Drenched

by imsanehonest

House enjoys the company of a patient, obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

14. Your Disappointments In My Heart

Drenched

Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

Disclaimer: There was once a brilliant man who owned House. This brilliant person brought joy to thousands, nay, millions, across the globe. His soul was a boundless, generous thing, from which the fantasies and delusions of countless fans were sustained. This man was quickly raised to a level of godliness amongst these fans, and lived out the rest of their days in splendor and bliss. Alas, I am not this person. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is the work of Nicole Burdette.

Author's Note: I am so unbelievably sorry that it extends the normal range of regret. You'd have to become a thousand times more remorseful than the guiltiest soul alive to even approach the depth of shame I feel. –shame- Oh dear readers, how I must have tested your fortitude by taking so ridiculously long with this chapter!

In all seriousness, thank you all for being so patient with me. I had no intention of taking this long to update and it has simply been a matter of terrible timing that has kept me from getting this chapter up sooner. Again, this wait was ridiculous (and at a very cruel time, plot-wise) and I can only hope that you guys won't hate me forever. –adopts puppy face- You don't hate me, do you? –big watery eyes-

LastScorpion, my hero, has looked over everything save for the last section of this chapter. And while I should be a good person and wait for her comments and corrections… Um. I'm not going to. Because I'm a loser like that. However, she has worked her magic on the other three sections, so you have her to thank for your eyes not falling off. (And I will be updating with the rest of her corrections as soon as I get them in.) I give her my sincere thanks and my soul for all of her hard work. Yay for LastScorpion!

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

EDIT: Sorry for anyone who thought this was a new chapter. Just wanted to post the new, improved, Chapter Ten. Last section is now LastScorpion approved! Many thanks to her yet again! (And I'm sorry about all of those mistakes. –wince- I should never update without her help. Ever.) Also, thank you to reviewers who pointed out mistakes. (Like in the title! Eek! Thank you phineyj!) And, finally, at the request of LastScorpion, there has been a little addition to the last section. Because she's awesome and anything she wants that I can manage shall be hers.-grin-

Thank you and enjoy (again)!

---

Chapter Ten: Your Disappointments In My Heart

And I want your smile always
And your grimaces too.
I want your scar on my lips
And I want your disappointments in my heart.
-Nicole Burdette

---

Wilson woke up with the shock of one surrounded by the feel of unfamiliar sheets.

Not that these sheets were, by any means, bad sheets. Far from it. They were quite comfy, really, and he would be certain to look into buying some of his own when he had more of his senses about him.

No, the sheets were nice.

They just weren't his.

They were hers.

And that realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

He glanced to his left only to be graced with the sight of the sleeping form of Allison Cameron, on her stomach with an arm between her head and the pillow, hair fanning around her face in a mused, beautiful mess, sheets wrapped around her body.

She really was an amazing woman.

James had no notion as to what he had done to deserve her.

--

Her mouth tasted like honey and felt like velvet.

That was all Wilson would allow himself to think for the first instant of the kiss. As she leaned over him, a hand on his chest, mouth demanding, needy, on top of his. As her tongue slipped in between his lips and he lost himself to the sensation of having, in whatever small way, Allison Cameron.

But it was only an instant.

In the next moment he remembered who she was and who she belonged to. Who she loved.

He brought his hands to her shoulders, gently pushing her away, marveling at the feel of her skin under his hands, wishing that she wasn't so soft.

It was hard, letting go of something that felt so smooth.

She looked at him, eyes wide.

He took a deep breath. "Cameron, Allison." He glanced in front of him, noticing that he had yet to release her shoulders, that he had no wish to stop touching her.

He pulled his hands away quickly, as if they burned, bringing one to his neck and rubbing.

"Now's not the time." Not the time at all. "You're sad, mourning." Much more vulnerable than she realized. "You don't know what you're doing."

Grief can do many things to a person. Make them believe that they crave something familiar, something constant. Whatever she felt for him in this moment, in this little span of time, it wasn't real.

She shook her head in instant denial. "I do." She grabbed the hand that was kneading at his neck, just as she had mere moments before, trapping it between her own. "I know exactly what I'm doing, exactly what I want."

She examined his hand carefully, fingers smoothing over knuckles, nails, turning it to trail over his palm, studying each crease and indent in the skin. As if she wanted to memorize its every detail.

It took all of Wilson's will power, not to reach out his free hand to touch her.

"I have known." She looked up at him, smiling weakly. "It's just taken me this long to realize it."

She kissed his palm gently, surprising Wilson into stillness, before leaning forward again and pressing her lips to his, gliding her tongue into his mouth with a remarkable ease, with an almost practiced familiarity that Wilson wanted nothing more than to embrace fully. It was startling, how right she felt pressed against him, how natural it would have been to wrap his arms around her, to touch and caress every inch of her before carrying her to the bedroom and taking care of her the way he knew she needed to be. The way no one else would.

The way she wanted someone else to.

He pulled away from her, almost gasping for lack of air, trying not to feel her rapid breaths against his neck, her body next to his on the small sofa.

He couldn't.

God he wanted to, but he couldn't.

She didn't know how much he desired this, how badly he had been fighting the way he felt, slowly suppressing the longings until he had convinced himself they were never there. She didn't know, now, when she was so sad, so needy, who she loved. Wouldn't be willing to distinguish between a friend and someone more.

She loved House.

But he wasn't there and Wilson was. And although Wilson wanted nothing more than to help her in whatever way he could, give whatever it was that she felt she needed, he didn't want her to hate herself in the morning.

He tried to tug his hand away. "Allison-"

She tightened her grip. "James, please." She looked at him desperately.

He sighed. "Allison..." How could he explain? "You don't-" He finally pulled his hand away, swiping at his hair, trying not to look at her. "I'm not who you want."

She shook her head firmly, looking at him intently. "You are."

Wilson sighed audibly.

She shifted, tilting her head, forcing him to meet her gaze. "James." A reassuring hand went to his knee. "It's you." She squeezed gently. "I swear, it's you."

A small, significant, pause.

"Not House."

He looked up, knowing that any attempts he could have made to hide his surprise would fail utterly.

She smiled gently at him. "I want you." She stared at him earnestly. "Please."

A combination of determination and vulnerability highlighted her features. Her eyes begged and demanded he give into her. That he allow her this one victory, this thing that she needed so frantically.

That he wanted so badly.

And when she looked at him like that, James found that he could deny her nothing.

And so he eliminated the distance between them, looking at her with an intensity that they could both feel, trying to see through her skin, inside of her head, wishing he could be privy to her deepest thoughts and desires, that he knew as adamantly as she did that this was what she wanted.

But he was left with nothing for his examination save for more of that illogical desire, that pull he felt towards her. Like a moth to flame.

He knew it wasn't smart. Knew that the circumstances were wrong, the motives were twisted and that her emotions were bound to be a tangled mess of massive feeling. Knew that she probably wanted nothing more than something to help her forget, despite her pleas to the contrary.

Wilson knew all of this. But with her looking at him with that face, beautiful and scared, every lovely feature anticipating rejection, staring at him as if he was her last hope, common sense seemed to lose its significance.

He gently cupped her cheek with a hand, carefully gliding his fingers against her skin, memorizing the texture as she leaned against his palm, making him smile.

When she glanced up, opening her mouth to question him, James kissed her, silencing her as he tasted her again, marveling at all of the flavors of her, detailing each sensation mentally. The way her body felt against his, her hands pushing off his jacket, pulling away his tie, finding their way under his shirt and her nails trailing against his skin.

Even if only this once, he would have her.

Best to commit every bit of it to memory.

--

Wilson reluctantly looked away from her, half afraid that if took his eyes off her she'd disappear.

Because girls, women, like Allison Cameron didn't happen to James Wilson.

Not any more.

Quietly he detangled himself from the sheets, doing his best not to wake her as he searched the room for his clothes, finding familiar articles and gathering them quickly and silently before making his way to the bathroom.

Once there, with the door firmly closed and distance established between Wilson and her, he found rationality coming back to him in one painful wave.

He sighed, bringing a hand to his neck and staring at his reflection in bewilderment.

What had he done?

Wilson had no doubt that there was a distinct difference between what House had said last night (likely with a pound of Vicodin in his system to numb out the 'annoying weeping masses'), and what he had actually meant. But Wilson, in all of his pathetic longing and idiocy, had done the undeniably stupid and accepted what House had said at face value.

To House, 'not wanting' Cameron did not equate to having no interest, as much as the man would try to deny it.

After all, everybody lies.

And Allison, certainly, in the clear light of morning, would come to her senses and realize that she had made a mistake. That the words she had said had been inspired by grief and loneliness. That she hadn't meant any of them. Wilson only hoped she wouldn't despise herself for saying them.

If nothing else, the oncologist felt he knew that much about her. She would feel morally guilty for what had happened, apologize profusely, and then never speak to him again out of shame.

And Wilson didn't want that.

Even if he never got to touch her again, he couldn't be denied talking to her. Laughing with her. The sharing of thoughts and ideas, of plans and sorrows.

She was like a drug. Now that he had a taste of her, he found that he would never be willing to give her up completely.

Not unless she forced him to.

And Wilson couldn't allow that. Not yet.

With a firm sense of determination he dressed, straightening himself out as best he could, attempting to reach a mental normalcy.

It was simple. He just had to make sure that she didn't feel shame for what happened.

Then he could still take care of her. It would be from a distance, but he could still watch over her, be her friend.

That was all he really needed.

Not all he wanted, but Wilson knew that people couldn't always get what they wanted.

