Hello everyone! I am very happy to be back writing after a rather difficult surgery which I'm now recovering from. My doctor thought that there would be 4 fibroid tumors to remove and that it would take about 1-2 hours. There ended up being 20 tumors and it took over 4 hours and required a blood transfusion. Ugh. Now, with a six week short term disability ahead of me, I'm looking forward to writing regularly.

This fic is being written as part of a fiction challenge. Fifty prompt words were selected and I need to write a story for each one. Rather than having them be random shorts, I decided to arrange the prompts into a cohesive novel with five distinct parts of ten stories each. This chapter contains the first four shorts from Part One - Status Quo, and begins way back at the beginning of Cameron's fellowship. This first part isn't all sweetness and light, but it really can't be, because that's not who House and Cameron are. However, things will progress for our favorite couple, as I'm sure you all know that I love a happy ending. Thanks for reading!

FORWARD MOMENTUM

Part One - Status Quo

I.

Coffee (4:First)

Cameron remembered the first time she made coffee for the diagnostics department.

It was her third day on the job. Her third day of sitting around, going through paperwork, and checking in at the clinic for a few hours of the type of work she'd thought she'd left behind after her residency. House didn't venture into the actual department conference room much back then. He preferred to hole up in his office, or occasionally in Dr. Wilson's office, or the storage closet on the fourth floor where he'd set up a padded folding chair and a pair of speakers for his iPod. Chase was the one who'd told her about that last hideaway when she'd needed House's signature on one of her employment forms.

She'd come in early on that third day, although she wasn't sure why. Inherent need to prove herself, she guessed. She'd had years of dealing with people who expected less of her than she expected of herself. Surprising them had become a habit, but one that apparently wouldn't get her very far with her new boss, since he barely addressed her other than to grunt in her general direction when they passed in the halls. Chase had told her to get used to it. He'd been there for a month and said that things hadn't changed much.

Chase was the reason Cameron made that first pot of coffee.

He'd made the coffee those first two days and it had been like drinking water strained through tar paper. He wasn't in yet when she arrived, but that wasn't unusual. He generally strolled in around nine or nine-thirty and she couldn't blame him since their days weren't exactly busy. After hanging up her jacket and turning on the computer, she spent a minute staring at the coffee maker.

She could go down to the cafeteria and get some. That's what she'd done the previous day when she just couldn't face Chase's version of the it. That could get expensive, fast. It would make more sense to just make it herself, but a dozen friends' voices told her that she should never make the coffee. She should never answer the mail. She should never put herself in the position of being the 'little woman'. She wasn't too concerned with being a feminist Gloria Steinham would be proud of, but she did worry about pigeonholing herself. Again.

She'd been the nurturing, caring one at her last position. The one who arranged for birthday cards to be signed, and organized the holiday gift-swap. She'd been the one to order cakes for farewell parties. When she'd left, she'd been given a card, signed by a handful of the nurses. Her skills had made her respected by her coworkers and boss, but being nice hadn't gotten her anything in return. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't make that mistake again.

She shook her head and stood up. She needed coffee. She wasn't making it to be nice to anyone, except herself. There was already a headache hiding behind her right eye due to lack of caffeine. She'd heard people talking about Dr. House's Vicodin addiction, but she had a few of her own. They were just a little bit more socially acceptable: five cups of coffee a day and seven mile runs every morning on her treadmill.

The coffee was a generic store-brand and she made a note to bring in some of her own. If she was going to make it, she might as well do it right. Carefully measured grounds were dumped into the filter and carefully measured water was poured into the reservoir. She had it down to an art and thirty seconds later, the pleasant aroma that filled the air caused her to shut her eyes in a brief moment of bliss.

"Thank God, someone else is making the coffee."

She hadn't heard the connecting door open, but her eyes snapped open at the sound of Dr. House's voice, followed by the uneven cadence of his steps along the tile floor. She'd wondered briefly why he needed the cane and the pills he palmed and swallowed almost out as much out of habit as need, it seemed. The curiosity had faded away and now she saw both as an extension of him. He limped closer to her, with that awkward gait that he nonetheless made almost natural, if not graceful. His sneakers squeaked slightly on the just-waxed floor, and he looked down at it with irritation and then looked up at her and held out his hand.

She just looked at him dumbly. Did he think she was going to pour his coffee for him? Had she just started another cycle of being the pretty, nice girl?

"Hand me my mug or get outta my way," he told her and she blushed very slightly and stepped back, feeling foolish for her thoughts. He eyed her sideways as he grabbed the red mug from the shelf and then curled his fingers around the coffee pot's handle. "Here's hoping this is better than Chase's. Apparently they make much better beer than coffee Down Under."

