This chapter is a bit longer, but I have a busy week ahead of me, and I can't guarantee another update much before mid-week, if that.

Most of your comments and feedback for the last chapter were simply wonderful. Thank you so much! I am glad that you are enjoying this story.

I hope that you like this chapter as much as you did the last.

~ Sarah

Chapter Nine: A Negative Times a Negative Equals a Positive

It hadn't been much of a choice. After all, House didn't have a guest room, and he honestly couldn't see Cameron spending the next year on his sofa living out of cardboard boxes the way that Wilson had.

Proceeding on that theory, he had brought with him to her apartment several containers of his own belongings. Clothes, yes, but also the items vital to his sanity and well being – his Playstation, two of his favorite guitars, and his scotch. If House could have loaded his piano into his 'Vette, he would have, but it wasn't like he wasn't ever planning to go home. He guessed that he would probably find the need to flee to his Bastion of Bachelorhood more than once in the coming weeks and months. He'd work out his frustrations on the piano then. He had long ago come to the decision that it was in the best interest of his mental health to limit his exposure to all things Cameron.

And yet here you are moving in with her.

I'm taking care of her. It's a temporary thing.

If you want to call it that, by all means do.

Shut up.

House shoved the box of books he had been unpacking into the back of the closet in the guest room. He'd worry about them later. He really hated his inner voice, especially since it had started to sound more and more like Wilson.

The weekend, their first days of co-habitating – he was not living with her – went smoothly enough. Cameron spent most of her time sleeping. When she was awake, they watched TV together or he instructed her in the fundamentals of console gaming. House hadn't been surprised that she waved off Kill Zone 2 and Resident Evil 5, but was grateful she had chosen Command and Conquer – at least she was still blowing stuff up – over Zuma. House still couldn't figure out why he had bought that pansy-ass bead game in the first place. She was a quick study, too, and before long had won her first campaign.

Cameron had called to cancel the home nurse who had been scheduled to come the morning after House commandeered her guest bedroom, and after another day subsiding on take-out food, he had reluctantly taken her grocery shopping Sunday morning.

"You won't make it past the produce aisle," he said, pointing out that she was barely a week past major surgery and that her biggest outing to date had been the 15 minute drive home in Foreman's pathetic Mini Cooper.

"You don't know what I eat, and I'd rather not recuperate on beer, Corn Nuts, and take-out," she insisted.

As he had predicted, Cameron tired quickly. So it was with a self-righteous smile that House guided both her and the cart through the aisles of the market, dropping the items she pointed out – as well as several of his own – into the buggy. After watching her stumble twice, however, House finally moved Cameron behind the cart, even going so far as to physically wrap her hands around the handle.

"You push. I'll steer. I doubt we'll escape the dairy section alive any other way." House pulled his cane from the top basket where he had stowed it, and limped along side the cart as she pushed, keeping his free hand next to hers on the bar to guide them.

"You're right, I shouldn't have come," she admitted. He could hear the frustration in her voice. He knew that she had never been seriously ill, and he'd probably win heavily if he bet on the fact that she had never had surgery before.

He took them down the junk food aisle. As he grabbed a bag of potato chips, House felt Cameron sway next to him. House released the handle and moved his arm around her back, securing her between the buggy and his body.

She wasn't dizzy, just exhausted. Leaning against him, Cameron rested her head against his shoulder momentarily, grateful for the support.

House was about to insist they head home when he felt the warmth of her breath whisper against the skin beneath his partially open collar. Swallowing nervously once, then twice, House impulsively pulled her closer to him. She felt so good in his arms, but when Cameron rested her hand against his chest, he stiffened.

You idiot! You're nothing more than a convenient place to lean while she tries not to fall on her face again.

"That's it; we're done here." His voice was tender yet gruff, but brooked no argument.

Thankfully, the checkout line was short, and in no time House paid for their purchases – a quick, pointed glare silenced the protest he could sense forming on Cameron's lips when he handed over his cash to the cashier – and ushered her out of the market.

Cameron dozed in the seat next to him as he drove her car back to the apartment. House was grateful that she did. He was still unsettled about his reaction to holding her in his arms, and he really didn't trust himself enough to even talk about the weather.

