And here we have the date... or the beginnings of it anyway! Thank you all for your interest and comments. Criticism on this part would be particularly welcome. Let me know if the tone/language/style is still in keeping with the rest of the story. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

A pair of size 2 jeans, a loosely knit black sweater, and three inch black ankle boots. Cameron glanced inside her bag, sighed and dodged past incoming shoppers as she left the mall. She'd told him she was going to wear jeans. She'd never specified that they would be old. Besides, she had lost a few pounds and her old jeans hung off her slight frame. Rationalization was a beautiful thing.

It wasn't yet full dark, but the lights in the parking lot were on, obscuring any chance of seeing the first stars pop out. Cameron glanced up anyway as she walked to her car. She saw Venus, mid-way up the sky, and another planet beneath it, Mercury or Mars, she could never remember. She could remember wishing on them when she was very young. Then her older brother had told her they weren't stars and called her a stupid girl for being so sappy anyway. She'd scowled at him and gone to her room, but the next day she'd walked to the library and taken out a book about astronomy. No wonder none of her wishes had come true. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Her little car gave off a friendly sounding beep as she hit the remote to unlock the doors. Tossing her bag onto the passenger seat, she strapped in and pulled out of the parking lot. She had a twenty minute drive back to her apartment, but she didn't turn on the radio. She needed the silent time to think. Mainly she was thinking about what a stupid sappy girl she was being. She'd been down this road before. She knew that opening herself up to House was a sure way to get hurt, but here she was, doing it again. Maybe she really was some sort of a martyr. Except she didn't feel like a martyr because as stupid as it was, she still had some vestiges of hope. Not of a triumphant rescue by God, but something considerably smaller. She couldn't help believing that the connection she'd felt months ago wasn't just a figment of her imagination.

She wondered what had suddenly inspired him to come to her in a darkened lab and invite her out. She had a wide streak of cynicism now and she'd spent two days convincing herself that he was playing games with her, but she'd seen his eyes when she'd asked him if he was serious. He hadn't been lying. He lied about patients, treatments, himself, Stacy, but he hadn't been lying when he'd looked into her face and answered her.

It started to rain, and her headlights glinted off the slick pavement, bouncing off yellow fluorescent paint and white mile markers. Cameron cracked open her window and took a deep breath of moist air. Stray droplets found their way inside and splashed against her shoulder and arm, feeling like a cooling benediction, giving her strength. The steady whoosh of the wiper blades and the monotonous rush of water hitting the undercarriage soothed nerves that she hadn't even realized were on edge. She turned onto her street and made a promise. No matter what happened in twenty-four hours, she would not lose herself.

The hospital was strangely quiet on Friday, almost as if everyone in it and the very building itself were waiting in anticipation for the evening. All of which was completely ridiculous, of course, because not only was the building an inanimate object, and the people within it completely lacking the information about what was to come, but also because a relationship between Drs. House and Cameron was hardly the most earth-shattering thing to play out on hospital grounds. Still, if Cameron seemed a bit paranoid, and House was even more standoff-ish, they definitely had their reasons.

Cuddy hadn't referred any patients to them so House was relegated to clinic duty, while Cameron and the others finished mindless paperwork and caught up on their reading. Cameron was also called to fill in for a doctor in the immunology department, and that's where she spent her afternoon, not quite sure if she should be relieved that she wouldn't have to see House until their arranged meeting time.

Down in the clinic, House proved his point about a monkey being able to do the job, by walking from exam to exam like a mindless robot. Only an interesting rash on a seventeen year old piqued his interest, but a few pointed questions later and he diagnosed a simple case of 'swimmer's itch'. He sent him off in search of caladryl lotion and warned him not to swim near the flocks of geese.

