Well, this was a relatively long one. I'm trying not to rush the story, and I put a fair bit of effort into trying to capture House's character; let me know how I'm doing. And please keep those reviews coming if you enjoy what you've read - fingers crossed!

Cheers,
-RGB


House was dragged unwillingly from his dream (where he was conducting a differential diagnosis with a squabbling Jimmy Page and Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin, while Wilson looked on) by the sound of knocking at his front door. He groaned, frowning as he swung his feet out of bed and reached for his cane.

He had made it out of his bedroom and halfway down the corridor towards the living room when the knock came again, louder this time.

"There are no Jews here," he called, increasing his pace as much as his leg would permit.

"Unless Wilson already snuck in," he snidely added as an afterthought just as he reached the door. His voice sounded even worse than last night, and had lost most of its normal volume.

He opened the door and was surprised to see Cameron standing there, smiling cautiously and holding a small brown paper bag.

"Hi," she said brightly, her smile widening slightly. She saw that he was wearing one of his nondescript black rock t-shirts and a pair of pajama trousers, and he was barefoot. He was also frowning.

"Oh. Did I... wake you?" she asked apologetically, her smile being replaced with a pained expression. She had just assumed he would be up by now; it was almost 11 am.

"Yes," he rasped, and then coughed, massaging his throat with his fingertips.

"Sorry," she said, then held up the paper bag. "I brought you some hot lemon, though."

House sighed, inwardly grinning slightly despite his annoyance and discomfort. This was just such a Cameron thing to do. After a moment, he shrugged and took a step back to allow her to come in, closing the door behind her.

"Kitchen's that way," he croaked, pointing with his cane. She looked momentarily surprised, and then nodded.

Of course he wants me to make it for him, she thought with a small smile. Just like his coffee at work.

She moved to walk through to the kitchen, but felt his cane tap her on the arm, and she glanced back.

"Make coffee too," he said with great difficulty, and she grinned widely at him.

He was caught off-guard and found himself beginning to grin in return before he forcibly straightened his face and simply raised an eyebrow instead. Cameron shook her head, still grinning, and went through to the kitchen.

House remained standing in the middle of the living room for a moment until he heard her filling the kettle, then he set off down the corridor to the bedroom. For reasons which were unclear to him, he wanted to change.


Cameron had peeked her head out of the kitchen whilst the coffee was brewing to see what House was up to, but the living room was empty. She then heard the sound of a shower being switched on from somewhere towards the rear of the apartment, and she withdrew into the kitchen once again, blushing slightly.

She had been having breakfast that morning when she had hit upon the idea of taking him something to ease his laryngitis. It was exactly what a concerned colleague would do, especially one who would suffer the consequences of his mood when Monday arrived. She had refused to even consider the possibility that her visit would be for anything but altruistic reasons, and had quickly finished her breakfast before she could change her mind.

The shower had gone off a few minutes ago, and she heard a door open, followed by the unmistakable step-thump of House making his way down the corridor. She poured two cups of coffee, smiling again at the fact that he'd bought the same brand she brewed every morning at the hospital, and then poured hot water into a third mug which contained the powdered lemon drink.

House appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing jeans and a red t-shirt, and inhaled the coffee aroma appreciatively.

"This first," Cameron said, handing him the mug of hot lemon, and she smiled as he wrinkled his nose at the bitterly artificial smell of it. He accepted it nevertheless, and went through to the living room, Cameron following close behind with the two mugs of coffee.

He nodded towards the couch - Have a seat - and was about to join her when he saw the light on his answering machine flashing.

Cameron watched as he limped over to the machine and pressed a button, and they both heard a crisp beep followed by Wilson's voice.

"Aren't you awake yet? It's ten o'clock on a Saturday morning." A pause, then a sigh. "I guess not. Well, I hope you enjoyed the concert last night. Sorry again that I couldn't make it. There's a hockey game on later if you're interested; I could come over. Let me know." A click, and then a brief dial-tone before the machine had automatically hung up.

House sighed, then pressed the delete button on the machine and shuffled back over to the couch, sitting down heavily.

