3a

See the roses? A distraction.

Ostentatious displays of affection do not impress her, especially in matters she would rather keep private, away from loose lips of prying co–workers and one particular, overbearing boss. Still, they are, undoubtedly pretty.

A sweet thought, really.

"I don't think it was the digitalis," Cameron announces, upon entering the conference room.

"And you said it with flowers," Chase gushes, clapping his hands together in a disturbingly girlish manner. "I'm touched."

Her mouth forms a fake little 'ha' before she drops the bouquet and patient folder on the table.

"Serum digoxin levels are supposed to rise when you administer DigiFab. That didn't happen."

"But we stabilized her."

"I think she was already stabilizing by the time we paced her." Flowers and boyfriends already a distant thought, she settles into the chair next to Chase before reaching into her valise.

"What are you thinking, then?"

"DLIS, maybe."

"Digoxinlike immunoreactive substances?" Incisors thoughtfully worry the end of a ball–point pen. "Bit of a stretch, isn't it?"

There's only a shrug in reply as Cameron plunks her laptop on the table. "Not too many other options. Foreman's taking first watch to see if there's any change."

"You see House at all today?"

"That's what I'd like to know." From the doorway, the Dean of Medicine looms like an extremely irate cumulonimbus formation. "I gather you two haven't run into him, then."

"Not since the lab."

"He was downstairs twenty minutes ago," Cameron volunteers, with the tiniest bit of spite.

"Which, in concrete terms, would mean..." Cuddy's wrist works in an impatient circle of get to the point, folks.

"Differential diagnosis," Cameron begins, a quirk curling her lips. "Not in clinic. Not in the office. It's too early for his soaps, so he's probably not hiding out in any of the patient rooms. Where else could he be?"

It's a fifteen–letter crossword epiphany for the intensivist, as he flips the pen out of his mouth and points. "Dr. Wilson's office."

"He should be there for another..." A quick glance at her watch before tossing it back to Chase, "ten?"

"Fifteen."

Agreed. "Fifteen minutes, or so."

"You two have been working with House for too long," Cuddy finally manages to sputter, her gaze flitting incredulously back and forth between the doctors. "Did you work out a schedule?"

"Much as House likes to think he's being clever and spontaneous," Chase chuckles, slipping the pen back between his teeth, "he's actually a bit predictable."

A sigh. "If only he spent half as much effort in treating patients as does shirking clinic."

"Probably wouldn't be as much fun," offers Cameron sympathetically.

"Probably. Nice flowers, by the way," the Dean of Medicine notes before disappearing down the hallway, back and hot on the trail.

"Did it work?" Chase asks, once Cuddy's out of sight.

"What?"

He knows Cameron's avoiding the question (and quite badly at that), but gestures anyway.

"Those. Either you were ambushed by a florist in the hallway, or someone gave them to you. Might even be the same someone who gave you that. His finger moves from bouquet to her neck connecting the shortest distance between two suggestions.

"Yes. You can stop staring now."

"I can't help it. It's so...noticeable." Even as he fights the mighty battle not to laugh out loud. "How did House take it? Succeed in making him jealous?"

"I wasn't trying to make him anything. He just showed up. He has a radar for these things." Plucking her glasses from their case, she primly settles them across the bridge of her nose. "And no, he's not jealous. Varying degrees of apathy does not equate with jealousy."

"By that, I'm guessing your date didn't go as well as you suggested."

From behind those librarian glasses, Chase is hit with a haymaker that squeezes a don't want to talk about it and back off into one neat glare. He retreats, hands raised in surrender.

"Just concerned, that's all."

The resultant snort signals her disbelief, as she firmly tucks herself behind the screen of her iBook. "I suppose you're going to blab to Foreman now?"

"Hell no. I already won a hundred off him." And, oh, is this floating into all sorts of dangerous and murky territory, but as Chase assumes (correctly), he has nowhere to go but up. "I figured House wasn't stupid enough to not...er...well, say no...however he feels about..."