Once dressed Wilson carefully made his way to Allison's living room, a bit shocked by how small her apartment really was. He hadn't really noticed, the night before.

One bath, two bedrooms, a decently sized living/dinning room and a kitchen. Surprisingly, rather than suffocating the tiny space seemed homey. Welcoming. Maybe it was the warm yellow that covered the walls or the sparse but noticeable intimate trinkets tossed about (like family portraits, hand embroidered pillows and pictures drawn in crayon), but the space felt nice. Comfortable. More like a home than his own had felt in a long time.

Wilson internally froze.

Thoughts like those were dangerous.

He shook himself, all but cursing as he made his way into the living room.

Those were thoughts that he couldn't afford to have.

He had another life, one completely separate from her, and he was going to have to return to it shortly, for the good of everyone. It wouldn't be perfect, wouldn't be as good or as satisfying, but it would do. It would have to.

He needed to be certain that he remembered that.

With a clear plan of what he had to do, Wilson sat down on Allison's small sofa, prepared to convince the woman not to abandon him out of twisted feelings of remorse.

However, as Wilson noticed some twenty minutes later, said woman was sleeping soundly in her bedroom and was not, it appeared, going to wake up any time soon.

And sitting still was killing him.

In a flurry of movement he stood up and began to pace, striding up and down the small room with no destination other than away from his own mind.

Unfortunately, the pacing was having little effect save for reminding him just how small the apartment was, causing him to turn every two steps, slowly infuriating him with the repetition, the feeling of claustrophobia slowly settling over him, making him feel as if there was no escape from his thoughts.

Wilson forcibly stopped his movements, bringing his hands to his hair and pulling.

He had to calm down.

He was acting like he was in high school for God's sake.

And if Wilson was going to revert back to his teenage self, there was absolutely no hope for him.

He let out a large sigh before slowly releasing his hair from the death grip he placed on it.

His full head of hair remained in tact. Excellent.

The morning was going well.

But he was still restless.

And since there was no mindless paper work to fill out, no desire to leave and no reason to page the hospital, Wilson had few distractions to keep him from wearing a hole in the carpet.

Until he saw the kitchen from the corner of his eye.

Grinning, Wilson marched forward, instantly poking his head in the fridge and various cupboards.

Nothing was more soothing than cooking.

Thirty minutes later Wilson caught the sight of Cameron hesitantly making her way out of the bedroom, robe wrapped firmly around herself as she tilted her nose upward and sniffed the air, eyeing her home suspiciously, as if boobytraps could await behind every corner.

Then she saw him and jumped back a little, staring at him blankly, shocked.

"You're still here."

Not quite the greeting Wilson had been hoping for, but he could work with it.

"And I made breakfast." He nodded his head to the stove, where he had bacon frying merrily, waving his hand behind him to indicate the two plates already made up.

She blinked. "You made breakfast?"

Wilson nodded, removing the pan from the burner and carefully transferring the meat to the plates. "Waffles." He brought the plates forward, exiting the kitchen and setting them on the dining table. "I hope that it's all right that I went through your fridge and cupboards?"

Because if it hadn't been cooking, Wilson was certain he would have been forced to do something more destructive to abate his agitation.

She just looked down at the plates before slowly bring her gaze back to him. "No, no. It's fine."

Wilson let out an internal sigh of relief, "Good." He grinned. "Because getting rid of these hard made waffles would be a damn shame."

She laughed lightly, pulling the robe more firmly around herself and rubbing at her eyes, looking back up at him when she was through, as if he might have vanished.

Wilson simply raised an eyebrow.

She had the grace to blush. "I'm sorry." She retied her robe about herself. "I'm just amazed that you're still here, after I…"

She trailed off as the blush became darker.

"Helped me see God?" Wilson offered good-naturedly.

She chuckled, smirking. "I don't believe in God."

"Not important." He waved a dismissive hand. "After last night, I'm pretty certain that he believes in you."

Her cheeks were rather lovely shade of red, beet he thought, as she stared at her bare feet. "I just…"

She trailed off again, but Wilson said nothing, waiting.

Allison shifted, finally glancing up at him. "Why are you still here?

Wilson took a step away from the table that divided them. "Should I not be?" If she didn't want him here, he didn't want to stay. To force his company on her. "Would you like me to go?"

"No!" she said quickly, reaching out towards him before remembering herself, bringing her hand back to clutch around her waist and staring at him pleadingly. "No, don't go." She sighed, clutching at her elbows. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

Allison sighed again, bringing a hand to her hair, swiping through the tangled strands in mild irritation before glancing back up again.

She took a deep breath and then exhaled.

And her words came out in a rush.

"I swore I wouldn't do this." She smiled ruefully at him. "I swore it. When you had your divorce, and Julie was pregnant, I wasn't going to allow myself to," a pause, "care for you."

She looked at Wilson almost fearfully.

He gave a reassuring nod, arms crossed lightly over his chest as he listened intently.

She continued. "Because you needed someone, were hurting so badly." She rubbed her forehead as she spoke faster. "And I was convinced that those were the only reasons I could possibly have for caring about you. And then when Clara," a split second halt, barely noticeable, "got worse, I wasn't going to let myself," she waved a hand in front of her, struggling to find words, "manufacture affection." She sighed. "To cling to someone." Another smile sent his way. "You."

Wilson found himself smiling back.

A smile that quickly faded when her expression contorted into a displeased grimace as she began to speak quickly once more. "I thought that whatever I felt, whatever fondness I thought I felt, wouldn't be real. That they would just be things I created to comfort myself, to feel less alone."

"Were they?" Wilson asked quickly, before she could move on.

She stopped, staring at him helplessly. "I don't know." She frowned, gazing at her fingers. "I don't think so." Her eyes locked with his. "Because, at some point, it wasn't just that you needed help, or that I needed comfort." She blushed. "I like you." A small smile given to her fingers, like a young girl with a crush. "A lot."

It was so utterly innocent, the words almost meaningless by adult standards, the standards he had no choice but to measure by.

But they still made Wilson shiver.

He gulped before giving a shaky, "Thanks," attempting a charming grin.

Cameron gave a reassuring smile, no doubt noticing his lack of composure. "I've always liked you." She grasped at her arms again, Wilson nearly seeing a sense of calm overtake her, as if that small admission made everything that followed easier. "And then you took Clara's case and I didn't just see you passing through diagnostics anymore. For the first time in years I talked to you." She shook her head gently in disbelief, giving a bitter laugh. "It took us years to have a conversation."

Wilson opened his mouth to interject.

Cameron held out a hand, preventing him from speaking before he started. "And not about House or the latest patient." Another tender tilt of the lips. "Just, typical, normal conversations, the kind that colleagues are supposed to have." She took another distracted swat at her hair. "And then, through those, I realized just how fond of you I was." She examined her fingernails once more, smiling. "You became my friend." She glanced up. "And then something... more, something that I thought I must have imagined."

Wilson braced himself. "Did you?"

"No."

He released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding, doing his best to hide the overjoyed shock he felt.

To say that, after the night before, without a moment of speculation or doubt, without a hint of reluctance in her tone.

Maybe she really had known whom she had wanted.

Wilson wanted to stomp the notion as soon as it came to him.

Good news never lasted. Remissions happened all of the time, but that didn't mean the disease was gone. Didn't mean that it wasn't waiting, just beneath the surface.

But some irrational bit of hope that had imbedded itself within him, some idiotically sentimental piece of him that House constantly pointed out as the oncologist's greatest point of weakness, wouldn't allow it.

"I just wanted to believe I did, because I thought it would have made things easier." She snorted. "Even though it really made things that much worse."

She frowned. "But it doesn't excuse what happened." She looked up at him, shaking her head in confusion. "I can't believe you're still here, after I..." She sighed, giving him an earnest, apologetic stare. "I shouldn't have done this to you, put you in this situation."

James felt it best to chime in quickly. "May I point out that there has been absolutely nothing about this situation that I've fond at all displeasing" He tilted a brow suggestively.

Allison grinned before firmly shaking her head. "But you didn't want this and I-"

Again, speed was key.

"Yes I did."

She frowned. "What?"

He took a small step forward. "I did, have, wanted this for months."

A blink. "But you didn't say-"

"There wasn't exactly an appropriate moment to woo you." He grinned ruefully."

She let out a small laugh. "You, James Wilson? Waiting for a suitable time to flirt?" She came closer, grinning. "Why would you do that now, with me?"

James paused for an instant, uncertain.

But it would be far better, to have her hear it now rather than later.

"House."

"Oh." Cameron retraced her steps, reestablishing distance between them.

It was only a few feet.

But it felt like miles. Like the span of the Atlantic Ocean had somehow wedged its way between them.

"Things have," a momentary pause, "changed."

Wilson retreated as well, rubbing his neck with his hand. "Yeah."

Both doctors examined Cameron's tan carpet with interest, trying to ignore the elephant in the room, the one glaring glitch in what they had done, a meaningful discussion suddenly morphed into an uncomfortable silence.

House had that effect on people.

At last, Cameron let out a loud sigh. "I'm so sorry, James." She talked to her toes, too ashamed to meet his gaze. "I never meant to do this to you. To guilt you into being here, to make you stay."

She glanced up, giving a pained smile. "To force you to make breakfast."

He returned the grin.

"I just..." She clutched at her elbows. "I've been so tired, and you, you've been so kind, have given me so much already." Her voice lowered, almost to the point where he couldn't hear her. "Given things that you shouldn't have felt pressured to." She looked up at him, eyes overly bright. "I'm so sorry." She took another step back, withdrawing into the hallway, turning away from him. "Please, feel free to leave."

