Someday soon we all will be together

If the fates allow

Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow

Have yourself a merry little Christmas now

--Frank Sinatra, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Chase and I sit in the conference room staring at each other. I'm missing my coffee cup and he's missing his good, Mont Blanc pen.

"You took my damn pen," he whines.

"My coffee cup's missing. C'mon, just give it up."

"I think you took your coffee mug."

"Why would I hide my coffee cup?"

"Because you're loony and covering for taking my pen."

"You're loony."

"Get another coffee mug."

"Get another pen."

"You could use House's…"

His voice trails off and I glance back at House's red cup. It's been collecting dust for the past few months. Cameron picks it up, stares at for a few minutes, and then cries for the next five minutes every time she is in the room. It is pathetic and tough to watch. Chase and I have long given up trying to comfort her.

Our pagers beep in harmony and we reach for them in unison, but I am the faster draw. I see Cuddy's number and look at the page.

Rowe and Cameron are out sick. Don't break anything. I'm sending someone to baby-sit.

"She thinks we need supervision," Chase is appalled.

"You do. You can't keep your hands off those nurses."

"I'm not all over pharmaceutical reps!"

"That was six months ago. At least I've seen action."

"Who says I haven't?"
"Just the fact that you've been…how do they put it where you rich boys come from? You've been…cranky, lately."

"Horny in the 'hood, I imagine?"

"If you want to put it like that."

"We should take the day, too. It's pointless for us to be here."

"Oh, but the cases to solve," I enthuse.

"You sound like House."

"The sarcasm or the enthusiasm?"

He glares at me and then stares remorsefully at his empty crossword puzzle.

"I can't believe I lost my pen."

"You'll get another one."

"But that's my lucky pen. I've signed lots of important contracts with that."

I give him a small smile.

"You'll find it eventually. It's a small hospital."

"No, it's not, but thanks," he smiles back. It's as close to an emotional moment as we'll ever get. Even after House's death we never became close—we're just colleagues—competitive ones.

Chase stands up and walks over to the white board that Rowe's left only because we pleaded with him to leave it. Cameron almost bit his hand when he tried to drag it out of the room. She doesn't like him and he doesn't like her. All three of us agree that the white board helps us to think—and reminds us of House (the man was larger-than-life during his lifetime—now he's larger than God for most of us.)

"Okay," he writes Possible Babysitters That We Would Never Be Lucky Enough to Get at the top of the board.

"Carmen Electra," I tell him.
He writes.

"Kylie Minogue," he scribbles.

"She Australian?"

"'Can't get you outta my head, boy you're all I think about'…that girl," he tells

me after he sings me some lyrics.

"That's good to know which team you play for. But I'd prefer if I weren't 'in your head.' Halle Berry," I suggest.

He writes her name on the board and Angelina Jolie's underneath.

"Jennifer Aniston."

Underneath Brad Pitt's former wife's name goes Britney Spears'.

"What is up with you and outdated pop stars? J. Lo."

After my suggestion he sticks Heidi Klum, Nicole Kidman, and Pamela Anderson.

"No, no. You don't like Pam Anderson. You like her boobs," I tell him.

"And you don't?"

"I like mine real, thanks."

"Hey, you were out on the West Coast, right? You ever treat one of these girls?"

"No, unfortunately. Although I once saw—"

Before I can finish my wonderfully false story about once seeing Beyonce Knowles' trying on clothes, Stacy walks in with a coffee mug (mine), pen (Chase's), and crossword puzzle in hand. She pushes the door open with her hip, since she is engrossed in the puzzle.

"Hey, boys, eight letter word for unobservant," she looks up blankly and innocently at Chase and me. Clueless.

"My pen!" Chase gasps, drops the marker, and then picks it up from the floor.

"My coffee cup! There better be some good coffee in there," I tell her.

She places the cup on the table and throws the pen across Chase's crossword puzzle. She smiles conspiratorially at him.

"Late night?"

"No," he spits back. I realize I'm missing something.

"Please tell me you two aren't doing each other like Wilson and Cameron are. There are only so many of these loving relationships that I can stand. Where can I put in for these affairs?"

"How long were you with Greg? God, you remind me of him. You have his sarcasm," she shudders visibly, but her eyes catch on something at a level higher than my head.

"I enjoy good gossip any day," I tell her as she stares above my head.

She stands up quickly and I grab my coffee cup from where Stacy has left it on the table. There's a pink lipstick mark on the white ceramic. Damn it. I let it take its place back on the table and find my eyes following Chase's and thus following Stacy.

