As the night wears on, the two bottles that had stood as sentinels to grease-speckled takeout boxes become four. Then eight. Then twelve. Wilson sips at his third while House nurses the dregs of his ninth; his eyes tinged red and his initial declination to discuss the events of the previous evening descending into an irritable commentary on Cameron's shortcomings.
He has managed to retell the tale of arriving at the blonde's empty apartment with a suitable dose of disdain for his ex-employee's stupidity, and scowls in frustration when Wilson adopts a horrified expression as he gets to the part about the blood coating her bathtub.
"Jesus!"
"Idiot."
"Shit... I mean... What the hell was she thinking?!"
"Evidently she wasn't!"
House's words concerning the blonde since then have been cruel, and Wilson imagines he has a fairly good idea why.
House is as private as he is proud.
She should never have mentioned their dinner.
The notion is ridiculous, as any sane person would surely agree, but he has known the man that sits slumped beside him for too long now to mistake him for falling into this category. Still, as House's words become ever more venomous towards the young blonde, he finds himself growing tired of listening to such unnecessary sniping. He doesn't know Cameron intimately well, but he likes her well enough, and upon hearing about the injury she had sustained at her own hand he is somewhat disturbed.
Partly out of concern for the young woman.
Partly at the idea of she and House feeding off of each other's somewhat damaging sense of pride.
"Well, whatever, it's a good thing that you checked up on her..."
A glower at this, and House pushes himself up from the sofa, muttering that Wilson would do well to shut up.
He limps outside to sit sullenly on the step by the front door, the evening air carrying a frigid bite, but no wind. He is dimly aware of the fact that the dull anger he feels towards Cameron is almost entirely unjustified; knowing the young doctor well enough to be certain she wouldn't have gone around talking about their evening spent in each other's company to just anybody. What irks him is that she has told Wilson, as it is the oncologist who forever decrees to hound him in regards to their peculiar relationship.
What irks him is that dinner with the blonde had actually been really quite, well, pleasant.
What irks him is that no matter how hard he has tried to push Cameron away, she seems always to be on hand.
Always hopeful.
No. Not hopeful; that's not entirely fair. Whatever flame she had once held for him has long since burnt out, and she has made no secret of that fact. She isn't the same little girl he had originally hired- a decision made more out of curiosity than anything else; her grades and recommendations no better than plenty of the other applicants- yet nor has she entirely outgrown him as the other two have.
She had outgrown the job, yes... But whereas Chase and Foreman have a career as their only objective, Cameron has never endeavoured- nor failed, as in the case of the neurologist- to cut any ties. She has grown up, and she has wisened up. What hidden bitterness she had once carried- a bitterness he had initially presumed to be a result of her husband's death- is now more apparent; the blonde forever kind, but laced with a peculiar hardness; a little like biting down on tin foil.
She is no longer his little girl... But there is a part of her that will always remain his.
Whether he likes it or not.
And this evening he does not. He doesn't like it one bit.
Doesn't like the way his mind has kept wandering back to the skinny blonde since coming to her aid. Doesn't like the way she had scared him- actually scared him- by not being home when he had broken in. Doesn't like the way his stomach flips when he thinks of the bloody smears that had tainted white enamel. Doesn't like the way she crawls under his skin like a parasite. Like a virus.
Doesn't like the way he can't just react the way he imagines any normal person would react to the fact that his initial dread had turned into a surprisingly pleasant evening.
That he can't just look back on their dinner and acknowledge it for the simple thing it had been to his own best friend.
He is plagued by his own parting words- his offer that she should call him should she need to- and the vulnerability they had lent him.
His mind flashes with the image of her lips- slightly purple from the wine he knows will have coloured her tongue should she have stuck it out for him- and the way she had spoken about her life in a hatefully intimate way.
He is angry.
He is angry with her for putting him in such a position.
He is angry with her for continuing to trust him when he continues to screw her over.
He is angry with her for being weak.
For treating him as though he were a friend.
His teeth feel numb and his face feels loose and he knows he's drunk, and that it's entirely her fault.
Getting up from the stoop and grabbing his cane from its resting place against the wall, it isn't until he walks two blocks and turns a right that he realises where he's going.
But then, this is nothing new.
Raising an eyebrow in surprise as the metallic buzz of her intercom fills the room, Cameron places her wine glass carefully on the coffee table and turns down the corner of the page in her book.
Shouldn't do that, Allison, it ruins the paper. Just look at the state of these! And, oh god, girl, is that highlighter?! What would you go and do that for?!
Mindy's voice, not hers, and she cordially ignores it just as she had done all those years ago.
Padding curiously over to the small speaker by the door, she depresses the communication button after a brief pause.
"Hello?"
Static crackle but nothing more.
"Hello?"
"Ca...n"
She frowns; the voice on the other end so distorted that she doesn't quite catch enough to suss that the jumbled sound resembles her name.
"Um, this is Allie... Can I help you?"
"Allie... Allie? Really? Ser-sly... uckin'... cute..."
Brow furrowing deeper as she recognises the owner of the irritable grumbling despite the fractured delivery, she hesitates for a moment as she tries to get a handle on the situation before pressing the button on her end once more.
"House?!"
Receiving no further answer, she simply presses the small silver button that centres the intercom to allow him to enter.
Hurrying to her bedroom to find a sweater to cover the thin camisole she wears over her pyjama shorts, she is back at her front door and peering out into the hallway by the time the telling thunk of House's cane hails his imminent presence.