Even that half-glance from him made her feel funny in ways she couldn't describe. She admired him as a doctor and had read articles he'd written and heard all of the stories about his unorthodox but highly successful methods. That hadn't prepared her for the way he filled a room when he entered. He wasn't particularly good looking. He wasn't particularly fit. He walked with a limp and he was as likely to glare at a person as to give them the time of day. But he exuded confidence and authority in a casual way that showed he wasn't even trying, and his blue eyes, when they landed on a person, seemed to have the ability to see right through them. She wondered, at that moment, if he was seeing through her. Did he sense her uneasiness? Her desire to fit in and succeed? Her fear that she would never be good enough?

He turned back to his coffee, added sugar and headed back to his office. The connecting door swung shut and she saw him disappear behind his bookcase to resume his seat at his desk. She poured her own coffee and sat down at the computer. A long sip was followed by a satisfied sigh. Not great, but definitely better.

A shout came from the other room and almost startled her into spilling the precious liquid.

"From now on, Chase is banned from making coffee!"

A year later, and that was all he'd ever said about it. She still made it every morning, and every morning, she told herself she was making it because she needed her daily fix.

II.

Assumptions (14:Black)

She took her coffee black.

House had noticed that after she'd been working for him for a month. He'd noticed primarily because it wasn't what he'd been expecting. She, with her perpetually concerned expression, earnest kindness and nearly pathological need to be accepted. Surely she had to use sugar and milk. But she didn't. That was why he noticed.

That was also why he noticed on the one day she added cream.

They'd been taking in patients regularly for a few months, but he was still picky about the patients he chose to treat. They had to amuse him. It was a requirement Cameron still didn't understand or agree with, which was why she tried to slip in a particularly sappy sounding request every week or so. She had to know that he just ripped them up, she'd been witness to it at least twice, but she kept it up anyway.

Hopeless optimist. That's what she was. The black coffee was the only aberration in his neatly composed personality profile for Dr. Allison Cameron. He was glad to have her classified and catalogued in his mind. Made dealing with her much easier. Not that he dealt with her much differently than anyone else, but he did find himself sending a more than average number of sarcasm-laced insults towards her. He explained it in his mind as 'instruction in the real world'. She obviously hadn't had much of it in the past.

He was on his way to tell her that their latest patient would likely never leave the hospital, and he planned to do so in as brusque a manner as possible. Another lesson.

It was late and his sneakers' rubber soles echoed in the hallway, the uneven rhythm grating on him, another reminder in an endless series of reminders. He took the elevator from the labs up to the diagnostic's department, and headed towards his patient's room. The young man was asleep, his wife beside him in an uncomfortable chair, head slumped to one side. Cameron wasn't there, and House was surprised. She had a knack for playing Florence Nightingale when comfort was needed.

He found her making coffee in the conference room, her motions smooth and well-practiced. He stood in the doorway and watched her. Watched her watching the coffee maker sputter to life, as if willing the brown droplets to accumulating in the pot. It was only half full when she impatiently pulled it from its place and poured herself a cup. He waited for her to take that first sip, just so that he could announce his presence and startle her into spilling some on her neatly pressed white coat.

Instead, she toed open the mini-fridge, pulled out the cream and poured in a generous amount. Her eyes seemed to be studying the swirling pattern it made and House was studying her. He forgot to interrupt her when she took that first sip.

He shook himself from his reverie to announce loudly, "Patient's dying. Just got the lab results from Chase."

She barely flinched and he stepped into the room and tossed the labs onto the table.

"I already knew he was dying," she replied before taking another sip of coffee.

"Oh, psychic now, are you? Good to know. That could be useful, especially down at the track."

A withering glance was cast in his direction and he was surprised at the strength behind it. He'd expected sorrow. Angst. Disappointment. He saw stoicism.

He nodded towards her cup and said, for lack of anything else to say, "You used cream. You never use cream."

"You don't know everything about me," she replied. "Sometimes I use cream."

His cynical attitude fell back into place. "Ah, right. When you know the patient's going to die, you probably use cream as a little panacea, right? Make yourself feel better about not saving the guy?"

Her look was weariness and frustration and irritation. A huff of breath came from her nose and her lips pursed and quirked to the side.

"Right," she said with a thread of iron in her tone, "you've got me all figured out. Artwork in the lobby, Pollyanna in the lab, Clara Barton in the patient's room. I miss anything?"