"Does he always complain if you sleep in?" Cameron asked, smirking, and House snorted a laugh and then immediately grimaced in pain, again rubbing his throat with his fingers.

"Always," he said, and his voice was barely louder than a whisper. He seemed about to say something else, but he swallowed and she could see that it produced sufficient pain to make any further speaking inadvisable.

"It's ok," she said, waving a hand. "Drink up. It'll help."

He regarded the mug of bright yellow liquid with distaste, but took a large swig before setting it back down on the coffee table. Suddenly, he turned to her and made a gesture in the air; the universal sign for "Give me something to write with".

She frowned for a moment before remembering she had a pen in her purse, and quickly found it and handed it to him.

From the mess of magazines, newspapers and assorted other items on the coffee table, House retrieved a legal pad, holding it up triumphantly as he glanced at her. She smiled and nodded, and he moved his two mugs to the side and set the pad on the coffee table in front of him.

He wrote for a moment, then slid the pad so it was halfway between them, and Cameron leaned forward to read the message.

"Had no idea you did House calls," it said, and she grinned at the pun.

"I knew you wouldn't have anything for a sore throat," she shrugged. "And the less grouchy you are, the easier it is at work."

He narrowed his eyebrows but she could see a glimpse of a smirk on his face. He looked at her for a long moment until at last she glanced away.

House swallowed the rest of the hot lemon and immediately chased it with a gulp of coffee, then glanced at her again before scribbling something else on the pad.

"That the only reason you came over?" it said, and she flushed slightly when she read it.

I knew it, he thought, and he suddenly also knew with certainty that she'd had to talk herself out of coming over last night instead of just calling. He frowned slightly. That would have been a dangerous situation.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and he shrugged, still looking at her.

Cameron considered whether to mention anything about the moment in the lab. She hadn't yet even admitted to herself that it was part of the reason she was here; maybe a large part of the reason; so it seemed unwise to bring it up.

He already knows that's why I'm here, her mind whispered, and she was initially startled by the realization. But this was House, after all - he almost always knew what she was thinking about.

Fine, she thought. Maybe I can put him on the spot for once.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" she asked, keeping her face neutral as she looked him in the eye, and she saw with satisfaction that he was thrown by the question. He quickly recovered, however, and jotted another note:

"New dress code at work - girls wear bikinis."

She raised an eyebrow and glared at him, and he raised his arms with his palms upwards - My hands are tied! She simply rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee.

They sat in silence for a few moments. House was staring at the darkened screen of the TV when out of the corner of his eye he saw her shake her head. He glanced at her with a question in his eyes, and saw that she was grinning.

"I just can't imagine you singing along at a rock concert," she said.

By way of response, he picked up his cane from the side of the coffee table and held it as a guitar, miming a power-chord with a look of intense concentration. She laughed out loud, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink, and once again he found himself making a not entirely successful effort to avoid grinning at her.


They had been talking (or writing, on House's part) inconsequentially for some twenty minutes when Cameron was startled by a knock at the door. She quickly looked around at House and he shrugged, grabbing his cane as he stood up.

He shuffled over to the door and opened it to reveal Wilson, who opened his mouth to speak and then promptly closed it again when he saw Cameron sitting on the couch.

"I'm sorry, I didn't meant to interrupt," the younger man said at last, and House rolled his eyes.

"Oh, actually I was just leaving," Cameron replied, flustered and hurriedly getting up from the couch and gathering her jacket and purse.

Wilson was about to ask her not to leave on his account, but he saw her discomfort and wisely kept silent.

What's this all about? he wondered as he stepped inside.

House moved slightly aside to make room for Cameron to pass, and when she reached him he cleared his throat painfully.

"Thanks," he managed to croak, and she smiled at him timidly. Wilson's brow creased slightly when he heard the strained, raspy whisper of House's voice.

"You're welcome," she said. "There are more packets in the kitchen." He nodded, and her face relaxed a little.

"Hope you feel better," she said, and then turned to briefly nod at Wilson before stepping through the doorway.

