A/N: It's been a while since I've written any House fics, so if the characterization seems off, please let me know. Thanks for reading!
Three Left Feet
Sunday, 10:45 p.m.
Allison Cameron was one of the worst dancers to ever grace a dance floor. She had taken ballet when she was six, and she had shown some promise. As she got taller and her feet got bigger, whatever promise she had shown was irrevocably broken. By simply observing her light and nimble step, one would think she could be a good dancer, with some direction and enthusiasm, but her feet had a mind of their own–and really, she just couldn't be bothered to care about dancing; not when there were people out in the world dying.
Dr. Cameron suffered from the embarrassing (but common) physical condition known as Two Left Feet.
Gregory House, as unbelievable as it might seem, had once been a very good dancer--he had even enjoyed it a little bit--and had he the use of his right leg, he would still be a good dancer. As it were, he only had one left foot and an unusable right foot.
Standing next to each other, they made three left feet . . . .
She smiled at him, as he motioned towards the bartender. They were at a New Year's Eve party, at the hospital. It was a charity event, and an auction was going to held later that evening. Cameron had taken a break from socializing with the other doctors and found herself drawn to the relaxed figure of House. He was slumped in a bar stool, his suit jacket slung over the back of the chair next to him. His tie was untied and his sleeves were unbuttoned.
House had only really come because he was promised free alcohol and he was making good on that promise.
Cameron ordered a drink and sat down next to him.
His blurry drunk eyes shifted towards her and landed on her dress. "I'd ask you to dance," he said, his eyes still roaming over the black satin. They finally made their way to her face–to her perfectly glossed lips, and then to her large smokey eyes. "But I've got a bum leg." He patted his thigh and took another swig of his drink.
"Besides," he continued, "you were dancing with Chase earlier and judging by the fact that he practically ran into the arms of that blonde nurse over there, you're not that good."
She opened her mouth to protest (although he was speaking the truth), but he interrupted her.
"No one else has asked you, which means that Chase warned everyone . . . ."
"So I'm a bad dancer," she said with a shrug. "There's nothing wrong with that."
"But you're perfect Allison Cameron," said House sarcastically. "Nothing can be wrong with you."
"Just because I don't think that everyone is an asshole, doesn't mean I think I'm perfect."
He looked at her, noting a slightly offended tone in her voice, and he almost raised his glass in a silent "touche." Instead, he drowned what was left and asked the bartender for another one.
"You've been drinking all night."
"Out of Vicodin," he said flippantly.
She scowled.
He ignored her scowl.
She walked away.
He continued to drink.
Sunday, 11:33 p.m.
Wilson was talking House, but House wasn't really listening anymore. He was watching Cameron, who over in the corner and laughing lightly at something Foreman had just said. Chase looked unamused by Foreman's joke, which meant that the joke was aimed towards him. But then Foreman turned to Cameron and said something that caused her scowl.
If she kept scowling, she was going to end up with premature wrinkles around her mouth.
She was getting older, not only in age but in mind and principle as well. He thought back briefly to the small moments in the passed year or so that had given him a small jolt of shock: little sarcastic remarks from her, a rule broken here, a rule broken there . . . .
She was walking towards him now, and when she got closer, Wilson smiled and greeted her.
"Hello, Allison," he said happily. "You look like you've had fun tonight."
"Yeah, if only Foreman would stop pretending to be a comedian . . ." She laughed lightly. "I came over here to get a drink."
"You've been drinking all night," said House.
"Out of narcotics," she said. "Gotta get my kicks from something."
Wilson felt that he might have missed some conversation earlier. Nevertheless, he didn't miss the sudden increase of tension between them; he noticed Cameron's smug smile and he saw House's eyes narrow.
And then House suddenly smirked and ordered another drink.
Cameron ordered her own drink and walked away.
Wilson took a deep breath and shook his head. "So that's why you're still here."
House didn't seem interested in hearing Wilson's revelation, but he continued anyway.
"You could drink in the comfort of your own home–you don't need a bar at a hospital charity event–but Cameron wouldn't be there, in her little black dress," said Wilson, raising his glass to his mouth and smugly taking a sip.
"You've been eyeing that little black dress . . . ."
There was a silent "too" that hung in the air between them.
House had been eyeing that little black dress. Quite frequently.
"Yeah," said Wilson, standing up, "but I'm not the one she wore it for."
Sunday, 11:51 p.m.
Cameron was searching for a chair. She had been standing for some time now and her shoes, if entered into a contest, would have won First Place for Most Uncomfortable Shoes. She sat down at an empty table and surreptitiously rubbed her heels.
She sighed sitting up straight and decided to leave early, to beat the traffic.
Over on the other side of room, Dr. House was leaving through the big double doors, a slight sway in his limping gait.
Sunday, 11:59 p.m.
Finding her keys, she slipped them out of her black purse and opened her door, checking her watch as she did so. Hearing a shuffle of movement to her left, she looked up and saw House making his way towards his bike.
"House!" she called, and he stopped to look at her. "Happy New Year's."
He nodded, his eyes shifting, as if searching for the right words. "Happy New Year's."
He mounted his bike, revved the engine a few times and then shot off.
Cameron watched him disappear. Then she smiled, climbed into her car, and began to back out of the parking space.
The end.