Author's Note: Let me explain the next pairing, real quick. It isn't House/Cameron; it's Cameron seeing House as her means of escape, the only one to stand up to her husband. Enjoy it.

Hush my darling don't fear my darling

The lion sleeps tonight

--"The Lion Sleeps Tonight" by the Tokens

Conversations can be great mysteries at times. A third party pops in on two people engrossed in one another's words and that third party views the conversation in a confused mindset. But conversations can also be great secret-tellers at times. Maybe it's an unintended dropping of a name or maybe it's the mere mention of a place at a certain time that can make the conversation turn to a discovery—a secret revealed by the lure of a conversation.

""""""

She starts the conversation with the window that sounds like the ones she has had

with it 451 times before.

"So, how are you today, Allison?"

"Fine, Dr. Cameron, thank you for asking."

"How much do you miss him today?"

"Same as yesterday, you?"

"Yeah, same here."

"It's been seven years."

"And I still have his picture."

"Which one did you end up picking from Wilson's stash again?"

"The one of House in front of his motorcycle, wind flying through his hair—"

"Allie!"

The word flies through the air and Allison stops talking to her reflection in the window. He keeps her in this room in this penthouse overlooking Central Park. It is beautiful, but it is boring. She's the princess in the high tower, but she knows her prince is never coming.

"Allie? Are you in there?"

She does not want to respond, but must. It's one of the requirements in the contract. To honor and obey.

"Yeah, I am."

Edward ambles into the room where she is sitting. He is holding the business section of the Wall Street Journal up and is frowning. He frowns a lot, she notes. He smiles only for the public and occasionally when they are making love.

"Did you see these latest reports on our ADHD drug? You worked in the medical field long enough. How much would these guys need to say this thing worked?"

She hates making love to him—it's more like making hate. She imagines his body as someone else's (House) and it helps her make it through the terrible moments when she fakes the orgasm (she remembers that scene from some movie—When Harry Met Sally?) to satisfy his egotistical needs. He wants children very badly and he expects her to give them to him. They have three more years of this dance together and he wants something he can hold over her head at the divorce hearing. You'd be a terrible mother. All you do all day long is gaze out that damned window at some fixed point in space. I get the kids.

"Allison?"

He says she's lost her mind. He tells her that she's lost every ounce of sanity that she once possessed. He tells her that Greg House died two years ago and that she can't love ghosts.

"I don't know, Ed, I was just a lowly immunologist," she murmured.

And the answer is true. He makes her give answers that she doesn't want to give. He makes her do things against her will—quit your job, live in New York, give me children.

He simmers with the knowledge that he is dealing with a possibly infirm woman. He explodes with the fact that he is trying to hold up his end of the contract. Both of them silently wonder if they can reason with an insane person.

"Damn it, Allie! I get you everything you want, why can't you cooperate with me? Marriages are a two way street—you give, I give. I don't give all the time!" Edward Vogler shouts.

She wants to chide him, temper, temper, but she knows he can kill a person and he wouldn't be afraid to break her neck.

"I—"
The funny part is that she doesn't want to defend herself to him. She feels no need to. She wishes that this sad story would end. She sacrifices herself repeatedly for people who never say thank-you. She receives no letters, emails, or phone calls. She thinks of how she agreed to marry Vogler, be his trophy-wife, if he would stop his rampage and leave House to practice medicine. Ten years, read the contract, ten years before divorce is an option. Ten years. The unbearable silence makes her contemplate jumping from the window.

"You what?"

The best part about Edward Vogler is that he is infuriating not because of his sometimes angry shouts, but because he hisses and fakes calm, which he knows will aggravate her more than anything else will.

She stands up from her position in front of the window that overlooks Central Park. She stretches her limbs and walks over to where her husband stands. They fight all the time—nasty battles full of hate. The only reason their 7-year marriage has not yet deteriorated is because of the simple fact that she has signed a contract and that binds her to him for ten years. It is like when she played tennis when she was younger—ten times hitting ten balls to one side of the court. She remembers counting down the number of balls she had hit and when she got to seven she could see the end in sight. Years, though, are different from merely smacking a tennis ball.

"I'll be back in an hour."

"Don't you dare leave!" He grabs her wrist.

She whirls around, wrangling her bracelet-laden wrist out of his hands.

"I'll leave anyone I want."

It's a flash of her previous spirit, which she thinks she will never see again. She dashes out of the room and down the stairs from the penthouse apartment. With each step, she hears the echoes from steps higher—Allison! Allie!—but she isn't going back up those stairs into that room.

She sprints down the stairs. Careless footsteps on uncaring wood. She knows she is faster than Edward is, even if she rarely uses her legs. She pushes open the ornate door and runs through the lobby. The concierge and doormen look at her with questioning eyes. She knows their thoughts by their glances to one another: the princess emerges.

Allison scurries down the sidewalk hoping to lose herself in the crowd. She pulls her beige cashmere cardigan closer to her. It covers a white tank top and it's barely forty-five degrees in the New York autumn. Her jeans are couture, but that's what she gets for marrying a rich man. Her beat-up suede ballet flats are comforting on the New York street.

"Taxi!"

The word leaves her lips in a vibrant cacophony of meanings. The word holds her dreams, needs, and fears. The cab pulls up as she watches her husband watch her get in the cab.

"Where to?"

