Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story including the History Channel, Gameboy, Styrofoam, or picture-in-picture TV (if that's what it's called).

A/N: I'm not sure how much longer this will go on, but I don't want it to start rambling. Work is building up around my ears, so the next installment might take awhile to post. Your reviews have encouraged me to continue on with it, though, and, once again, I can't tell you how much I appreciate them.

OOOO

On that very eventful Wednesday, Drs. House and Cameron left work early.

Allison lasted until three o'clock. Her tired brain made it through the grumpy stage and then the slap-happy stage before giving up, so she wasn't much use in the clinic that day. In fact, while listening to Princeton's very best hypochondriac explain to Allison why he had to have both scurvy and rickets, she fell asleep. Right there in exam room two. The man had not noticed her inattentiveness, but when she jerked awake she was mortified. She asked him if he had been on any long sea voyages in the sixteenth century – he had not – and sent him on his way. "Drink less orange juice and more milk if it'll make you feel better. And stop watching the History Channel."

She talked to the clinic's duty nurse and signed up for a couple of extra hours to make up for what she would be missing, touched base with Cuddy, who had no complaints, and went home.

House had left an hour earlier because he was tired and his Gameboy screen was blurring. He stood up, walked out the door, and went home.

Both of them slept like the dead as soon as they made it to their respective couches. Neither one of them even bothered to take off their shoes.

When they each woke up a few hours later, they really didn't feel any better than they had before. They both had that nasty afternoon nap taste in their mouths and they both were cramped and maybe more tired than they had been before they had fallen asleep.

Allison got up, opened the fridge to see what she could make for dinner, and sighed when all she saw was orange chicken from three days ago. She dumped that, brushed her teeth, changed into jeans and a t-shirt and headed to the market that was just a block away. Maybe the fresh air would do her some good.

House took two Vicodin and ordered a pizza.

Allison ended up not buying anything. She walked back to her apartment and had a peanut butter sandwich.

House ate one slice of his pizza.

Cameron picked up a book and tried to read.

House turned on the TV.

Cameron was the first to give up. She laid the book down on the couch, yawned, and headed to bed. Of course she couldn't sleep. When her head hit the pillow, she started thinking again.

She thought about what she had seen – luckily the image had blurred slightly so it was not quite so jarring. She thought about how she had reacted, how she had dealt with Stacy, how Cuddy had dealt with both of them. And she thought about House.

She flopped over in bed and punched her pillow.

She had stayed away from House after the meeting in the conference room. She hadn't even let him know she was leaving, which she supposed with any other boss would not be smart, but this was House. He probably didn't want to be seen anymore than she wanted to see him.

But he had been acting weird. Maybe she should have looked him up. No. Not necessary. She was not going to fall back into the same mess she had been in before Stacy's return. Besides, she had no idea what had gone on between House and Stacy that day; it didn't seem to be positive, but Allison wasn't sure.

It was still early. Maybe she should go over and see how he was doing.

NO. Absolutely not.

She screamed into her pillow and kicked her feet like a three year old. This had to stop.

Acting weird was just what House did. He did it to mess with people and he had done it to her on more than one occasion. Several, in fact. Being nice to her was just him trying to psych her out. It could also be that he didn't want to deal with a raging female. Protecting his own hide.

Yep. That sounded good. Good enough, anyway, for her to finally be able to sleep.

House had not given up as early as Cameron. He was used to sleepless nights and the days that followed. He watched his soaps that he had taped, almost drank some scotch – but thought better of it, and smoked a cigar. He moved to the piano at some point where he watched his hands move over the keys, but he really wasn't paying attention to what he was playing.

He was doing some thinking himself. He had seen Stacy leaving with her husband. Strangely, he had not felt completely bereft like he had when she had left him five years before. Actually, he felt like the time that she had been around over the summer had been rather surreal. Like it never really had happened. Now that she was gone again, he thought that maybe things could get back to normal.

House's conscience was not being as kind as Cameron's tonight. That little bit of rationalization wasn't convincing enough to allow him to sleep.

The problem was that House knew things weren't going to go back to normal, whatever that was. He was still very disturbed by his reaction to what had happened – not because he had gotten mad, but because he had been mad on behalf of Cameron.

