A/N: So, to get one of the big questions out of the way--has No Reason happened yet in this story? Is it even a part of this universe? That's completely up to you—I'm not mentioning it either way. Because, wow, I definitely need to watch that episode again and maybe, like, take notes before I could ever write a story that includes it. I did, however, think this up quite soon after the finale aired, so I guess it deserves props for inspiration.

This story is a work in progress—there should be one more big chapter. I usually don't like to post things until they're complete, but this seemed like a pretty good stopping point, and I'm hoping that knowing I have people waiting for me to finish will help keep the muse from running away. They're flighty little things, aren't they?

This is also the first time I've written any part of a story in the present tense, but it just seemed to fit. Hope everyone else agrees.

And finally, big thanks to CarefullyAskingGrace over at YTDaW and vartanluvva for looking over what I'd written so far and decreeing it to be quite all right.

Feedback: Gets read over and over and over….you get the drift. Please review!

House sat in his chair, tossing his red ball in the air as he slowly swayed from side to side. Their latest patient was doing decently—meaning, by diagnostics department standards, that they hadn't had to shock her back to life yet. They had plenty of time for the puzzle pieces to fall into place, no matter what Cameron thought.

There was a noise at his office door, and House looked up to see the object of his musings come striding toward him. "No."

Cameron stopped short, heaving an exasperated sigh before plowing forward. "She had another seizure."

"Oh, well, of course, then!" House exclaimed, his face briefly contorting into a maniacal expression of glee before dropping again. "No."

His fellow could only glare at him. "Come on, House! She fits all the requirements—the seizures are increasing in frequency, just like they should if it's—"

"Except for those pesky symptoms she presented with," he interrupted, "completely blowing your theory out of the water."

"Not always," Cameron countered. "Not if—"

"Highly unlikely," House interrupted again.

Cameron's eyes widened as she tried to contain her frustration. "Let. Me. Finish! And since when are our cases likely?"

He deftly avoided the second part of her outburst. "Why let you finish when you're going in the completely wrong direction? I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of everyone."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, of course."

House opened his mouth to snark back, but his remarks died on his lips as Chase rushed into the room, a folder that could only be test results clutched in his hand. Both doctors turned toward him expectantly. Chase opened his mouth—

—and the buzzing of an alarm clock filled the room.

House jerks and throws his arm off the bed, managing to turn off the alarm clock without knocking it to the floor. He lays there, silent for a moment, the pain in his leg for once at the back of his active mind as he ponders the curious images just now starting to fade from the inside of his eyelids. A dream? About Cameron? He rarely dreams, and when he does it usually involves his patient of the moment and nothing more, his resting mind still puzzling over the latest riddle. Well, he smiles, there had been that one, with Cuddy, Cameron, and some naughty nurse outfits, but he'd been daydreaming in his office, so it probably doesn't count.

He dismisses the dream as he slowly inches his way into a semi-upright position, ever mindful of his leg. It is a byproduct of last night's really leftover Chinese and an extra helping of Vicodin, nothing more. Successfully convinced, he goes about his day, positive the dream is an anomaly even as his head hits the pillow again that night.

House again sat behind his desk, but this time he was brooding. Chase's test results had, against all odds, confirmed Cameron's diagnosis. And while the immunologist was too nice to gloat, he had felt her proud expression all day, burning into his back like a cattle brand. Dammit. Dammit all to hell.

The doctor in question was in the conference room, shutting down her laptop and getting ready to leave for the day. House watched as she hesitated outside his office door for a moment before walking in. "The patient's stable," she told him, "and her seizures have stopped."

House pushed his chair away from the desk. "Yippee."

Cameron frowned at him. "But she's getting better. Why are you—" She stopped as the realization hit her, then started grinning slyly. "You're just mad that I figured it out before you."

House just grumbled, and her smile grew wider. "You are! You're upset because one of us finally got the diagnosis right." Cameron laughed as she leaned back against the door. "Well, it was bound to happen sometime—we are supposed to be learning from you. Besides, I wouldn't count on it happening often—we'll never be as good as you."