House woke her with a gentle nudge when they arrived, and thankfully, Cameron managed to make it up the stairs to her apartment on her own, carrying a few of the lighter bags as she went. He wouldn't have been able to get them all up by himself.

The cripple and the cancer patient, he thought as he hobbled up the stairs behind her. What a pathetic pair we make.

"I'll put the food away," he told her, unpacking the bags on the kitchen counter once they were inside. "If I screw up your kitchen, you can yell at me later. Oh, and take the damn Percocet, would you? I don't want to hear you scream and moan like you did last night because you let the pain get ahead of you. That's why they call it pain management."

"This coming from the expert."

"Nice. Sarcasm. And here I thought you had learned all that you could from me."

"I was clearly wrong, 'Daddy,'" she said in a tone that mocked his own habit of referring to himself as the 'daddy of the ducklings'.

"Don't." House's voice had turned cold and firm. Groceries lay forgotten on the counter as he turned toward her.

Cameron raised her eyebrows in surprise. What had she said? The look in his eyes was one she had never seen before. It wasn't anger, but she didn't know what it was.

"Don't call me, that," he clarified, hobbling over to her where she leaned with her back against the door jamb of the kitchen. He towered over her petite frame. As had become his habit, House had left his cane hooked over the dining room chair when they entered, so he supported his weight by bracing himself with one hand against the door frame next to her head. He narrowed the distance between them until they were closer than they had been in the market.

He leaned toward her, his icy blue eyes never leaving her soft green ones. He was so close that she could taste him on the air they breathed in together – the oakiness of his beloved scotch, the tang of the morning coffee they had shared, the bitterness of his Vicodin. It was the flavor that was uniquely House. She had tasted of it only once in her life, but it had resonated so deeply in her soul that she had been haunted by the memory of that kiss for two long years.

"I may be old, but I am not your father." His whisper was harsh with emotion. His lips were curled with wry anger. He was so close to touching her mouth with his. All she needed to do was raise her head a fraction of an inch and they would be …

House's cell phone rang.

They didn't jump away from one another, but the moment – for, indeed, it had been a moment – was destroyed by the shrill pitch emitting from his jacket. House backed away slowly from Cameron and pulled the phone from his pocket. Turning from her, he pressed it to his ear. Cameron took the opportunity to catch her breath and calm her heartbeat.

House's conversation was short and mostly one sided. It didn't take Cameron long to figure out that his patient was crashing.

"I'll be fine," she said in an attempt to ease his concerned look when he finished the call. She could tell that while he knew he needed to get to his patient, he didn't like leaving her behind. One thing she had learned about House over the years was that when he committed to something, he saw it through from beginning to end. It was just getting him to commit to something that was almost unheard of. "I need a nap anyway. I promise not to take up full-contact karate while you're gone."

"Cute. I've put all of the perishables away so they won't spoil," he said, gesturing to the remaining bags on the counter. He grabbed his cane as he limped to the front door, "But if I find that you put away so much as that box of onion soup mix, I'll not be held responsible for my actions."

"Go save your patient," she told him, her voice understanding.

House paused for a moment, his hand on the door knob. His eyes were intent upon hers; he wanted to say something else, but he thought better of it and left the apartment.

With a quick twist of the bolt, Cameron locked the door behind him and leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the frame. It had been an eventful day, and it wasn't even noon yet. She almost hesitated to ask what the rest of her Sunday would bring.

**

Though she had told House that she planned to take a nap while he was gone, it was another two hours before Cameron finally lay down on her bed to do so. She had been starving, so she heated up the remains of the wonton soup in the microwave and ate it with some string cheese and crackers they had bought at the grocery. Popping down two of her Percocet to keep ahead of the pain she could feel starting to build under her right arm, she then headed for the bathroom and a quick sponge bath. Cameron couldn't wait until her appointment with Wilson tomorrow afternoon. She was scheduled to have her stitches and drains removed. Once that was done she could finally have a real shower.

Her hair – secure in its ponytail as it had been for most of the last week – was driving her crazy. The nurses had helped her wash it before she left the hospital, but that had been almost three days ago, and though the 'dry' shampoo she was to use in the meantime smelled nice, it made her hair feel dried out, stiff, and not at all clean. More than once Cameron considered shaving off the long, blonde curls altogether. She was going to lose it anyway, wasn't she?