House silently watched her go down the few front steps and walk along the sidewalk until the angle of the doorway obscured his view, then he closed the door. He glanced at Wilson, who was wearing a puzzled and thoughtful expression, then he returned to the couch without a word.

"Well," began Wilson, walking slowly over to the side of the couch Cameron had recently vacated, "I'm guessing she brought you something for your concert-induced laryngitis?" This wasn't the first time House had injured his voice at such an event.

House nodded, using his cane to point towards the discarded mug which had contained the hot lemon, and Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Thoughtful," he said, and House shot him a look. Wilson only grinned slightly before continuing.

"So I guess the 64,000 dollar question is... how did she know you had laryngitis in the first place?"

House sighed, then reached once again for the pen and legal pad, flipping to a new page. He wrote for a moment, then turned the pad so that Wilson could read the words.

"She called last night. Felt bad that you abandoned me."

Wilson frowned, a hurt expression on his face, then saw House's smirk and shook his head.

"I didn't abandon you," he said, sitting down on the opposite side of the couch from House. "And may I ask why she practically ran out of here when I showed up?" he asked, now wearing the slightest smirk of his own.

House simply shrugged as picked up the TV remote, pressing a button to switch the TV on, and Wilson sighed and vigorously shook his head.

"If she's still chasing you, she's crazy," Wilson laughed. "You'd think she could take a hint -"

He stopped abruptly as he received a sharp glance from House, who had picked up his cane once more and was brandishing it threateningly.

"Ok, topic dropped," Wilson said quickly, raising his hands in surrender, and House lowered his cane after a few seconds. House had found the channel the hockey game was showing on, and increased the volume on the TV.

Both men were lost in their own thoughts as they watched the pre-game discussion.

I've seen that look once before, thought Wilson. It had been two years ago, when he had accused House of letting Cameron get to him with her niceness. When Wilson had implied, jokingly, that he may have already made a move on her, House had shot him that same look.

The look that says something is off-limits, he thought. Hmm.

Wilson had frowned, but House was too focused on his own train of thought to notice.

I'm not tired, and I'm not drunk, he thought.

His throat still hurt, granted, but less than it had an hour earlier. He had been sitting down for a while and his leg was barely complaining at all right now. Wilson was here to keep him company, and there was a hockey game on. He should have been as content as he was able to be.

And yet his thoughts dwelled on when he had opened the door that morning and seen her standing there; when she had made him coffee in his kitchen; when she had sat beside him and laughed. He frowned deeply, feeling threatened in some vague and undefined way.

And did he perhaps resent Wilson slightly for turning up?

No, damn it, he thought, angry with himself for considering it. Just sour grapes for skipping the concert, which wasn't his fault. Now leave it.

He lifted his right leg carefully up onto the coffee table and sat further back on the couch, crossing his arms resolutely. It was time for the hockey game. And nothing else.


Cameron closed the cupboard door in her apartment's kitchen with more force than was strictly necessary, and then shook her head.

"Damn it," she said.

She had sat in her car in front of House's place for five minutes or so, too angry with herself to drive, but had eventually returned to her own apartment.

I bet House is having a great time with this, she thought.

As soon as Wilson showed up, she had become flustered and had practically ran out, like a teenage girl with a crush. No doubt Monday would bring sarcastic remarks about her hasty exit, delivered when there was as large an audience as possible. Foreman would pity her, Chase would act like he actually had the right to be annoyed, and she would generally feel about five inches tall.

And now he can deny everything, she thought. Even though he was looking at me that way again.

She felt like she could almost scream with frustration, but she was too angry; angry with herself and also angry with him.

Calm down, Allison, she thought. This isn't exactly a new situation.

But that wasn't true either, because how he was behaving was... different, somehow. She felt that yesterday in the lab she'd been allowed to see a little more of him than he was usually willing to share. And the way he'd looked at her was -

"Enough!" she said aloud, frowning at how loud her voice sounded in the otherwise empty room. She would see him on Monday, and things would have calmed down by then. If there was still something to talk about, perhaps he'd at least be physically able to talk.

