House couldn't remember the last time he woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of pattering feet. Probably when Wilson had been living with him. Cuddy had never made coffee before leaving for work. Her method had been to slap House on the arm to rouse him and then bumble off to the shower, half-asleep. It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out which method House preferred.
He pried open his eyes and spotted Cameron in a terry-cloth bathrobe, her hair, still wet from her shower, piled up on her head in a messy bun. "Morning," she said cheerfully, the events from last night seemingly forgotten.
House mumbled a reply and rose stiffly, gingerly rubbing his back. "Your sofa needs to be reupholstered."
Cameron sagaciously ignored his comment. "Would you like some breakfast?" She held a carton of Egg Beaters in one hand and a spatula in the other.
"Fake eggs? Now I know how you stay so skinny."
"That and my treadmill." Cameron's eyes roamed to the apparatus in the corner of her apartment, dusty with neglect. "I haven't had much time to exercise lately."
"You look good." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I'm sure every guy in the hospital wants to jump you." Satisfied that he had masked his compliment with an insult, House gimped into the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. "None of my new ducklings make coffee quite like you." As he slurped his beverage he made himself at home at her round kitchen table.
"There's no secret to good coffee. You stick in a filter, dump some grounds and press brew."
"Well, clearly my team was missing from home economics the day they taught that lesson."
He had paid her two compliments in a row. Cameron thought she might never recover. "What do you want in your omelet?" she asked.
"I told you I'm not eating that crap."
"It's made from egg whites!" she protested.
"Fine. I'll have whatever you're having." He watched her hurry about the kitchen, tripping on her blue robe several times. "I don't usually eat breakfast." He wasn't sure if this was a confession or another lousy attempt at small talk.
Cameron acknowledged his remark with a mischievous smile. "No wonder you're always so cranky."
"Couldn't have anything to do with the pain in my leg, could it?" He waited for her to lecture him on looking at the bright side of life, but she merely flipped the omelet and heaved an almost imperceptible sigh.
As she was staring intently at the solidifying eggs, he nonchalantly wandered into her living area and headed toward her bookshelf. He stopped short. Turgenev was back in his place, and House's keys were nowhere to be seen.
Cameron leaned on the kitchen's doorframe, jangling the keys. "Looking for these?"
"You . . . ? How did . . . ?
"I went to put my book away this morning, and look what I found." She approached him, a jaunt in her steps. "I wonder how they got there?"
House's jaw tensed, waiting for the appropriate scolding. Surely she wouldn't pass up two opportunities to lecture him! But Cameron seemed to be enjoying her teasing too much to bother with the mother bit. She opened his clenched fist and placed the keys gently in his palm. "You should take better care of your possessions," she said, her voice a mere wisp. Their eyes locked, and then . . .
"Omigosh, the eggs!" Cameron ran into the kitchen, her far-too-huge robe billowing out behind her. House caught a glimpse of a pink leg before the robe settled back down around her slender form. He realized his head was cocked at an odd angle, like a puppy looking for a doggy biscuit. He shook his head and pocketed his keys in his wrinkled pants.
"It's a bit brown on the one side, but it's still edible," Cameron called out. No response. "House?" She peeped into her living room and found her front door open and House and her copy of Fathers and Sons nowhere to be seen.
**8**
"It's her brain," Foreman insisted. "It explains the dizziness, the loss of smell—"
"And the scratchy rash on her back?" Taub interrupted "Yeah, right."
"Rashes have been known to be a psychosomatic symptom of stress," Hadley interposed.
"And who wouldn't be stressed about losing their equilibrium and sense of smell?"
"Trust you to defend him," said Taub.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Thirteen demanded.
"Do we need a time out, kiddies?" House twirled the dry-erase marker around his fingers and fixed them with a mocking sneer. "Any other suggestions, besides the neurologist's stunning theory that it has something to do with her brain?"
Foreman rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Kutner spoke up. "It's drugs."
"Oh, clever." House turned his mocking sneer onto the East-Indian.
"It explains the loss of smell, the dizziness, and the rash."
