Greetings! Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate.

I apologize that this chapter is so short, but I wanted to give you something to "chew on" before the weekend was over. Thanks again for all of the wonderful bits of feedback. It's always so exciting to come home from work to read what everyone has to say.

For those of you who might feel that I need to "get to it" between House and Cameron, I'm sorry, but the plot has to develop slowly for it to really work. House has too much baggage he needs to drop off before he can throw himself into Cameron's arms. At least, in my opinion, he does. Fear not, though. Good things come to those who wait.

Feedback is crucial to the further breeding of my plot bunnies, so don't forget to feed the author. Thanks!

I hope that you enjoy.

Chapter Five: The Not-Quite-So-Clinical Observations of a Reforming Misanthrope

"C-cold," Cameron responded when asked by the nurse how she was feeling. Her discomfort was short-lived, however; a heated blanket was quickly tucked around her body where she lay on a narrow table in the freezing operating room.

The paper cap that covered her long hair rustled as she turned her head to look at the surgical team bustling about in their final preparations. She knew these people, had worked with them for years, but her mind was hazy from the sedative she had been given in pre-op, and it was difficult for her to recognize the faces behind the masks.

Underneath the blanket, Cameron's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as much from her fear as from the chill in the room. Tentatively, she pressed the palm of her left hand against her right breast. Her fingers followed the contours of the tissue, tracing its curve, testing its weight, gauging its size, imprinting into her memory that which would soon be gone from her forever. Earlier that morning, Cameron had purposefully averted her gaze when Wilson had diagrammed his incisions on her breast with a scrub-resistant surgical marker. She had thought to distance herself from the process. If she didn't think about it as her breast that he was tattooing, maybe it wouldn't matter as much; maybe she wouldn't be as afraid; maybe …

There were no "maybes" anymore.

Her physician's mind had long since come to terms with the medical necessity of this procedure. There was a life to save, after all, but now that the lights of the OR were staring her in the face, it was her woman's mind that began to panic.

She didn't feel the tears that had started to slide from the corners of her eyes until they were being dabbed away with a piece of surgical cotton.

"It'll be okay, Allison," Wilson whispered in her ear from behind his mask as he blotted first one cheek than the other. "You trust me, don't you?"

Cameron knew that if she spoke, she would lose what little control she still had and break down completely, so she only nodded. She trusted Wilson completely. It was why she had come to him when she first discovered the lump. It was only that she was so –

"It's okay to be scared, but we'll take good care of you," he said. His brown eyes held all of the compassion that he tried to express in his voice. Wilson straightened and nodded to his team.

It was time to begin.

"Okay, Allison, I'm going to inject some more of the sedative into your IV," said Christian Padilla, her anesthesiologist, from somewhere behind her. "I want you to start counting backwards from 100 …"

Wilson was surveying the instruments on his tray when a sudden movement from above caught his attention. His eyes widened slightly at what he saw, and he held out a hand to stop Padilla's administration of the drug.

Smiling, Wilson bent close to Cameron again. "Look up," he said.

Cameron's eyes followed Wilson's gloved finger as he pointed to the observation suite above the operating room. Between one heartbeat and the next, all of the fear and tension from the last eight, unbearable days drained from her body.

She smiled.

"Ready now?" Wilson asked, taking in her smile with one of his own.

"Yes," she whispered, sparing him only a quick glance.

Cameron felt the sedative enter her system almost immediately, yet she dutifully counted as she had been instructed. When she finally slipped into unconsciousness, Cameron took with her the tall, rumpled, scruffy image of Gregory House leaning on his cane in the observation room as he watched over her.

**

Yesterday, she had stood stoically in his office and told them of her illness, had unflinchingly faced the reality of her mastectomy while he had struggled with the mere notion of it. Today, however, she was afraid. Though House was separated from her by 20 feet and a glass partition, her tension was palpable.

Wilson leaned over her now, dabbing at her face and eyes with cotton. Was she crying?

Why is she crying?

Because she's scared to death, you idiot. You were too, remember?

The fear that he had experienced at the thought of losing his leg to the infarction was something House had always tried very deliberately not to remember, but in keeping the leg, he was reminded every day, every hour, of that fear as well as the never-ending, agonizing results he suffered because he gave into that fear.

Cameron had faced the same decision. Keep the breast and risk and almost certain death, or lose the breast and win the probability of keeping her life.

His leg. Her breast.

House tried to convince himself that they weren't all that different, really. What's one body part compared to another, after all?

Nothing. Everything.

It was just a leg "they" had told him all those years go, but it has been his leg, and like a petulant child, he had refused to give up that which was his, even if it had meant saving his life.

It was just a breast. Oh, he knew Wilson would never have said that to her. He might have, though. It sounded like something he would have said. It was her breast – a very comely one, too. Naturally, she would be just as possessive of it as he had been of his leg. It was hers, after all. Yet she had willingly, thankfully sacrificed that which was the very symbol of her femininity.

In fear, he had chosen a death that had not come.

Unafraid, she had chosen a life that might not last.

Suddenly, and very self-consciously, House was humbled by her strength.

Padilla was prepping the IV line when Wilson stopped him.

What are you doing, Jimmy? House stepped closer to the glass and pressed his hand to the cool surface, blue eyes scanning the room below for the problem.

Wilson leaned in closely to Cameron again and pointed in House's direction. Cameron raised her eyes and searched out his across the distance. Under her gaze, House dropped his hand from the glass and shifted his weight on his cane awkwardly. He felt as though he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Thanks so much, Jimmy, he thought. In spite of his discomfort, House warmed at the slight smile that came to her lips. The tension in her frame eased, and the fear left her eyes.

She said something to Wilson who then turned to the anesthesiologist. Within moments, Cameron was asleep. House watched silently as the surgical team began their assigned tasks.

Cameron was intubated. The blood pressure cuff and pulse monitors were reattached; her eyes were covered with surgical tape, and her hospital gown was stripped from her torso. The nurses swabbed her chest and underarm with Betadine; the thick, dark antiseptic solution stained her smooth skin, making it appear almost necrotic.

House clenched his jaw at the sight.

He had always had a healthy appreciation of the female form, and he had never shied away from volunteering his expert option on the matter whenever he was presented with the opportunity. Though his sexual encounters had been severely limited since his infarction – he let Wilson think there were far more hookers than there had been; he had a reputation to protect, after all – he still loved to look. While Cuddy and her form-fitting outfits were frequently the subject of his commentaries, she was by no means his only subject of study. Cameron was a beautiful and alluring woman. She was, quite simply, hot. Yet, as he viewed her partially naked body, not a single licentious comment popped into his head. Instead House felt unclean, voyeuristic.

House lowered his eyes from the scene below for a moment and forced himself to regain his clinical perspective.

Her preparation complete, Wilson took the scalpel handed to him by the nurse and settled himself to cut. Pressing the razor-sharp tool to the markings on her flesh, he made the initial incision. House watched Cameron's blood well from the wound. It was quickly wiped away.

House had planned to watch the surgery from beginning to end to make sure there weren't any fuck-ups; he had done this a thousand times. He was a doctor; she was a patient.

Wilson began to excise the first pieces of breast tissue.

She wasn't just any patient.

With a final glance at Cameron's lovely face, House turned and left the observation suite. He couldn't do this.