The excruciating headache she wakes up with is her body's way of telling her she drank far too much the night before. The beeps of her alarm clock feel like deafening blasts to her sensitive ears and she blindly reaches over to her bedside table to turn it off. It ends up getting knocked to the floor but the dreadful blare stops nonetheless. Sleep still clings to her as she forces herself out of bed, barely able to keep her eyes open. The cold bites at her bare skin when the sheets slip away and she shivers, wrapping her arms around her middle. She risks a brief glance over her shoulder to see that the other side of the bed is empty, except the pillow is dented as though someone was lying there at some point during the night. She doesn't remember anything after the first couple of martinis at the bar, let alone whether or not she brought someone home with her. She pauses, listening for the presence of somebody else in her apartment but she's greeted only with silence. The various items of clothing scattered across her bedroom floor are all her own. She grabs the long, cosy grey sweatshirt from over the back of the padded chair in the corner and pulls it over her head. The chill still nibbles from her mid-thigh down and she seriously considers cranking the thermostat up to full even though she's trying to avoid paying a huge heating bill. A hot shower would warm her up but the water won't be ready for another ten minutes, and she usually takes this time to make and eat breakfast or get rid of whoever she's had stay the night. The latter has already been taken care of, it would seem, so she makes herself an impossibly strong cup of coffee and a slice of honey-smothered toast with a side of aspirin.

Half an hour later she's showered, dressed and ready to brave another day at the hospital – and House's mockery. There's a note on the small table by the door when she goes to grab her keys. In wonderfully neat, flowing handwriting, it reads:

Last night was fun. We should do it again sometime.

Simone

There's a phone number written underneath. She stares at the piece of paper for a few moments and then makes a decision, scrunching it up in her hand and aiming for the wastepaper basket next to the arm of the sofa. She misses only by a few millimetres and it bounces off the rim and onto the floor. Too lazy to go and pick it up, she takes her keys and leaves the apartment, locking the door behind her.

When she walks into diagnostics, Foreman is lying back in his chair with his eyes closed, Taub is busy working on a Sudoku puzzle, Kutner is engrossed in whatever game he's playing on his Gameboy and House is standing by the whiteboard twirling and swinging his cane around as if he's from some sort of martial arts film. He spins around when he hears the door open and points the rubber end of the walking stick in her direction, narrowing his eyes, "You're late."

She pulls back her sleeve and looks at her watch. "By thirty seconds."

"Thirty seconds too many!" he says loudly in a teasing, over-dramatic tone. Typical House, she thinks. "I hereby sentence thee to…" He pauses, quirking his eyebrows in thought, "three hours' clinic duty!"

"Don't we have a case?" she asks.

"A mental case, yeah," she hears Kutner say under his breath. House doesn't seem to notice and she suppresses a grin.

"What does this… immaculate, blank whiteboard tell you?" he questions, gesturing to it with his cane.

"We don't have a case…?"

"See you guys?" House turns to the three male fellows sitting around the glass table with a sarcastic smile on his face. "I told you partying all night doesn't make you stupid."

She ignores his comment. "Page me if you need me for anything," she says, backtracking and pulling the heavy glass door open.

"Does that include sexual favours?"

"No."

"What about a foot massage?"

"I'm leaving now," she replies, unable to conceal her smile as she walks out into the corridor. Even with his often cruel and twisted sense of humour, he never fails to make her smile at least once a day. There isn't a lot in her life left to smile about, so for that, she's thankful.

"Clinic duty for Dr. House?" she inquires at the front desk, glancing to the side where the waiting room is packed full of people. She wonders how many of them are going to waste her time with straightforward coughs and colds that can easily be taken care of at home.

The nurse, balancing a telephone receiver between her shoulder and her ear, hands Thirteen a chart. "Exam room two."

Two hours in and she's diagnosed three colds, two ear infections, one case of impetigo and four STD's. There's a knock on the door just as she's checking a little girl's tonsils, and Taub pokes his head into the room.

"Do we have a case now? Why didn't you page me?" she asks him, and then to the patient as she pushes down on her tongue with a wooden splint, "can you open your mouth a little wider for me, Emily? That's it, now say 'ah' for me."

"We still don't have a case. I'm here to relieve you," he explains. "I wouldn't go and buy him a bagel so he's punished me, too."

Thirteen smirks and turns to him as she takes the splint away. "I'll be out in a minute." When the door's closed again she turns to the mother, "it looks like she's got bacterial tonsillitis."

"Oh sweetie," the woman places a kiss on top of her daughter's curly blonde hair. "She won't have to have them taken out will she?"

The brunette shakes her head and takes out her prescription pad and the pen she 'borrowed' from Foreman a few days ago. "A tonsillectomy is usually a last resort. Since it's the first time she's had tonsillitis I don't think there's any need to worry; the antibiotics should clear it up just fine. Make sure she eats and gets plenty of fluids. She can have Ibuprofen for the mild fever and lozenges for the sore throat." She writes down a course of Trimox, a liquid form of amoxicillin, and hands it to the girl's mother. "Take this to the pharmacy."

Taub is waiting for her by the front desk. She hands him the chart and grimaces, pinching the bridge of her nose as she feels her hangover headache slowly returning.

"Are you okay?" he asks, studying her curiously.

"Fine. Just a headache. Have fun."

"I'm sure I will," he drawls.

House is absent when she arrives back at the diagnostic department. Foreman is flicking through Taub's abandoned newspaper and Kutner is still glued to the screen of the portable console he's playing. "Where'd House go?" she asks, fetching a mug out of one of the wall cupboards and pouring herself some lukewarm coffee from the pot. She takes a slip of blister pack from her lab coat pocket and pops out two little spherical white pills into her palm.