House was surprised by her words and her expression. He'd frankly expected her to break by now. He shook his head, all his sarcastic rejoinders abandoning him.

"Good," she told him, "because I really just want to sit here and drink my coffee and grab a few hours of sleep, before going to tell Mr. Garrison that he won't be going home."

"You could have used the zero calorie fake creamer that Chase stocks in the fridge," House said, shifting back to the mundane because it was never mundane to him.

Her hair swished over her shoulders as she shook her head in exasperation.

"That wouldn't be much of an indulgence, now would it?"

"You don't strike me as the indulgent type," he felt slightly bolder since she hadn't just ignored him.

Her eyes glanced down into the pale coffee, seeing something invisible to him.

"No, not usually," she agreed.

House didn't say anything else. He walked across the room, brushing past her, closer than he'd intended, and pouring himself a cup of coffee. Extra sugar. She had moved out of the way by the time he turned to pass by her again on the way to his office. He wasn't sure if she'd moved to avoid him, and he wasn't sure if he would have purposely let his shoulder graze hers on the way out.

He saw her face, the familiar softness in her eyes was wrapped in a mysterious swirl of emotions he hadn't thought to see in her. Damaged was what he'd called her once, but he'd thought he knew her damage back then. Thought he had her all mapped out. Now he wasn't as sure.

Pausing in the doorway, he spoke without turning around. "He's not gonna croak tonight. You can go home to sleep."

"No. I'll stay in case anything changes. Send Chase home instead. He's horrible when he hasn't had enough sleep." Her voice was back to normal, that gentle lilt caressing his ear unexpectedly.

"Fine, have it your way."

He pushed the door open and limped to his easy chair. He could hear the chattering wheels of her chair as she sat down, and the dull thump of her putting down her cup. Then the door finished swinging closed and he stared at the wall he knew she was probably staring at as well.

Or maybe not. He wasn't as sure about her anymore. He wished he didn't care.

III.

Expected (16:Lies)

He'd never made a secret of his mantra.

Everybody lies. He said it about their patients. He said it about them. He said it about her. He told her flat out that he knew she was hiding something. He smugly seemed to imply that he'd ferret out the truth eventually.

She wasn't sure which truth he was looking for. Did he want to know that she hadn't had the perfect childhood? Relationships? Life? Strangely, she'd never felt the need to bury her past as deeply as she did now. No, she'd never been one to discuss it, but she hadn't felt afraid of it either. Hadn't worried about what a co-worker or friend or boss would do with the keys to her history. It was a history that contained not skeletons, but the complete corpses of past dreams.

He imagined that she couldn't be as good as she appeared. That she had to be damaged. Maybe if she'd told him outright that he was correct, then she would be able to leave the office without worrying that he'd break into her desk, her computer, her past.

When he started digging around to see if she'd ever had a child, she was furious, yet not surprised. Any hole in her armor, or quirk in her personality, he tried to tie back to that dark, secret past he had assigned to her in his mind. In a way it was a relief. He wouldn't find anything down that avenue, and anyway, she'd already dealt with that pain.

She'd been right to call him a bastard. She didn't regret that at all. She was just a little sad that he'd fulfilled her expectations of him, and a little angry at herself that she knew she would forgive him anyway.

At home, in her simple beige-walled apartment, she made soup and ate it in the living room with a magazine spread out on the cushion beside her. It was a decorating magazine. Her mother had bought her the subscription for her birthday. Her mother never knew what to get her.

She flipped a page and blew on a spoonful of soup and looked around the room. There were photographs on one wall, taken by a college friend she no longer kept in touch with. There was a soft throw over the arm of the sofa, knit by the grandmother she hadn't seen in two years. A shelf held candles from Pier1 and a vase from Crate and Barrel. She didn't love them. She'd bought them because the shelf was empty.

Turning back to her magazine she read about women who hand-dyed fabric for throw pillows and searched yard sales for objects they loved. She didn't let herself get attached to things like that. House would be surprised to know that, she thought bitterly. Maybe she'd tell him in the morning.

That night, sleep was slow in coming and she blamed him. Then she stared at the ceiling wondering what lies he'd told about himself. The corollary to his first mantra was the proclamation that he himself never lied. Except, of course, when it was really necessary. Rolling over statements and scenes in her head, she admitted that she couldn't remember him saying anything about himself that seemed untrue. He barely spoke about himself at all. Maybe that was the key. He didn't lie because he didn't speak at all, and he didn't expect anyone else to care about his past.

Sleep arrived just before the grey light of dawn.

She was still the first one in the office.