And if whatever it was had passed by then?

Then it's not worth talking about anyway, she thought. That seemed true.

She nodded to herself, and resumed putting away her breakfast dishes. She would make herself some lunch, and forget all about House until Monday.

It's going to be another long weekend, she thought, and sighed.


House's fingers glided over the piano keys with practiced ease, though he was barely aware that he was playing the instrument at all.

It was now late evening, and Wilson had left hours ago. They had ordered pizza while watching the hockey game, and House had successfully managed to use his sore throat, and the hassle of having to write replies, to avoid most conversation. Wilson had tried once more to question him about Cameron, and had received only a strike to the shin with House's cane.

The younger man had eventually left, and House had been idly playing the piano for some time now, a glass of scotch sitting mostly untouched nearby.

Vicodin, bitterness and guilt, he thought. Those had been the primary reasons Stacy had left.

He'd resented her for approving the removal of his thigh muscle, and he'd made sure that she knew it. He'd pushed her away, and his frustration and anger at his mobility problems and the chronic pain had only made that job easier.

Then there was the Vicodin. She could see even then that he would become dependent on it, and that he flaunted that fact; a public habit which she couldn't even bring herself to morally object to. He'd made it clear that his life was going downhill from then onwards, and that it was at least partly her fault, and in the end that had been too much for her to cope with.

When it got too real, he thought unkindly, but it was true. Stacy had never been good when reality set in, and she'd proved that by almost leaving her husband when history looked to be repeating itself.

So her rising panic and despair, coupled with the guilt which he had made sure to nurture and encourage, had finally overcome her. She had left, and he hadn't been surprised. By then, he had been securely wrapped in the blanket of his own misery, and cloaked in the persona of misanthropy and brusqueness which he was so careful to maintain, and it had been the same ever since.

His foot pressed the damper pedal of the piano and he struck the keys with increased force, enjoying how the resonant sound of the notes drowned his thoughts. The effect only lasted for a brief moment.

And then we have Cameron, his traitorous mind interjected, and he frowned more deeply.

She felt no guilt towards him, so that could be removed from the list, but the other two remained: bitterness and a concern about the drug. Also, this list had new entries.

Age. Professionalism. History. Charity. He punctuated each one with a sharp strike on a high note, both enjoying and profoundly disliking the shrill crispness of the sound.

There was a large age gap: fifteen years. It also wasn't 20 versus 35 either; he was already in his mid-forties. When she reached 60, he would be either 75 or dead.

Probably the latter, he thought, but he felt no fear at the idea. There was only a distant sadness to it, and his hands unconsciously imbued the music with that same tone.

Then came the issue of her being his employee. It wasn't an issue for him, but may well become one for her. It didn't seem to have been a problem before, but that was hardly the issue.

Which brings us to history, he thought. His fingers now flew over the keys, producing delicate but bleak melodies ever faster with only the barest conscious awareness of the music.

Their date had been a failure. Not the monster trucks; that had actually been one of the better days he remembered from recent years. The faintest ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, and disappeared just as rapidly.

He had sabotaged their actual date with surgical precision, precisely because of the points on this list. Her marriage to a dying man had confirmed her to be a pathological martyr; drawn to hopeless charity cases like a moth to a flame, and with the same result.

Not enough, he thought.

It wasn't a basis for a relationship. If he had ever harbored thoughts of being with her, this list had always been more than enough to quench them. It could be seen as a list of reasons that it wouldn't work, though that's not how he thought of it.

They were simply the reasons why she, too, would eventually leave. Perhaps not after a day or a week or a month or a year, but eventually. That had always seemed clear to him. His analysis seemed faultless, and based on both observation and experience. He trusted his ability to analyze; it was bedrock amidst constant uncertainty.

The numbers say keep her at arm's length, he thought, and it was a familiar conclusion. The same conclusion as last time, and fifty times before that.

And if the numbers no longer seemed to be the entire truth? If in fact, a part of him whispered that the analysis could be incomplete, and the numbers thus be wrong?