"Just start driving, please," she murmurs.

"I need a destination, ma'am."

"Tiffany's on 5th Avenue."

It's the first place that escapes her mouth. She knows it will do until she collects her thoughts. She slips her hand into her jean pocket. She removes it and finds she only has $45.

"Wait," she tells the cabbie.

"Lady, look, I have a job to do here—"

"I'm running away from him," she points at the man standing a block away.

"Look—"

"I don't know what to do," she starts to sob.

"Do you have any relatives?"

"No."

"Friends?"

"I don't know. I used to…I used to have friends, when I worked at the hospital…" she trails off into the oblivion of the back of a taxi cab.

"What hospital?"

She watches his eyes look at her as they stop at a red light. She shifts her eyes back down to her clasped hands.

"Princeton-Plainsboro."

The cabbie snaps his fingers and hits the accelerator.

"You know, I just took a two guys to a hospital conference. They were talking about Princeton-Plainsboro. The one guy had the name of a grill. Damnit, what's the name? The lean, mean—"

"Foreman!" She shouts with excitement.

"Bingo!"

She remembers what it is like to happen upon the right diagnosis.

"Can you take me where you took him?"

"Sure."

The cabbie smiles and drives her through the city. They arrive at their destination in record time and Allison smiles when she read the words on the banner outside the building: "Who's Who in American Medicine Annual Conference."

"It's going to be $35.25, but I really hate to charge you…"

"No, here, take the $45. Please, you made my life."

He tips his hat.

"Serendipity, ma'am."

She tilts her head and gives him a grin as she slams the door. The cab pulls away and she turns to face the building.

She takes a deep breath and slips into the lobby. People are milling about, and she hopes to see Foreman. She looks around and sees a black man and a blonde-haired man laughing, about to catch an elevator.

"Foreman! Chase!"

Her voice is loud, clear and she starts walking towards them in case they do not stop talking. She watches their heads turn and sees Chase's mouth drop first in recognition of the voice. He rushes up to her and grabs her arm, looking at her face. Allison knows they probably will not recognize her, since she has dyed her hair blond (another condition of the contract) and her face is much worn for a woman who sits in front of a window all day.

"Cameron?"

"No…"

"But, your voice?"

Chase always looks adorable when he is confused, she thinks.

"It is me, but it's Allison Vogler now. Remember?"

She knows he remembers. He is the reason she is a Vogler. His insecurity is at fault.

"We remember," Foreman says quietly from behind Chase.

"Does he?" She questions quietly. She wants to know that he's not dead.

Chase lets go of her arms and turns to face Foreman. They exchange knowing looks. Allison feels her heart skip more than one beat. She hopes it skips them all.

"He's…sick," Chase tells her.

She yearns to collapse, and Foreman sees this. They may have had their disputes in the past, but the boys were worried about their former colleague.

"Cameron? You alright?"

"Edward told me he was dead."

Chase laughs.

"He's not, but he's not doing so well. Wilson is supervising his treatments for prostate cancer. If you want, he's— "

"You guys never called, wrote, emailed…"

"You saved our asses, what were we supposed to do?" Foreman asks her.

"Are you okay, though, Cameron? You just—"

"Cameron doesn't exist anymore," she murmurs, eyes to the floor.

"God, what has that bastard done to you?" Chase murmurs.

"Said bastard is here to pick up his wife."

Vogler looms in front of them like a wall. Allison cowers and Chase lets Foreman take her by the shoulder and place her behind them.

"There's only one bastard either of us tolerates on a daily basis and that's House. She doesn't want to be with you right now," Foreman informs him.

"So, you both stayed with Dr. House then? Dr. Chase you had so much promise, too. And Dr. Foreman! Tsk, I must say I'm under-impressed by you two."

Allison hopes this is all a dream and that when she wakes up she will be back in her office at Princeton-Plainsboro. She cannot believe that he would follow her here. She knows that he probably jumped in a taxi and followed her here.

"Riddle me this, Vogler. When a woman runs away from you, what do you think that means?"

It's the familiar thumping of the cane that makes her pick her head up from Foreman's shoulder. House stands in front of Chase, Foreman, and she and he is looking at the large man in front of him. She notices how fragile he looks now, his hair coming out in spurts and his face hollow from more than age.

"Oh, that's right. You're too stupid to answer. Lemme know when you come up with something."

House turns around and looks pointedly at her.

"What are you three doing? Move."

House pushes through them, dragging his hand gently over her should as he does. Foreman and Chase follow dutifully, tugging Allison behind them.

"I'll have your medical license revoked for this!" Vogler screams as House recedes into the elevator followed by Allison, Chase, and Foreman.

"Like you revoked hers? Don't think so, big boy."

"Allie, come back, now. Please, baby?"

She looks up and her finger wants to move to the "hold door open" button. He is good to her she concedes.

"Cameron, hand off the button."

But she loves him more.

"Goodbye, Edward."

The door closes.

"Allie?"

House's voice, still cynical and sarcastic, slices through the air.

"Dr. Allison Cameron Vogler. Nice to meet you, too."

Her hand is out and she waits for a shake that never came seven years earlier. He clasps her hand.

"Drop the Vogler. We're even on saving each other's asses, by the way."

"Allison Cameron," her tongue forms the words. She doesn't hear House's last comment.

She's free.