A/N: I've been absent from the fanfiction world for some time, but I'm back, ready to take on a whole different fandom. I'm not quite sure how this fic came about, but here it is and I hope you all enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

THE PRETTY GIRL

By: Salle

Summary: I guess it was that small part of me that wanted so badly to be objectified and lusted after. I wanted him to want me because I was attractive. House/Cameron.

The pretty girl; that's what I've been my entire life. It's always been something that's stuck with me since I could remember; something that has grown to be a part of me that I could and would never be able to completely shake off. That's why I find it a little weird and ironic that I've never managed to grasp or fully understand the concept of pretty. And in all honesty, I don't think I really cared to know.

When I'd been young, I related "pretty" to things like flowers and butterflies, the obvious things in life that one would automatically associate with the word. But as I got older, the definition of it became muddled and so undefined, only adding to my confusion.

The fact that not all flowers or butterflies were pretty had slowly dawned on me, taking over this naïve notion that I'd implanted into my brain. It was this realization in particular that attributed a great deal to my confusion, and I often found myself wondering why the things that were supposed to be pretty could not be as they should be? Why had some pretty things have to be ugly? None of what I'm saying makes sense to me now, but years ago as a kid it sounded like a reasonable, justified argument.

Since I could remember, I have been complimented on my looks. Often referred to as the "pretty girl", I wasn't entirely sure if I should have found such references flattering or downright degrading. It was almost as if nothing but my appearance mattered to the people I met and that everything else about me was almost nonexistent. My athleticism, likeable personality, compassion were all ignored or barely acknowledged. However, it was intelligence in particular that was rarely associated with me. I suppose the idea that one couldn't have both looks and brains played a major role in this. And being pretty, I was expected to be dumb. Guys only dated me solely for the purpose of having something pretty dangling from their arms. I was perfectly aware of it. Never had I really ever had an intelligent conversation with any of them. But that was before I'd met my husband.

I couldn't say for sure if I was really in love with him. Had I felt something for him? Of course I did. I loved him, that was for sure, but being in love with him was something entirely different, something that I always questioned. There is no point in denying that I was attracted to him because I undoubted was. But it was just more than his looks that got me.

His eyes are what remind me vividly of him. His baby blues were so loving, kind, tender, always letting me into his soul, so willing to share everything. I guess they were what drew me in and closed the deal. But more than that, he had never treated me as if I were some kind of artwork on display or pretty plaything he owned. He treated me like a human being and listened to me as if he really wanted to hear what I had to say. Never had he leered at me or eyed me with lust like everyone else. He merely adored me, respected me, took care of me. What was going on inside my head and heart rather than what he saw on the outside mattered to him most.

The first time we had sex I was the one to initiate it. It's funny when I think about it because it had always been the other person who would do so. And then suddenly with him, the roles had been reversed. I think I loved him even more just because of that. Because he had had enough respect for me to wait until I was ready.

What's more was that he would always hold me afterwards, make me feel safe and comfortable and just plain content lying there in his arms. I knew then that I wasn't just viewed as a sexual object; but that he truly and deeply cared for me. He was perfection. A dream come true.

But not all good dreams could last forever, I supposed. In our second year of dating, he was diagnosed with cancer. I cried for him, feeling the pain, anger and resentment he refused to feel himself. He was never the kind of person to hold a grudge.

One day while driving back from his first chemo session, I surprised both him and myself. I proposed. What had made me do something so impulsive, I'm not quite sure, but it felt like the right thing to do. It never felt to me like an obligation of any sort. His chances of surviving were slim and he was so young and had experienced so little. I wanted to be there for him. I wanted him to experience as much as anyone else would in a lifetime. I didn't want him to die alone.

And so we got married. Small, quiet; it wasn't anything too extravagant. While I stood there in my modest white gown I looked into his tired blue eyes and all I could see was happiness; contentment. It was enough assurance for me that this was right, that this was the way we were supposed to be; the way it was supposed to be.

He fought with everything he had until the very end and the whole time he never failed to treat me the way he had before. It didn't matter how tough the circumstances were; I wasn't just some pretty thing to him. Even on his worst days, he always attempted and managed to make me smile, to truly feel happiness when there was none left in the air. He loved me, and I promised to be by his side until the end, no matter how it turned out.

But when his condition worsened, I broke not only that promise, but my wedding vows as well. I turned to his best friend, his friend who was the complete opposite of him; to whom I was only a pretty little plaything. I don't know why I did it. All I knew was that I was scared of letting him go, letting him die. I didn't want to lose him, the one person who had been able to see past my exterior. But maybe the side of me that just loved to get hurt kicked in. Or maybe I missed all the leering and sloppy kisses from jerks. What I did know was that his friend helped me forget, even for a little while, that he was dying.

When he finally passed away, I broke it off with his friend. In fact, I severed all connections with him. I wanted to forget the selfish and foolish thing that I'd done while my husband had been wasting away. I didn't allow myself to date anybody since his death, a punishment in an attempt to rid myself of the guilt and shame.