His fingers abruptly stopped, leaving a discordant note echoing through the stillness of the darkened apartment. He stared directly down at the keys without seeing them, frowning intensely.

That was a question which seemed to have no acceptable answer.


Cameron had spent the entire rest of the day refusing to allow herself to think about that morning, or about the day before. It was easy to distract herself when she needed to: grocery shopping, then cleaning her apartment, then dinner, then curling up with a mug of cocoa and a good book. It always worked, and it didn't fail her this time.

By the time she began to realize she was tired, she had already made it through almost half of the novel she was reading, having only started it just after dinner. She marked her page and put the book down, stretching before getting up off the couch.

The small lamp just outside her bedroom had come on automatically at dusk, so she flicked the switch to turn off the overhead light in the living room and walked easily to her bedroom door by the light of the lamp. Switching on the bedroom light, she automatically glanced back towards the now darkened living room. She saw the couch, faintly outlined in the dim light. Her apartment always looked cozy to her, and it was always a delight to come home to that feeling.

But tonight, in the dim lamp-light and the oblong of brighter light escaping from the bedroom, the main area of the apartment had another tone. It was... quiet, somehow, but then all places are quiet at night. That wasn't it.

Empty, she thought, and frowned slightly.

It wasn't literally empty, of course. It was full of her things; her furniture, her books, her music; even her treadmill was still visible in the corner. And she was there, of course.

But no-one else, her mind supplied, and she shivered.

It was not a shiver of fear; it had been many years since darkness or the mere fact of being in a place by herself had caused any distress. It was just... an empty feeling.

At once, as quickly and suddenly as if it had been waiting for this precise moment, the image of his face as he looked down at her in the lab the previous day swam into her mind, and she gave a small gasp. She was still looking towards the living room of her apartment, but her mind saw him instead. Even the light had a similar quality.

He'd have that same look if he was here right now, she thought, and shivered once more.

Her brow creased again. It was late, and she didn't need this. She sighed. It was understandable that her mind had dredged up the image again when she was tired, particularly after her abrupt exit from his apartment this morning. But that didn't mean she wanted to think about it.

She took a steady breath, willing the train of thought to disperse, and turned and went into the bedroom. It was warm and inviting, and it was a safe place where she could be alone without feeling alone.

If there was anywhere that she could turn her thoughts to brighter things, it was surely here. Even so, she suspected that tonight, sleep might be a long time coming.


House had given up on his musings almost 40 minutes ago, and yet he still lay awake. The glowing figures on the bedside alarm clock seemed to be advancing with glacial slowness, silently mocking the elusiveness of sleep.

He shifted slightly, but not much. He always slept on his back now; it had taken time to get used to it, but it made a big difference in just how painful his leg was in the mornings. He glanced yet again at the bedside clock; only 7 minutes had passed since the last time. The lowest part of the clock's leftmost digit was obscured by a small object sitting on the nightstand in front of it.

His cellphone.

He propped himself up on one elbow, and reached for the phone, pressing a button on the side to illuminate the small ancillary screen on the front. No calls, no messages. Not surprising; Wilson didn't tend to bother him if he'd already seen him that day. Especially with a bruised shin to take care of.

There were no messages from Cameron either.

Why would there be? he frowned at his own thought.

He flipped the phone open and pressed the navigation pad to the left, to create a new text message. He had watched the entire smooth movement in the same way as he watched his own hands play the piano, seemingly without his conscious control.

He paused, unsure what he was doing. This was presumably a bad idea, and he was certain his mind would now strenuously point that out. Tonight, however, his mind was silent on the subject.

Slowly and deliberately, he tapped out a message. When he had finished, he read it over, and then read it over again. He pressed a button, and selected Cameron from the list of possible recipients.

He felt a first sudden hint of anxiety bloom in his chest, as if his mind had just awakened to what was going on, and again his hand moved seemingly of its own free will. He blinked as his message smoothly disappeared from the screen, to be replaced a moment later with a tersely-worded alert box.

Message Sent, it said.


