Disclaimer: I own a house; I own "House" on dvd; I like the movie "My Life as a House." As for the Fox show and its characters, they belong to a power greater than me: David Shore.

A/N: Thanks to ColorOfAngels for beta brilliance. Anything awkward that remains is my own fault.

This chapter is dedicated to Angela Burrows for being an amazing reader and for her praise and encouragement. Thanks, Angela.

This is rated T, but contains frank language and adult situations.

If you think, "Me likee," if you think, "I want more," please review to tell me so. It's that little blue button at the bottom of the page.

A kiss is a kiss is a kiss.

That's all it is, she thinks:

A taste of what's to come, an appetizer tray where each morsel teases the tongue like a courtesan, heightens sensation, and whips up a craving for more of the same.

And then some:

Caviar on a cracker, tiny orange eggs exploding in the mouth, a single oyster rich with the tang of an ocean, or one lick of a summer-sweet strawberry.

A kiss is an experiment, a flirtation with flavor.

It's a prelude to hunger, and kissing House has left Cameron ravenous. She tastes his mouth in her own, still feels the warmth of his hands on her body.

J'Aurais Toujours Faim De Toi: I'm so hungry for you.

The pizza they shared at Deuce's the night before is a distant memory.

But it's not a lack of food that makes her stomach ache.

"You still hungry?" House slams the phone into its cradle, ending Wilson's questions with an exclamation point, and turns to Cameron.

"Hungrier." She absently rubs her lower abdomen, causing a pang in his groin, a sensation close to pain.

Up and down, his eyes travel over her body, settling on the sensitive tips of her breasts. "I like the sound of that," he says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

A cold shower is nowhere in her immediate future, so Cameron talks House into walking to Tiffany's. A breath of fresh air might clear her head for the game of 20 Questions.

She uses her mom's favorite method of persuasion:

"If you walk over, I'll buy you breakfast."

Food incentives always worked with her dad.

House squints at her skeptically. "Sounds like exercise," he says, as if the word were a pickle. "Got a bum leg."

"Bummer. No reason to let the rest of you atrophy. We're walking," she insists, pointing out the window at the beautiful day.

The paper-bark maple she gave House that first Christmas grows in the patch of lawn where his landlord let her plant it. She had done it on the sly as a joke after a conversation they'd had about God. "Are you comparing me to God?" he had asked. "I mean, that's great, but just so you know, I've never made a tree."

No, but you save people, she'd thought at the time. You give life to the dying, and hope to the hopeless.

On the card she'd sent him, she'd wrote, "So you've never made a tree, but you've never killed one either. Don't start now, or I'll know you're just a minor deity."

As they step out into the sunlight, she notices the buds of its leaves unfurling, and the coffee grounds scattered on the earth underneath it, fertilizing it. If House tended his cactus, perhaps he also cared for his tree, she speculated. Or maybe it was just the landlord beautifying his property.

The pair cut through Marquand Park on their way to the café. Cameron had always loved the ambiance of the park, with its specimen trees and flowering bushes, and today was no different, but she winced when she spotted the sign for Lover's Lane – the road the park bordered. Maybe House wouldn't notice, she hoped in vain.

House never missed anything, except his leg the way it used to be.

"If we took the car, we could have parked and groped," he thrust his cane at the sign.

"In your day I think they called it 'petting,'" Cameron joked.

"Depends on which 'day' you're talking about. In my day they also called it free love." House flashed her a peace sign, and indicated a secluded patch of park with his cane. "Hipsters would get naked, take psychedelics, and make love under the sky to a Joe Cocker soundtrack."

Cameron smiles at the picture his words evoked. "No heavy metal ballads? No getting down to K.C. and the Sunshine band?"

"If ya can't do a little dance, ya can't make a little love. The 70s sucked."

"Hey, don't complain. Try making out to Nirvana. It's jarring. Anyway, you can dance." For this observation, House gripped Cameron's upper arm as he turned her to look at him.

"Only one way to get me to dance." House surveyed the park, and glanced down at his sneakers.

"Is it a state secret?" she jokes. He nodded, looking back up at her, and placing his index finger against her lips.