Wilson knew he should let her go. Knew that she deserved better than him, knew that House still had fleeting chance at happiness, however small, with this woman.

But he also knew that she needed someone, had needed him, at some point. Knew that if he left her now there would be no coming back. No more talks, lunches.

No more of her.

And he knew that he was addicted. He couldn't bear quitting her completely. Not after that one taste.

Before he completely knew what he was doing James asked, "Do you think last night was a mistake?"

Allison's movements stopped suddenly, her frame becoming stock still in the hall.

He took a step towards her. "Do you regret it?"

There was a long pause before she slowly, tentatively, turned to face him.

"I should." Her eyes were nearly overflowing, pools forming at their corners. "I used you, hurt you."

Wilson restrained himself from reaching out to her, from comforting her. He didn't dare. Not yet.

"But do you?"

She looked down at the floor, arms wrapping more firmly about herself.

"Allison." James cautiously came closer to her. "I don't think it was a mistake."

And it was only in that moment, when he had said the words aloud, felt them against his tongue and lips, that he believed them.

"The timing was, admittedly, bad." He gave a small wince. Very bad. "But I don't regret the fact that it happened."

Another small step closer as he heard her sniffing.

"Do you?"

"No." She shook her head adamantly, bringing her gaze to his. "No I don't." And it was the firm determination in which she said it, the defiant arch of her neck, the challenging stare of her watery eyes more than the words themselves that made him believe her.

James couldn't stop himself from smiling, meeting her eyes with his. "Allison, if you don't want me here, I'll walk out of this apartment right now."

Although the thought of it alone made him miserable.

"But if you want me to stay," another step forward, "here," an unconscious grin, "with you," he was close enough to touch her now, although he refrained through sheer force of will, "we can relax a bit and eat some waffles."

Allison let out a giggle, wiping at her eyes with the arm of her robe. "Bribing me with food, I see."

He smiled. "I need all of the help I can get." He hardened his expression, staring at her seriously. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No." She gave her head a firm shake, sniffing. "Please stay."

She looked up at him, eyes wide and helpless, begging him.

And suddenly the apartment didn't seem so small. With her standing there, in her robe, crying in her bare feet, suffering from the loss of a woman she had loved so dearly. If left alone, James had no doubt that the room could engulf her completely.

She reached forward, weakly grabbing the sleeve of his white button-down shirt from the day before. "Please, please stay."

"Okay." Finally he allowed himself to wrap his arms around her, feeling her forehead rest against his shoulder as she cried softly. "Hush, okay." He rubbed his hand along her back, attempting to calm her as he made soothing noises, being certain not to frighten her.

After a time, when her whimpers had ceased, he gently pulled her away, just enough to look at her straight in the eye. "I'm not going anywhere, not until you really want me to, all right?"

Allison gave a nod, a small smile on her face as she wiped at her eyes again, sniffing.

"Okay." Wilson grinned, guiding her to the kitchen table. "Let's get the syrup out and attack those waffles, shall we?"

---

It was with a great deal of reluctance and internal annoyance that Foreman acknowledged that he had changed. That he had needed to change.

It wasn't a large alteration, nothing readily apparent to the casual observer. It was only through one fact that even Eric himself was aware of the transformation.

Eric, it seemed, no longer hated House.

Oh, he was still infuriated by the man. Still bothered, aggravated and exasperated by his boss. But it lacked something of the fire that it had before. Some of the raw, unquestioning loathing that had sustained the antipathy for so long.

Of course, this hardly meant that Foreman liked House. Far from it. Outside of work, nothing save for a substantial raise, promotion or another significant bribe would get Foreman spend a spare instant with the diagnostician.

No, Foreman didn't like House.

He simply couldn't bring himself hate him any more.

Upon this startling, and rather frightening, recognition, Foreman instantly began to question why this change had occurred.

Every effect had a cause.

Nothing about House had changed. He still ignored the rules. Still gave few people respect and Eric, most definitely, was not among the number to receive it. He was still mean, caustic and cruel, still had no appreciation for the position he held. Still treated his patients with scorn most saved only for convicted criminals and still found satisfaction in his job by being right rather than by curing the sick. He still liked power and still liked to prove he had it by gleefully pulling the strings of his underlings just to watch them dance.

No, House hadn't changed.

But Eric's perception of him had.

Ultimately, House did good things. He did his job and he did it well, even if the means he used to do so were often twisted, contrived, manipulative and, more often than not, completely illegal. Whether as a side-effect or as an intentional aim, patients were cured due to his inability to leave the puzzle alone, his driving need to solve all mysteries he could, consequences be damned.

And Foreman grudgingly admitted that he could learn something from that dedication.

He was forced to confess that he had come to admire House.

However reluctantly, however minutely, Foreman had begun to respect the man not just as a doctor, but also as a person.

It had been nearly painful to admit, disgusting to contemplate. Foreman would never want to be like House, never even want to spend an excessive amount of time in House's company.

But he was a good man. Perhaps not moral, perhaps not always appropriate or noble, but always, in the end, doing what was best for his patients. Whether anyone else agreed with him or not.

And that, at least, Foreman could admire.

And once this change had been acknowledged, it was only a matter of time before Foreman was forced to admit the other startling changes in his personality. The odd and seemingly illogical things he had been doing without reason, driven by some long buried impulse that now demanded to be acted upon.

Doctors, as a rule, didn't associate with patients outside of the hospital, much less the families of other physician's patients. It wasn't smart, wasn't professional. Gave a doctor an air of sentimentality that, while often endearing, was not viewed kindly by high placed hospital administrators.

And that had always been Foreman's top priority.

More importantly, Foreman, as a person, didn't associate with children for longer than was absolutely necessary. He liked them well enough, but had absolutely no patience for their bumbling ways. A child, while harmless and possessing a certain innocence that would be appealing to anyone who had experienced as many of the hard realities of life as Foreman, was nonetheless annoying. The neurologist didn't have the time required to remain in the company of a child, wasn't fond of indulging their curiosity or listening to their adolescent musings on life.

And yet, for the months after Matt had run into diagnostics crying, Foreman found himself increasingly in the boy's company.

What was especially peculiar was that he didn't mind it much.

Yes, it was very unfortunate what had happened to his mother, and Foreman sincerely felt badly for the family. But, typically, this would not have encouraged any continued association with the boy. Foreman wasn't his father, wasn't his uncle. Didn't possess any strong, unavoidable and unbreakable bond with the boy. This was a family tragedy in a family that Doctor Eric Foreman was not particularly inclined to become involved in.

But as Clara got worse, as Mark slowly began to come undone at the seams, as Sammy continued to ignore the situation entirely and Cameron worked diligently on taking care of all of the matters no one else had time for, Matt was left alone. And when Matt was alone he sought out Foreman.

Eric wasn't sure why. He didn't know what message he had initially given that made the child believe that he was an ideal person to turn to during the time of strife, that Foreman would have any words of comfort or support to offer.

But then, Matt hadn't had too many options by that point.

So, he had come to Foreman one evening while the doctor was in the lab, and after sitting silently for a few moments, had quickly spilled his soul, worries and tears.

Foreman, to put it bluntly, had been unprepared.

But, after a few minutes of shocked silence, he had promptly acted in the way he knew a good person should have, offering the boy what reassurances he could, however hollow. Providing as many distractions he was able to concoct for him, which were surprisingly varied, for a child as curious and intelligent as Matt.

It might not have been much, but it had seemed to help, and Foreman was, amazingly, pleased by this. It felt nice, good, to spend time with the boy. To aid him in whatever way he could, despite the fact that Foreman had no obligation or overriding incentive to do so.

It was only now, months later, upon the realization that he loathed House a little less, that Foreman became aware of why spending that time with Matt, by assisting him in whatever way he could, had felt so satisfying.

For the first time Foreman recognized that throughout the past fifteen years of his life, he had been attempting to be a good doctor first rather than a good person. And that now, because of Matt and House, his agenda had been altered.

And Foreman, although he'd never show it, was petrified of that change.

He couldn't afford to lose sight of what he had been working towards for the past two decades. Couldn't let himself forget what was at stake, not again. He had already turned down the Head of Neurology position out of a ridiculous sense of morality and a deluded notion that dedication correlated to success. When and if such an opportunity came up again, he couldn't allow himself to let the chance pass him by.

Good people were the ones who got trampled. They were the ones who got left behind in the dust of all of those who were intelligent enough to realize the cost of too much humanity.

Good people finished last.

Good people lost.

And Foreman had never been good at losing.

But his panic wasn't complete.

He knew that, if needed, he could change back. If he wanted to, he could adjust his priorities, set them straight, continue on as he had up until four months ago.

The catch was, if he did that, he wouldn't be able to fool himself anymore. Couldn't pretend to have the ethical high ground any longer, couldn't claim that he had always done the right thing. Because he would know better.

And without the self-delusion, Foreman wasn't sure the act, the success and acclaim, was worth the moral, human, weight of his decisions.

This was a problem that Foreman had debated since Clara's funeral, and which he was still pondering two weeks later.

Currently, he was in the lab, Matt at his elbow, both with facemasks in place, as he carefully examined piece of their patient's liver.

Apparently, Will had taken Matt away from the house to visit Cameron for lunch. And also to give Mark, who had been under constant surveillance during the past month, some time alone to grieve privately.

Every man deserved the right to fall apart without making a spectacle of himself in front of his son.

"Why are we looking at his liver?" Matt's voice was quieter, softer, than before, the wise but sad tone adopted by those who have learned too much of reality far too fast.

But it was still almost painfully curious.

Foreman grinned at the thought as he adjusted the specs.

