It lay on his desk - the x-ray did. It lay somberly on his desk, staring him down, pleading - calling - for his immediate attention. No, he would not succumb to Rachel's scheming attempt to get something for nothing; he would not fall into her trap. Doctor Gregory House was better than that. No. He would not fall victim to her manipulation.

No . . . Huh uh. He glanced back at the plastic sheet. It glanced back at him. "Avert your eyes elsewhere," House warned the inanimate object, threatening it's very existence with shards of accusation in his voice. The x-ray was in on the conspiracy, he knew it. Maybe Rachel had payed it, too. Yeah. Sure Greg.

He was being senseless. House shuffled to the window in his office and leaned against the wall, staring into the firefly-speckled black night above, wishing to escape and be part of it. All background noise - the squeaking of the mail cart past his door and the low rumble of gossiping nurses headed home for the day - was drowned by his senselessness and replaced with one, distinct voice: the x-ray. It was the voice of his curiosity, and the voice of his failing - no, failed - judgement. He had her address: a scrunched-up sliver of paper stuffed guiltily into his back pocket, and hopefully to remain there until the trash can's voice became louder than the x-ray's.

He waited. Oh yes, he waited. But his curiosity exceeded his judgement. It was only a few steps to his desk - a few awkward hobbles - and he cursed himself all the more with each one. More painful than the leg could ever be was the agony of caring. Disappointment, oh disappointment, do come knock on my door. I'm ever so naive enough to let you waltz on in.

He should go hop into his car, pull the address out, find that damn teenager, and admit her into drug rehab. Then again, he should admit himself as well - thus the struggle. She . . . understood him - or understood something about him. He didn't know what, and he didn't know why. But when he looked into her eyes (don't get mushy, Greg) he saw hope - not only for her, but for himself. Like something in life mattered; like his derision and sarcasm could finally be attributed to something other than a bum leg and a fucked-up life. 'Cause she has it too. And look at her.

Yes, Greg, look at her. She's a drug addict. But she was young and there was hope. He was . . old . . .and there was still hope. Because hope lived in the understanding that both of them so clearly possessed. Assess life, then deal with. Yes, he had assessed it - she had assessed it. Now they could both deal with it. Okay. Now it's for the better. It was his own justification. He picked up the x-ray and made his way across the dimly-lit office, impatiently waiting to lend help and a hand - a helping hand - anything he could. As soon as Rachel could get on with her own life, he could get on with his. Not because she was a bother, but because what she could become was a symbol of what Gregory House could become.

It was a dumb comparison, but he would take what he could get. Besides, she still made for a hell of a puzzle. He stepped up to the wall and slid the x-ray into place.

"What's up with House? He's been sitting in that chair since I got here, just staring at his desk." Cameron took a final sip of her coffee, now cold, and got up to pour the bitter brew in the sink.

"I dunno." Chase arose and followed, deciding his coffee was beyond drinkable as well. They had been waiting for House to mosey on in and slap a new case before them. But so far, he hadn't moved. "Maybe he's missing Vogler."

"Or regretting taking Cameron back," Dr. House strutted painfully through the glass doors and across the room to the coffee maker.

"See, now, how do you do that?" Chase shot him a disapproving look. "This room is virtually soundproof to your office."

"Yes," House gave a sarcastic nod as he poured himself a cup, "thus the art of holding the door ajar while oblivious duckling 'A' reveals possibly dirty secrets to oblivious duckling 'B', and so on. However, you two minions failed to capture my interest any longer than my hand was willing to hold the strenuously heavy door ajar."

"I'm sure that must have been painful for you," the Australian quipped as he rolled his eyes. "What've you been doing in there, anyways? We've been waiting all morning for you to give us something to do."

"Couldn't you tell? I was wallowing in pain pills and self-pity, begging the purple dinosaurs to beat me down or beam me up. Never between - I do hate being in-between." He made a sour face as he touched his lips to the three-hour-old coffee and waved the cup out to the side in disgust.

Chase was thoroughly lost. "Purple dinosaurs?"

"Ach. I suppose you didn't see those either. Damn, musta been me. Something I ate, perhaps."

"Yeah, like Vicodin," Cameron didn't look up from her seemingly interesting high heels, which were propped up on a chair in front of her.

House focused his attention on the damsel and struggled to come up with something witty. Truth be told, he was incredibly glad to see her, but she'd never know that. "A tad bit hostile, are we, Dr. Cameron . . . And one would think a showering of thankfulness would be slightly more appropriate."

"One would. If they were presumptuous," she retorted, never missing a beat.