"Buddy Guy. 'Feels Like Rain.' It's in a CIA file along with … never mind." He pushes her gently on ahead of him as he leans down to massage his leg.

She stops to admire a lilac bush, a ruse while she waits for him to catch up.

Its flowers thrive.

Its odor cloys.

Green sprouts push through the earth, soon to be hyacinths, daffodils, and tulips.

House looks on while Cameron pauses near a stand of beech trees to watch an old man with a cane walking his golden retriever.

"Can I pet your dog?" she asks him courteously.

The octogenarian nods his consent while he and House eye each other's canes. Cameron holds her hand out for the dog to sniff, but the dog already approves of her, and extends a paw.

She knelt down and dug her hands into the dog's fur, accepting its enthusiastic kisses, while House shook his head, amused.

"She likes you," the old man says to Cameron.

"Of course she does," House mutters under his breath.

As they continue toward Tiffany's, he rolls his eyes and says, "Like I couldn't see that coming a block away."

Cameron just grins.

Tiffany's has been her sanctuary since she moved to Princeton, her retreat.

If she had to pick one word to describe the place, she'd call it earthy. The décor is in soothing shades of terracotta and turquoise, accented with bright red. Karl, a local potter with a gift for glazes, makes all the bowls, plates, and mugs. His clay urns filled with aloe plants, cacti, jade, and Norfolk Island pine trees are artfully placed within the establishment. On the tables are his curvy vases filled with pussy willows and dried lavender.

It seems like more of a home to her at times than her own apartment, which strikes her as sterile.

She spends more time at the hospital than at her residence.

When she isn't at either place, she's often at Tiffany's, nursing a coffee, or writing in her old, leather bound journal, a Christmas gift from House.

The notebook has this inscription:

Cameron,

Here's how to keep your feelings to yourself. (Better post security around this baby).

– House

Tiffany's coffee is like an illicit love affair – irresistible, heady. (If John were still alive, he would write a poem about it, she thinks.)

The food is made with fresh ingredients from the farmer's market.

Just walking in the door is an assault on the olfactory senses, and Cameron breathes in the aromas as she and House push open the door to the coffee house: baked goods, java (of course), bacon, and fried potatoes.

Cameron immediately spots Tiffany chatting with the potter, Karl, at a corner table and heads over to say hi, while House scours the place for a cozy booth. That's when he sees Wilson seated at a choice table, nursing a crème caramel latte with whipped cream and unconsciously swaying to music from his iPod. The oncologist is dressed in full doctor's regalia: slacks, a starched white shirt, red tie, Italian shoes, and white lab coat.

As stealthy as a cripple with a cane can be, House sneaks up behind his friend and rips the iPod phones out of his ears. The tinny whine of Michael Jackson, "She's Out of My Life," leaks out of the earpiece like puss from a secret sore.

"That song was pre-Lisa Marie," House muses, sinking into the opposite seat and gripping his leg with a grimace. "You're feeling guilty about an ex. The only question is which one. Is it Julie? Bonnie?" Glancing at Wilson's coffee confection, he says, "Kind of girly, don't you think?"

"We had plans," Wilson seethes, brushing a swath of brown hair back from his forehead. "What took you so long? I have to get back and cover the clinic or Cuddy will have my ass."

"Don't think that's the end of you she's interested in," House remarked. Reaching in his rucksack for the orange vial of Vicodin, he scoops and swallows.

"You said you'd be here at 2:30." Wilson reminded the other doctor, licking whipped cream from the corners of his mouth.

House sighed. "Cameron had to stop and smell the flowers, pet some dogs. You know how she is."

"The way she's been acting lately," Wilson says, "I thought she'd crossed over to the dark side."

"Nope. Still caring. Just a little more Courtney Love than she lets on. I think she secretly listens to Hole." House practically gives himself whiplash as he turns to keep tabs on his immunologist.

Wilson watched House watch Cameron.

Without makeup, her hair loose around her face, Dr. Cameron looks like a good sport, a fun date. There is something of the serious but hopeful young woman she appeared to be three years ago when her fellowship began. She smiles and gestures with her hands as she talks to her friends, sincerity flowing from every move.

"What exactly are you…doing with Cameron?" This time, Wilson adds internally.

