Neither one of them are quite sure when or why the calls started. All they know is that once of week, one of them calls the other. She thinks it started that time she'd gone to the hospital on a Saturday to finish up a few things, but at foolishly forgotten her ID and had to call him so the guard would let her in. He doesn't really dwell on when it started—he has other things to dwell on—but he knows that once a week he talks to her on the phone. He knows it like he knows he's an addict, like he knows some days the pills are the only things keeping him alive.
He knows he has very few things to live for. He accepts that. He rather enjoys being a bitter, unlovable old cripple, although he could live without the "cripple" part, truth be told. He knows he lives for the hunt, for the mystery of the inexplicable diseases and the unsolvable cases, and that every doctor in the Tri-State area knows (and hates) that he can solve what they cannot.
He knows he lives to make Cuddy's life a living hell, and that his week isn't quite complete unless he's made that vein in her forehead bulge at least half a dozen times.
He knows he lives for his friendship with Wilson, smug bastard that he may be. He knows his friendship with Jimmy Olsen (er, Wilson) is the longest relationship of his life, save his long-held love of rancor and sarcasm. The cane and the pills are fast-becoming his third longest, he knows. He also knows they're one of the only things that keep him from stepping off a curb and into the path of a bus when the pain gets too bad.
He also knows that some nights, when he's alone in his apartment, and he's dry swallowed two pills—because he likes the harsh feel of it—then chased them with scotch, that sometimes he's tempted to take two more and then two more, and then two more until it all goes away.
It was on one of those nights that Cameron called him.
He knew he was well past the 80 mgs, and didn't care. Relief was sweet. And utter numbness wasn't looking too bad either. He'd ignored the ringing telephone, letting it go to the machine instead. "This is House. Don't leave a message." BEEEEEEEEEEP! He flipped the machine the finger and poured himself some more scotch
"Dr. House?" Cameron's voice filled his apartment. His head snapped up and he nearly dropped the pill bottle he'd been twirling in his fingers, playing with the cap. "House, are you home?...there, I mean?" She sighed at her gaffe and he felt the corners of his mouth quirk upwards in spite of himself. "Greg." Her voice was soft, but fraught with worry. "Pick up."
House sighed and picked up the cordless phone. "Dr. Cameron," he said, taking a sip of his liquor. "Forget your ID again?"
If she tried hiding the relief in her voice was did a miserable job at it. "No, actually."
"One of your centrifuges rusted out from excessive exposure to tears?"
"No."
"You're madly in love with Volger and you're giving up medicine to be a kept woman?"
"Close, but no. I hear something similar's happening next week on General Hospital, though."
He smiled. "Damn, now I've been spoiled." Sarcasm from her, in small doses, was refreshing, if not a bit out of place compared to her usual sugary, Polly-Anna, do-gooder personality. He wondered if both came out of whatever it was that had damaged her. He felt the curiosity surge within him, questions about her past, about the dead husband who was sick before she married him. Don't get personal, she's an employee, he thought, quelling the curiosity with a healthy swig of whiskey. She's also young, pretty, and doesn't deserve to put up with a mean old man longer than she's paid to. He scowled. What if I paid her for sex?
Yes, make her your whore, scolded the voice in his head that sounded eerily like Wilson. Good plan! One of your best! Right up there with killing yourself!
Fuck off.
"House? You still with me?" Cameron's voice was gentle, tentative.
As long as you'll put up with me, he thought. "I love scotch. It's so delicious." If misdirection was an organized sport, he'd surely be at the top of his game. "Do you drink scotch, Dr. Cameron?" He considered putting 'master of misdirection' under "special skills" on his resume.
She paused, either confused by the randomness or considering. "I suppose," she replied finally. "I pretty much drink whatever you put in front of me."
His eyes widened a bit. "Really? I'd have pegged you as a woman who drinks those irritatingly umbrella'd fruity drinks that are named after Asian prostitutes."
She chuckled, "Please don't tell me you've been with a woman named Mai-Tai."
"Piña Colada."
"That's not an Asian name."
"Drat. Foiled again." He set the pill bottle down on the table beside him, lid off. He could always get more if he needed it. "Wouldda gotten away with it if it weren't for those lousy kids." The scotch was warm as it slid down his throat and he hissed a little when he felt the burn.
"Just call me Scooby-Doo."
New name for them: Scooby Gang. "Ugh, no," he scoffed. "I was thinking Daphne."
"Not Velma?" She was teasing and he let the mirth in her voice was over him, bathing his always-open wounds. Surprisingly, it didn't sting.
"Nah," he replied. "I think you'd look sexy with red hair and purple go-go boots." When she didn't response right away, he knew he'd gone too far. Shaking his head, House gulped down the rest of the scotch. She's an employee, dammit. She's better than you deserve. Back off.
