A/N: Here, then, is a little oddity that bubbled to the surface sometime in the first few days after "Role Model". I intended to rework it, but I actually like it this way-a bit rough. Let me know.

She's leaving, is all he can think.

Cameron is on his rug, three feet from him, and isn't it funny how much closer a yard is in his own home, when he's wearing a t-shirt and she's wearing something blue and boy, is it nice. So much closer. When there's nobody else to walk in on the two of them, and there's some whiskey still burning the back of his throat, and he's been chasing his mind in circles for hours and hours, ever since applauding Vogler and walking off that stage (and there's a memory to keep him warm at night for some time to come). And then she said she was leaving.

He can't say a word. He stares at the carpet, and the whiskey's gumming up his tongue, and what the fuck happened to his life? Vogler, fucking Vogler, fucking bastardson smug asshole Vogler comes in with his money and takes everything away, his ducklings, his freedom, his integrity, makes him dance like some lapdog, follow him on a string, gets him down on the ground and strips away everything so he can make the hospital- Cuddy's hospital, Wilson's hospital, his hospital- make it into his own personal petri dish for his goddamned company, and now, now, now

her hand's out and she's waiting again, she's always waiting for him.

No.

If he touches her, even her hand, if he even looks up or moves, he might break.

More than anything else, he wants to grab onto her, hold her cupped in his palms, swallow her and carry her under his skin.

Goodbye, House.

Worse than Chase, worse than Vogler, worse than three days without Vicodin.

And he can't even move.