"We're playing games," House announced, his voice leaving little room for critique. "Gambling. That's what weekends in fun land are all about."

Wilson ignored the vocal cues. "You're playing games. Cameron is living her life. I'll bet you fifty bucks this isn't a game to her."

"Just hand over the contraband," House ordered, holding out his hand and gesturing impatiently.

Wilson reaches into the pocket of his lab coat and palms House the small, purple contraption, just a tad bigger than a yo-yo, yet smaller than a Game Boy.

"Ah. 20 Q. What will they think of next?" House gazes fondly at the electronic device. "Did you know that this was invented in 1988 as an experiment in Artificial Intelligence? Little bugger has an eight-bit chip with a neural net. Cool."

"Geek."

"You're one to talk. Who else do you have on your pod? Barbra? The divine Ms. M?"

Wilson sidesteps House's jab like a matador and jerks his head in Cameron's direction. "Better get your hand held out of sight. The sound is turned off, so if you hold it under the table, you can see the questions it's asking. But the words come out slow, like you're reading a teleprompter," Wilson says, shaking his head in dismay at his own complicity. "You know, this won't help you win."

"That depends on what you mean by winning," House says, presenting Wilson with a quarter tilt of the mouth. "Winning isn't everything, you know. It's how you play the game that counts."

"Coming from you, coach, that's a bunch of hooey." Sarcasm oozed from Wilson's voice.

House holds his palms out toward Wilson. "Okay. If Cameron wins, I win. If she wins, she'll be happy," he concludes, his voice cracking involuntarily on the last word.

"And you care because?"

A pregnant pause ensues.

"That's between Scooter Libby, and me," House finally says, with a sideways glance. "Shh."

"But you admit you … care about her happiness?" Wilson pressed, sounding dubious.

House looked around for a waitress, desperate for anything that would deter Wilson from this line of questioning. Naturally, the young woman with the server's pad has joined Cameron and her two friends.

"I bought her a corsage," he reminded his friend with mild irritation. "Need I say more?"

"You bought her a corsage, and then you abandoned ship instead of … stealing home." Wilson retorted as he checked his wristwatch and sighed.

"For a guy who can quote Dante, you could use a tutorial on metaphors. Get to the point." House tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

"The point is, I thought you were bored. With me, with her, with Foreman, Chase and Cuddy." Wilson passes a hand across his eyes, and takes another sip of his latte. "And I suppose we are…boring. It's not like we … fake cancer or stick a catheter where the sun don't shine."

"Service here sucks. You are boring." He rubbernecks to look at Cameron again and notices that somehow she has procured a cup of coffee. "But she…moves in mysterious ways, Jimmy. She's not the open and shut, cut and dried case I thought she was."

House strokes his unshaven chin and his eyes leave Wilson's as he looks down at his hands.

"That was a tell," Wilson exclaimed pointing at his friend, his brows shooting up, and a wide grin stretching across his narrow face.

"And you're just an excitable boy. What tell?"

"You looked down. That means…"

"It means I have a hangnail," House interjects, holding up his hand, his tone dry as Dutch Rusk.

Wilson's enthusiasm shows no sign of waning. Like a hound dog that has caught a scent, he continues to prod his friend. "You were with her last night. You were with her this afternoon when I called. You're up to something."

"Something might be up," House concedes, lifting his eyes to meet Wilson's.

"What are you getting out of this, House?" Wilson asks with honest curiosity.

House lets out an exasperated breath. "So far? A gargantuan boner, a real Battlestar Galactica. What is this? Twenty questions? I'm supposed to be playing that with Cameron right now. You're man-pretty, but you're not Cameron-pretty."

"You do know she's with Chase." Wilson pointed out while he drained the last of his java, took out a tin of curiously strong peppermints and popped one.

"She was never with Chase. She was just doing Chase," House clarifies.

"Same difference."

"Having random sex with a colleague is not having a relationship. Ergo, she wasn't with Chase. Those two kids were doing the nasty – and since the act involved Chase, I'm sure it was not only nasty, but repulsive," House says with a shudder. "The fact you can't tell the difference is the reason failed marriages trail behind you like crumbs. Julie has an affair, so you give up. Was her heart even in it? Now you'll never know."

