You ought to know just what you're in for

I won't ever be

The things you want from me

I can try but I know better

-Plus/minus

The Call

She is being awakened.

She feels the dip of the mattress next to her curled up legs and a gentle hand shaking her shoulder softly.

"I'm going to work now."

She squints an eye over to the digital clock on her nightstand.

9:30.

"Okay"

He gives her one last cursory glance before pushing himself off the bed and out her door.

She succumbs to sleep again.

When she awakes for the second time she decides that it's time to get up. As she walks into her bathroom, she detects a faint layer of moisture lingering in the air, and a

barely visible film of steam covering the mirror above the sink.

He showered in her apartment.

Curious, she continues on to the kitchen.

She sees a used bowl and spoon placed in the sink.

He ate in her apartment.

There is half a pot of coffee waiting for her and the morning paper is spread out on her breakfast nook table.

She is left gaping in the middle of her kitchen.

She is smiling.

She is stitching a gaping flesh wound and she is smiling.

People in the ER must think she has finally lost it.

She is literally giddy.

By the time lunch rolls around she is significantly less giddy. Four patients with four different types of seeping STDs will do that to you. She decides to head up to diagnostics

and see what House is doing. Maybe he needs her input on a case. She rounds the corner expecting to see the new team huddled around the glass table, with House

standing at the white board; however, the conference room is empty. She looks into the adjoining office to see House talking on the phone with someone.

He looks distinctly unhappy.

She enters his office, the sound of displaced air alerting him to her presence. He hastily says his goodbyes and hangs up. He looks distracted, far off.

"Everything okay?" She asks because she is curious about his mood.

He responds,

"Yeah, just fine."

She nods, awkwardness is filling the room.

"Want to get lunch?"

He looks at his watch and then back at her.

"I can't," he draws out the words, "something came up. I have to go talk to Wilson."

"Oh okay." She says, stumbling over her words.

He hobbles past her, his hand brushing her elbow on his way out the door.

She can't help her curiosity.

When he is out of sight she goes over to his phone. The display shows the most recent call coming from area code 410.

410? Who's calling from Baltimore?

She is on autopilot the rest of the day.

She is worried.

Something is up.

Later, while she packs her things up in the locker room, her phone beeps.

Meet me-your place

Soon she is opening her front door.

She knows he is already inside.

She knows he stole her spare key.

Upon entering she notices the TV is on but muted and a bottle of something is opened and half-empty on the coffee table. He is on her couch, one hand glued to his brow, the

other holding his glass of the something. She drops her bag by the door and moves to sit beside him on the couch.

He looks incredibly sullen.

Something is obviously the matter.

She tucks her legs up underneath her body and waits.

She waits because she knows there is nothing else she can do.

He stares at the glass in his hand. Rolling his wrist, the ice clinks in the tumbler. The sound reverberates in the intensely quiet room.

"My Dad is dead."

He downs the rest of his drink.

Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a silent "oh" with shock. She has no clue what to say, so she refrains from speaking at all.

"My mom called. The funeral is on Sunday."

His mom, area code 410 from Baltimore.

She knows very little of his relationship with his father, but from what little information she has gathered, she does know the situation was volatile.

"Are you going to go?" She tries for nonchalance but her voice wavers.

He shrugs,

"Don't have much choice in the matter. My mom and Wilson are playing tag team on this one."

She nods and stays quiet. He leans forward, places his elbows on his knees and rubs his chin.

"I haven't seen her in over a year." He says in reference to his mother.

She hesitates before asking, fearing his reaction.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

He turns his head to look at her and she registers a look of faint surprise on his face.

Yeah, I care that much

He quickly recovers.

"No, it isn't worth your time."

She is disappointed. She wanted him to need her.

What were you expecting?

"Okay."

She rubs his back in what she hopes are soothing strokes and not annoying touches. He recognizes what she is doing.

"I'm fine. I hated him, he hated me, he's dead, it's over."

She feels his body tense under her fingertips and she knows he has shut himself off from her.

From everyone.

She withdraws her hand and he stands to leave.

"I'll be gone until Tuesday."

The door closes loudly.

He has left her confused and alone.

Again.

To compensate for his absence she works.

During the slow hours her mind wanders back to him.

She thinks there has to be more to this story.

Nobody just develops this kind of loathing without reason. The death of his father has to affect him somehow. Just because he can read her every emotion like a book doesn't

mean the roles haven't reversed a little. She knows the death of his father has rattled him more than he is willing to let on.