Some things, thankfully, didn't change, despite all of the forces working against them.

"We want to see if he has an infection."

He almost felt Matt as he went on tiptoe, trying to see over the doctor's shoulder. "Does he?"

"Nope." Foreman pulled away from the microscope, standing up and gesturing to the chair he had just vacated. "Take a look."

Matt eagerly went into the chair and looked through the microscope, an expression of pure joy on his face as he took in the sight of rotting liver cells.

"Is it supposed to be brown like that?"

Foreman smiled. "No."

Matt was a good kid. A smart kid. Probably too smart for his own good. Smart enough to get through this, with or without Foreman's support.

But Foreman was running out of motivation to allow the kid to suffer without him.

"You see the odd shape of the cells? How they're sort of squished?"

Matt nodded.

"Well-"

"Matt?"

Doctor and child alike looked up and behind them.

"Hey, Uncle Will."

Will grinned from his position just inside the door, returned from flirting with the nurses on-call, giving Foreman a curt nod.

Foreman returned the gesture, attempting not to blink repeatedly at the overly bright pink mass of hair on top of the man's head.

There were some things, such as the dying of hair to particularly offensive colors, that Foreman would never understand.

The younger man cocked his head, jerking it towards the elevators. "Go up and tell Al to get ready for lunch, okay Squirt?"

Matt inclined his head, hopping down from the chair. "'Kay." He paused before heading for the door. "Doctor Foreman?"

Foreman raised a brow in question.

"Can I still come and visit, if Aunt Al brings me over some time?" Matt scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable in the lab for the first time since the neurologist had met him.

Foreman knew he shouldn't say yes. Knew that it would just encourage foolish sentimental behavior, the kind that brought a type of satisfied accomplishment that medical procedures had never given him.

And as much as he knew he shouldn't say yes, he did anyway.

"Sure, Matt." He let out a small, unnoticeable, sigh, resigned to the fact that he was completely incapable of regretting the decision.

Because he liked the kid.

And because he had been finding more and more, throughout the past months, that success was what you made it.

Maybe he needed to rethink his own definition.

Matt's smile was almost blinding in the dim light of the lab. "Thanks, Doctor Foreman." He gave a small jump before heading out the door.

Will smirked, giving Matt's hair a small ruffle before gently pushing him out of the lab. "Go on, kid."

Matt did, all but bounding out of the lab.

Foreman gave his head a small shake, hiding his own grin as he observed the piece of liver once more.

There was a moment of silence in which Foreman assumed that had Will left, only to abruptly ended moments later by the sound of the man's voice.

"I've seen what you've been doing for him."

Foreman glanced up, seeing Will's appraising look and curious expression.

The neurologist shrugged, turning back to the liver sample. "It's nothing."

Will mimicked the gesture, coming closer. "Maybe not to you, but it's been the world to him."

Foreman frowned, looking at the man once more, surprised.

The younger man gave another careless toss of his shoulder. "His dad's not been quite the ideal role model as of late, and Lord knows a kid needs one at a time like this."

Foreman nodded, jotting down a note in the patient's chart, listening intently. "Will he be okay?"

"Mark? Oh, yeah." He tugged on one of the rings in his ear, nodding. "Give him a few more days and he'll snap out of it." A crooked grin. "Too good of a father to allow himself to wallow too much longer."

The doctor gave another nod, figuring as much from his brief associations with the man. "And everyone else in the family? They're all right?"

There was a pause, Will crossing his hands in front of his chest, looking Foreman in the eye. "They're getting there."

"And you?"

A bitter grin. "Getting there."

Foreman stared at the man seriously, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks.

It can take a lot out of a person, watching someone die.

Foreman spoke without thought. "If you ever need anything, any help, feel free to ask."

He frowned, startled by his own offer.

Will was eyeing him with interest. "Thanks." He walked further into the lab. "That's awfully generous of you." He leaned against a counter. "A doctor's time is valuable."

Foreman sighed, an odd mixture of self-resentment and pride coursing through him. "Matt's a good kid and I've worked with Allison a long time." He rubbed his forehead, quieting his voice. "If there's anything I can do to help, I should."

Because it was the right thing to do. And he suddenly found himself all about doing the right thing.

Will tilted his head slightly. "How long have you worked with Al?"

Foreman looked up, almost surprised that the man was still in the lab. "About two and a half years, ever since I've been at Plainsboro."

Will gave a little nod. "Do you know everyone in the hospital well?"

"No, not especially." He stared at the microscope. "I've been very focused on my career."

"What do you know about Wilson?"

"Wilson?" Foreman frowned. "Your sister's doctor?"

Will nodded.

"He's decent enough. Great doctor, no grand lapses in morality, excellent patient care." Foreman quickly made a mental list of all of Wilson's skills. The last thing the oncologist needed was to be sued. "He did everything he could for your sister." He paused, smiling ruefully. "Now if House had been her doctor-"

"I don't want to sue him." Will remarked blandly. "And I certainly trust House more than that man."

Foreman quirked an eyebrow. "House?"

Will gave a light shrug. "At least he's honest. Wilson's not. Neither is the Australian," he sighed, pulling on his earring again. "But Sammy can take care of herself." He gave himself a small shake, looking back up to the neurologist. "Right now, I'm interested in the oncologist."

"Well if you want hospital gossip I'm not the best person to talk to." Foreman shrugged. "As far as I know he's a good doctor with a personal life that's none of my business."

The younger man gave a nod, turning on his heel. "Okay. Thanks. Probably see you at a family dinner."

He was almost to the door when Foreman spoke, curious. "Will?"

The man looked back.

"Why do you care?"

There was a displeased smirk across Will's face. "Because he's sleeping with my sister." He opened the door, poised to leave. "And I don't like it."

With that he was out of the lab, Foreman left staring at the spot the man had formerly occupied.

Wilson and Cameron?

Foreman gave his head a firm shake before bolting out of his chair and following the trail Will had blazed out of the room.

This, he feared, could only lead to trouble.

"Will, wait."

The man stopped his progress toward the main lobby, raising an eyebrow at Foreman behind him.

"You can't know that."

Will snorted, waiting until Foreman had caught up to him before striding forward once more. "Trust me, I know."

Foreman lowered his voice, tone laced with disbelief. "When your sister's had sex?" He paused, hesitantly adding, "How would you...?"

Will frowned before glancing at Foreman. "Ew." He sent the neurologist a disgusted look. "Dude." He visibly shivered. "That's sick." Will shook his head. "No, it's all body language. How people interact with each other, how it changes." He sent Foreman a significant glance. "I can tell."

"You can't be certain-"

Will quickly cut him off. "I am."

Foreman sighed. "Okay, fine. But is it really your business who Cameron sleeps with?"

"She's my sister."

"She's thirty-two," he pointed out quickly. "Don't you think she should be allowed to make her own decisions on this front?"

Will gave a snort. "Not when she has a history of lusting after inappropriate men who cause her nothing but pain."

"Wilson's not a bad guy." Foreman found it odd that he was suddenly petitioning for a man he barely knew, finding it suddenly important that Will knew about Wilson's positive traits.

He wasn't at all certain as to why.

Will smirked. "According to the nurses he's a cheater, manipulator and liar."

Foreman opened his mouth only to be stopped by a raised hand.

"Sure, he's a great doctor and I have no doubt that he did all he could for Clara, but that doesn't make him any less of an asshole when it comes to women." They had reached the elevators, Will pressing impatiently on the up button. "And I'm not planning on letting Al get hurt again." He frowned, tugging on his ring again. "Not now."

Foreman let out a sigh, staring at the man intently. "Will, I know you want to protect her, but you can't. You shouldn't. Not from something like this."

He paused, seeing the man's look of doubt.

"You don't even know Wilson, you have no idea how he treats her, whether or not his reputation is deserved."

Will still looked unimpressed.

"What if he makes her happy?"

Will sighed. "Listen, Foreman." He clapped the doctor on the shoulder. "I know something about cheaters, and I know that they don't change." He gave Foreman a charming smile. "I'm not trying to make my sister miserable, far from it. I just want to warn her, make sure she understands just what she's getting herself into." The elevator dinged open and Will stepped in. "That's all."

The neurologist quickly stopped the sliding doors from closing. "She'll resent you for it."

Foreman internally wondered what aspect of personality he could possibly appeal to in order to stave off Will's attempts. Because Foreman, oblivious as he was to the lives of those around him, had been watching Cameron, covertly, during the past weeks. Had seen that although she was sad, she wasn't miserable, wasn't broken by grief.

And Wilson had, without question, been a large part of that. The way he made her smile when they spoke, they way her mood would instantly lighten if he came into diagnostics, how she left for lunch each day with a joy certainly not warranted by the cafeteria's menu.

He was making her happy. And even if it wasn't smart, even if it wasn't entirely healthy, it was her choice.

"You can't always protect people." Foreman said at last. "Especially if they don't want it."

Will frowned. "Just because someone doesn't want something, doesn't mean that they don't need it."

The doctor sighed, realizing that the man's mind had already been made up. "Fine, fine. Talk to her." He stared at Will. "But not now. Not yet. Give it some time, look at Wilson yourself." He shrugged. "Maybe he's not the asshole you think he is."

Will was sending him an intrigued glance, seemingly fascinated by the fever with which the neurologist lobbied his cause. "Okay, Foreman. I'll wait."

Foreman let out a sigh of relief, giving a curt nod before turning and heading back to the lab, glad, at least, that he had extended Cameron's happiness a bit.

"Hey, Foreman."

Foreman looked back, Will holding the door open with his arm.

"Why do you care so much about my talking to her?"

