What was he doing withCarolyn, anyway

The day, which had begun on a bright note, had darkened while House paced the accident scene with Angie. It now gave up all pretense of beautiful weather and outright rained. For once House had anticipated this, leaving his bike at the farmhouse garage and returning to the hospital in his disreputable old Chevy Malibu. He had a dry ride home, and plenty of time to think.

Human beings care about the opinions of others to varying degrees, but no one is really immune. House sincerely cared less than almost anyone. Still, Butch's version of his relationships had stung him more than he would ever admit, even under enhanced interrogation. It bothered him enough to make him temporarily forget Deadman; enough for him to drive at almost the speed limit, so he'd have worked through his discomfort before he got back to the farmhouse.

If he stepped back and looked at the situation dispassionately, the question inevitably arose: What was he doing withCarolyn Campbell? A man who had never been comfortable with what he sawin the mirror, House was drawn to the validation that came with having a hot girlfriend. Carolyn was attractive, but she wasn't gorgeous. Her looks were healthy rather than interesting, and her figure, while slim and supple from riding and the gym, nevertheless showed the effects of childbearing and middle age. She wasn't model thin like Cameron or lushly buxom like Stacy.

And yet ... there was something about Carolyn that made House want to let himself—relax. Let go. Stop trying to control every goddamn thing that went on in the universe. It started the first time he'd crossed swords with Carolyn, thirty years earlier in Bio 108. Carolyn had answered a question from the professor. House had made a typically caustic remark. And Carolyn had turned those crystalline eyes on him with a look of—acceptance. No, not just acceptance—approval. Admiration. For House, who had spent his entire life seeking approval (and when he got it, rejecting it with both hands as misguided or unearned), that look was irresitible.

So their relationship was built on the approval he had sought and failed to receive as a child? Banal. Boring. As an answer, it failed to satisfy.

How many times had Wilson irritated him by pronouncing some female "perfect for you"? Pressed to explain, Wilson would admit that it was because the woman in question seemed capable of spending a few hours in House's presence without running a knife through him. House, while acknowledging the importance of this characteristic, felt he had a right to hold out for more than mere tolerance.

He also interpreted Wilson's constant matchmaking as a way of unloading House on someone else for a while. When Wilson said, "She's perfect for you," House heard, "She will devote all her time and energy to caring for you and worrying about you, so I don't have to."

By that definition, Carolyn was far from perfect for him. She loved him, fed him, laid him, and played with him, but she was also deeply engrossed in her own life: her child, her horses, her home, her job. She was available to him a good deal of the time, but she didn't hesistate to desert him to take Angie shopping, or meet friends for lunch, and she spent hours at the barn fussing over her beasts. House actually heard himself say to her once, over the phone, in a plaintive voice that sounded nothing like his usual sonorous growl, "Well, fine, go ahead and finish your ride. It's just that I brought something kind of special home for dinner." And with a deep sense of injustice, he rewrapped the sushi-grade salmon he'd procured and put it in the frig, dining instead on a tin of sardines that had probably been in her cupboard since the house was built.

To be fair, Carolyn came home less than an hour later, exclaimed over the salmon as if it were a diamond necklace, and prepared a late dinner that rivaled anything he'd ever had at a seafood restaurant. But still. Moments like that made it clear she considered House a big boy who could take care of himself, and that she was not going to drop what she was doing whenever he thought to call. This was so far outside his experience—as a son watching his parents, as a boyfriend whose women craved his presence—that he couldn't make up his mind whether it was a positive or negative reflection on Carolyn.