Not that it matters.

Their conversation in her home the day before reaffirmed the distance he keeps between them.

His lack of need for her.

In her eyes, he made it clear that was an aspect of his life she wouldn't be privy to.

She whittles away the hours until his return.

Tuesday seems so far off.

She can only hope that the funeral will bring some kind of closure and a better mood, even if it was forced upon him. By Sunday Cuddy has sent her home; something about

lack of sleep. She's pretty sure the words 'negligence' and 'liability' were used as well.

Great, now she has two whole days off.

Two days spent worrying about him and whether he'll come back from his dad's funeral, hackles raised, shoving her at arm's length. She considers calling him then quickly

douses that idea.

She meets up with Chase and Foreman. She puts on the 'I'm okay' façade.

They don't know about her and House, no one does.

Oddly, she likes it that way.

There is nobody bothering them, offering their ill-advised advice. Monday night comes and goes with sloth-like pace. She had a few half-assed attempts at reading and

charting, but it would only take a minute or two for her mind to be completely lost to him.

Finally it's Tuesday.

She realizes he didn't specify the time of his return.

Tuesday mid afternoon? 11:59 Tuesday night? She would like to see the end marker of her agony.

She checks her phone obsessively.

No missed calls

It is late and there is still no word from him.

She figures he is tired and probably just went straight home and to bed. She is lying in bed wide awake, the repression of unshed tears giving her a headache.

Then she hears something.

The faint jiggling of keys and the lock of her front door sliding open.

Fear shoots through her body until she hears the 'thump' of the rubber point of his cane meeting the hard wood of her floorboards.

It is obvious he is creeping- keeping silent to avoid waking her. Inwardly she is screaming,

He came to you! He came to you!

When he reaches her bedroom she calls to him.

"It's okay, I'm not asleep."

He tosses his cane in the general direction of her lounge chair, but he misses and it falls with a loud clatter.

Although I do have neighbors

She cannot see him in the darkness but she can hear him undressing.

When he slides into her bed, she refrains from touching him, unable to gauge his mood.

He rolls over and places his head on her chest.

He holds her body, his large, warm, hands extending from her ribcage to the middle of her stomach.

He breathes in deeply and exhales a somewhat shaky breath.

They stay in this position for several minutes.

His voice is vulnerable and sort of muffled by his current location,

"My dad is dead."

One hand plays with the hair at his temple while the other hand is resting on his bicep. She whispers to him,

"I know." She is desperately searching for something to say. "How's your mom?"

"She's alright." She can tell he is uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

"Are you?" She has to ask because it has been killing her for the past three days.

He is quiet.

She feels a rhythm known only to him being tapped out on her stomach. She figured he had simply ignored her question until,

"I am now."

Her mind is racing.

What does that mean?

As in I'm okay 'now that I'm here with you.'

Or 'now that I got closure at the funeral.'

Or 'now that he's finally dead.'

There are so many possibilities.

"I hate him."

There goes the closure idea

She remembers when he compared her to his father.

'My dad is just like you.'

Glad he thinks so highly of me

"You can't keep hating a dead person." She says in a quiet voice.

He scoffs,

"Wanna bet?"

He moves away from her and out of their embrace.

She thinks he is angry with her, but then she sees him clutch his leg and wince. She figures his leg must be stiff from the long drive.

"Is there anything I can do?" She asks referring to his leg. He stares at her for a long moment.

It's like he is searching her for the source of her benevolence.

"You could rub it for me I guess."

She moves towards him and straddles the lower half of his marred leg.

She starts to gently knead his thigh, but his hands cover hers, applying more pressure to the wound. After several minutes, he relaxes into the mattress.

"You know," he begins, "I wouldn't be opposed to some light fondling."

She laughs at him, taking this as her cue to stop her massage. She moves up his body until her face is hovering over his. She leans forward and kisses him softly.

"I'm betting you're probably pretty worn out." She moves off of him, her playfulness evident in her attempt to lighten the mood.

He lifts up the sheet and looks down.

"Did you hear that? She just insulted you."

He lays back and looks at her, his eyes mirroring her momentary softness.

She reaches out and touches his chin.

"I'm going to sleep." She says.

He nods.

She turns on her side away from him, but a strong arm pulls her across the empty expanse of bed and up against his body.

He says nothing.

She smiles.

She smiles because in this moment he needs her.