Tossing into the hamper the loose cotton pants and button down shirt she wore, Cameron ran water in the sink to warm while she grabbed a wash cloth and her apricot gel from the shower caddy. Turning back, she caught a glimpse of her image in the mirror above the sink. She stood straight, but she looked oddly off balance. It was the wide, thick surgical dressing had taken the place of her right breast that made her appear so. Her left breast still sat high and firm on her chest, though if she was honest, not as high or firm as it had been just a few years ago.

Staring her reflection, Cameron fingered the edges of the clear surgical tape that held the bandage in place wondering for the countless time if she should just do it, just look and get it over with. Wilson would never let her hear the end of it if she came to her appointment tomorrow not having taken this critical emotional and psychological step.

Keeping her eyes trained on her reflection in the mirror, Cameron took a deep breath and tugged on the corner of a piece of tape. It stuck firmly to her skin. Her nurse had done a good job making sure her handiwork would last through the weekend.

She tugged again. The tape pulled back an inch under the pressure, leaving the skin beneath pink and just a bit hazy with adhesive. Her hand began to shake, and an unexpected wave of nausea washed over her. Heart racing, Cameron grabbed the edge of the sink and quickly sat down on the closed lid of the commode. She dropped her head between her legs, breathing cautiously to try to regain control.

Tears slipped silently down her face onto the cold, hard tile beneath her bare feet.

She couldn't do it. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

Tomorrow. She would do it tomorrow when she got home, after the stitches were out.

What about Wilson?

He would just have to learn to live with disappointment, she decided.

Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, Cameron stood up and soaked the washcloth in the running water. Taking a breath that was as cleansing as the shower gel she lathered onto the cloth, she began her bath.

She didn't look into the mirror again.

When she was dry, Cameron slipped into a fresh pair of underwear and her favorite yoga pants. She padded carefully to her closet and slipped on a new, dark purple button-down shirt she had bought before her surgery. Unlike the ones she typically wore to work, her new wardrobe of shirts was simple, unadorned, and loosely cut. In fact, she had purchased them – fifteen in all – on clearance from the men's department. The thicker fabric of the winter weave and the bagginess as it hung on her small frame were perfect for disguising that which she didn't want to share with the whole world.

By the time she pulled back the covers of her bed, Cameron felt like she could sleep for a week. The Percocet had finally kicked in, and the sharp pain that had started along the right side of her chest had turned to a dull ache. Tucking the new body pillow Wilson had given her beneath her right arm for support, she nestled into the feather pillows behind her and closed her eyes.

In spite of her fatigue, sleep was slow in coming. She had kept herself busy these last few hours so she wouldn't have to think about her encounter in the kitchen with House. Now that she was at rest, she didn't know what to think.

House was still the acerbic son-of-a-bitch she fell in love with. Still the same curmudgeonly bastard that she knew she would never have. He still pushed her, questioned her, and mocked her. For all that, though, there was a new element about him that she was beginning to sense but still could not name.

Worry? She had seen him worried before. Was that it? In spite of his protestations and actions to the contrary, House was not a callous man.

Correction, generally speaking he was about as insensitive a human being as they came, but for those who were close to him, for those few he let past the stronghold guarding his heart, he cared deeply – Foreman when he was dying from the Naegleria parasite, Wilson after Amber's death, Cuddy after Joy's mother had taken the baby back. Cameron suspected that House was worried about her. He would never admit it, but with House actions usually spoke much louder than words when his emotions were in play. Why else would he choose taking care of her as his blackmail payout? No. He might be worried about her – odd considering he still claimed that he didn't even like her – but that wasn't what she sensed.

Passion?

Well, lust had never been a problem between them. The current of sexual tension that had ebbed and flowed through the Diagnostics Department for the three years Cameron had worked for House was the stuff of legend – if one believed all that the hospital gossips had to say on the subject. Those gossips would have had a field day with the scene in her kitchen. Cameron could still feel the sensual pressure of his hand as it curled around her hip, holding her in place against the wall, but unlike the game of cat and mouse he had played with her for so many years, there was more to it this time.

She had seen it in his eyes. House had been genuinely irritated when she called him 'Daddy', and seemed to have set out to prove that he had no intention of playing the elderly patriarch in their odd, little, non-family unit. What he would have done, what they would have done, had he not been called to the hospital …

Cameron chose, very deliberately, not to think about it or she'd never get any rest.