As the heavy exam room door shut on the last patient of the afternoon, House dropped his chart on the main desk, scrawled something that approximated his signature on the sign-in sheet, and made good his escape. He spent the elevator ride and the walk to his office analyzing what he was feeling. He was about to take his very attractive, undeniably nice, and formerly fixated co-worker out on a date. Well, she wasn't exactly his co-worker, but he wasn't going to quibble with himself about that. He'd let Cuddy handle it since she hadn't had a problem with the first date. Pretty, young, nice and obviously interested… at least he assumed she was interested or she wouldn't have accepted the offer. The proper feelings for a man his age faced with such a situation ranged from giddily overjoyed to flat-out petrified. House could claim neither extreme, and even the middle ranges didn't really equate to the emotions running through him, because what he was feeling was depression and acceptance. In his mind he had already run through ever possible outcome to date-night, part two, and he couldn't think of any that left him or Cameron smiling.

His chair let out a tired sounding squeak and he spun to face the windows, watching the coming twilight creep over the sky. For a fleeting moment he wondered if maybe he was just afraid to imagine himself happy. It had been so long that he worried that he'd forgotten what that felt like. He had his piano, and scotch, monster trucks and cigars. Flashes of happiness, but nothing permanent, nothing lasting. Nothing since Stacy, and if that relationship, over five years ago, was going to be the last happiness in his life… he didn't want to know about it.

Checking his watch, he saw that it was six forty-five. He needed to get going or he'd be late. As he stood up, one more feeling rushed through him, speeding up his heart and making him grip his cane a fraction tighter. Anticipation. It wasn't happiness yet, but it was something.

On his way out of the hospital he spotted Cuddy down in her office. She looked up as he walked by, and for a second it looked like she was about to motion him inside, but then she gave a look reminiscent of a defeated mother, and bent back over her paperwork. A smug grin pulled at the corner's of House's mouth. Sometimes the little pleasures were what got him through the day.

Once home, he checked his watch again. He'd left a simple yellow post-it note on Cameron's chair with the reminder '7:30, sharp', and now he was in danger of being late. He glanced at the sofa and remembered another date night, and Wilson patiently, if sarcastically, coaching him on how to behave. Right. He'd followed all of Wilson's advice, and then he'd veered off onto his own knowingly destructive path. He didn't want to do that tonight, but containing his own self-loathing long enough to be honest was a daunting proposition. The problem being that he never admitted his self-loathing until long after it was too late, generally after he'd downed too much alcohol and one too many vicodin.

Full darkness was beginning to descend and he turned on the light in his bedroom, the pale yellow glow turning the predominantly brown room into a sepia photograph. He quickly changed shirts, but kept his jeans on and then, after just a few minutes in the bathroom, he was prepared to go. Prepared, but not precisely ready. After staring at his reflection in the old art deco style mirror that hung over his sink, he didn't know if he'd ever be ready. He was dressed, he was clean and he smelled relatively good. That was the best he could do at the moment.

Cameron's apartment was surprisingly close to his own place, and he arrived there just shy of seven-thirty. As agreed, he had not brought a corsage. Standing in the parking lot and cloaked by the coming night, he tilted his head back and marked which window was hers. A hazy light spilled from within, but the angle was too great for him to see her lithe form moving around inside. With clenched jaw and clenched hand, he headed for the door.

The elevator and hallway were familiar, crisp white paint and plain blue carpet leading to her door, which was also familiar. He had been there twice before, so that made sense, but this was a different sort of familiarity. It felt more like he'd been there two hundred times instead of two, and the sensation almost unnerved him. His cane was raised, and ready to knock against the door, but he stopped himself and let the smooth wood slide back down through his fingers until it rested on the ground again. He lifted his other hand and rapped quickly, the fleeting thought being that if she didn't answer immediately, he could pretend she wasn't home and just abandon the entire venture.

The door opened while his hand was still in mid-air.

"House," she greeted him with the stiffness that had become part of her being when she was around him. Taking a breath, she forced herself to relax. "Come in while I grab my jacket."