He gave a humorless grin. "I don't want Cameron to get hurt either."

---

A month had passed since the funeral, and Chase was of the firm belief that all of his obligations had been fulfilled.

It was a Saturday night and they were at her apartment, comfortably seated in her large couch and watching the only movie that was halfway decent and happened to be on TV. Sammy was lying against his chest as he leaned back into the corner of the sofa, their legs tangling at the other end as her head rose and fell with his every breath.

He didn't want to admit that he could stay this way for hours, forever if need be, and be perfectly content.

It was a realization like that had consequences that Chase had no desire to contemplate. Implied things, feelings, that he was determined not to have.

Chase didn't think many people understood the worth of apathy. The blessed freedom and security it gave those who felt it. When you didn't care about people who were hurt, things that were lost or emotions that were involved, you were free to do anything you wished without regret. You were able to sustain any abandonment, any blow, without any feeling whatsoever.

Chase had yet to master the ability entirely; small vestiges of bothersome emotions still clung to him, still pulled scraps of feeling from him that were so unwelcome they almost hurt as they were taken.

And Sammy seemed to inspire such sentiments with an intensity Chase had been too afraid to feel, unwilling to feel, in years. Decades.

Because more than any other lesson that Chase had ever learned, he knew that caring hurt. People took that caring and used it against you, trapped you with it, abused it and left you behind.

Sammy, he was certain, would be no exception. Not because she was a bad person, or because she particularly wanted to cause him harm. It was because he liked her too much.

And people like that, the ones you valued too highly, thought too well of, admired too much.

They were the ones who hurt you the most when they disappointed you.

Given these facts, Chase thought that it was perfectly reasonable that he should leave. Was even annoyed that he hadn't left sooner, some twisted sense of obligation and guilt making him stick around as long as he had. A woman he barley knew asked him to stay and he did, subjecting himself to an emotional whirlwind that he wouldn't have been a part of under any normal set of circumstances.

But Clara had been dying and, using that, had managed to manipulate him masterfully.

How could he deny a dying woman her last request? How could he say no, when she had placed so much trust in him, such absolute faith? It was wrong to do that to a person. To give them a responsibility they had no choice but to accept, no option but to comply with demands that they should have no obligation to fulfill.

Because, really, who could, would, say no to a dying woman?

Chase hadn't signed up for this. He hadn't wanted to help clean a house that wasn't his, wash dishes or store leftover food. Hadn't wanted to follow a woman around for three months, hadn't wanted to keep a mourning family company, to stay sober while everyone around him was deliriously wallowing in grief.

He hadn't wanted to hold her. To wipe her tears and reassure her as she cried. To whisper reassurances about the afterlife and God's love into her ear in the early hours of morning, stroking her back as she slowly fell asleep.

He hadn't wanted any of it. Didn't need any of it.

Even if every grateful smile, loaded glance and kind word she gave him made him question this conviction.

And that doubt was perilous.

Was deceiving, nearly convinced him that she could make him happy. Because if he could somehow find satisfaction in sharing her every moment of pain and suffering, in taking her disappointments into his heart and cherishing them just as greatly as he did her smiles, then what was to stop him from being happy with every aspect of her? And not the momentary joy, the fleeting and false kind that he had experienced so many times before, that he had felt slip through his fingers.

That doubt made him think that he might not, this time, screw things up. That it could work, that it could last.

Soon he would start to cling to these desperate illusions, these pretty fantasies that he knew better than to believe. And Chase couldn't have that.

For the first time in a very long time, Chase was happy. And happy was dangerous.

It made him unsafe, deluded, foolish.

And Chase was so tired of playing the fool.

So he decided it was time for the fantasy to end.

"This isn't working."

He ignored the internal twinge that almost made him flinch when he said the words, the ceaseless doubt that echoed through his head.

He would not be tricked again.

Sammy tensed, gently pushing against his chest as she sat up and frowned at him. "What?"

Chase gulped, willing himself not to feel her hand through his shirt, see her eyes in the dim light, trace the eyebrow quirked up in question with the traitorous fingers that ached to glide across the fine hairs.

"Us. We're not working."

She moved her hand, sitting up fully and flicking on a lamp, creating distance between them.

Chase sat up as well, pointedly not looking at her, instead staring at his shoes with interest. It wasn't that he didn't want to have to see the disappointment on her face, the betrayal. It was just that his shoes could have some vital insight to share on how to deal with this unfortunate situation.

Really.

"Not working?" Sammy straightened, folding her hands in her lap, staring at him seriously as her brow furrowed. "How are we not working?"

She was an incredibly attractive woman. There was no denying that. It wasn't a classic beauty, not one that could be instantly identified, remarked upon and criticized, because no single feature made her extraordinary. It was all of it. Her lips (that were rather thin), her legs (which were almost too thick), her hands (rough, artist's hands, the feature he loved most). All of these small things, these many imperfections, made her, to Chase, almost unbearably stunning.

But there were plenty of beautiful women in the world. Ones who came without strings.

"A lot of reasons."

Sammy frowned again, standing and staring down at him, her look cold and calculating. "So do you want to change any of these things, or would it be better just to mention that they exist and then ignore them?"

He looked down to the shoes again, a last ditch effort to glean some helpful advice from the unresponsive objects, before glancing up again.

"I don't think these are things that can be fixed."

"I see." Her expression became carefully blank. "Why?"

Chase hated seeing her like that. Her beautiful, animated features muted down, intentionally dulled in an attempt to protect herself. It made sense for her to do so. At its most astonishing, Sammy's face could convey every emotion she ever felt in a manner which shamed the English language, in a way that made words obsolete.

It was breathtaking.

But now that wonderful gift became a liability, a weakness that could be used against her. And so she went blank, emotionless save for the way she flicked her hair behind her ear.

Chase almost believed that he felt an immense regret, for making her adopt that blank expression with him

Almost.

After all, she meant nothing to him.

Nothing at all.

"It's not impor-"

"Of course it's important. If it wasn't then we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?" She let out a small sigh, the façade slipping slightly as she gave him a sad, pained glance, biting her lip. "Rob, if you're going to break up with me at least have the decency to tell me why."

Chase took in a deep breath, knowing that once the words had been said, once they left his lips, there would be no taking them back.

"I'm tired." He ran a hand through his hair. "Tired of helping you pick up after your messes, your problems. I'm sick of caring more about your troubles than my own." He sent her a sardonic glance. " I never wanted this, you know. Never wanted whatever you've made us into."

"Made us into?"

Chase stood up as well, gesturing wildly as his voice rose. "It was just supposed to be a good time, Sammy!" A bitter laugh. "That's it. Just two young people doing what young people do for a week or two, and that would be that."

He was yelling now, angry with her, with himself. Knowing that the anger gave him away.

Apathy was supposed to negate anger.

He threw up his hands. "But you weren't satisfied, couldn't just keep it neat, orderly and simple. A no-strings-attached relationship that would have kept us both pleasantly content." He sighed, rubbing at his hair again, sending her an accusing look. "No, you made it complicated." He said the word as if it made his throat burn.

Sammy remained quiet, expression still bland, frustrating Chase.

She only had herself to blame. He had never wanted this, never meant to be anything more to her.

But he had never wished to hurt her either.

Chase sighed, tone wearily resigned. "I wasn't supposed to meet your family." Or like them. "Wasn't supposed to spend weeks at a time in your apartment." To have more of his clothes in her closet than his. "To know the name of your first pet." It was Graham, a turtle. "I didn't agree to do any of these things."

Sammy stared at him levelly. "I never asked you to."

His temper came back. "Yes you did!" He let out a large breath of air, almost a laugh. "You have to know you did."

Expression came back to her, a mildly confused furrow between her brows, a slight tilt of her head.

And it was such a relief to see her again, not some lifeless mask, that he found himself taking a step towards her without realizing it. "Every time you looked at me I could feel it. Wanting more, for me to get closer, more attached." He shook his head in disbelief, letting out a huff of air. "And I did." A chuckle. "Like a fool I followed every unspoken request you gave me."

With a start he noticed the renewed proximity between them, quickly stepping away.

None of that. Not now.

"But now I'm done." He looked up at her, shrugging. "I've given you everything that I know how to give and it's not enough."

And it wasn't. Not for Sammy and certainly not for Chase. He wouldn't have her now just to lose her later.

It wasn't enough.

He shook his head, staring at her again. "I did everything you," she, Clara, "asked. Everything. But I've got nothing else."

She opened her mouth, reaching out a hand as if to touch him. "Rob-"

He backed away, towards the door. "It's over, Sammy." He snatched his jacket off of the edge of the couch, making his way across the room as quickly as possible.

He had a feeling that if she touched him, he wouldn't be able to leave.

Soon he was at the door, opening it. "It's been fun, but that's all it was."

He glanced behind him, Sammy giving him the look of one overcome with shock, as if the entire world had rotated on its axis without warning.

"All it was supposed to be."

He closed the door and walked out of the apartment building, trying to erase her stricken image from his mind as he made his way to his car.

She meant nothing to him.

Nothing at all.

---

After years of a mild sense of fulfillment, of detached joy and momentary contentment, Allison was finally happy.

It was a cruel irony that this bliss came at the worst possible time.

Of course it would have made Clara smile, had she been there. She would have pointed out, with a knowing smirk, how it was just like Al to get something right when she would be least able to appreciate it. And then she would have laughed, told everyone that she had known that it was bound to happen from the start, and then revealed all of the strings she had cleverly pulled to bring them together, the matchmaker that she was.

But Clara wasn't there, and the pain her absence caused was almost physical in its intensity.