Even as the effects of the medication insisted she sleep, pulling her down into the dreamlessness that had been her refuge since the surgery, Cameron's mind struggled to hold fast as it replayed her interactions with House over the last few days. The insistent way in which he made sure she kept ahead of the pain, the understanding but unvoiced laughter in his eyes as she struggled with her surgical drains, the gentleness of his hands over hers as he taught her to use the game control of the video game …

She was on to something, she was sure of it, but the pull of the narcotic became unrelenting. Her mind became a jumble of images, none of which she could fit together anymore. As she surrendered to sleep, Cameron tried desperately to cling to her final thought. One that she knew held her answer but would likely be gone from her when she woke.

Why? Why had he had been so tender …

**

Save for the dim glow which came from the guest bathroom, the apartment was dark when House opened the door. He had been gone nearly twelve hours, and he was mentally and physically exhausted. The headache which had formed after spending only 15 minutes in the company of his ducklings had continued to throb throughout the day in spite of the several Vicodin he had taken for his leg which hurt even more than his head did.

He needed a drink.

However, he gravitated not to the kitchen and his favorite bottle of scotch. Instead, House found himself leaning on his cane in the doorway of Cameron's bedroom watching her sleep. She looked terribly uncomfortable propped up as she was against the tall stack of pillows. She was a side-sleeper by nature, she had told him – her right side – and he knew that it would be a long time before she was ready to sleep comfortably in that position again. The pillows, especially the long one under her right arm, kept her from moving around too much as she slept, but she was by no means comfortable.

He watched her sleep.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He watched her eyelids flutter in the depths of REM. He watched her long, graceful finger clench and slacken in response to a dream she probably would not remember. He watched her lips purse, then frown, the curve into a slight smile that brought a small, sad one to his own.

House moved closer to her bed, and still he watched her sleep, grateful for the knowledge that she would awaken come the morning.

He rubbed his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. He was weary down to his bones. He felt defeated. He felt alone.

"House?"

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. Cameron's eyes were questioning yet warm in spite of the haze of sleep that still clung to her mind.

"We got the diagnosis," House said in answer to her unasked question. "It was Lupus, after all."

"Really?" She was stunned. When last she heard, the patient had been presenting new symptoms that weren't indicative of Lupus.

"But it wasn't just Lupus. Fulminant myocarditis."

"You're kidding me!" Cameron pushed herself up in bed. "Sudden onset viral heart disease? The odds of contracting it are ..."

"One in a million … literally," House confirmed. His voice was flat, hollow. "I caught it too late. Mrs. Timmerman died about an hour ago."

"House … I'm ..." Cameron had been about to say that she was sorry, but she stopped the words before they completely formed in her throat. In his mind, House had failed. He had failed to solve the puzzle, and therefore had failed to beat the disease that killed his patient. Nothing she could say would be a balm to the mental wounds he would inflict upon himself. "You must be tired," she said instead.

He nodded.

"Lie down," she said, indicating the empty space on the bed next to her.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "As much as I know you'd like me to take you up on your offer, I'm not really up for bedroom gymnastics tonight, and I sure as hell know you're not," House said, seeking shelter in his sarcasm.

"It wasn't that kind of offer, and you know it. Suit yourself," she said, shrugging her shoulders indifferently. Cameron knew that pressing this issue would only solidify his resolve. Taking a pain pill from the bottle on her nightstand, she swallowed it with water from her glass and settled back down among the pillows, closing her eyes. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

Fifteen seconds turned to thirty, thirty turned to forty-five as she lay there with her eyes closed, wondering if she had seriously misinterpreted House's actions earlier that day. Her offer of support and comfort had been genuine with no ulterior motives, but if he was still as indifferent to her as he had always claimed to be, she would sleep alone tonight.

At seventy seconds Cameron had accepted her fate when she heard first one running shoe then another drop to the floor. They were followed by a rustle of fabric that she assumed was his jacket. The mattress next to her dipped, and when she opened her eyes, House lay next to her, eyes closed, arms folded casually over his stomach.

"Sleep well, House," she said before closing her eyes again.

Cameron was almost asleep when he moved again. She felt his fingers brush hesitantly against hers, and then thinking her asleep, he caressed the inside of her palm before claiming her hand completely with his own.

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