Silence. Dead. Except for the ominous tapping of her fingers on the keyboard.

"You didn't, did you?"

More silence; taps grow exponentially louder as Cameron stabs away at the keys, simmering three degrees below full percolation.

"Did you at least take my advice and jump him?"

"No!" She whips around, pushing her glasses back up as they slip precariously down her nose. "Of course not."

"Maybe you should have."

See the stare of disbelief? It's there for a reason.

"Because I reacted with slightly less apathy than usual," House repeats, slowly. Incredulously. "You think I'm jealous?"

He scans sharply through the nooks and crannies of the oncologist's office for illegal drugs, bongs, or other instruments of pharmaceutical pleasure. Because the man is obviously stoned.

"You couldn't have gotten any more territorial if you pissed on the guy's shoes."

"That was going to be my next plan of action."

"You see?" As Wilson's right hand flexes excitedly in a warm–up to working itself into a finger–point, House finds himself inwardly cringing in apprehension of what's going to come flying out of his mouth next. (An undoubtedly goopy sentiment like, 'You totally like her,' or something else equally inane.) "You liked it when she paid attention to you. You enjoyed being the center of her universe. And now that you're not, it bugs you to no end."

"That doesn't make me jealous," he retorts mildly. "That just makes me an attention whore. There's a huge difference."

"Speaking of huge, you see the size of that bouquet?" Off House's scowl, Wilson begins furiously backpedaling as he finds himself skidding into quicksand. "Not that size is..." Lined with poison–ivy. "All that important..." And brambles. "Because what truly matters is..." In conclusion: "It was a very nice corsage."

The scowl only deepens. "You're worse than a teenage girl at a slumber party."

"I'm not the one keeping tabs on the love life of my staff. You gonna set up curfew next?" Wilson's voice rises to a sweet falsetto,"'Dr. House, can I go on a date?'"

"You seem to be far more interested in this subject than I am. What's the matter, Jimmy? Not getting any at home?"

"Have you forgotten? I'm married." Duh. He sighs. "Of course I'm not getting any."

"So...you have to live your sex life vicariously through mine?"

His lips make a fat 'pah' sound. "Hell no. You're not getting any either."

Can't really dispute that.

"We should set up a losers club. Cuddy can be president. 'Cause I'm pretty sure she's..."

Fascinating, how Wilson alternates between several stages of pale and cherry as he snatches the Physician's Desk reference from the corner of his desk, flipping it open to a random page.

"... standing right behind me, isn't she?"

A not–quite subtle nod—

(Cialis (tadalafil), a new selective inhibitor of cyclic guanosine monophosphate–specific phosphodiesterase type 5 indicated for the treatment of erectile dysfunction.)

—leaving House to stare accusingly down at his lap, profoundly disturbed by the apparent betrayal of personal warning receptors. "I didn't even feel a twinge."

The "Dr. House" that cuts the air behind him promises a whole library of retribution in three sharp syllables.

"Ah, there it is."

See House argue. Loudly. Belligerently.

"I don't want to hear about it."

See Cuddy ignore, ignore and ignore.

"But the—"

"Nope."

See bodies in the clinic part like the Red Sea before Moses.

"But—"

"Nuh uh."

"My patient—"

"Zip it."

Locating the spot with the best acoustics, feet and cane plant mulishly in place as he bellows, "I have a patient who needs me."

That, at least, seems to give Cuddy moment for pause. Until she swivels, slapping the full power of the administrative death glare on him.

"You have three doctors looking after her. You can afford to spend a few hours taking care of people who need you here."

"Those idiots?" he protests, with all the sincerity he can muster (which, granted, isn't a whole lot, but hey, trying). "She really needs me. Desperately. In fact, I'm the only one who can do anything for her."

"Really." Cuddy seems strangely unconvinced. "What's her name?"