"Yet we were talking about Cameron, not my ex-wives," Wilson stated the obvious, wondering why he bothered. "How do you win if she wins?"

"You win, too," House added temptingly. "You'll have to trust me."

Wilson cleared his throat. "And, um, I don't."

"Not my problem."

"And you didn't answer my question."

Every now and then, House liked to throw Wilson a bone. It served to occupy him for a while. Sometimes he'd even go away and chew on it.

"I want her to …" House's voice trailed off, unsure of how much he wanted to give away.

Wilson nearly knocked his chair over as he stood. "You…want her!"

With a scowl, House watches as Wilson points at him.

"Going to do a victory dance?" he asked sardonically.

"You like her! Take care, my friend. You have an addictive personality and you're gonna get hooked. Remember, a drug is a drug is a drug."

"And yet you keep prescribing them for me."

At that, Wilson closed his mouth.

One more bone, House decides.

"After the Ketamine worked, and my leg stopped hurting, I felt…hope. Pretty girls looked at me. I could do the things that normal people do. Run, dance, try sex positions that eluded me after the infarction." House flashed Wilson a look. "I could have kicked your ass, if I'd wanted to."

At this, Wilson smiles.

"But, here I am."

House lifts his bad leg off the floor an inch. "With this."

He pulls out the vial of Vicodin. "And these."

He points across the table to Wilson. "And you."

He jerks a thumb at Cameron. "And her. Yeah, I want her," House growls. "She takes me as I am. She doesn't try to change me. What I am is what she wants. I'm okay with that."

Wilson nods. "Okay, House. Just know that … I'm around if you need to talk."

House taps his watch. "If you don't get back to the clinic, Cuddy will know what she's missing," he says, and winks. "Get the waitress for me on your way out."

"Call me later."

"I'm out of minutes," House says to Wilson's back.

On his way out, Wilson stopped to say hi to Cameron. Her face lit up with a kind smile when she saw who it was.

"Wilson! Filling in at the clinic?" She asked, motioning to his garb.

"What was your first clue?" Wilson smiles back, before taking her by the arm and leading her towards the front of the café.

"What are you doing with House?" He asked, once they were out of earshot of Tiffany, with her inky black bowl cut and Karl with his Scandinavian cheekbones and flaxen hair. Cameron detects a note of envy coloring his voice, and her heart contracts.

"We were just about to play 20 Questions. Why, is he needed at the clinic?" she asks, concerned.

"Think about it. House. 20 Questions. That doesn't seem … dangerous to you?"

Cameron laughs. "Oh, Wilson. Dangerous for House? Dangerous for me? We're just … being."

"You're not going to … love him and leave him," he questions, a note of anxiety hovering.

"I'm not with him, and as for love, well, that's between us," her gentle voice reassures him. "House will be fine. As for me, I'm not afraid of House."

It's Wilson's turn to smile at her. "He's going to use all his poker tricks to extract personal information from you."

"I'm not afraid of the truth," Cameron states.

"The truth isn't in him," Wilson declares, pushing hair back out of his handsome face, then throwing up his hands in defeat. "What do women see in him, anyway? He's edgy, egotistical, and misanthropic. Oh, and let's not forget miserable. What does he have that you want?"

Wilson turns toward the door, not expecting an answer.

"He has me," she says, surprising him. "If he wants me, he has me. That's all I've ever wanted to give him."

House orders a ham and cheddar omelet and coffee, black.

"No green peppers," he says, shuddering. Pausing as the server jots the information on her pad, he adds, "And hold the onions."

His fingers move unconsciously to his lips as he remembers the kiss. Oh, just hold the whole order and give me Cameron on the table.

His mind whirs.

His body is restless.

His appetite isn't focused on food.

His hunger resides elsewhere.

"A cherry almond scone and a poached egg for me, please," Cameron requests, when it's her turn to order. "And a venti cup of dark roast with sweet 'n' low."

Once they've ordered and the waitress leaves, the two doctors look at one another, sizing each other up after the events of the weekend.

Anyone passing by the window who bothered to glance inside would see a middle-aged man with a five o' clock shadow and inscrutable eyes seated across from a lovely young brunette with her chin cupped in her hand and the beginning of a smile hovering on her lips.