The three other ducklings looked resigned to this diagnosis, but House was not as easily swayed. "Do an MRI, just to prove you're wrong," he pointed at Foreman, "and then do a Tox Screen just to prove you're wrong," he switched his finger to Kutner. He stormed out of his office, clearly irritated.
"Where are you going?" Kutner asked.
"Away from you idiots," House yelled over his shoulder.
He limped into the ER, his eyes scanning the mass of humanity for one specific doctor. He spotted her, perusing a chart with complete concentration by the bedside of one particularly vociferous patient. House crossed the room, shouting over the din, "I have a patient in her mid-thirties: vertigo, rash, loss of smell. On your mark, get set, diagnose."
Cameron glared at him before setting the chart next to the bed. "Don't you have a team to do that job?"
"Apparently they're morons."
"You hired them."
"I plead insanity, your Honor." They walked in tandem; House a few steps back watching Cameron do her job thoroughly yet dispassionately.
At one of the curtained stations she told a young woman in spandex, "You have a mild sprained ankle. I'm getting a nurse to wrap it up and ice it, and you'll be all set." To the patient in the next bed, she said, "You need a few stitches."
The young man clutched his hand, his pointer finger bleeding profusely through the cloth the nurse had applied. "Like, bummer! Will I be able to play the guitar again?"
Before she could respond, House interjected, "If I were you, I'd consider a new career."
The young man looked appalled and protectively brought his hand to his chest, smearing blood on his black tee-shirt. "Dude! Is it that serious?"
"No," House truthfully replied. "I'm just pretty sure your music sucks. The whole 'I'm a tripped out punk rocker' is soooo last decade." Cameron grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him away from the bemused patient. House noticed that the level of physical contact between the two of them had grown in the last year. He wondered if Cameron was getting friendlier with him or friendlier with him. Either prospect was disconcerting. He didn't know if he wanted a female friend, especially if it meant she was no longer interested in him. That would be a major blow to his highly-inflated ego. On the other hand, he didn't think he could handle any romantic entanglements with the beautiful Doctor Cameron. Not at this moment, anyways. Not right after Cuddy.
"If I give you a diagnosis, will you go away?" she asked tersely. House smiled pseudo-sweetly in assent. "Drugs," she suggested.
"You're not even trying," he protested.
A nurse walked by them and handed Cameron a bouquet of roses. She tucked them under her arm and continued scribbling on the punk rocker's chart. "How about pregnancy? Hormone levels went through the roof, caused an adverse reaction and—"
"Boooor—riiing," House said in a sing-song voice. He suddenly registered the flowers. "You get gifts from your patients? For what? Pulling a splinter out of someone's foot?"
"They're from Chase." She averted his gaze. "He's trying to win me back."
A painful, prickly sensation akin to heartburn wound its way up his esophagus and into his throat, constricting his breath. Without a pause in her steps, Cameron tossed the flowers into a nearby trash receptacle, and House felt the sensation subside. She called out a few instructions to the surrounding staff and then turned her full attention to House.
"Did you finish it yet?"
House decided to play dumb. "Finish what?"
"The book you stole from me. It's been three weeks, and I'd like it back."
"I wouldn't be much of a thief if I returned it."
"House," she warily began.
"Are you sure you want it back? I got some pretty nasty drool on it from the last time I attempted to read it."
Cameron tried to look annoyed, but she could tell from the grin on his face that she was failing. "The book's not that bad."
"But you admit it's not that good."
"The ending leaves much to be desired, but I wouldn't—"
"Then why do you want it back so badly?"
"Because I was reading it." She said it like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.
"You were rereading a book you don't even like?"
"I haven't made up my mind whether I like it or not. Sometimes it takes me three or four times before I arrive at a conclusion. That's why I was reading it again."
"And once you make up your mind, you'll either discard the book or place it back on the shelf next to Dostoevsky and Tolstoy."
Cameron smiled, relieved he understood her logic. "Exactly."
"I take it this is the same method you used on Chase." His tone was casual except for a hint of malice, which would have been unnoticeable to a stranger.
Cameron felt the full ramifications of his slight. "Shouldn't you be attending to your patient?" she icily asked.
He didn't see her again for another two days.