"Uh." Oh, damn. Gears in his head make loud, protesting groans, chugging through a moldy mental Rolodex as he hunts the overhead fluorescents for inspiration. "It's on the tip of my tongue."

"Yeah. I thought so." Chart in hand, she begins directing him towards an examination room.

"Abigail," he tosses, offhand.

"No."

"Betty."

"That was last week."

"Chloe."

"Are you actually going to attempt the entire alphabet?"

"Diane?"

"Oh, look, here we are." With that, Cuddy opens the door and shoves the chart into his hands. "I saved this one especially for you."

Stumping dejectedly inside, he stops and turns. With the shark–like smile of a parent dropping her hellion off at daycare, Cuddy waves buh–bye and quickly shuts the door.

Defeated, he reads, "Spontaneous bleeding of the head." Looks up.

And there it is. A small stream of blood trickling down the scalp of a man in his fifties. He looks fit. Tanned and well–traveled. Probably owns a copy of every Lonely Planet guide in print.

"Been to any interesting places lately? Say, Central or South America?" House queries, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. Parting the guy's hair, he shines a pen light onto his scalp.

"Belize. About month ago. Why?"

"Lots of interesting creatures down there. Mosquitoes that infect you with malaria. Catfish that swim up your urethra. Monkeys that give you Herpes."

Three scalp lesions. Two bleeding. Settling back into a chair, he pulls out his cell phone.

"You drink?"

Twenty minutes later, a knock at the door signals Chase's arrival. Furtively sliding in, he untucks the paper bag from under his arm and places it on the counter. Pulls out a six–pack and a Camels.

"Beer and cigarettes." Holds a bottle out to his boss. "Extra Special Bitter."

"Aren't you precious?" Uncapping it, House offers the bottle to Spontaneous Bleeding Head Wound, before taking the second for himself.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong with me?"

"Yep." He takes a long pull. "I'm even going to fix it for you. But," and gestures with the bottle, "you need to finish that first."

With six bottles of beer quickly polished off between three men, House leans back with a sigh of satisfaction, unwraps the pack of cigarettes and lights up.

"I thought you weren't supposed to smoke in hospitals."

A prude. But of course.

"That is true. And yet, every afternoon at one–fifteen, the fire stairwell on the east wing goes up like a chimney."

"Post–lunch fix," comes the confirmation.

One deep puff later, House blows smoke down the neck of the empty bottle, trapping it there with his thumb. A jerk of his chin and Chase moves in. "Glove up and put your fingers here," he points to each side of the lesion, "and here. When I tell you, squeeze as hard as you can."

There's another drag for good measure, before he finally explains. "Dermatobia hominis. Also known as the Human Botfly. Their larvae set up little shanty–towns in your skin. These little lesions on your head? Home sweet home." Inverting the beer bottle, he presses it directly over the reddened bump. "Let's smoke 'em out."

Minutes pass. Nothing.

"I'm getting a cramp," Chase complains, shifting from foot to foot, hands still pressed on the man's scalp.

"Weenie. Hold still."

More minutes pass. Just as Chase opens his mouth to lodge yet another protest, the tiny pale head of a grub pokes out of the hole.

"Now!"

He squeezes, pressing down and in, and with a surprisingly solid plink, something shoots out and hits the back of the bottle.

Two episodes of smoking, squeezing and scalp torture later, the results tally up to three wiggly critters confined in solitary. Taking a last drag off his cigarette, House thinks, this clinic duty thing wouldn't be so bad if every remedy involved liberal doses of alcohol and smokes.

"I'm thinking about naming them," he suggests, when the walking Botfly nursery is gone. "How do Violet, Klaus and Sunny sound?"

"How did you know how to get these things out?" Chase curiously peers down the neck of the bottle, watching the grub twist and curl like a dry Tequila worm.

A vague, "old Army trick," is the only answer he gets.

