Disclaimer: DOH

We are Death. We are one. We are a collection of consciousness, therefore many disguised.

"You feeling alright?"

Pulling back from the window, Gregory House slightly turns to the woman wearing his forgotten t-shirt from last night. With the sun just beginning to rise up into the still dark sky sprinkled with sickening stars, her appearance is a mottled shade of gray and a splotch of orange on her thigh. She takes a small step forward, her bare feet making the softest of sounds against the wood floor before she halts with her arms folded across her chest.

"Go back to sleep."

Tilting her head slightly, Allison Cameron watches the lone figure in nothing but his pajama pants as the bare and almost non-existent light bathes him with something close to a halo around his battered body. The low utterance from his tired mouth would be termed gruff by anyone else, but she is not just anyone else. And she's fought hard and long enough to earn that place.

"I'm not the one who's been getting four hours of sleep at best every night."

"You're the one wanting to test my old bones with your naughty Kama Sutra positions."

There's not even a smile that falls onto Cameron's lips because in spite of his sharp, or at this time of night, dull, sarcasm, she's worried about him. She almost always is when these moments of nothing make it seem as if they're alone in the world and for once he doesn't seem so shielded. Even she's not ready for that.

"I don't think your 'old' bones are as old as you think they are. What are you thinking about?"

"My bones are older when they're around you. I'm not thinking about anything."

"That's just your favorite excuse about why we shouldn't be together. Why won't you tell me?"

"It's not my only excuse. There's nothing to tell."

"It's one of many excuses. Are you sure?"

"No."

His gaze bores into her and Cameron feels as if he's searching her soul for any hint as to why she cares, which still makes her want to slap him to this day. It never makes any difference. Not the words, not the actions, not the details, but here she is, still trying for something, telling herself it's worth it. She wonders momentarily if he does the same.

"Come on, House."

Closing the sparse distance between them, a few breaths of silence and a meter of actual substance, she fits one arm under his to guide him away from the window.

House doesn't fight it. In fact, as he inhales the scent of her fruity scented conditioner in her tousled blonde hair, he wonders how he can keep her here forever. She fits so nicely into him, the not quite perfect-ness accentuating the irregularities and pronouncing just how painfully real she is to him.

Even as he lies down, Cameron's body conforms to his, molding herself as if trying to erase the barrier of distrust between them, attempting to take something crucial for his survival from him. He doesn't mind tonight as her warmth seeps into his skin sleepily and her ankle crosses his calf before she's motionless in quick slumber.

He watches her for just a couple of counted breaths, still not used to having her need him like this, like they're spending the rest of their lives together in this splendid world of black and white with dotted grays. She shouldn't, and he's told her that more than once, but she doesn't listen to him. He's rubbed off on her more than he cares to admit.

It flashes across his mind as a jolt of red and white an instant before he's asleep himself. All this time he's thought she's trying to take some of him for herself, perhaps she's just trying to make sure she's giving herself as much as possible to him. Figures.

We watch without feeling – the couple wrestling each other in a battle of emotions and power plays that will ultimately mean nothing. I, the Fourth stream of consciousness, make note of the figure sleeping silently in grace. We all agree. This is who we've come to collect. Not yet, however, and so we fade away since we do have more pressing matters elsewhere, but a few of us stay, still attached since it hasn't been long, or so we think, since we said our own farewells to the human world we are glancing upon now.

The man mutters something in his sleep as he turns his head away from her before his body follows suit. It's not uncommon. Most of us have been here for longer than our human counterparts can fathom and we've seen many pairs toss in their sleep with their backs to each other.

The horn blares in the distance and we all turn. No lingering now since we're needed. But I, the Seventh stream, look back for a moment because I too lost someone when I was so close to happiness, though the recollection of the feeling has faded since I no longer feel as a human does. One of the pleasures and consequences of living here at the line. And when I say line, I mean here. At this bottom, or maybe even middle, ground where we guide souls onto a train that goes somewhere beyond us.

A/N: So, I have a question for any readers here. Would you like more, or what? I ask because I *personally* have come to hate ff,net. After INS, I don't quite like the environment. But for all HouseCam readers, I'm sure you could use an extra "shippy" story, right? So....