It shouldn't have. Cameron had been through this ordeal before and had managed it with an iota of grace, with a hint of composure and dignity. She hadn't been forced to disappear for hours at a time, just to regain herself. Hadn't been fazed by common occurrences that reminded her of the departed. Hadn't found herself uncontrollably overwhelmed by grief throughout the course of her day.

Back then she hadn't felt anything. She had known there was pain, buried somewhere deep, carefully controlled through her classes, through work and her final exams. But she never felt it. Not until she was back home, at their apartment, alone. Not until she was surrounded by the memories of him and had no choice but to succumb to the sadness that she had kept at bay for everyone else's sake.

Now she felt everything. The pain was raw, fresh, undiluted and ugly. It sapped her energy and strength, prevented her functioning at the level of normalcy she expected from herself, and let people see how she wasn't okay, despite her attempts to appear to be.

James didn't mind the shift in her temperament, reading her moods expertly, knowing when to leave and when to stay. When to give her the space she needed and when to keep close at hand, ready to offer a shoulder, tissue or joke as needed. And he reminded her, when her body shook with tremors and her eyes were red from crying, that it was better to let the grief out rather than to allow it to fester. Better to mourn properly now, the way Clara deserved, than to dismiss the hurt and never acknowledge it.

It hurt because Allison had loved her so much.

And love shouldn't be ignored or forgotten.

He hadn't tried to make her remain at home longer than she wished, unlike her other colleagues at the hospital. Cuddy had offered the immunologist as much time off as she felt she needed to rest and recuperate from the loss. But Allison couldn't stand to be alone with her thoughts for so long, knowing the difference between grieving in a healthy manner and sinking into a depression. Jim seemed to understand this, and had simply nodded his head agreeably when she said she would be returning to Plainsboro, just a week after the funeral.

And if he passed by Diagnostics more than usual, or took an interest in more of their cases than an oncologist had any right to, everyone assumed that it was to look after House.

They had decided early on not to make public the changes in their relationship. The current circumstances weren't ideal for that grand unveiling, and neither doctor, Allison particularly, had the energy that would, undoubtedly, be needed to mollify the hospital gossip mill.

House knew. She could tell by how he looked away when she and Jim stood close together, in the way he didn't ask questions when she arrived late to work, how he pointedly didn't give any snide comments regarding the subject, but would instead only smirk smugly when he saw them at lunch.

Why he wasn't reverting back to his juvenile habits and telling everything with a pulse about the affair taking place right under his nose, however, was something Allison couldn't explain.

And so, due to the sudden uncharacteristic benevolence of her boss, Allison and Jimmy remained discreet, continuing to eat lunch together, to exchange friendly greetings and talk when they happened to cross paths. But they always made sure to arrive at different times each morning, to use different cars even though they often ended up at the same place.

Even after only one visit to his apartment, months earlier, Allison quickly came to the conclusion that Jim's home was big, empty and cold. Insisting that such an environment was damaging to a person's psyche, she asked that he sleep on her couch (or in her bed) instead of alone in his tomb of a home, happily keeping him with her most nights rather than permitting him to return to his desolate place of residence.

And even though they both knew that she asked because she didn't want to be alone, and that he stayed because he was worried about her, they continued to blame his apartment. Placing responsibility for their continued association on an inanimate structure had the added benefit of allowing Allison to ignore how deeply she cared for James.

It was still a little frightening, how intensely she had allowed herself to grow fond of him without realizing it. How expertly she hid her affection under her denial, her fierce need to keep their relationship friendly, simple.

Simple was good because simple was easy.

But this, this felt simple too. Simple and better.

It turned out that Jim needed remarkably little from Allison. That what he took he returned, tenfold, back to her in the form of an unconditional concern and support.

That caring for him took next to no effort at all.

And although Allison couldn't imagine this fondness, this connection, as being anything but genuine, the fear that she was unconsciously using him was still there. The fear that her affection for him was just a side effect of grief.

Allison had done her best to dismiss these fears, keeping in mind what Clara had told her, sagely, a month before she died.

Stop being afraid, stay instead of leave, open your eyes and see it.

Cryptic, but Clara would hate to be anything but. Obvious, after all, was boring.

In any case, it, whatever it might have been, was nice.

Whenever she was with James, Allison felt the world melt around her. The anxiety, sorrow and stress that seemed to swarm around her didn't go away, didn't disappear or magically disintegrate with his presence, but they did fade. Became manageable, small details that she suddenly believed would be incapable of overcoming her, so long as he was there.

And he made her happy. Truly happy.

He could make her laugh without trying, all of his awkward tendencies, flirtatious ways and dry humor suddenly becoming vital aspects of her day, without which she felt incomplete.

With just one look or smile he managed to warm her insides, making her feel a sense of rightness that she had never before experienced.

When she touched him, put her hand in his or wrapped her arms around his waist, her skin felt as if it belonged attached to his. It was startling to think she had gone so long without knowing the contours of his fine hands, without imprinting the texture of his skin on her memory, without leaning her ear against his neck to hear his blood rush through his veins as he placed his chin gently on her hair.

After James, she knew that touching anyone else would feel alien.

Despite the sad circumstances, the secrecy and the nearly crippling self-doubt that she was determined to hide, from both James and herself, she was happy.

It was a month after Clara's funeral, and she was happy.

And that was more than Allison had dared to hope for.

These were her distracted thoughts as she looked over the vitals of Diagnostic's current patient, a forty-year-old woman currently in a coma. Her condition was stable, but Cameron had no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before she seized once again, hence the need for constant monitoring.

She was adjusting the woman's IV drip when the glass door quickly slid open.

"Al, we need to talk."

Allison turned, a frown on her lips until she caught a glimpse of magenta. Smirking, and internally congratulating herself on keeping Matt from dyeing his hair a lime green, she looked back at the patient, focused once more.

"Do we?" she said with amusement, finishing with the IV and returning her attention to Will. "Now?" She gestured to the woman. "Can't it wait?"

Will gave his head a firm shake, stepping further into the room. "No, it can't. I caught an early flight." He shrugged. "Plane's leaving in an hour."

Allison furrowed her brow.

Will tugged on an earring, sending her a mildly guilty look. "You know how antsy I get, Al."

She nodded, surprised her brother had remained in New Jersey as long as he had.

Will did not, as a rule, like being confined or bound to any person or place longer than was absolutely necessarily, making and breaking attachments the way most people broke twigs. The fact that he had stayed for such an extended time was a testament to the only exception to Will's rule- his family. Although he had no great fondness for people, Will protected his family with a possessive fierceness that was enough to intimidate most. It was only after years of Mark's sheer persistence, and Clara's blatant disregard for Will's grumbling, that the Samsons were reluctantly accepted into her brother's fold. After which point the young man grew a fondness for them, which quickly evolved into the same defensive tendencies.

"Mark's better, Matt's doing all right, Sammy's gotten the denial out of her system and you," he paused, staring at her intently, "you'll be okay in a few more weeks."

Allison rolled her eyes, walking to the end of the bed and snatching their patient's file. "Gee, thanks for the diagnosis Doctor Burroughs." She flipped the clipboard open. "I was worried there for a moment."

He grinned. "No problem. It's my job, after all." He gave his head a light shake. "Now stop distracting me. We've got to talk before I hit the road."

Allison clicked her pen, scribbling briefly to get ink out of the device. "Talk away."

"It's about that guy."

She quirked an eyebrow in question, still fiddling with the pen. "That guy?"

Will let out a sigh. "Wilson." He gave his ear one last tug before lowering his hand, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's about Wilson."

Allison allowed herself a moment of confusion as she pondered how Will had become aware of her relationship with Jim (because her brother certainly wouldn't care about him otherwise), before giving her head a light shake.

Will (as he had proved time and time again throughout his youth, when his sisters would bring home groups of friends and he could instantly tell who was interested in whom, who had been a part of massive arguments and who was up to something secretive), could be a very perceptive boy when he so chose.

Annoyed but resigned to the fact, Allison couldn't stop herself from letting out a bark of laughter before smiling in triumph as the pen began to work properly. "Not this act again, Will."

Will frowned. "Al-"

"The protective brother routine?" she interrupted quickly, placing the patient's file back at the foot of the bed and walking out of the room, Will on her heels. "You did this in high school," she sent him an annoyed glance, "when you were twelve and I was sixteen, holding down a job and making you do your homework every night." She rolled her eyes. "In college, when I was thousands of miles away." She stopped walking abruptly, grinning at him. "Will, you did this with Mark before you got to know him."

He waved a dismissive arm. "This is different."

Allison sighed, beginning to stride away once more. "It's always different."

He grabbed her arm before she could leave. "I know guys like him, Al." He laughed bitterly. "Hell, I am a guy like him." He stared at her levelly, utterly serious. "He's despicable."

She frowned, trying to jerk away her arm, angry. "Will-"

He cut her off. "He may seem friendly enough, just an all-around good guy."

Allison scoffed, knowing that she wouldn't be able to get through to him (not when he was like this), and pulled her arm away from him, walking quickly down the hallway once more, attempting to escape.

She didn't want to hear it, didn't want to believe whatever it was that he wanted to say.

She was happy. She wanted to stay that way.

She walked faster, glad that the hallway was empty. The last thing she needed was to make a spectacle of herself.

"And then the instant he sees a vulnerable, weak and needy woman, he takes advantage of her the first chance he gets."

She glared behind her. "You don't know anything about him."

He grabbed her elbow, forcing her to stop once more, shaking her. "What do you think he's after, Al? After three marriages? After all of those affairs?"