"You were in the Army?"

House tilts his head, amused. "Just so you know, those things are capable of jumping up to six feet in the air."

Jerking the bottle away from his eye, Chase slaps the bottle cap back on and plunks it gingerly back on the counter. Clears his throat.

"About Elaine Sutton," he begins.

Only to be promptly rewarded with a blank stare.

"The patient." Still nada. "The one with the rash and arrhythmia?"

"Oh, her." Eyebrows furrow. "Elaine." Followed by a despondent sigh. "I was almost there."

Unbelievable. "May I point out, you were the one who brought this case to us?"

"Tch." An impatient wave of hand as House leans back in his chair. "You can't expect me to remember everything."

"Well, we gave her the DigiFab. She stabilized, but now we've got new signs. Symptomatic hypokalemia. Electrolyte abnormalities."

A shrug— "That's to be expected."

"Elevated cortisol, decreased aldosterone."

—that morphs into a frown. "That's not."

"Cameron doesn't think it was the digitalis."

"Really." His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. "Well then, if Dr. Cameron doesn't think it was the digitalis, then she can spin the urine again and get some blood as well. Have her run an ultrasound and CT. Check for pseudoaldosteronism."

"Can't." House looks up. "She's left already. Has something going on tonight. You want me to run the tests?"

He nods, distracted. "Get the patient on a Holter monitor while you're at it."

After Chase leaves, he pulls out his cell phone and dials. The tone on the other side chirps once and punts to voice mail. Sneaky. With a smile, House brings up the pager on his speed dial and hits SEND.

See House. See House call. See Allison come running.

He spies her a moment before she sees him, and in that infinitesimal parcel of time, allows himself to appreciate the sight of her in jeans and blouse striding through the clinic, coat thrown over her shoulders, and valise in hand. Her hair is unbound, a little mussed, actually, as if she'd been interrupted from some activity involving...a great deal of hair mussing.

When Cameron finally locates him, hovering (of all places) near the nurses' station, he leans forward, both hands pressed atop his cane, and fixes her with a stare.

"You don't think it was the digitalis."

She is beautiful and artless in her bewilderment, and he thinks he likes that very much.

"You paged me four times just to tell me that?"

"You didn't answer your phone."

And she can only stare back, self–consciously tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

"Because—"

"No, no, I think you're right; I don't think it's digitalis either. But there is something that it is, and I'm thinking we probably should find out what."

As always, all roads eventually lead to: "A bit of B and E?"

"Listen to you." He pops a pill. "Gettin' down with the homeys. After casing the joint, I say we head downtown and boost us some Hondas."

Allison Cameron, of the impossibly patient and compassionate nature, does not call him a giant dork.

"I'll give Foreman a ring."

"No time. Besides, he's busy. Date, or something. Think he might be running low on Claritin samples?"

There's a dangerous pause.

"But you called me in?"

Oh. Oops.

"It's not as if you have anything better to do." Phony shock, consternation of the worst kind, flitters across his face. "Did you? My bad. But since you're the one who's here now," Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he nods towards the glass doors, "you're driving."

Cane tucked under his arm, both hands pull on the railing as he hops one–legged, up the flight of stairs leading to the front deck of the Sutton residence, grumbling bitterly all along the way. Cameron following quietly behind, only vaguely tunes in to his long–winded and needlessly pedantic complaints and curses, treading mental waters between irritation, anxiety, and gradually increasing suspicions regarding her boss.

When they near the top, he pauses. Whips his cane back out and pokes at the wood with its tip. Beneath the brief bit pressure, the stair creaks and bows with a wet moan.

"Watch the last step," he warns, before hauling himself up and over.

At the door, he works slowly, laconically juggling the lockpick tools between his fingers like long, sharp needles. He's taking far too long, and it's beginning to rain.

"Not meaning to rush you or anything," Cameron lifts her hand to stave the drops of water plinking down on her, "but are you going to be done any time soon?"