From long experience, Cameron's first thought as she was startled from her light doze was a single word: Pager.

She sat up in bed, shaking her head to clear it, and realized that the sound had stopped as suddenly as it began. Her heart was beating quickly.

OK, not the pager, she thought. The pager didn't simply stop beeping of its own accord, and the beep hadn't been the same anyway. The sound had come from her cellphone; she had a new message.

Groaning, she leaned across to her nightstand and fumbled for her phone.

This had better not be you, Chase, she thought, her eyes narrowing at the idea of being wakened by a drunken and plaintively amorous message.

Her heart, which had began to slow back to its normal pace as she became fully awake, seemed to momentarily stop altogether as she saw the name superimposed on the envelope icon on her phone's screen: House.

She felt suddenly apprehensive, and her thumb hovered for several seconds before finally pressing a button to display the message's contents.

"Thanks for the House call.
Got Wilson guessing.
You didn't have to leave.
"

She read it carefully, and then she read it again.


This is exactly why this is a bad idea, House thought, scowling in the darkness.

He should never have sent the message. It was innocuous enough on the surface, but sending her a message now, late at night, hours later? He was disgusted at himself.

"Didn't have to leave," he snorted, reveling in the pain it caused in his throat. He was dangerously close to acting like a - his mouth curled into a grimace of distaste - like a teenager.

Or like Wilson, he thought, for once finding no amusement in mocking his friend.

He was even more awake now than he'd been before, and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon. He threw the bedcovers back with an exasperated sigh.

He would get up, put on some late-night TV, have a glass of scotch, listen to music; anything. Whatever it took to get things into perspective, and regain some composure. Then, in the morning, this entire debacle would be completely -

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

He lay perfectly still for several seconds, until he began to wonder if the noise had been a trick of his mind. Slowly, he turned his head to look over at his cellphone, once again sitting on the nightstand. Its screen gave a faint blue glow. He hadn't imagined the beeping sound which indicated the arrival of a new message.

He reached out and picked up the phone. In the darkness, it glowed and cast irregular shadows in his palm, masking its true shape. At that moment it seemed more like an exotic flower than a piece of technology; beautiful and delicate, but also possibly deadly to the unwary.

His eyes were closed when he pressed a button to display the message, and he only opened them after a long moment.

"You're welcome for the House call.
Just didn't think you'd want me hanging around.
Do you feel any different now?
"

He read it, and then slowly placed the phone beside him on the bed. His mind whirred and worked furiously, but he could identify no discernible thought for several minutes. At last, his mind's silence was broken.

That's... perfect, he thought, and despite everything he couldn't prevent one corner of his mouth from curling slightly into a dazed half-grin.

Her message was perfect. Possibly the most flawlessly sculpted specimen of breezy conversation, with deep pools of hidden meaning, that he had ever seen. She was a woman, of course, and so extremely gifted in that regard anyway, but at this she was undoubtedly a master. He felt a sombre respect for her, always present but only rarely acknowledged, flare up.

He frowned deeply, but if his face could have been seen in the darkness of the room, it would have worn an expression that could only be described as trepidation. He suddenly felt both very old and very young, and neither in a pleasant way.

I don't know how to do this, he thought. And the worst part is that... I want to.


Cameron drew the bedcovers around her, staring up at the ceiling with only the dim light of the lamp in the hall spilling through the bedroom doorway.

I didn't say anything wrong, she told herself, for the sixth time in the last ten minutes.

Her message had been inconsequential; light. Nothing to fret about. She groaned.

"Who am I kidding?" she sighed, squeezing her eyes shut.

She had no idea what was happening, or even if anything was happening, but whenever he seemed to give a little more of himself to her than he usually did, she couldn't help but respond. Because she had never lost hope.

Which might just make me an idiot, she thought, but she didn't truly believe it.

She rolled over onto her side, and glanced in the direction of her nightstand where her cellphone once again sat. She took a deep, calming breath, and closed her eyes. She should at least try to sleep.

Gradually, she began to lightly doze. And though she did not fall fully asleep until more than forty minutes later, no reply came.