"He didn't say," Kutner tells her. "He's probably gone to prank Cuddy. Or Wilson. Maybe both."

"My money's on Cuddy," says Foreman.

The cafeteria is teeming with people when they break for lunch, minus House, who never returned after his disappearance act, and Taub, who is still finishing off his stint in the clinic. Thirteen's stomach churns when she sees Cameron sitting opposite Chase in one of the booths over the other side of the room. She's smiling, and giggles when Chase says something funny, so obviously their little spat yesterday afternoon has had little, if any, effect on her. She feels less guilty for her unpleasant attitude during their conversation now, but again she finds herself angry because Cameron's blitheness reaffirms the fact that she doesn't really care. Nobody cares. Not really, anyway. And why should they? She hasn't given anyone reason to care about her.

She pays for her ham and salad sandwich and an orange juice and follows Kutner and Foreman to the only table that's free. She frowns and quietly growls in frustration; just her luck that the only place to sit is a booth right next to Cameron and Chase. She keeps her head down as Foreman greets them, not even giving either of them an acknowledging glance. She can feel Cameron's eyes burning holes in the side of her face and she resists the urge to look up at her. What makes it worse is Foreman and Kutner occupy the seats back-to-back with Chase so Thirteen has to sit where she has a clear view of the blonde ER head.

She doesn't join in the conversation her colleagues are having, and concerns herself with reading the nutritional information on the sandwich packet. They aren't talking about anything she'd be interested in anyway. Football, she concludes, from the snippets she does catch every now and again.

"Thirteen?"

She looks up at Kutner. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"Chase has just invited us for drinks tonight. Are you coming?"

If she's invited then it's not a 'boys only' thing. And that also means Cameron will be there, too. "I've already made plans for tonight, sorry." He pouts – weirdly, yet rather adorably - and it makes her feel bad for lying about being busy. "But if I can, I'll get there later," she adds to make him feel better. She's already decided she isn't going to go.

She's grateful when Kutner finally finishes eating the mammoth pizza slice he's been neglecting in favour of sporty chitchat. She's read her packaging so many times that she can recite what it says word for word, and has now moved onto Foreman's packet of potato chips. Chase stands behind them, soon followed by Cameron, and as they're about to pass by their table she turns away slightly so it doesn't look glaringly obvious she's doing it on purpose.

"I'll catch you up," she hears Cameron say to whom she assumes is Chase.

"All right?" Chase's tone is curious, but he leaves without asking any questions.

"Dr. Hadley." It's Cameron. Of course it's Cameron. "Can we talk?"

"I don't think there is anything to talk about." She keeps her voice low so that their spectators don't overhear. She knows Kutner will be edging closer in his seat to eavesdrop on them. "I have nothing more to say to you, Dr. Cameron."

The blonde touches her arm softly and she jerks her arm away as if she's just been burnt. Cameron tilts her head to one side sadly. "Please, just hear me out."

Her beseeching blue eyes make it impossible for Thirteen to say no, in spite of how much she wants to. She holds back an irritated sigh and nods curtly. She turns to Foreman and Kutner, who both try to appear uninterested by what's going on, and says, "I'll meet you back in diagnostics."

She follows Cameron out of the cafeteria, passing Taub on the way. He waves to her but stops as soon as he sees the scowl on her face and hurries by as though she might suddenly shoot lasers from her eyes.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Cameron says, sitting down on a bench a short way up the corridor. She pats the space beside her and Thirteen perches on the edge, not planning on staying there for very long. "I shouldn't have pressed you."

The brunette feels like she's the one who's supposed to be apologising, but she can't bring herself to say the words. Cameron was in the wrong, pretending like she gave a crap. She doesn't trust herself to say anything in response, so she merely shrugs her shoulders, dropping her gaze to her lap.

"I thought I was dying once." Thirteen looks up at her with knitted eyebrows. "One of our patients was AIDs positive, and I thought he'd given it to me. I was terrified, numb and angry all at the same time. I felt powerless. I wanted to regain control over my life because I felt as though it had been stolen from me." She pauses, her hand twitching in her lap as if she wants to reach over and take the younger woman's hand. "I was reckless… unstable. I'm not proud of what I did. I needed somebody, and you need somebody, too." She looks searchingly into Thirteen's eyes to try and gauge her reaction, for her face gives nothing away. She swears they're glistening.

The brunette rises from the bench, swallowing hard. "Don't tell me what I need," she mutters. "The difference between us is I'm dying, you're not. Don't patronise me by feigning concern."

"But I thought I was-"

"Yes, you thought you were dying. I am dying. Even if you'd come up HIV positive, you'd live for far longer than I'm going to. I'll lose control of both my mind and my body. I won't be me anymore. But you… you'd still be you. And I don't get a second chance." Her voice cracks as she speaks and it takes everything she has not to start crying. She blinks away the tears she refuses to let fall and starts to walk away. She's done talking.

Cameron catches her wrist in a surprisingly firm grip. "Please, let me help you."

"You just don't get it, do you?" Thirteen snaps, spinning round and glaring at her furiously. "I don't want your help! I don't need your help. I don't think I can make that any clearer! You're wasting your breath, Cameron. We're colleagues. We're not friends and we never will be. And if I needed to talk to someone, you're the last person I'd go to." She feels her resolve begin to crumble when she sees the blonde's face fall. Her hand has slipped from around her wrist and hangs limply by her side. She opens her mouth to say something, but Thirteen stops her. "No. Leave it alone. Leave me alone."

She doesn't look back when she turns and leaves. She can't. It's too painful, and she doesn't know why.


A/N: Okay, they aren't just going to argue for the entire fic. Just to let ya'll know, haha.