She had done a pretty good job of being mad on her own without his help, though. Maybe he should focus on that. Then again, he knew that a lot of that had been an adrenaline rush followed by a lack of sleep. She definitely had been acting a little strange that day and had clearly not been feeling well.

Maybe he should go check on her.

No. Not a good idea. Stupid really.

He'd figure it out in the morning. Maybe.

His eyes were watering now and he was yawning hugely. He got up from the piano bench and headed into bed, where he slept like he normally did, which is to say not very well.

OOOO

The next morning things were back to normal. Well, kind of. Allison came in at a decent hour, sorted the mail, checked emails, and made coffee. House came in looked at the mail and got a cup of coffee. She stayed at her desk in the other room; he stayed at his.

Foreman and Chase arrived at the same time. Both of them looked at Cameron to see if she was showing signs of evil like she had the day before. When she smiled at them, they both sighed in relief and sat down to await House's orders for the day. House had plenty for them to do, but it became quickly apparent that things were not completely well after the fiasco of the past couple of days.

Any outsider would not have been able to see anything usual. House was a jerk; Cameron was the peacemaker; it all looked very normal, but it just didn't feel right. There was a strange energy. Later at the bar the two young men had fled to as soon as they could get out of work, Foreman figured out what had been the problem.

Cameron and House had not, even during the differential, spoken one word directly to each other. When Cameron had an idea she had looked at Foreman and asked him what he thought. House jumped in and shot it down, but he did so by directing his fire at Foreman. House hadn't asked Cameron for her opinion, and he had avoided looking at her.

"Do you think they had a fight?" Chase asked Foreman.

"God, I hope not. That is some drama we don't need," said Foreman.

They ordered another round and silently agreed to drop the subject.

OOOO

On Friday, James Wilson took his friend to lunch. He had wanted to check in on House anyway, the whole Stacy leaving again thing might be bad, but he was especially motivated by a conversation he had had with Foreman.

"So, Foreman and Chase think you're acting weird." No sense in beating around the bush with House.

"Didn't you tell me just the other day that I am weird?" House took a drink of his soda. "Logic would dictate that acting weird would naturally follow."

"You were listening to me? I may have to leave now. I don't think this conversation could go any further."

House looked at him with a bit of impatience. "You know, you don't always do sarcasm well. That last attempt there was just pathetic."

"Well, then, back to the original topic. Why do they think you're being weird?"

"You don't agree with them?" House slurped the last of the soda up with a rude sound.

"I don't know, I haven't been around much since Wednesday. Patients, you know."

"Ah, yes. Patients. I keep telling you that your job would be a lot easier to deal with if you would ignore those people." He opened the cup and started eating the ice.

"Unlike you, I don't merit three assistants to deal with those troublesome patients, and you're avoiding my question." Wilson watched House fish for the last piece of ice and set the cup down. "They say you're refusing to talk to or even look at Cameron."

House put the plastic lid back on the cup. "I'm not refusing to do anything."

"Semantics. What's going on?" Wilson reached over and grabbed the cup from in front of House and set it on the table behind them.

He still got no answer.

"All right. Let me guess and you tell me if I'm right. You are trying to ignore her still. She's a hard one to ignore, Greg."

"Did you see the score of the ball game last night?"

"You know if you ignore her long enough again, she might find herself in the same boat she was in a couple of days ago."

House's brow furrowed in confusion. "Stacy's…"

"I'm not talking about Stacy. That is – one can only hope – over."

"I thought you liked Stacy."

"I did. I don't like what she's done to two people I rather like more, though. And as I was saying, Cameron might find herself some other seemingly nice doctor who will ask her out and who will date her without insulting her. He might actually smile and crack a joke that isn't crude. And she might spend a few months dating the guy without ever telling you about it."

House glared at Wilson.

"Of course, she'll be smarter this time. I can't imagine that she would allow what happened with Crawford to happen again. She might tell Foreman or Chase and get their opinions. Hell, she might even ask me. Keep ignoring her, though, and she'll marry the guy and you won't know about it until her tenth anniversary." He took a drink of his own soda.

House was playing with a napkin. "I don't know what to do about her."

If it had been a slap-stick comedy, Wilson would've sprayed his drink across the table or fallen out of his chair. It wasn't, so he expressed his shock at House's admission by raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Do you want to do something about her?"