What about compatibility? Carolyn was warm where he was withdrawn, outgoing where he was isolating, humorous where he was sarcastic and sometimes cruel. About that humor, though ... House had often thought, usually because he'd just been slapped in the face, that Carolyn had ruined him for other women. She was the first girl he'd ever been close to, and from her he got the idea that all women enjoyed bawdy humor, thought farts were funny, and laughed immoderately at dirty jokes. Carolyn thought sex was hilarious (except when she was engaged in it) and so were the lower body functions. A week earlier she had emailed him from work:

"I went to the bathroom and a woman came in right behind me. We both went into stalls, and she peed, full force, for at least five minutes. It went on and on and on. I couldn't believe it. When she finally came out, I was surprised to see that her head hadn't shrunk."

"Why did you tell me this?" House emailed back.

"Because I know you are interested in things like that," came the response, and in fact the story of the marathon pee-er made him feel cheerful for the next hour.

On the other hand, she had complicated rules about propriety in daily living; House was allowed into the bathroom when she was brushing her teeth or showering, but the door was locked if she was using the toilet or shaving her legs. When House commented on this arbitrary regard for modesty, Carolyn said, "You're probably right." But she still locked the door.

She wasn't a pushover, that was certain. Young Carolyn was an ardent believer in consensus building and avid for House's buy-in. Old Carolyn was far more likely to lay down a principle and stand by it, and much less likely to abandon a point of view because her boyfriend thought otherwise.

House was subliminally conscious of this from the moment of their reunion, but it was brought home to him in a forceful way one evening after a rough day at the hospital. He was edgy and anxious to begin with, as his old team prepared to go their separate ways; he had a case that resisted his best efforts to resolve it, and Cameron, Chase, and Foreman seemed to lack their usual acumen in helping him; Cuddy was on the warpath because he'd stripped a gear on the motion table.

House returned to the farmhouse that night spoiling for a fight, and quickly seized on Carolyn's parenting style. He was midway through a lengthy and carefully considered lecture (Why Angie Is Such a Brat: How Parents Ruin Their Children by Trying to Be Their Friends) when he realized that Carolyn had not said a word in at least five minutes. Looking down from his soapbox, he saw that his audience was regarding him with icy blue eyes. His voice faltered, lost steam, trailed off. An uneasy silence filled the room.

Then Carolyn spoke.

"You may cow your poor underlings," she said. "You may cow the nurses. You may cow your boss, if you can. But I am not your employee or your professional inferior, and you may not cow me."

Ashamed, House looked down and away. Two words bubbled to the back of his throat like vomit. Instinctively he fought the urge to expel them. But, like vomit, the only way to feel better was to unload them, and after a moment, he did.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Carolyn acknowledged this with a curt nod, then began to talk in a neutral tone about her day. House half listened while marveling at the novelty of having made an apology without wanting to crush the offended party, either with logic or a brick. An apology was tantamount to admitting he'd been wrong, and that never sat well with Greg House. In his experience, apologies were read as a sign of weakness that the vindicated party wouldn't hesitate to exploit. But here was Carolyn, talking with more enthusiasm as she warmed to her subject, the bad moment apparently behind her. Was she unconscious of her triumph, or quicker than most people in doling out forgiveness? He had asked her about this in an unrelated incident, and she laughed and said she was simply too lazy to hold a grudge. But the evidence was gathering that hers was a generous nature that saw people's flaws and weaknesses but tried to give them the benefit of the doubt.

This was probably due to her upbringing. The Campbells seemed to exist solely to refute one of House's most cherished convictions: that every family is fucked up in some fundamental way. Carolyn's parents were still married to each other. They shared a love that extended beyond their coupledom to embrace their children and grandchildren. Although there had been occasional sibling rivalries when House first knew Carolyn—he'd witnessed some particularly vicious arguments between her and her sister June—these were always settled with tears and hugs all around, and in adulthood they not only got along, they sought out each other's company, and their children treated each other like brothers and sisters rather than cousins.

The children themselves were a revelation to House. Without exception, they were smart, bright-eyed, and nearly fearless. Not one of them skulked around as if bracing for the next blow or harsh word. He had an opportunity to observe the youngest generation of Campbells that summer, and what he saw more or less confirmed his suspicion that in lecturing Carolyn about parenting styles, he was almost completely full of shit.