The end of the tension tool flicks up and down in his mouth as he blinks. "Are you going to rust?"

"Foreman was quicker."

"Yeah, well, Foreman has a lot more experience with the illegal search and seizure."

The wind scatters a few wet leaves in their direction as Cameron impatiently pulls her coat closer around.

"Do you even know how to do this?"

A roll of eyes. "Maybe if I weren't being constantly interrupted by a back–seat burglar." Pulling the tension wrench from between his teeth, he slips it into the lock. "It's been a while."

"Right." She watches with no small amount of distraction, his hands. House's hands. House's fingers delicately finessing the bit of steel in the door. "When you were my age, you had to walk twenty miles in the snow, uphill, both ways, to find a convenience store to knock over."

"Nice," comes the drawl. "You're a lot of fun when you're in a bad mood."

"I'm a lot more fun when I'm in a good mood. And while your skills are undoubtedly mad and leet," A moment of fishing in her valise unearths an EZ snap gun, which Cameron proffers. "I'd rather not to stand out here any longer than I have to."

"Aren't you the happy little hooligan?" he murmurs, taking it from her. "Foreman get you this for Christmas?"

"My birthday, actually."

His face is a mask of mock hurt. "He never gave me anything for my birthday."

"You hate birthdays."

"Except," and he lifts a finger for this, "when they involve presents. And cake. Can't say no to cake."

Seconds later, the door clicks open.

The inside is warm, homey, if a little messy. There's a piano in living room, upright, unlike his baby grand, and it occurs to House in a strange and rather abrupt manner that the only other time he's shared a non–public space with Cameron was at his own apartment.

You like me. Why? he'd asked. She'd answered before she left. He suspected it was only a fragment of the truth.

How do you feel about me? she'd turned back on him.

(Wear the blue. Mention her shoes. Be a jerk. DHA. Do her, or you're gay. I think she likes lame. Some relationships aren't meant to happen. Sittin' in a tree...)

It was all very vague, the strange little dance he didn't (wouldn't) fully comprehend, all sorts of sharp edges and dark corners filled with groping couples.

(And this is what has always been between them, a series of self–indulgent monologues. From him. From her. They assume. They project. She presses pop psychology on him, and he comes back swinging, hitting below the belt, telling her in no uncertain terms: she's damaged, he's damaged; the sum of their interactions little more than a series of snipes, half–baked analyses and crayon–painted pictures.)

Leaving Cameron to (and he notes, quite efficiently) tear up the main room, he moves to the kitchen, using the time and distance to collect all the bits and pieces of thought scattered in his head.

He wants to ask again: Why? – this time without the peer pressure or threat of impending doom. For his own edification, of course.

When he opens the refrigerator door, what pops out of his mouth instead, is:

"When's the wedding?" (Whoa. He's really got to get a better translation unit.)

Something breaks in the living room. "What?"

"Isn't it how that usually happens?" (Ground beef. Sausages. Ricotta Cheese. Butter. Whole milk. He makes a mental note to schedule Elaine Sutton for a future triple bypass.) "Dating. Moving in. Getting hitched and living happily ever after. I bet you've already got china patterns picked out."

As he shuts the fridge, Cameron comes back to the kitchen with a handful of glass chunks that were probably part of something obnoxiously cute in their former incarnation.

"Think she's going to miss this one?" Her eyebrows beetle in an adorably guilty expression. Poor widdle cwystalline figure.

"What was it?"

"Unicorn."

"I'm ashamed of you, Dr. Cameron. Somewhere in the world, there's a virgin crying herself to sleep over its demise."

Foot pressed to the lid release, she lets the pieces fall into the trash and watches the cover drop back down.

"Fifty more back there last time I checked."

"In that case, you're safe. Not that many virgins left in the world. I'd advise against touching any more unicorns, though." His voice lowers, sly and dark, as one eyebrow arches for the ceiling. "They seem to know."