"I don't know."

That's better than nothing, thought Wilson. "Well, until you decide what it is you want to do, you need to stop treating her like she's invisible. Pay attention to her like you used to at least."

House was the one who raised the eyebrow this time.

"I don't mean whatever it is you're thinking," Wilson added. "Just be yourself. That didn't seem to bother her at one time." He thought for a moment. "I wonder if she's not having the same problem as you right now."

"What do you mean?" House asked sullenly.

"She hasn't tried to figure out what's going on in your head has she?"

House shook his head.

"That's unusual for her, right? This time she's playing along, maybe even helping you along with this." He drained his drink, but avoided the slurpy noise. "This could be interesting."

"You sound like you're going to sit back and take notes," grouched House.

"Maybe I will. Maybe I'll write a book about it and then I'll get some young doctors to do my work for me." Obviously the conversation had deteriorated. No more analysis for today, but there would be one final thought. "I hear Donaldson in pediatrics has taken a fancy to our Dr. Cameron. Seems like a cheery guy." He stood and left both their trays for House to clean up.

OOOO

Allison had been looking forward to going to bed on Friday night. Foreman was the primary on their current patient and she was fourth in line on the on-call list behind him. That meant the opportunity to sleep, which was exactly what she did. Her body finally let her have one of those rare, dreamless, yummy nights where the temperature of her room was perfect, the sheets and blankets were soft, and her pillow never got lumpy.

It was no surprise when she woke up at noon the next day; however, the method of waking up was. It was not a pleasant, slow waking up, with the pretty sunlight coming through her blinds, and so on to match her night. It was harsh and jarring because some maniac was pounding on her door and yelling.

"God. What now?"

She padded out through the living room to the door, bumping into things as she went. She flung the door open just as he was about to yell again. He swallowed the words and took in her appearance.

"Why are you still in your pajamas?"

Allison looked down at herself. T-shirt, flannel pants. Her hand went up to the messy ponytail, then she decided she hadn't been awake long enough to be embarrassed.

"You woke me up."

"It's noon."

"It's Saturday."

He showed no sign of contrition or of leaving and one of her neighbors was looking out into the hallway. Allison grabbed House's arm and pulled him into the room. She smiled at her neighbor and then slammed the door.

"What are you doing here?"

"It's noon, why weren't you up?" He repeated.

"Why were you yelling?"

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine."

He shook his finger at her. "You know, if we don't stop this we're going to miss it."

"Miss what?" Allison wanted coffee.

"The kick off." House walked around her and towards her TV. "Don't suppose this thing has picture-in-picture, does it?"

"No. What are you talking about?" She could do nothing but stand in the entryway and watch him fumble with her remote.

"It's Saturday." He looked at her again. Okay, so maybe he was going to have to explain. "Saturday. College football? My TV is broken. Yours isn't. Kick-off for the first game is at twelve twenty-one."

She continued to stare at him. He hoped that she wouldn't choose right now to be stubborn because this had been a completely spur-of-the-moment idea and he wasn't sure how he would handle it if she starting analyzing and questioning. He had acted so quickly, making a couple of phone calls and jumping in his car, that he hadn't given himself time to admit how lame the whole idea was, but it was becoming pretty clear now.

"You're lying." She began to tell him just what she thought when there was another, admittedly less obnoxious, knock at the door. "What is that?"

"Food." He started limping towards the door, reaching for his wallet. "I ordered some food."

She didn't know what to say. She had been invaded. "Anything else?"

House paid the kid who hauled in two pizza boxes, a case of soda, and three Styrofoam carryout boxes. "Yeah. Wilson's going to be joining us."

"His TV broken?"

"No. His wife is. She hates football and invited a bunch of equally strange females to their house to play cards or something." He paused. "You don't hate football do you?"

She just stood there.

He spoke before she could kick his ass out. "Listen, just go back and get changed before Wilson gets here – he doesn't need to add this to his mental picture of you – then come back out and watch football. Yell at the refs. Eat junk food." She was not going to buy this. He clutched the top of his cane for support.

She glared at him for another few seconds then spun around and marched back to her room. "I hope Wilson's bringing beer," she yelled.

"He is." A tiny bit of the tension drained out. Now he had to figure out what exactly he had hoped to accomplish by doing this.