A/N:I am so sorry it took so long. (Special apology to kizzy7-sorry I didn't wait. I get....antsy? haha) Anyway,I really hope you all like this chapter. And...well, that's it! Oh, also, I have a semi-newish one-shot called Pomegranate. Read it if you'd like! I really like it. Generally, I find myself posting one-shots in between chapters. Oh well.

Thanks

-Jen

Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of it's characters, Indiana by John McLaughlin, or any other familiar brand names etc.

It's nights like these you wish you were alone.

Nights when your body flip flops around the king sized bed, aching to find comfort in some nook and cranny of the mattress.

Your body freezes in place, hands glued to your side, eyes clamped shut, your toes are even pointed. The twang of pain in the small of your back pulses through your hips now. Your tin body creeks, as you slightly shift to find a new position.

Corey has to be up early in the morning, and you know how he needs his sleep. Many painstakingly long nights in the E.R. taught you how to live without sleep.

The sharp stabbing feeling in your back beats rhythmically. You consider lurking over to House's room to steal a Vicodin. Your rusted bones creak when you hoist yourself into a proper sitting position. Gingerly, you let your legs lead you out of your bedroom. You tip toe, on your baby ballerina feet, to the threshold of your past.

Cold against cold, your cheek rests along on the whitewashed wooden door, and satellite styled ears search for signs of alien life forms. Your hand reaches for the bronze colored doorknob, but reaches an abrupt halt. The sound of a pen scratching on a pocket sized notebook languidly surges into your stream of hearing.

It seems impossible to ignore the pounding of your heart against the thin layer of skin that covers your chest. A thousand and one doubts rush through your mind.

Why should you walk right into the a death trap of humiliation?

Why should you subject yourself to taunting and teasing?

You open the door, praying that the hibernating grizzly bear truly is in a deep sleep.

The lights are out. An errant Holiday Inn pen and pad of paper are placed strategically on the night stand. Still, House's blue eyes are out of sight. Only his slightly wrinkled lids face diagonally towards you. You chuckle at your sudden awareness. Your new-found (and temporary) sustenance is held captive in the translucent orange bottle, and sealed with a child proof cap.

You wonder how House opens it.

With thumb and pointer finger in a ready position, you pick up the bottle with your makeshift chopsticks.

The familiar calloused hands encircle your wrist, causing the sole ailment to your pain to clatter on the floor.

"Oh!" you cry like Dorothy from Oz. Quickly, your brain files through ways to exculpate yourself.

"Boo," he states plainly, still clutching your wrist so tight that the tips of your fingers become a powdered white. With a free hand, he motions for you to pick up his medicine. Bending down at the waist, you fumble with his pills when he lets go of your wrist.

As you reach for the cap, he swats your hand. "No touchy," he reprimands, before swallowing one.

"How did you..." you begin, questioning your own stealth. You look at your appearance, and cringe. Suddenly, you feel tawdry in his presence.

"Can you say maraca?" he patronizes, shaking the bottle side to side creating his own music, "Whaddya say? A one way trip to Meh-Hee-Coh, kid? We sure as hell could make a living on the streets. Tourists love this."

"I didn't even..." He shakes the bottle fiercely in your face to freeze your incoherent words.

Your eyebrows knit in desperation and you gesture to the pain in your lower back. Begrudgingly, he hands you one. The feeling of a whole pill in your throat lingers, as you castigate yourself for not finding a glass of water. Dry swallowing pills took practice and sheer will.

"Thanks" you grit out, with barely a whisper.

"So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?" He nonchalantly glides, propping himself up against the over fluffed pillows.

"You're the only one with a free pass for painkillers." you remind him, glancing evasively at his leg.

"Oh, so it wasn't for my hot bod?" he smirks with a drowsy flip of the hair You shake your head, with a toothy grin.

"Good. I mean, with jailbait like you..." he clicks his tongue cautiously at the end of his thought.

His forget-me-not eyes dust you with invisible pollen, as they scan down your body. Up, down, and back up again.

He's x-raying you. So the only words that you can fathom to save yourself are:

"Goodnight," you utter with a crackled breath.

"You're leaving?"

"It's three in the morning. I've got to be up early for work, and I'm tired"

"So stay here. Corey seems like he'd be a monster if he's woken up too soon"

"He a deep sleeper."

"It's probably the only thing deep about him. Really Cameron, he's such a tool. What the hell would make you marry him?"

You warn him with your eyes. Then your hands, as they ease down his arms, soothingly relaxing his tensed muscles. He calms down physically, though his words still bite with the same

rigid tone.

"Goodnight." you repeat from before, with a tone mixed with warm honey and vanilla. You saunter towards the doorframe, only to be tasered by his harsh, clamorous voice.

"No. Don't go." he demands like the child he is. He would never beg you to stay, never ask you to comfort him. Begging and comforting are menial tendencies that can only subject oneself to a lower status.

You slink towards him, and grace him with your presence. His eyes pour into yours, telling you a thousand truths in a thousand different languages- none of them your own.

There is one thing you understand, though.

"You like me," you realize

"I tolerate you, there's a difference. Webster would agree with me."

"You have a crush on me."

"A crush? Reason numero uno why 'Cameron' sounds oddly like 'jail bait'." he attempts to terminate any idea of a possible future between the two of you.

You hold your hands above your chest in defense.

"House. I'm not the one pining, remember" you wave your empty ring finger at him.

"Someone's missing a ring."

"It's by my bed."

"Yeah, but you didn't bring it in my room. You dismantled your shield. You're the one that wants me to throw you onto the bed and have me deflower you."

You chuckle at his blunt response, though you correct his mistake.

"I'm not a virgin, House, far from it." You think you see his muscles clench like yours do. It's possible you saw a lump of his terror slide down his throat.

"Oh, that's right, you've been wedded and bedded two times too many."

Waves of embarrassment adorned with whitecaps of anger flush over you. You erase the thin lines of space between the two of you, and grunt in his ear, "Don't"

"What? Marriage is for the weak." he divulges his analysis on even more aspects of your life.

"Why? Giving yourself to someone to make a lifetime of commitment? That's hard work. It's grueling and difficult, but the reward is... indescribable."

"Oh please. This isn't a after school special or a Hallmark card. Marriage makes people unselfish. Unselfish people are boring."

'And yet, you still want me here." You cross your arms and tap your fingers on your skin, playing a song that only the two of you know.

That common, complex tango the two of you engage in every time your eyes meet.

"Fine, go. Whatever." He brushes you off, after a serious of awkward looks. You should have known better than to expect a clear answer from him. You should have known he'd waffle around the question, like the inner politician he was. Nothing could destroy the image he set up for himself.

"Goodnight," You say for the third and final time, pivoting towards the dark hallway.

Towards your cluttered bed, filled with a man who wanted nothing more than to showcase you like the trophy wife you were.

Towards your new life that had grown bitter and old.

For a moment you want to pivot right back around again and steal another Vicodin, and take a swig of his drink.

"Goodnight." he responds once you reach the border lines of his world and yours.

Losing inhibitions, you ronde de jambe around, facing his slightly illuminated head. You walk quickly, not leaving any time to change your mind. You open Pandora's Box and plant a full mouthed kiss on his lips, pressing hard against his teeth.

He is the one to purse his lips and complete the action.

He is the one to open his mouth and start anew.

He is the one to slide his tongue on top of yours.

He is the one to elicit a small grunt when you break away.

You smile, and use the tip of your tongue to erase any trace of him from your lips.

"You like me," you inform with a half opened mouth.

Nodding in conformation, you exit and sleep in bed with your husband.

His Holiday Inn pen makes more scratch marks on the note pad.