Because House habitually wore a cross, even grim expression, people assumed that he hated children. In fact, House liked kids; their unedited reflections on life and the people around them could be wildly funny. It was their parents he couldn't stand. Between the ones that did everything but breathe and poop for their kids and the ones who let a 102° temperature rage for a couple of days before bestirring themselves to get help, he sometimes wondered if any human being was qualified to care for a child.

Just before Independence Day, Carolyn announced that she has hosting her entire family at the farmhouse over the holiday. She offered House the chance to opt out.

"It's going to be pretty noisy around here," she warned him, "and while we'd love it if you hung around the whole time, I'd understand if you wanted to stay in town for most of it."

House indicated that he probably would do just that, coming out to the country only for the big meal on the Fourth. Yet somehow he was still there when the guests arrived, and even though he sought sanctuary after the first hour, when the shrieks of overstimulated children and the roiling confusion of meal preparation drove himout of the kitchen, he only got as far as the living room, where he turned on the TV and watched Pinks on the Speed Channel. Moments later he was joined by Greta, Carolyn's elderly dog, her nerves frayed by constant attention from youngsters. Greta hopped onto the couch and sank down next to him with a loud, grateful sigh.

Eventually a child drifted in: Meg, a monumentally self-possessed nine-year-old. She observed him in silence for a moment, then asked, "What're you watching?"

"Bugs Bunny," House said curtly.

Meg was not intimidated. "Hannah Montana is on," she informed him casually.

"Is that right?" sneered House, pointedly setting the remote between his leg and the back of the couch. Meg sighed and dropped to the floor in front of him. Moments later they were joined by her seven-year-old brother Matthew.

"What're you watching?" he demanded.

"Spongebob Squarepants," said Meg, without looking up.

Matthew regarded them both suspiciously. "No, you're not," he decided.

He plopped down next to Meg, but twisted round to examine House with great interest. "What happened to your leg?" he asked.

"Chewed on by a shark," said House.

Another skeptical look. "Really?"

"No," House admitted. "It was really chewed on by a bear."

"Aunt Carrie says there are bears in New Jersey now," Meg added helpfully. As his family was going to sleep in a tent in the backyard that night, Matthew found this an unwelcome bit of news, but he wisely changed the subject.

"Are you my uncle now?" he asked.

"No," House said quickly.

Another long, considering look. "You're kind of grumpy," Matthew observed.

Meg laughed. "Uncle Grumpy!"

"Uncle Grumps!" Matthew amended. Their mother, Jackie, poked her head into the room.

"Are you guys bothering Dr. House?" she asked. The children looked at House beseechingly. He shook his head.

Jackie looked doubtful. "Well, if they start bugging you, don't hesitate to kick them out."

"I won't," House assured her. Jackie left. The children waited until she was out of earshot, then voted unanimously: "Doctor Grumps!"

"Do you want to see grumpy?" House demanded.

"Yes!" said Matthew, and sat back on his heels expectantly.

"I know a channel that has Bugs Bunny," Meg interjected. House handed her the remote. Two more nieces wandered in, then another nephew. When Carolyn appeared an hour later to call them for dinner, she found House presiding over a sea of children, laughing immoderately as Wile E. Coyote took another dive.

And even though the children persisted in referring to him as Dr. Grumps and followed him everywhere, House never got around to moving back to town that weekend. In truth, there was a part of him that had always yearned to be a Campbell; to be another loud, rambunctious member of that unruly tribe, laughing and crying with equal aplomb, taking life as it came instead of strategizing to get ahead and stay ahead every minute of every day.