She opened the door fully and he stepped inside, immediately scanning the room with his eyes. It occurred to him that she had seen more of his place than he had of hers. It was simple and tasteful. Very Cameron, although he half-expected to see some dried flower arrangements or frilly throw-pillows on the sofa.

Cameron was looking at him and he realized he still hadn't said anything. "The leather jacket you wore to the truck rally. You should wear it," he told her, and then let his gaze really settle on her, skimming up her long jean-clad legs, to the soft sweater and the softer skin of her chest which the deep v-neck revealed. He hadn't let himself look at her like that for a very long time, and the last time he'd been at her apartment he hadn't even let himself look in her eyes for more than a split second at a time. Too dangerous. Too close.

Cameron was a little surprised that was the best opening line he could come up with, but not much. She turned away from him and grabbed the well-worn jacket from its hook in the closet. When she turned back, he was still staring at her, and she was able to take her first long look at him, all battered jeans and clean black t-shirt under blue chambray and a black leather jacket. He looked casual and sexy and no doubt if he'd been sitting in his living room nursing a glass of whatever it was he drank, he would look comfortable as well.

"You look very nice," she said, hoping to open the door into normal conversation.

House glanced at her again while she closed and locked her apartment. "You too. New boots?" He was making a stab in the dark and she knew it, but she smiled at him indulgently anyway, sensing one of the knots in her spine loosening.

"Yes. New boots. But my earrings are just ten-dollar silver hoops, so you don't have to compliment me on them."

They walked down the hall in relative silence, just a couple of random comments about the weather and the upcoming flu season. The only sound in the elevator was that of House's cane bouncing against the non-slip flooring. They looked at each other as the doors opened, but still didn't say anything until House pushed open the front door for her and led her to the edge of the parking lot.

"A motorcycle? You own a motorcycle? You know how to ride?" Cameron asked, finding it impossible to mask her disbelief when House made a sort of half-hearted flourish in the Triumph's direction and plucked a helmet off the seat.

"Yeah. Cheaper than a car when I was in college," he answered brusquely. "Obviously it was a different bike then."

Cameron's eyes roamed over the sleek machine, taking in the black and chrome and leather. One pale hand reached out and touched the gas tank lightly. "Matthew rode a Harley," she said quietly, and admission she felt somehow required to make.

She didn't look at him and he didn't look at her.

His voice sounded rusty when he spoke. "Matthew. That would be the husband."

There was the slightest inclination of her head as he handed her a helmet. The red one that he usually wore. It was safer than his old Kaiser-style bowl, but if someone's brains were going to get splattered on the pavement he figured it should be the person more inclined towards a death wish.

"Right," He said as he fastened the chin strap and watched her sweep her hair back before settling the helmet on her head. "Harleys are good bikes." And that was all he was willing to say about that.

Cameron took a step back while she watched him approach the motorcycle, wondering if he had trouble getting on, or if he felt less damaged and more free with all that power at his command. His cane tucked into a custom clip on the right hand side and he grabbed the handlebars and quickly swung his left leg over the seat, barely wincing as his weight shifted to the bad thigh. He canted his head to one side and nodded towards Cameron.

"Get on."

She'd been on motorcycles before. She'd been on motorcycles with men before. She walked over with an added swing in her hips, feeling bold and daring, but when she pressed her hand into his shoulder for balance a nervous fluttering settled low in her belly. She could feel his muscles bunching and shifting beneath her fingers, even through the thick leather of his jacket. A breath of cool, bonfire-lit air rushed into her lungs and she swung her leg over, tucked up her knees and held on. He sped out of the parking lot and was going sixty by the time he hit the end of her road.

Cameron was in heaven. Crisp air and leather, and the solid feel of House's back under her, and thumbs hooked through the beltloops of his jeans. The fluttering was gone and she had to remind herself that this wasn't real. This meant nothing. This was just House, being House and he could still end up being just as big an ass as usual. But for those few minutes she was stupidly content. She'd pull herself back together when they got wherever they were going.