Almost a year later I began my fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. When I had initially gone into that interview I was expecting something fulfilling, something to give me hope. I viewed this fellowship as a fresh start for me and the fact that I would be working under such a brilliant doctor was everything I could ask for.

Unfortunately, I was too hopeful; far too optimistic. Working for House was one challenge for which I was totally unprepared. Sure he was brilliant, a genius with diagnosis and a doctor everyone in the medical field would and should aspire to be, but none of that could conceal the general fact that he was a complete asshole.

My first glimpse of House was during my interview with him. From what I could remember, he had definitely not looked the part of a doctor with whom someone would trust their life. Dressed rather casually in a crumpled Rolling Stones t-shirt, jeans, Nikes and a black blazer, he reminded me of some twenty-something-year-old who had no set path in life.

It only took the way in which he looked at me, so bored and disinterested, that I realized right off the bat that he was a bit standoffish if not downright unfriendly. He also had that air of self-absorption and confidence; an air belonging to a man with a gigantic ego and very little self-doubt. Initially I had supposed that this may have been the result of his tremendous success, but it was later that I would come to the realization that that was just the way he was.

I had first walked in, rather confident and self-assured, but once having actually had a good look at my possible future employer, I was left feeling confused and unsure. He didn't stand up to greet me when I came into his office.

"Allison Cameron?" he'd asked as I shut the glass door behind me. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, grasping a red ball with one hand while the other twirled his cane idly.

"Yes. It's – um – it's nice to meet you," I had answered, not completely feeling the truth of the last few words.

"Huh. You sure you're a doctor?" he further inquired, looking me up and down with lingering eyes.

I'd half the mind to ask him if that was a trick question or if it was a test of some sort. He was trying to intimidate me, I could tell. "Yes," I'd responded, refusing to give into his intimidation but still tugging unconsciously on my skirt. Whatever I might have wanted to prove to him had been undone by his unnerving stare.

"Are you sure? Because you don't look like someone who would have graduated from med school."

I'd stared at him, gaping like a fish. He was one of those men that I'd grown to hate. "I-" I'd started, not entirely sure what to say.

"Or any school, for that matter."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice was telling me that I should have been angry, downright infuriated, but his insults and jibes never fully registered in my head. I didn't know what to think.

Just then another man had walked in. In starch white lab coat and elaborate pink tie, he smiled pleasantly at me.

"Ah, Jimmy. Just in time. Meet the has-been model slash wanna-be doctor."

Under any other circumstances, I'm pretty sure I would have sucker punched him in the face.

"Um – hi," I'd said, extending my hand out to him. "I'm Allison Cameron."

His smile grew. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Cameron. I'm James Wilson."

"He's the oncologist slash resident player and heartbreaker of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," House whispered exaggeratedly to me, shielding his lips from his friend.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House does love elaborate introductions."

Apparently.

House got up from behind his desk as he set his ball on his desk. "I'm hungry, Jimmy. Got any money for a Reuben?"

Wilson eyed him, his lips curved down into a frown. "Weren't you just interviewing Dr. Cameron?"

"Why, Jimmy, indeed I was. I think that deserves a cookie," House said condescendingly, taking on the tone of someone talking to a small child.

"So the interview's over?" Wilson tried again, casting a sidelong glance at me.

With a quick "yup," he headed out the door, leaving me and Wilson watching his retreating form.

"Was it really over?" he asked.

"Honestly, I don't think it even began."

I left the hospital feeling rather exhausted and disappointed. My chance at something, my chance for hope had flickered out. I tried to console myself by downing some Chunky Monkey, but there's only so much sorrow and hopelessness ice cream can fix.

A week later on my way to another interview, I got the phone call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Dr. Allison Cameron?"

"Yes, this is."

"I don't know if you remember me, but I'm James Wilson. We met about a week ago at-"

"Princeton-Plainsboro. In Dr. House's office, right?"

"Yes, I'm glad you remembered. Well, I'm calling to see if you were still interested in working as a fellow for Dr. House."

"What? But I thought the interview…"

"Yours was the best I've seen in the past three months."

"Oh. Wow."

He chuckled. "I'm actually surprised you lasted as long as you did."

"So am I."

"So? Are you still interested?"

"Definitely. When can I start?"

And so my fellowship began. The job was a dream job, meeting and even surpassing my expectations. It challenged and fascinated me, and never was there a dull moment. And it kept me busy, too busy to think about how alone I was. I never was very good with solitude.

Maybe my fear of being alone drew me to him. Or maybe it was a part of me that needed to unravel the mystery that was Gregory House. But whatever it was, I couldn't help but want to know him; couldn't help but feel attracted to him. It was wrong on so many levels. First of all, he was my boss, and I had always viewed relationships between an employer and employee as completely unethical. Secondly, he was much too old for me and I always felt like a naïve child in his presence. And finally, he was the epitome of everything that I hated in men. He was obnoxious, selfish, arrogant and never tried to get past my looks to see the person beneath the outer layer. Nevertheless, a part of me still wanted him. A part of me wanted him to want me.