She reaches up—ever graceful—and removes a rather heavy magazine. She flips through a few pages. I slide over to where she is standing and look at the title of the magazine. Parenting?

"Why's that up there?" Stacy muses aloud and keeps flipping through the magazine. Chase is still by the white board.

"What is it?" He asks.

"Parenting," I reply.

"So, our dear Dr. Cameron is pregnant," Chase says thoughtfully. I turn to look at him immediately. I hear Stacy flip the magazine shut.

"She tell you that?" I ask.

"Have you seen her stomach?"

"I haven't been looking."

Stacy takes a seat at the far-end of the table, gazing at the magazine in front of her.

"He's right," she says softly.

"You're kidding," my voice is incredulous. I'm incredulous.

"No, I'm not. She told me last night," she folds her hand on the table. Her voice is lawyerly.

"Who's the father?" Chase asks with his ever-present Australian accent slurring his words.

"Wilson."

She says it so convincingly that I can almost believe it's the truth. Shreds of doubt (as ever-present as Chase's drawl) form and swim through my mind.

"But, she hasn't been with him long enough," I protest.

"She clung to him after House's death. Three months ago," Chase points out.

But Cameron doesn't love him, I think. She loved House. She still loves House. I visit her sometimes and it's House's cane she grasps and holds. It's House's grave that she asks me to accompany her to on nights that are too dark. It's House's name she utters when she criticizes Rowe for being cautious. She is firmly in love with the idea of House since House no longer resides here—among the living.

"Well, what are you two going to do with that bit of information?" I ask the two, who are now looking at each other.

"I think we should go to Cuddy," Chase suggests.

"I did."

"That's where you were last night," Chase remarks.

"Yeah. She says she knows."

"Then we go to the board."

"Why are you so eager to turn her in? Because she's turned you down or because she has a conscience?"

"She's sleeping with a superior!"

"We'll take it to Cuddy since it appears she is set on keeping the baby," Stacy points to the magazine for the extra emphasis. I want to tell her that she doesn't need to sound so important. Her tight smile and crow's feet already make her older than Chase and I; her damned annoying air of self-importance makes her important to Chase.

Solve the equation, I think, if money equals power and power equals corruption, what is money? A simple use of the substitution property. Money equals corruption. Stacy knows whose ass to kiss.

"I'm not going," I say resolutely.

Stacy's eyes glimmer. She's as green as the Wicked Witch of the West.

"She told me it's his baby. And Wilson didn't deny it."

"Doesn't mean it's his."

"Foreman, we both saw with him numerous times in the exam rooms. At lunch. Leaving together," Chase reminds me.

Suddenly, the humorous atmosphere from earlier in the morning seems oppressive. I think for a moment. I can lie about the magazine and say it's Rowe's or mine, but human nature prevents me from doing it. Only the best people don't hurt others. It's the human condition. A trap it might be, and I fall into it every time. I stole a car. Broke into a house. Made fun of colleagues for enjoying each other's company. This is what we do. We make mistakes. And we learn from them. To teach Chase a lesson or save Cameron's ass? Why do I have so much more faith in her than I'll ever have in him?

I had an English teacher once who used to talk all the time about the human condition. The human condition makes us who we are. The human condition is an anomaly to us because as humans, we look at ourselves with a biased eye. But, the human condition is flawed meaning that it's perfectly human. She's right.

"I won't say anything."

"You don't have to. Nod your head every once and a while," Chase instructs.

"Are we going now?" I ask.

"Sure. You guys busy?"

I longingly gaze at my stolen and returned coffee cup. I want to scrub it until the enamel rubs away and Stacy's lipstick is long gone. I want to scrub my face until my skin peels off and I have to be the one treated. I want to be free from life, from making decisions, from feeling so damn self-righteous. Stacy's right; I want to be House.

"I'll meet you outside her office. Let me get some coffee, first."

The two look at me before leaving the room and I stare at the black liquid in front of me. Chase and Stacy aren't at fault here. They're basing their decisions on morals. On values. On gut instincts that we're told to believe are right. I don't know if Chase is basing his on a long-forgotten religious belief he once had or if Stacy is basing hers on the fact that House had an option in Cameron. But they're basing this stupid decision on what they learned growing up in perfect houses (mansions, probably) in good neighborhoods. I have morals, values, beliefs…but, I'm basing my decision on something learned from a hard won position…something that's common among gang members…

I won't open my damn mouth in that meeting because I have something that those other two think they have…they do have it, but it's to morals and values and all the wrong things—

Loyalty to a friend.