Allison gaped, shocked to stillness. "How do you-"

Will shook his head dismissively. "I've talked to the nursing staff and some of the doctors on his floor." He smirked. "Walls talk."

She paused. She had managed to allow herself to forget Jimmy's unfortunate past with relationships.

Seeing that he had caught her attention, Will released her, speaking more quietly now, with less urgency. "Look at how spectacularly he has failed at committing to anything, Al. Anyone."

Allison was silent a moment, feeling young and foolish. "His job-"

Will interrupted. "His job isn't what I'm concerned about." He snorted. "He could be the best damn doctor in the world and I would give a flying rat's ass right now. It's you I'm worried about. He doesn't need anything from any woman except for a nice lay every now and then." A significant pause as he bent his head, locking his eyes with hers, forcing her to listen. "And that's all he wants from you."

She shook her head instantly. "No. No, he didn't want to-" She stopped herself, knowing that she was losing composure. She took a deep, calming, breath, attempting to become rational once more. The only way to win this argument, the only way she could possibly persuade him, was to remain rational.

She didn't acknowledge that she was trying to convince herself as well.

She met her brother's gaze. "I started this."

"Yeah, you started it," Will said, scorn apparent in every syllable. "But who do you think's going to finish it?"

Her stare went to the floor, uncertain.

Allison had spent so much time questioning her own motives that she had never thought to contemplate his.

And with a history as fraught with failed romances as James's, there was a lot to question.

Will sighed. "You know what, I lied."

Allison looked up, a confused expression on her face.

"He's worse than me." He tugged at his earring again. "Because he makes women believe that he wants something more out of them before tossing them out in the cold."

She remained silent, resisting the urge to pull her lab coat around herself more tightly.

James's motives were unknown, entirely his own, and might not have been as noble as Allison would have liked to believe they were. After all, he hadn't been able to keep a wife. Had cheated in the past, although how often and with whom Allison could only guess at. He did get bored with girlfriends and spouses, did have a tendency to offer his support a bit too quickly to women, people, in times of strife, devoting his time and affection elsewhere rather than where it was most expected.

How long would it take for him to become bored of her?

"Maybe I'm wrong."

Allison glanced up once more, Will still staring at her earnestly.

"Maybe he does have the capacity to have a meaningful relationship with another human being." He looked at her sadly. "But if he does, do you really think he's going to exercise it with you?"

He gave his ear another nervous rub before bringing a hand to her shoulder, trying to soften harsh words. "Al, you've been actively pursuing his best friend for the past three years, and you come with more baggage, neuroses and emotional issues than the average man would be capable of handling. Not even mentioning that this guy will have sex with anything with a pretty face and a pitiful gaze."

He shook her gently, forcing her to meet his stare once more. "He's using you."

She shook her head adamantly, wanting nothing more than to forget what he had said. What he was saying. "He's not." He couldn't be.

Another firm shake. "He is." He looked at her with remorse, expression serious. "Al, you know I wouldn't do this just to hurt you, especially not now."

And he wouldn't. Will never meant to hurt anybody. And when he did he always claimed it was for the best. That things were better that way.

Will let her go, backing away a step. "He'll be the perfect gentleman." He gave a sarcastic smile. "Kind, considerate, nice. And then someone better, needier, more appealing, will come along, and he won't be able to help himself, and he'll be kind, considerate and nice to her." He sent her a pained glance. "He'll be gone, and you'll be left alone."

No.

James wouldn't do that. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He cared for her too much to do that to her.

Didn't he?

She shook her head. "Will, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" A raised eyebrow. "What do you want from him, Al? What does he mean to you?" He shrugged. "Just a friend you like to fuck every now and then? A crush? Because those are fine." He stepped forward again. "But if you want something more out of him, something greater, then you better run now. Because you need him a lot more than he needs you, and nothing is keeping him from finding someone else."

Allison was silent, the new information, these desperately unwanted suspicions, becoming a nearly physical weight on her back, making her want to bend her spine to accommodate this crippling load.

She could have reservations about herself and cope with those insecurities with only a mild sense of discomfort. But she couldn't doubt James. Not without a painful toll.

Will must have read the discomfort on her face. He quickly walked forward and embraced her. "I love you, I do," he whispered to her. "I'm just tired of seeing you hurt." He released her, giving her a light kiss on the cheek before backing away. "Someone needs to help protect you from yourself."

And then he turned on his heel and headed down the hallway to the elevator.

Will had never been very good at goodbyes.

And had she been given more time, Allison had no doubt that she would have allowed his words to plague her for the rest of the day, to repeat in her head and take on new meanings, becoming even more devastating than they already were.

But at that instant her pager went off.

Her patient was seizing.

Pushing the conversation with her brother to the back of her mind, Cameron ran back down the hall, entering the room she had left mere minutes before and quickly asserting control over the situation, quickly sending the nurses to work as she rolled the patient onto her side.

Doctor Cameron was in complete control.

Allison was screaming.

The next days went by in a blur, Cameron devoting all of her attention to the case in Diagnostics, attempting to ignore what Will had said, to erase it from her mind. Will, although smart, was not capable of summing up the worth of a man in a matter of months. Especially true when one took into account his very skewed perceptions of people, further altered in this instance by his instant dislike for anyone who had ever taken an interest in either one of his siblings.

Yes. The most logical thing would be to forget the comments. To pretend that the interaction had never happened until her next phone call to the little twerp, when she would give him a piece of her mind.

That was what she wanted to do.

But she couldn't.

Doubts about James, about his intentions (to just screw around until he was bored with her, to make her feel better before promptly leaving), his motives for being with her (so he could help her and then move on to someone superior, someone more needing, more deserving of him), haunted her.

And the results of this haunting were readily apparent for the world to see. She became quiet, moody and irritable, rarely contributing to diagnoses or interacting with patients, pointedly avoiding companionship of any sort in favor of being alone to think. To worry over, stress about and scrutinize James's every action.

She knew it was ridiculous. Knew that this panic, inspired by nothing more than Will's misgivings, wasn't at all practical. That she was becoming the very type of woman she hated, overly suspicious and insecure, so busy doubting both her significant other and herself that she forgot the things that had brought them together.

And she still couldn't stop. Not immediately.

James seemed to sense her hostility and wisely kept away for several days, obviously confused by her sudden detachment but accepting it without question or comment.

Instead, one afternoon after a lunch in which Allison had been particularly unresponsive, he had gently pulled her aside before they had gone off to their respective departments, tugging her into an empty hallway before she could stride off.

She had looked around nervously in the hall, convinced that House would jump out from behind a corner and proceed to run, screaming the details of their relationship to anyone who might hear, through the hospital.

The paranoia had certainly begun to set in.

But whereas Allison had been panicked and nervous, James was calm and relaxed, holding her hand in one of his while sending her a reassuring smile. "Allison." He brought his free limb to the back of his neck and gave the skin a rub. "I don't know what's wrong, but I know that whatever it is, I'm not helping."

She had opened her mouth, ready to protest, but he didn't give her the opportunity, bringing the hand away from his neck and over her mouth.

He gave another comforting grin, lightly rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip.

They were frozen that way for a moment, just staring at one another in the deserted hallway, James gently silencing her and smiling.

Then he let out a small sigh, quickly kissing her cheek before releasing his hold on her hand and mouth, backing out of the small space. "Let me know when you'd like me back at your place."

With one last grin he was off, returning to his office or some patient's room.

Giving her the space they both knew she needed, even if neither of them knew exactly why.

He spent those nights in his own apartment, for which she was grateful. It gave her some time that was not completely occupied by thoughts of his impending betrayal, of all of the ways in which he would, ultimately, leave her. Of all the evidence that clearly pointed to his pity, not his caring, as the underlying emotion that bound him to her.

But, more importantly, With James away, even only twenty minutes away, she finally let herself remember why she was so fond of him. She recalled all of the positive attributes that gave testament to his character, the reasons why he would never betray her in the way Will insisted he would. James was too loyal, too honest. Too decent to deceive someone he cared about in such a horrid fashion. (And Allison knew that he held some amount of affection for her, some sense of attachment.)

And his absence allowed her some time to miss him.

After a week of taciturn detachment from family, friends and coworkers, and four nights without Jimmy, Allison asked that he come back home, her home, that is, during lunch.

And he had smiled his smile (the one that made her knees weak, that she had missed so very much in merely days), and said he'd see her there, gently entwining his fingers through hers under the table before heading back to Oncology.

When he entered her apartment that night she latched her lips to his before he had set his briefcase down, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her hands in his hair.

Her skin really did belong against his.

When enough time had passed so she felt as if she had regained her fill of him, Allison broke the kiss, grabbing his hand with hers and moving just far enough away so that their palms were the only things that touched.

Jimmy blinked, a ridiculous grin on his face. "Hello," he said pleasantly, finally dropping his briefcase to the floor. "Can we somehow arrange it so I can be greeted this way every night?"

Allison smiled. "If you're very good, I'll consider it."

He nodded seriously. "Then I'll be on best behavior from here on out."

She gave another small grin before shaking herself, taking another step away from him, looking at him earnestly. "I'm sorry. I know I've been distracted and difficult these past few days." She sighed, releasing his hand and bracing herself for the long justification she knew she owed to him. "I was upset, and it wasn't your fault, but I just-"

"Sh," he brought a finger to her lips. "It's all right."

Allison stared blankly.

"You don't have to explain yourself." He gave a rueful grin. "Everyone is entitled to their bad days." He moved closer and snaked an arm around her waist, leaning his forehead against hers.

And she didn't think she mistook the small exhalation of relief that came from his lips.

She, it seemed, hadn't been the only one who felt something missing.

Jimmy grinned. "Good luck during mine, by the way."