In particular, he longed to be a Campbell son. Carolyn's two brothers were easy-going guys who both had lots of friends but preferred each other's company. They were irreverent and funny as hell. They liked beer, cars, motorcyles, and high-end electronics, and treated House like an honorary brother because he liked those things, too. They were lunatics who brought boxloads of fireworks to Carolyn's party for an orgy of pyrotechnics the night of the party, and they gave House a cigar for lighting fuses without questioning whether his bad leg could reliably carry him to safety. As it turned out, it did.

Carolyn's father was a little less welcoming. House supposed he'd heard an earload about his various misdeeds and walked a cautious circle around him all weekend, but the older man cornered him on the porch during Sunday brunch.

They sat in silence a moment, as if savoring the view. Then Don Campbell elaborately cleared his throat.

"I was surprised to hear that you and Carolyn were together again," he noted.

House nodded. There was another thoughtful silence.

"She looks happy," Campbell said finally.

"I hope so," said House, wishing he didn't still feel like a 17-year-old idiot in this man's presence.

"She is," Campbell confirmed. "I can tell. So I'm glad things are working out for you." Then he met House's eyes with a look of challenge. "Just don't hurt her," he said.

"I'll try," House mumbled, without conviction. "But you should know that I'm kind of a jerk. So no guarantees." Campbell gave him a level look.

"If it's important to you, you'll succeed," he said, and left House alone on the porch to think that one over.

And still he didn't escape into town.

-0-

House's thoughts carried him all the way to the farmhouse, where he mounted the back steps and caught the end of a ferocious fight between Carolyn and Angie.

"Fine! I'll go back to school tonight!" Angie was yelling. "And I won't come home for breaks, so you can have your perfect house, and your perfect truck, and your stupid boyfriend!" She stormed out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs.

"Do I want to know what that was all about?" House asked apprehensively.

Carolyn sighed. "On the surface, she was mad because I asked her not to leave dirty dishes all over the place."

"And the real explanation?"

"Separation anxiety," smiled Carolyn. "She's been picking fights with me ever since Jimmy said she could go back to school. It's easier to leave a home where you feel abused. Also, I think she broke up with Nate today, and she's probably wondering if she'll have anyone to hang around with this semester."

House tried to look surprised. "They broke up?"

"I think that's what's been going on for the past two hours. Lots of very intense discussion, anyway. And when Nate left a few minutes ago, his eyes were puffy and he gave me a big hug and said I would always be his other mother."

"I guess Angie didn't manage it very well," House said carefully.

Carolyn gave a rueful laugh and spread her arms in surrender. "Does anybody?"

House stepped into her arms and embraced her, inhaling the warm, faint fragrance of clean skin and hair, feeling her body automatically settling itself into the curves and angles of his own. He closed his eyes, but he did not relax completely.

Separation anxiety. House knew the throat-scraping anguish of losing someone, the weeks of feeling as if your very nerves were exposed, the pain of off-chance remembrance that never really went away. He was a fool to have risked going through that all over again. Much safer to sit, night after night, in a dimly lit apartment, with a bottle of emotionally uncomplicated whiskey and a television or laptop he could turn on and off at will. House often read the Weddings and Engagements section of the paper just to marvel at the moronic courage of the couples depicted. How could anyone look so cheerfully optimistic when the odds were 50-50 that they'd be divorced before their tenth anniversary? When the very vows they took referred to the day "when death do us part"? How could you enjoy today with the threat of separation always hanging over your head?

Carolyn drew away a little and searched his face. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You seem upset about something."

"Separation anxiety," House said dismissively. "I worry that someday you're going to wake up and think, Why did I let this complicated, difficult—read: pain-in-the-ass—guy into my house?

Carolyn laughed. "Don't you worry about that," she said. "I seem to like difficult pains in the ass."

This was true, House reflected. She'd been married for almost 20 years to Scott Barton, a raging asshole if there ever was one, and House was an authority on raging assholeness. If she could put up with Barton that long, it stood to reason that she ought to be able to put up with House for at least a couple of years, meaning he didn't need to worry about separating just yet.

And with that thought, House relaxed—just a little.