I just couldn't understand it. My whole life, I had despised and strived to avoid men like him. But there was something about him that I couldn't shake off. There was something laying under those icy blue orbs that made my heart jump and sink simultaneously.

He would say that my attraction was only due to my need to fix damaged people like him. There was truth behind his theory, but I didn't want him to know that. It just made me seem meek and pathetic. I didn't want him to think of me as such. But he already did. He saw the pity and sadness in my face when I'd learned of his infarction. He's only scowled in response and limped away, sending a clear message that he didn't want my sympathy and didn't need me.

I was a constant source of mockery to him. My compassion for patients and my need to be needed were a sort of fuel for his sarcasm. I didn't mind, at least I tried to appear as if I didn't. I had no intention of changing because I didn't want to end up like him. Alone and bitter.

There were times when sometimes I'd felt like I'd made a breakthrough with him; times when I felt that some kind of connection was made between us. I thought that maybe, just maybe, he might have felt even the smallest bit what I felt for him during those times, but perhaps I'd read too far into it for nothing actually came of those moments.

As time passed, I tried to let go of whatever it was I felt for him. I was getting tired of his constant rejections and this game he played with my head; with my heart. A part of me said that my husband would have wanted so much better for me. I knew that he would have wanted me to be with someone who actually cared for me; who could actually love me for who I was.

Yet I never really could let go of him completely. I guess it was that small part of me that wanted so badly to be objectified and lusted after. I wanted him to want me because I was attractive. I needed him to desire me because I needed to burn and feel alive. And I was willing to let House do all that, often wondering if he ever would.

But he could never love me, I knew, in any way, shape or form. He just wasn't capable of love anymore. And so I had to move on. But I just couldn't imagine saying goodbye without even a kiss. So I took the chance to do so when Foreman, Chase and I had needed his blood to confirm his lie of a diagnosis of brain cancer. I used that as a reason for me to do it, trying and failing miserably to convince myself that it had to be done as a distraction tactic. Because really, who was I fooling?

It was a soft, slow kind of a kiss. It was the kind that every girl wishes to experience in her life and for a split-second, I'd forgotten the real reason why I was even doing this. It had felt so intense and real that I almost thought that there was some real emotion behind it on his part as well.

He caught me just as I was about to draw his blood and I swear that there was a sort of sad disappointment in his blue eyes. Disappointment for what, I didn't know. But I so badly wanted to believe that it was because the kiss had been under false pretenses.

That moment had been a kind of closure for me. I had gotten what I wanted after all this time, and I was content with it. I didn't feel the need for any more than just that because more than a taste would without a doubt leave me hungry for more. My goal was to quit, not crave more.

The day I'd resigned for the second time, I saw that fleeting look of disappointment and sadness in his eyes again. He probably didn't want me to go, but I knew he'd never voice such a thought out loud. But even if he had and asked me to stay, I don't think I would have because I'd meant what I'd said. I had gotten all I can from that job and it was time for me to move on. As I look back on it, I realize now that there was a double meaning behind my words and although I hadn't picked up on it then, I'm sure House probably had.

Afterwards, I ran to Chase, who, in numerous ways, helped me get over him. At first he had provided me a fun distraction where I could get all the physical without the emotional getting in the way. Bu as time passed, he was my rock. Something stable that I could always count on to be there.

I admit that perhaps I'm not as attracted to him as I should be. And there was no point in denying that I don't feel about him as strongly as I do House, but having someone else in my life made things easier and less lonely. I hated being alone, and being in Chase's warm, strong arms gave me an easy sense of safety, security and promises of a happily ever after.

He genuinely cares about me, and I can feel a part of me starting to care about him just as much. But despite it all, I honestly don't know if I could ever love him the way he loves me and in the way I know he deserves to be loved. And I only pray that someday I would be able to; that someday I won't have these ridiculous lingering feelings for a bitter, old man who's rejected me numerous times. But I've never believed in God and I'm such a sucker for getting hurt.

I guess that's why I came back. There was that need to be around him constantly nagging at me, and I couldn't make myself ignore it. It was as if there was no immunity to him in my body and I found myself back at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Secretly, I'd hoped that he'd changed or at least made an effort to do so. But a part of me reprimanded myself, as it reminded me that he was one of those people who only managed to change for the worst. And although there was a part of me that hoped that he might finally see me as something more than just Cameron, the more practical side of me told me to squash that hope. And I did. I shoved aside those feelings and made myself start fresh with him. I didn't want to get hurt and any notion of having a relationship with House would end with me being the poor victim.

I'm the pretty girl, and I won't deny it. Almost all the men in my life have seen me as just that with the exception of one, and sometimes, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I take a almost twisted pleasure out of it. I want people to see me for more than just my appearance, but I can settle for whatever it is that I have for now. I can settle for as long as he's ready to see something more.

A/N: So there it is. Please remember that this is my first House fic, so please be nice. Reviews make my day, so please review! Constructive criticism and comments are always welcome and appreciated as well.

- Salle