"Does the hospital have a costume gala, eve?" she asked finally. He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Before the hundred million, they did one as a fundraiser every year. One of those thousand dollars-a-plate philanthropic deals."
"We should get them to reinstate it, and maybe you'll get to see me as a redhead."
He stifled a groan, the mental image of her giving him an instant hard on.
"Are you alright?" she asked, the playfulness gone from her voice, replaced with clinical concern.
"Fine," he grunted, adjusting himself.
"How'd the pain?"
He shrugged as though she could see him. "How's your hair?" He imagined running his fingers through it, which did nothing for his hard on.
"What?"
"I'm sorry, I thought we were making idyll chit-chat. You ask me something about me, I ask something equally unimportant about you. Hey, can we play Truth or Dare next?" Being an irreverent bastard didn't provide him with enough distraction to make the erection lessen. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wincing as pain shot through his leg.
"I didn't think it was unimportant," she murmured, making him feel like a jackass.
He said nothing, just reached for the Vicodin bottle, but something in her sigh stopped him.
"When's the ceremony?"
Now it was his turn to be confused. "What ceremony?"
"The award ceremony for Asshole of the Year. I want to be there to congratulate you. You're undefeated, I hear."
Her words hang in the air and stung way more than they should have. Dammit, she was more painful than the dead muscle and damaged nerves in his thigh. Kind and sweet and brilliant and not bad to look at, but injured, damaged, wounded. He could see it. He knew it. Takes one to know one, and all that. He knew his own damage, hidden wounds, carefully concealed baggage were not what she needed to heal. That she called him and put up with his shit—it killed him, a little.
"Did I render the great Gregory House, M.D., speechless?" Her voice held a bitter mirth.
"I'm sorry, I was too busy basking in the glow of your witty barb." He closed his eyes. He'd apologized, kind of; not for what he should have, but he was the best he could do. "Why'd you call me, Cameron?"
She sighed. "I don't know. It's Saturday night. I got impatient waiting for you to do it."
"Indeed. It's Saturday night. What's a nice girl like you doing on the phone with a grumpy old jackass like me? Shouldn't you be at some slick and shiny overpriced club with a parquet dance floor and seizure-inducing strobe lights?" An image passed through his mind, a flash of her in tight-fitting pants, a slinky top and heels, shaking her ass and tossing her hair around to some over-produced house music. His fading erection found new life in that image.
"I'm asking myself the same thing," she replied softly. "I guess I just….wanted to say hi."
"Well," he said, taking two pills from the bottle. "Hi."
"Hi."
"This is fun," he remarked dryly, bringing the pills to his mouth.
"Don't take anymore," she begged quietly.
He spat them out and looked around. "Do you have me bugged?"
"I could just tell," she replied. "I'll be you're well above your usual dose.
"I hurt," he retorted petulantly.
"I know." There was something in her voice, a familiarity, a longing, an—understanding?—that caught him off guard. He looked at the spat out pills in his hand and clenched a fist around them. The fist came to his forehead and beat a staccato rhythm in counterpoint to the steady pulsing of his leg, which was so strong a rhythm he could see it behind tightly shut eyes. He let out a slow, controlled sigh and realized he'd been counting the number of breaths she was taking.
Seven, eight, nine…
"Go to bed House."
"You're not the boss of me," he replied gruffly, and not without irony, unable to help himself.
"No, I'm not," she said. "But do me a favor and do it anyway. Surprise me. For once, do something a friend tells you."
"You're my friend?"
"I'd like to be."
Danger, Will Robinson! "I don't need any friends."
Cameron scoffed, "You can use all the friends you can get. It won't kill you, you know."
It might. "It might. Besides, you don't need a friend like me." The scotch and pills were surely doing their job, because he began imagining an army of tiny blue cartoons that sounded like Robin Williams.
"Not your call," she said. "Go to bed, House. I'll see you Monday."
She was hanging up and then he'd be left to his own devices, to the pulsing pain, to the demons that never seemed to leave his head no matter how much he drank or how many pills he took. "On one condition," he said suddenly, rather unsure of where the outburst had come from.
"I'm not coming in on Monday dressed up like the girl from Scooby-Doo."
"Call me Greg." He winced. What was he doing? "Just this once. Tonight. Right now. Pretend I'm not your boss or a miserable bastard who you should stay away from, and call me Greg."
She made no response and he began counting her breathing again.
Four, five, six, seven…
"Goodnight, Greg." Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her.
"Goodnight Cameron." He listens to her breathe for a few more seconds before she severs the connection.
He listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before disconnecting.
He sat in the silence for a few minutes before he realized two things: he still hadn't taken that last dose of pills, and that he missed the sound of her breathing.