His stomach twisted at her words. She was always doing this, looking at him in awe, speaking of him as if he were perfect, god-like, instead of the angry addict that he was. "Don't."

Cameron stood up straighter, confused. "Don't what?"

House's voice was low, sorrowful. "Don't put me on a pedestal. I don't deserve it."

The teasing mood quickly drained out of the room, and Cameron's expression fell as his words sunk in. "House," she said softly, making her way over to his desk. "I stopped doing that a long time ago. I'm just stating the facts. You'll always be better at diagnostics than me. And it doesn't bother me. I'm great at what we do, but you're a genius at it. It gives me something to aspire to." She was beside him now, right hip leaning against the edge of his desk. "You think you're damaged. I think you're intriguing. Why does it get you so upset that I think of you as an intelligent, interesting, witty, sarcastic man? That I care about you?"

Her proximity was making his blood roar in his ears, the impossible so close he could almost touch it. He refused to let himself. "I don't deserve to have someone care about me."

Cameron shook her head sadly. "Oh, House," she whispered. "Everyone does." And then her lips were on his.

He tried to pull away, but she trailed her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, holding him in place, and ran her tongue gently over the seam of his lips, and then he was opening his mouth to her and was lost. At some point in the past he had sarcastically decided that someone as sweet as Allison Cameron would taste like sickly sweet cotton candy and rainbows and sunshine, but it was nothing like that. She tasted of the rich coffee she'd drunk that morning, laced with peppermint from the red and white candy she'd eaten that afternoon. She smelled of vanilla, flowers, and spice, be it from perfume or shampoo, and that womanly musk that was undeniably Cameron and oh God he was falling, giving in, pulling her closer, and she felt like benediction and absolution and salvation all at once.

At some point—he couldn't tell how long it had been—she slowly pulled away, and he gazed unbelievingly at her slightly swollen lips before looking up into her eyes, which were shining with an emotion that, if he remembered correctly, looked a little like love.

When she spoke, staring straight at him, her voice was husky. "A mere mortal…just like I always suspected."

House doesn't need the alarm clock this time as he wakes up in the early morning hours, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his face, almost able to feel the phantom touch of Cameron's lips on his. What the hell is going on? He's never had dreams like this before, and he hates it. For someone who thrives on being able to control his life and surroundings, these dreams are a complete relinquishment of that power. He lies back down. Sleep is impossible, but he welcomes that—he is scared of what he would see if he closes his eyes.

He is still obsessing over the dreams as he gets to work—on time for once in his life—and that and the lack of sleep must be getting to him, as Chase is first to comment on Cameron's do-me heels—higher, pointier, strappier than usual. As the blush rises on her cheeks, he takes the opportunity to look over her outfit—at the shorter than normal skirt, the filmy top, and the blazer topping it off that's making a work appropriate outfit out of something that's not, easily shrugged off at the end of the day. He knows even before she speaks—"Drinks with Brian from radiology after work. I don't have to check in with you guys, do I?" she teases her colleagues—and he feels a familiar twisting in his stomach. He's never going to be stupid enough (more like brave enough, his brain taunts him, but he quickly pushes the thought aside) to ask her out on another date, but he's been enjoying the status quo. And now she's gone and ruined it, and he can't help but feel an ache for what he can never have. Maybe the dreams aren't as bad as he thought.

Everyone files out of the conference room to perform their various tests. Cameron is last, and House calls out to her as she reaches the door, because he has to make sure the hole he's dug for himself is as deep as possible. "He's going to have a lot to live up to."

Cameron looks back, confused, and the hateful words are out of his mouth before he even thinks about it. "I mean, compared to our dates. You do compare all the men in your life to me, don't you?"

There is both sadness and resignation in her eyes as she shakes her head, and as she pulls the door open she whispers, so softly he almost misses it—"I stopped putting you on a pedestal a long time ago."

If she notices the way his step falters, she doesn't mention it.

TBC