Author's Note: My unhealthy obsession with House is making me put aside several biology related things that I actually need to do sometime this weekend. But it doesn't matter. This is much more fun. I'm going to continue this, but I'm not sure where I'm going with it—especially the ending.

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight over threw you

She went down to the street and opened her car. She rummaged around in the front seat hoping that her sister had accidentally dropped the jazz CD she had been so engrossed in when Cameron drove her back to the airport. It hadn't happened. She cursed softly. House's principle was right: she was lying.

Not about everything. She wasn't drunk, for sure. She thrived in painful atmospheres for reasons beyond her, but she loved to comfort people and take on their pain. House was her pet project in a sense.

She heard the door open somewhere behind her.

"Get inside. You're fifth lie was your worst," House chimed from the open door.

She brought her head up too quickly. She had been startled and the dark scared her, so jumpiness was not unusual for her. But she leapt up and smacked her head—hard—on the doorframe.

"Shit!" She yelped.

"Was the profanity necessary? Get your CD and let's go," House's unsympathetic voice echoed again.

Cameron grabbed the first two CDs she saw, Dylan's Blood on the Tracks and a mix of songs she had recently downloaded, and made her way back to the door. She held one hand firmly on her head and the CDs in the other. She ambled back to the door where House was standing and he stood aside to let her pass. As she did, she noticed he leaned over slightly to look at her head.

"Don't move."

The command was relatively quiet and free of sarcasm considering it was House. He slammed the door shut behind them and pulled her hand off her head. She grimaced as his hands felt her scalp.

"Sit down."

She moved to the couch and sat down, putting her CDs on his coffee table. House flicked on a light and walked back over to where she was sitting. She sat straight up as he stood over and looked at her head again.

"You're bleeding."

"Bleeding? I didn't feel any blood."

"Look at your hand, unless, along with having stupidity as a virtue, obliviousness is another."

She looked at her hand and noticed the reddish sheen that it had taken.

"Holy shit. I didn't realize I slammed my head that hard."

"Foul mouths are not attractive on a lady. And, looking at the selection of CDs you brought, Blood on the Tracks seems very appropriate."

"How badly is it bleeding?"

"Purely superficial, which isn't surprising. I'll get a towel and some water. You'll hold it on your head and stay here until you're well enough to go. I don't need the liability."

He limped off into what appeared to the kitchen as she swept her eyes around the room.

"Oh, you can relax. Being so straight-postured reminds me of a nun. I don't think you're aiming for that impression."

He called from the kitchen and she instantly relaxed.

"Ah, I knew it. Jump up and down," he commanded as he walked back into the room carrying a wet towel.

"Why?"

"I thought you were going to be my obedient lapdog. Damnit, I was looking forward to it, too. Here's the towel."

He thrust the towel in her general direction and sat down in the chair next to the couch, appraising the women in front of him. She dabbed the top of her head at first, cleaning up the dried blood. She let it lay on top of her head and decided to respond to House's lapdog comment.

"Lapdog? I'm no one's lapdog, thank you very much."

"But you want to be mine."

"I respect you. I don't want to screw you."

"Don't ever let them give you a lie-detector test. You'd fail. Miserably."

"And you'd do much better?"

"I like to fashion myself as the teller of truths, detector of deceptions, and righter of wrongs. Which superhero is that? Superman? Truth, justice, and the American Way."

He punched the air with faked enthusiasm.

"Shut up."

"Oh, sorry. I thought my voice made you…" he considered his words with a smirk, "…happy."

She knew she wouldn't be able to match his cynical, sarcastic remarks. He thought she was nice. Well, then she would be nice.

"I like you, House, in spit of all your…negativity. Your voice makes me happy and I love when you play the piano and that's why I come to listen to you play. You for some stupid reason make me happy. Or make me think I'm happy…"

"Lie, lie, lie, lie."

"I brought music; let's listen."

"It's Bob Dylan."

"Problem?"

"It's Bob Dylan…"

"You have got to be kidding me. You have a problem with Bob Dylan?"

"Just put the damn thing in, since you lied about the jazz."

She sighed and handed him the CD. He got up and limped with his cane to the Bose CD player and popped in the Dylan classic. Tangled up in Blue started playing first. Dylan's folksy voice fluttered through the quiet room.

For those several minutes when it was only Dylan, Cameron, and House in the room. For the brief second between songs, it was only Cameron and House. In that small second, Cameron stood up and moved over to where House was sitting, eyes closed, on the chair. She lowered herself down to sit on his good leg. His eyes flew open. She leaned her head on his shoulder as A Simple Twist of Fate, probably Cameron's favorite Dylan song, started to play. House did not object and let his hand fall on her back. She curled into the crook of his neck and her eyes closed as well. She inhaled the stale smell of old cologne and shaving cream. He inhaled the fresh scent of Ralph Lauren shampoo and Chanel perfume.

The odd trio kept each other company in the dark of the night.