Her fingers, tired and clumsy feeling, made the coffee, and she barely remembered pouring herself a cup and sitting down at her desk.

There was a red folder positioned neatly in the middle of her blotter. Her file. A scrawled post-it note attached to the front. 'You can file this now'. No apology. No remorse.

She hadn't expected any.

The file belonged down in the records department, and she carried her coffee with her as she took it to its rightful home. On the way back, she saw Chase and Foreman in the cafeteria. Chase was hurrying out on his way to the clinic, but Foreman offered to buy her a muffin. He was always trying to feed her. She told him she'd let him buy her lunch, and then headed towards the elevator.

The muffin started looking better and better. House was waiting by the elevator doors.

He looked her up and down as if cataloging her. Some days that appraising look of his nearly made her blush. At the moment, it just made her uncomfortable.

"You're here early," she spoke first, as if that would give her the upper hand.

"Gotta keep Cuddy on her toes," he replied.

The elevator arrived and neither of them spoke on the ride up to their floor. They walked down the hall in silence and Cameron wondered if he knew where she'd been. She pulled open the door to the office and he stopped her with a word.

"Cameron."

She had expected him to continue on to his office and she froze and looked back over her shoulder. But he didn't say anything else. He looked at her, and she thought he might have nodded almost imperceptibly, and then he limped forward as if he hadn't said anything.

Once at her desk, she reflected upon whether unexpected actions were the same as little lies.

IV.

Subtlety (19:Denial)

Subtlety was never one of his strong suits.

When he barged into Wilson's office, the oncologist barely looked up from his paperwork. The non-reaction made House's mouth twitch down more severely and he wondered if he was losing his touch. He didn't think about the fact that his need to provoke was the sign of a deeper problem.

"You needed something?" Wilson asked, sounding bored.

"No, just came here to keep you company."

"Oh goodie."

"Cameron was never pregnant."

That did get a reaction. Wilson dropped his pen and looked up with an incredulous look on his face.

"And you know this, how?" he asked, while wondering why he was ever surprised by anything House did.

"Medical records." House had lowered his lanky frame into the chair opposite Wilson's desk and was twirling his cane in a lazy circle. Index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky, the cane wove in and out of each in turn, a smooth action perfected over years.

"You looked at her medical records? Should I ask when the harassment suit is due to go to court?"

House puffed out a breath of air, scoffing at the suggestion. "You know she wouldn't do that."

"Right, so that makes it okay."

"She's a member of my team. She was acting strangely. I needed to know." Justification was always easy for him.

Wilson shook his head. He'd had doubts about Cameron himself, and he hadn't kept them hidden. She was sensitive, caring, and maybe too soft-hearted. He'd seen shades of himself in her and he didn't like those reminders of how he'd started out.

"So that's all it is? Just working for the good of your team?"

"What else would it be? I'm a stellar boss."

"Right."

The cane stopped at the top of its circular path and House let it slide down between fingers and palm until the rubber tip thudded against the floor.

"Something to say, Jimmy?" His voice and his eyes were hard.

"You come in here to announce the maternal status of your employee and you don't think that's strange?"

"Coming from me? No."

Wilson nodded. "Right. Because you're quirky that way."

"She's an intriguing little puzzle."

"And the only one around who still looks at you with idealism in her eye."

"That's part of the puzzle."

"That's part of the interest, you mean."

"Purely academic."

"Of course. A beautiful woman who doesn't quite think you're an ass is just a mind exercise."

"You're wrong there. She thinks I'm a bastard now," House declared, and questioned the pinprick of regret at the back of his mind and pushing their awkward morning interaction out of his thoughts.

"You told her you were digging in her personal file?"

"I'm always honest to a fault."

"You mean you enjoy sabotaging yourself to remain a martyr. She might have shown some modicum of interest in you so you had to shut that down as fast as possible."

House waved a hand dismissively. "Since when do I care what people think about me?"

"You don't, unless they make you feel something in return," Wilson said, pointedly.

"Feelings are your department, not mine. Good thing too, because all those little cancer kids need your caring support."

"Whatever you say, House."

House hated it when Wilson dismissed him like that. He stood up, intending to state that he didn't give a rat's ass what Cameron thought of him and he didn't give a rat's ass about her except where it involved his department. He opened his mouth to let those words fall out, but shut it again. It suddenly seemed like a waste of air.

"You done here?" Wilson asked, looking up.

A thumping cane and limping stride were the only reply as House left the office. He felt the need to find one of his employees and dump some particularly nasty task into their laps. Hopefully Chase would be the first one he'd see.