She resisted the urge to chuckle. "Are they spectacularly horrendous episodes then?"

He adopted a serious expression, nodding sagely. "Unfortunately. Children and small animals, some of the most innocent things in existence, become terribly obnoxious to me." He backed away, giving her a warning look. "They won't be safe in my presence."

She inclined her head, just as serious. "Noted. I'll be sure to clear your immediate area when such a mood strikes you."

"See that you do."

"I, along with mothers and animal lovers everywhere, appreciate the forewarning."

"Thought it was best that you were all prepared."

Allison smiled up at him, unbelievably grateful for his understanding. She became serious once more. "I am sorry, you know."

"I know." He backed away, kissing the back of her hand. "Even if you have no need to be." He smirked. "Besides, I expect you to make it up to me." He gave her hand a tug, pulling her towards the couch.

She followed, grinning despite herself. "Do you?"

"Yep." He gently nudged her onto the sofa, throwing his coat and scarf onto a nearby chair before joining her. "We have a very busy night ahead of us."

Allison raised an eyebrow. "We do?"

"Oh yes," he said gravely, nuzzling at her neck. "I do hope you're not overly fond of sleep, Doctor Cameron, as I am going to keep you occupied throughout the evening."

"My, Doctor Wilson," she mumbled, feigning shock and innocence. "What on Earth do you have in mind?"

"Actually," there was a moment of awkward shifting as he brought a hand to the coffee table, fumbling for something. "I was referring to the truck rally that's on tonight." There was a click as the television came on. "But I'm sure that I can find some way to appease you during the commercials."

Jimmy smiled at her innocently.

Allison scowled. "How generous."

He grinned, leaning close to her once more. "Wouldn't want you to feel neglected, now would I?" He gently kissed her neck, her cheek, the corner of her lips.

She gave a minute shake of her head, a mock-severe frown on her lips as she fought the impulse to return the gestures. "Certainly not."

Jimmy furrowed his brows at the declined angle of her mouth, displeased. "Now that certainly won't do." He kissed the unhappy lips, making a satisfied noise, not dissimilar to the one Allison made herself, as they parted under his ministrations.

Then there was an obtrusive chiming sound from by the doorway.

Jim's cell phone ringing merrily from his briefcase, which he had dropped so innocently a few moments earlier.

Both doctors let out a groan.

He sighed, pushing himself off of the couch and walking to his briefcase. After a moment he located his phone, looking at the screen before turning back to her, holding up a hand. "Hold that thought."

With that he retreated further into the apartment. Allison was just able to make out his voice coming from the bedroom, over the sounds of trucks smashing into one another.

She really did fail to see the appeal of this sort of entertainment. Going with House had been fun, all those years ago, but that had been more because she was with House rather than because she had any fondness for monster trucks.

For Jimmy, she thought she could learn to genuinely enjoy them.

Ten minutes later she found herself oddly engrossed by Killer Jaws as it and its driver smashed their way through fifteen smaller vehicles.

But when she heard the sound of Jim's footsteps, she quickly adopted an expression of bored indulgence. She took far too much satisfaction from lording his childish obsession to give it up.

Jimmy sighed, sinking back onto the couch. "Sorry about that."

"No problem. Who was it?" She smirked. "Mother checking up on you again?"

He groaned. "She calls one time and you never let it go."

She was still smiling, amused by his annoyance. "Never," she agreed happily as she leaned against his chest, eyes locked, once again, on Killer Jaws.

He sighed throwing up his hands in defeat before settling one on her shoulder. "No, not my mother. It was Julie."

Allison felt herself stiffen.

James remained oblivious. "She called me a few days ago and we had dinner." He rubbed her shoulder soothingly. "We were just scheduling a lunch for next week."

She did her best to keep her tone carefully blank as she asked, "You've been going out with Julie?"

"Just eating, letting her talk." He sighed, the hand leaving her arm, no doubt to rub at his neck. "She's having a rough time of things. Having a tough time at work, with her parents." There was a small pause, a nearly audible swallow. "Regretting the abortion." The hand returned to her shoulder. "She needed someone, and with a family like hers I'm the only someone around."

And with a startling, painful, recognition, Allison discovered that Will had been right. Someone better, needier, more appealing had come along. And Jimmy couldn't help himself. Because he was incapable of standing by and doing nothing when someone needed him.

Of course it was just a dinner and a lunch. For now. But Allison had no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before Julie, or some other desperate woman, required something more from him, and James, being James, would give it to her. Because she would be like Allison, who he saw as needing comfort and reassurance. Who he had no choice but to gave his support, affection and time. And that wouldn't do.

Because Wilson loved everyone. And when a man loved everyone, he couldn't truly love anyone.

It was his pathology. His own, personal, terminal illness.

And Allison was exhausted from a life of standing back and watching people die. Tired of being pulled under with them, losing more of herself with each heartbreaking casualty. She was tired of hurting the way she knew Jimmy would make her, despite his best intentions.

This was a problem that could not be ignored, not again. An issue that needed to be dealt with.

And Allison only had two ways of dealing with things.

One was in her control.

"I need to leave."

He sat up slightly, leaning over her. "To leave?"

She removed herself from his arms quickly, jumping to her feet. "Yes." She stopped herself as she began to head for the door, shaking her head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. "No. This is my apartment." She turned back to him. "You're leaving." She searched around her, picking up the scarf and jacket he had abandoned only a short while before and shoving them onto his lap, retreating further into the house.

"Wait, Allison!" She heard him push the fabric off of his lap, stand up and follow her, confusion apparent. "Where did this come from? What's wrong?"

Allison said nothing, entering the bedroom and going through drawers, pulling out his few articles of clothing that had managed to find their way there.

"Because of Julie? Allison, its just food."

"No, no it's not because of Julie," she said quietly, almost to herself. "It's because I've come to my senses."

He frowned, obviously hearing her. "Come to your senses?"

She pushed the clothes into his hands, striding out of the room, knowing he would follow, refusing to stop to think about the full consequences of her actions.

If she thought too hard about what she was doing, she wouldn't be able to finish it.

She was just so very tired of being harmed so innocently by the beautifully damaged people that she cared for.

"You don't want this Wilson, not really. I'd rather be spared the spectacle," the pain, "that's bound to ensue when you realize it." She had made her way into the kitchen, snatching a spare plastic bag from a cabinet and taking the clothes from him, carefully placing the perfectly folded articles into the device.

She would hate to wrinkle his clothes.

He stared at her, shaking his head gently, incredulity apparent on every feature. "There's nothing to realize, Allison."

She walked out of the kitchen, Wilson still on her heels. "That's what you want to believe."

"I believe it because it's true."

Allison shook her head, picking his scarf and jacket up from the floor and placing them in his hands. "I don't have the time, the energy, to sort this, us, out, Wilson." She stopped moving long enough to look at him, to see his confounded expression, his disbelieving eyes. Those deep eyes of his.

She gave herself a firm shake. "I can't do it." She couldn't take the rejection again.

Wilson shook his head again, frowning. "What about us needs sorting?"

There was a significant pause as Allison contemplated the situation. Her attraction to the damaged, his endless aim to aid everyone he saw, her need to cling when in pain, his addiction to playing the savior, her past, his past, House.

Allison sighed. "Everything."

She turned for the door.

He dropped the bag, scarf and coat, gently taking hold of her elbow. "Allison, wait." His features were the model of sincerity. "I want to talk about this, and I swear I'll do my best to understand. Why are you leaving?" A single, desperate, look. "Really?"

She wanted to tell the truth. Wanted to explain to him that she, Allison Cameron, the person, wasn't what he truly wanted. Not her, not really. If he genuinely cared about her, then it was no more meaningful than how he cared for everyone else, in one way or another. No different than how he loved them all, drawn to whoever needed him the most. If, in that moment, she was that person, the one in the most urgent personal trauma, he would stay. But in the next instant he would lose interest and be gone.

Not because he was cruel or heartless, like Will thought, but because he cared for everyone too much to devote all of his attention to one person for long.

Allison would be no exception.

But she knew that it wouldn't be enough for Wilson. That he would fight her, make her question herself, lose the resolve that had come upon her so suddenly. That he would persuade her to stay, only to depart later.

And Allison didn't think she could bear being left again.

Fortunately, she knew what he needed to hear. Knew the one thing she could say that would make him leave without question. Knew what she had to say to protect herself.

And so she gave him a truth and a lie, a compromise she felt Clara would have been proud of.

She stared at the floor, not daring to look at his face. "Because if I stayed we'd both always be wanting something else."

Not long ago, the thought that she loved House had immobilized him for nearly a year.

It would work again.

There was a pained silence, a deafening quiet in which she could hear the sounds from the television and Wilson's, suddenly ragged, breathing.

"Is that true?" There was a note of devastation in that voice.

Allison kept her gaze firmly locked to the floor.

He shook her when she said nothing. "Allison, is that true?"

"I want you to go, Wilson." She glanced up, adopting a cold expression and staring at him straight in the eye. "I want you to leave."

He locked her gaze for an instant and then turned away, picking up his dropped clothes and walking towards the door. "Okay, Cameron." He grabbed his briefcase, sending her one final wounded expression of disbelief. "I'm leaving."

When the door closed Cameron was left alone with the sounds of crashing cars.

---

Author's Note: I'm hoping to post the last chapter and epilogue around the same time, but seeing as how the epilogue should be short, this (hopefully) won't be a huge issue in regards to how promptly I post. However, finals will be. –sigh- As soon as I'm on break I'll be writing non-stop until this baby is finished, I promise guys! Again, thank you all for your patience!