Damn. What's with her? Had he done something he couldn't remember doing? Or maybe not done something he should have? Nah. Not possible. P.M.S. . . . Yeah, that had to be it. How else could Cameron resist the urge to jump on him and swing around his neck in that sickeningly-sweet show of gratefulness for her job back? Not that he wasn't grateful that she had resisted.

"House," Foreman burst through the doors with a business-like urgency, "the blood work came back for -"

"Dr. Foreman. How lovely to see your smiling face," House abruptly cut him off and dumped his coffee into the sink, heading once again for his office.

"That girl -"

"Yes, I heard. Made a clean break for Georgia, on the midnight train no doubt. That's where they all go -"

"Why are we talking about Gladys Night?" Foreman was getting flustered. "I'm talking about -"

"The Pipps. Why of course. How could we leave them out - such a vital part of the equation."

"House!" The glass door closed in Foreman's face, and he stood there, bewildered. Shoving defeat aside and opening the door, "Okay. So you don't want to talk about it. Why's that?"

"You fail to realize that I don't even know what the hell you're talking about. I just like that annoying twitch of your eyebrow. Makes my day." House plopped down into his seat and contemplated taking his Vicodin out again . . .

"Rachel - Oh . . ." he stopped, suddenly realizing, "made a clean break," he quoted House. "Why do you speak in code like that?"

"Keeps it interesting."

"Well, her blood work came back, and -"

"Heroin. Bummer. Yeah, sad story." The sarcastic tone was still there.

"You knew?" It was a question. But the answer became evident, and this second time it was more of an outburst. "You knew! Why didn't you stop her! House, she's probably out on the street -"

"Tell me, have your powers of analysis always been this pristine? Astounding, if I do say so myself." Foreman merely stared, confounded once again by how unethical House could be. "Damn it, Dr. Foreman. Don't look so shocked. Of course she's out on the street, selling drugs and sticking herself with dirty needles she found out on the corner. Because girls like her, with white skin and cowboy boots to match, don't have schools to attend and teachers to humor for an hour of math and geography . . . Of course they don't have the common sense to do well and put on a show for the world . . . to dress and act and speak like a normal human being and smile at all the appropriate moments. Of course she's out on the street at this very moment, waiting for the

cops to come pick her up and reveal her secret - reveal her lies! You're argument is indisputably infallible!" House took a deep breath to make up for the one he didn't take while he was ranting.

Foreman was speechless. He has seen House upset, but never quite like this. It was more than Vicodin-induced embitterment and cynicism this time; he almost seemed to care. The heartless Doctor House. He paused before speaking, not sure if he should press the issue. But he had to. "Why did you let her go yesterday?"

"I suppose I should have risked unlawful restraint?"

"Well, her father -"

"Wasn't her father." House corrected.

"What? . . . . Her file -"

"Wasn't her file." He couldn't stop himself any longer. He pulled out the bottle of Vicodin and dumped a couple in his hand. No, one . . . you already took a couple. Not a good time to O.D. He slid one off his now-sweaty palm and back into the bottle. "I guess you're wondering about the fainting spell and cold symptoms. Not hers, not hers - respectively."

"Well, whose were they?" Foreman crossed his arms.

"Got me. Someone who needs a good dose of Vitamin C and plenty of bed rest." House scrunched his features up as the pill went down; that one didn't taste so good. "The blood, however, I'm pretty sure was hers. No wonder she tried to charge you for it. There was some pretty expensive drugs in there."

Foreman suddenly remembered yesterday's scenario, when he'd stifled a chortle at Rachel's joke and brushed it aside as another eccentricity. "She wasn't kidding . . ." he voice trailed off. Rachel had told on herself, but neither of them had believed her.

"Age-old saying. Where's the best place to hide something?" Foreman shook his head. "In plain view," House confirmed. "Smart girl."

"So I'm guessing this address is a fake as well," Foreman closed the file, it having become suddenly void and useless.

"Guess so," House nodded. The sliver of paper nearly burned a hole through his back pocket at that moment. It was guilt - no, understanding. A guilty understanding. He knew what he had to do.

Dr. Foreman sighed and shook his head again. He couldn't believe how ingenuous he'd been, never suspecting a thing. And now it was too late. Rachel was as good as gone. He noticed an x-ray sheet spread out on top of House's desk. "What's that?"

"Now, I know you're not that incompetent -"

"Whose is it . . .?" he specified, an edge of impatience spilling over into his voice.

He thought about lying. Yes, he thought about smacking Foreman with his cane, kicking him out into the hallway, calling him some horrid and unforgivable name. He thought about ignoring him . . . Thought about it. But he leaned back in his chair, released a long sigh toward the ceiling, and opened his mouth - with some great difficulty. It came out deep and hollow. "Rachel's . . ."

T.B.C

Hang in there peeps.