Moving to a cabinet, he finds a box of tea. Opens it up and sniffs its contents. "So. Let's discuss your impending nuptials."

"Actually, let's not. Unless you were planning to get me a present."

He pulls a half–used tin of Copenhagen smokeless from a shelf. Twirls it thoughtfully between his fingers.

"I'll buy the both of you a spoon."

A quick, sideways glance reveals that Cameron appears to be fixated by his hands. Looking up, she seems to realize this as well, and abruptly turns away.

"You don't get to do this." Stalking to the sink, she roughly yanks a drawer open. "You don't get to push me away and then try to dictate my personal life. This has nothing to do with you. Who I see is none of your business."

"Okay," he responds blandly. In a way that's anything but. "Seems to me though, you moved on pretty fast, especially after all that 'being in love' crap you dumped into my lap."

The drawer slams shut. "That was three months ago. And I never said I was in—no." Cameron kneels, raising a hand, before opening the cabinet underneath. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Circumstances change. People move on. But I guess you wouldn't know anything about that."

He's still staring at the box of chew. Musing. Tea and tobacco. "You need to space out your assumptions a little more."

"And you need to stop stealing from Vonnegut. Unfortunately, we can't always get what we—"

She jumps at the sudden bang, nearly concussing herself against the underside of the sink. Peering over the kitchen island, she finds House, hands pressed against the cabinet door, eyes shut, and a sick little grin pulling at the corners his mouth. When he opens them again, "hand slipped," is all he offers, before moving on.

The rest of the ransacking continues in tense silence, with him poking through the upper shelves, her rifling through the lower ones.

"Licorice cough drops," Cameron mutters, as she comes across an impressive stash of junk food next to a ten pound bag of rice. "Licorice candy. She certainly likes licorice."

That seems to pique House's interest. "Check her liquor cabinet. Ten to one there's Sambuca in it."

Several minutes and one room later, it's confirmed. Behind her, House tears open the top of a bag of candy. Pops a piece into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, before offering it to her.

Her face scrunches in disgust as she declines. "What is it with you guys eating other people's food?"

"What?" he mumbles innocently, diving once more through the bag. "It was unopened." As another piece disappears into his mouth, there's an appreciative nod for the finer things. "This is really good stuff."

Cameron only sighs. Through the picture frame window, she sees the rain has temporarily stopped. Opening the door, she steps out onto the deck.

"Watch out for the step," he reminds her, too late. Her foot catches on the uneven groove, wood buckling beneath her foot, and she finds herself stumbling, falling forward, as an arm whips itself around her waist. His free hand clutches the doorjamb for purchase, with the other planted firmly over her hipbone, and they both hover, momentarily suspended, teetering on the brink of mutual collapse, before balance reasserts itself and he pulls her back against him.

"It's a doozy," he murmurs, the movement of his unshaven jaw prickling her ears. And she finds it suddenly difficult to hear through the pulse ricocheting in her head. He moves fast. Faster than any man with a limp has any right to. He's surprisingly strong. His hands are shockingly warm. And the handle of his cane is digging into her ribs.

Turning her head ever–so slightly tosses her into the beguiling thought that if he moves, and she moves, and they both move together, they could connect.

(But of course they never do. She pulls, he pushes, and even in this moment where everything's flipped on its side, this constant tug–of–war between them invariably, always goes nowhere.)

So she swings back into safer territory instead, focusing on the single faulty step and says, "I was going to check the garage."

They linger in this position for a little longer, before he loosens his hold. Slowly. Like a deflating blood pressure cuff. Once assured of her proper footing, he drops his arm completely.

"No need. Found what I was looking for."

Of course, House doesn't bother to elucidate. Much more fun this way. For him, at least. Moving past her and hopping easily down the stairs, he stumps towards the car, leaving Cameron to trail along behind, shaking her head in bemusement.