Allison stood in front of her closet, one hip popped to the side and a thoughtful expression on her face. Having just gotten out of the shower, her hair hung like wet black ribbons down her back but she was warm despite the heat being out in the old building. One of the few indulgences she allowed herself was this amazing Turkish cotton bathrobe she'd bought for herself from the Four Seasons in NYC. She wears it after every shower, but it's still pristine white even after three years.

New York. That trip seemed like a lifetime ago. Her honeymoon. Brian had insisted on at least a couple of nights away, even though she was scheduled to report at Mayo for her Immunology residency the following week. At the time she thought it was frivolous, a waste of time. Now she's glad to have had the time she had, and would sell her soul for more.

As her eyes rove over her wardrobe, taking in her various suits and other professional pieces her eyes settle over the furthest recessed corner of her closet. A garment bag hangs there, one that hasn't been opened for a long time. She avoids it mostly; even though she's moved it a couple of times in the last three years she forces herself not to think about it. She doesn't really have any reason to inventory her closet like this because she's in scrubs day in and day out at Mayo. But Allison has always been that girl that lays out her clothes the night before, especially for important events like this interview tomorrow. She shuffles forward a couple of steps, leaving the warm glow of her bedroom into the dark of her walk in closet to finger the zipper on his garment bag, hesitating a few seconds. She knows she shouldn't do this to herself; it'll wreck the rest of the night and put her on her knees. But she opens it anyway, with one long pull. His suit from the wedding. Amazingly, she can still smell him, even after all these years. He washes over like a wave, gentle and lapping, whispering to her and reminding her of their life. His death.

She was right – she shouldn't have opened that bag. She spends the rest of the night in the closet lost in her head, in her memories and doesn't wake until 2 in the morning.

The next morning she pulls out her old standby black suit, the one from her med school graduation ceremony. What it lacks in current fashion it makes up for in fit: skims in all the right places and hugs in others. Her mother had bought it for her. She always relies on her mother for these kinds of things; Allison really has no head for fashion and doesn't take that much of an interest. She debates whether to put her hair up or not but decides against it – she still has a bit of a headache from crying all last night, and feels it still in the morning like a hangover. Make up is never a part of the routine, other than a bit of lip gloss. Again, not really that interested.

She moves around her apartment, sipping her last cup of coffee while re-checking her mapquest directions and all the other details. She called PPTH yesterday to confirm her interview, and was shocked when James Wilson called her back. He was an oncologist, what was he doing calendaring for Diagnostic fellowships? When she brought up their previous acquaintance, she was not shocked that he remembered her and Brian. He was that kind of guy, and had called personally after Brian to offer condolences. She remembers him fondly, and gives a passing thought wondering if she'd work that much with him. She hopes that his call back indicates he'll sit in on her interview for the fellowship. She remembers Greg House all too well. Not that they shared that much time together; he just happened to pull attending rotation through Hospice ICU the night Brian died. But Allison remembers the conversation like yesterday, and his eyes that saw straight through her. She felt transparent under his gaze, and oddly comforted. She's spent her whole life being told she's pretty, beautiful even – hence no make up to draw any more attention to herself – but she remembers the way he looked at her, like he saw all of her, inside and out. Later she chalked it up to tiredness, spending so much time in the ICU that she had such a jolting reaction to meeting him. But I'll see soon enough, she thinks as she locks the door behind her.

Allison walks through the glass door denoting Department of Diagnostics quietly, only to see an empty conference room. As she takes a couple of tentative steps inside, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye – the office, where two men are seated – one behind a desk with his sneaker-clad feet propped on the credenza, and the other is obviously Wilson on the opposite side. They are clearly caught up in some kind of heated discussion, and she hesitates before knocking on the adjoining door. Besides, it gives her a few seconds to observe them unnoticed. She's always been a bit of a snoop. Wilson says something accompanied by a flamboyant hand gesture, and House tips his head back and laughs. Honest, open chested belly laughs. It is the kind of laughter that is infectious, just being within earshot. Allison wonders for a minute if this could be a portent to the type of working environment she'd have under House. She feels a small smile tickle the corners of her mouth, and she raises her hand to knock on the door when House sees her and whips on his mask, his eyes razing her. Wilson turns around questioningly, and when he sees her he jumps up to open the door for her. House's eyes never move from her, taking in her clothes, her hair, her stride – all in one look. Allison hears Wilson make a small noise of greeting, and turns to introduce House.

"I remember you". House states bluntly.

"Likewise." Allison hasn't dropped her eyes yet; for some odd reason this feels like a 4th grade staring contest.

Wilson looks at House, surprised. Before he can open his mouth to voice the question, House speaks first.

"I was Florence Nightingale's husband's attending in the Hospice a few years back."

Wilson flinches at his friend's complete lack of tack, and looks over at Allison with a look of apology. It is one he has perfected.

Allison's eyes widen for a nanosecond – something not lost on House – and composes her expression like she would playing poker, which is what this feels like. Can't give anything away.

"So much for sacred ground. I take it nothing is verboten?"

House tilts his chin down a hair, looking at her from under his eyebrows. "That is correct. My rules."

Wilson jumps in, trying to diffuse the heat in the room by asking her how she's been, what was Mayo like . Allison listens intently, but is constantly aware of House's eyes on her, calculating her every word, gesture, expression. It's an odd mix of clinical and something else…she can't quite put her finger on. Wilson starts talking, the standard canned descriptions of the fellowship and her role, boilerplate interview questions, blah blah. As she responds to each in kind, she's constantly aware of his eyes on her, gauging her reactions even though she's not facing him.

As the interview wraps up and Allison is gathering her bag and standing, she's a bit taken aback but not at all surprised when Wilson leans in for a one-armed hug. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembering his smell and finding it comforting. She opens her eyes before Wilson releases her to look over at House, and sees his stare has turned into something akin to a death ray. She takes a half step back, a bit embarrassed. A strained few seconds pass silently under his look before she takes a step forward and offers her hand over the desk. His gaze never breaks with hers as he drops his feet for the first time and stands up, forcing her to look up at him. Because even a couple of feet away, he towers above her.

"Thank you for your time." Allison says under her breath.

When House takes her small hand in his much larger one, still scrutinizing her, it hits her what his look is. Heat. Shot through with it.

She feels a little dizzy, but it passes and she pulls her hand away. It's not anything she's felt since Brian died, and the jolt she feels in her chest makes it way down through her abdomen, all the way to pool at the bottom of her pelvis. And then tightens. Embarrassed by the blush rising up from her collar into her cheeks, she turns to leave before he notices. She's not quite through the glass partition when his low voice rumbles from behind her.

"I expect a full pot of coffee by the time I get in tomorrow morning. Don't be late."

She stops mid-stride and stiffens. As she turns, initially planning to respond to his arrogance that he would expect her, a Mayo resident to serve coffee like a waitress, when his eyes catch hers again and his full meaning settles around her. She can see a smirk starting around the corners of his mouth.

"Lucky for you I make great coffee. See you in the morning."

Before she makes it through the door, she hears him through his smirk – "Can't wait to see what else you're great at."