A married man with his young mistress, perhaps? Or a graduate student meeting with her thesis advisor?

An astute observer would notice the young woman lean forward and fuss with the buttons on the older man's shirt. That changes everything. It is an intimate gesture. Could they be husband and wife?

If the observer was a male, he'd wonder what the scruffy oldster had going on that landed him such a major babe.

If the onlooker were female, she'd get it right away: A man with eyes like that hardly needs a dick.

House folds his arms across his chest and considers Cameron. "You're pretty. Beautiful, even," he says.

"Thank you," she replies, rewarding him with the same smile she offered when he complimented her earrings on their date.

"It's a fact, not a compliment. But, you're welcome."

She leans in toward his face, her elbows on the table. "I'm guessing you're not really interested in small talk. Shall we play?"

He narrows his eyes a fraction. "My game, my rules."

"It takes two to play," Cameron contradicts. "I get a say in how we structure this game. We're equals."

"This isn't Uncle Tom's Cabin. I'm your boss, not your PC playmate," House counter-contradicts. "Since when has our relationship been a partnership?"

"Since when have we had a relationship?" Cameron returns, having the good sense not to look triumphant when House opens his mouth, and closes it.

"Nice curve ball," he says, finally.

"Sports metaphors. Think you know how I feel about 'em," she retorts. "Look, House. Rules are overrated. Let's just pick something and run with it; I'll go first, and you guess. If you get it in twenty questions or less, you win. If you don't, I win, and that means Wilson gets to analyze you with your mouth duct taped shut while I watch."

House considers her proposal, and pitches one back at her, one he knows she can't honor. No one can. "Okay. Fair enough. But, if I win, I get to ask you twenty questions and you have to answer truthfully."

That's the catch.

"No point in telling the truth. You wouldn't believe me. Everybody lies, remember?" Cameron pins him with her eyes.

"Including me when I said that, remember?" House looks away. "Speaking of candor and coming clean, what did Wilson want with you?" He asks it a little too casually.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Wilson needs a life more than either of us. He said 'The truth isn't in him,' referring, of course to you. Was that a reference to the anti-Christ?"

"You mean me? Don't think you can be both God and the anti-Christ at the same time, although they say that God is omniscient, immanent and infinite. He plays by His own rules."

"Like you." Cameron rips open another pink packet of faux sugar and dumps it into her coffee mug. The mug has a silver and cobalt glaze. "God is a myth."

"And someday I'll be history," House replies dismissively, clearly done with this line of conversation. "Let's play this game. Got something in mind? Person, place, or thing? Animal, vegetable, or mineral? Which is it?"

Clasping her hands together, and tilting her head flirtatiously, she says, "It's a thing."

"Is it hard?" He asks, glancing surreptitiously at his hand held game.

The word alone stirs his imagination. It was hard, and it would be again, House thinks. He could be referring to his groin or his heart.

"Yes." Cameron's voice is a husky half-whisper.

"Is it slippery when wet?" Is this really a legitimate example of Artificial Intelligence, he wonders, disdainfully.

"Yes."

The waitress arrives. She sets a plate with the scone, the poached egg, and a slice of muskmelon in front of Cameron, and an omelet with sliced apples before House.

Simultaneously, Cameron says "thanks," and House says, "finally."

They look at each other and smile.

"Is it straight?" he asks, eyeing the electronic device.

He looks up to see if he can read her face, and notices her eyes on him.

It's like reading a book of erotica: words come unbidden to his mind.

Hold.

Please.

Gasp.

Moan.

Suck.

Arouse.

Provoke.

Lick.

Undo.

Obey.

Release.

Excite.

Stroke.

Spread.

Push.

Come.

"Sometimes," Cameron says, biting her lip at the look ignited in House's too blue eyes.

"What?" he tries to cover his trip down into Penthouse Forum land. "Thinking about a case. Missed that one."

"You asked if the thing is straight," Cameron humored him. "I said sometimes. You sure you're up for this?" She splays the scone apart with her bread knife and spreads butter over each half.

Up for this? House rubs his eyes and lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Never better. Does it come in different colors?"

"I'd say so." She slings another smile directly at him. It's disarming.

