, until there's only inches of space between his face and yours.

"Still stopped you didn't it?"

You look down sheepishly, because he's right. It worked. "Why do you care so much?" you ask, careful not to look up at him.

His finger caresses your chin, pointing your face upward until your eyes are forced to stare back into his, your mouth parting automatically, goosebumps traveling up and down the length of your exposed arms.

His lips are rough and demanding, much like you've expected they'd be, but there's an underlying tenderness that shocks you, that sends you reveling backward, until you find yourself pulling out of the kiss, eyes staring at him with sudden terror.

Your question resounds through your head. You can almost feel him thinking it over, tossing your words back and forth, like a metaphorical ball. You shudder. Had that been his answer?

"Why do you care so much?" you repeat, this time the strength drained from your voice, raw, untainted vulnerability echoing through your mouth.

He smiles sardonically at you as he steps away, eyes never leaving yours.

"I don't," he says firmly, turning away cruelly, disappearing to the comfort of his own office.

You push yourself back onto your feet, body temperature and pulse returning to normal as you walk towards the door. You're supposed to be doing something right now. You're supposed to be working. You need to leave the conference room.

You're smiling though, in spite of his abrupt brush off, in spite of his lackluster explanation, in spite of his brutal words.

Because he's lying and this time you know it.

You spot Wilson through the glass wall and you wave slightly. He waves back, looking over your shoulder into House's office.

You arch your neck to follow Wilson's gaze.

House's eyes burn through the thin glass walls.

You're all bluffing.

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