"Can you … play with it?" No wonder politicians are so stiff. Teleprompters suck, House decides. Maybe he should abandon the little purple wizard.

"After a fashion." Cameron takes a bite of her scone. "This is great. Want to try it?"

House eyes the food skeptically.

"No pickles. I promise," she says, tearing off a quarter of the scone and handing it to him.

"Is it worth a lot of money?" he asks, leaning forward and wiping a smear of butter off her bottom lip with his thumb.

She wants his fingers in her mouth. "Depends." She wants to kiss his mouth, lean against him, and rest her head on his chest.

"Does it bring joy to people?"

Oh, God, yes.

"Do you actually have a strategy? Because this seems really random," Cameron comments.

"Do you care?" He asks, curious.

"No, not really. I just thought you'd use your unmatched deductive reasoning skills. Your questions are kind of lame."

"Focus, Cameron," he dismisses her. "So. Does it bring joy to people?"

"Yes. Yes it does."

Peter Gabriel plays in the background.

House listens.

I'm waiting for ignition; I'm looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch.

He can tell by the way Cameron tilts her head, and flicks her tongue across her lips, that she's in tune with it. The raw sexuality of the song, the suggestiveness of the lyrics, the primal beat of the music, and the sight of lacy black bra underneath her diaphanous shirt give House pause.

I'm only, only wanting contact
With you…

"Do you like Gabriel?" he asks.

"It's on my iPod, along with 'Sledgehammer.' Had a crush on him when I was 17."

House would have thought she'd like the sentimental stuff like "In Your Eyes."

"I guess he's a step up from Ric Ocasek or Lyle Lovett," he says.

"Hey. Looks aren't everything," she protests. "Those guys are great."

"Yeah, yeah. Can it fit in an envelope?"

She hesitates. "Sometimes."

"Is it useful?"

"Absolutely." Cameron daubs the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"Is it manmade?"

20 Q is an idiot, House decides. He's already on question 10 and it hasn't even guessed yet. Not that he needs to win to get what he wants. Cameron might be more receptive to him if she wins.

"No." Cameron eyes his apple slices. "You going to eat those?"

"Do I look like an apple a day kind of guy to you? Of course not. Want 'em?"

"Yup. Gimmee."

"You're not…turning into me, are you?"

Cameron laughs and accepts the Ida Red from House's plate. "You do rub off on people."

"That's what Foreman thinks. Can you own one?"

"Yes."

"Is it heavier than The Concept of Dread?" That one he made up on his own. He drew the line at asking if the thing was heavier than a pound of butter.

"Is that a joke?"

"Not when I read it. My … dad kept a copy of it in the basement when we lived in Michigan, right next to the TV set. When it was humid, I used it to kill millipedes."

"That's very … symbolic. But somehow I see you as reading MAD magazine, not Kierkegaard." Cameron laughs, and crosses her legs, her pointy high-heeled shoe accidentally brushing House's calf in the process.

He thinks of her legs while he's taking in her smile – thinks of what lies between them – and he feels the responsibility of holding a heart like hers in his hands.

"I'm an anomaly," he says. "Is it something you bring along?"

"That depends on you," she replies, lips curving slightly.

"Okay…I'm thinking that it's a …"

"Are you sure you want to guess already?" Cameron makes a worried face.

"Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. You nervous?"

Her face relaxes. "Nope. Because I just won." She settles back in her seat and smirks at him.

"Remedial math got past you, and yet you're a doctor. How did that happen?"

"You're tallying it up wrong. Take the specific questions you asked me to figure out what my 'thing' was, and add the conversational questions I got you to ask me and the total is 23. I won."

"You cheated."

"Umm, nope. Rules weren't stipulated. You lose. But I'll buy breakfast," she said, smiling sweetly. "And then I'll walk you home. And then, who knows? Are you still hungry?"

His appetite knows no bounds.

I'm only wanting contact with you...

"You can ask me twenty questions, and maybe I'll even tell you something true," Cameron holds out a hand to help him up.

House looks at her askance.

"Try me," she says.

He'll try her.

He knows he will.

A/N: Do you want ... more? What do you want? If it's more you're looking for, you're going to have to tell me...