It wasn't so much a bar as a club with a bar as the main focal point.

House carried both helmets in his left hand and still opened the door for Cameron with his right. Even twenty years of being a bastard couldn't erase the lessons in manners that his father had drilled into him. She passed through the door, trying not to look anything but relaxed.

"Don't worry, they serve food," he said as he came up behind her.

"I wasn't worried," she said with a cheeky smirk.

There wasn't anyone to lead them to a table, so House led the way to the front of the room, slightly to the right of the piano which sat beneath a flickering spotlight. There were a few people already seated at tables, but they were closer to the back of the room, presumably so that they wouldn't be disturbed by the music. The bar was even more heavily populated, with almost every one of the steel and leather barstools taken.

A waitress approached before the silence could get really uncomfortable, and she handed out menus and took their order for drinks. There hadn't been a moment of hesitation before House had asked for scotch, and Cameron had been only a breath behind in her request for a vodka tonic, light on the tonic. The waitress apparently sensed their need, and was back with the drinks within two minutes, at which time they were ready to order.

House pulled the red stirrer from his drink and took a drink, letting the liquid pool at the back of his throat before swallowing. He looked around at the other patrons, not really interested in them, but letting his mind tumble over their lives to avoid thinking about his own or Cameron's. His eyes drifted to the door and then the bar, and then back to his drink.

The act of indifference was not lost on Cameron, but she was practically immune to it. She took a sip of vodka and watched him as he avoided even glancing in her direction.

"You know, if you wanted to make Stacy jealous, you picked the wrong place. I don't think she hangs out in bars. Or did you expect me to run giddily through the halls and announce our date?" She stared down at her drink, condensation dripping around her fingers where she held the tumbler too hard. "Sorry. I won't be making that mistake again."

"No." House ran a finger along the edge of his scotch glass before taking a long sip. "I don't suppose you will." Be making that mistake. Be making this mistake. Be here for long.

"So…" What happened to not asking probing questions? "Is this where you and Dr. Wilson come when you're hiding out from the hospital?"

That brought an unexpected smirk to his face. "No. Surprisingly, Wilson's tastes are higher class than mine. He likes that trendy wine bar on McKeel. Lots of ambient lighting and waitresses in tight blouses."

"Must be hell for you." Sarcasm was becoming her friend.

He swirled his glass, listening to the muted clink of the ice, before taking another swallow. "Scotch is scotch. I go there when I need company. I come here when I just need to drink."

"So I drive you to drink," she said, stating the obvious cliché.

"Shh. Here comes the floorshow," he evaded her unasked question.

A smartly dressed man and a woman in an evening dress wound their way from the back room and towards the piano. At first glance they looked overdressed for the place, but Cameron saw the slight fraying at his cuffs and the fact that the dress was a knock-off of one she'd seen at Lord & Taylor. He had tired looking eyes, and she was wearing too much makeup, but surprisingly they looked almost happy. Strange. Sort of went against the stereotype of drunken piano player and hard-up singer. Their hands brushed when she walked past him to settle into the deep crook of the piano, and Cameron felt a brief, sharp stab of jealousy. She looked over towards their waitress and nodded, then let the alcohol burn down her throat and settle warmly in her stomach, finishing one drink and waiting for the next.

This bar had been… unexpected… but she now saw the logic in his choice. With the music playing they didn't have to talk, and after all, that's what always got them in trouble. House's eyebrows went up when he noticed the waitress placing Cameron's refill on the table. He slung back his own drink and placed the glass on the scratched plastic tray, the request unspoken. The waitress bobbed her head slightly in acknowledgement and then retreated to the bar. She hoped they were good tippers.

Their food arrived in the middle of the first set, exactly when the awkward conversation should have been coming to a head. Cameron's chicken looked delicious and she was grateful for the music. She hadn't been eating well lately, and it would have been a shame to walk out on such good food. She ate almost every bite and then leaned back and watched House. If her staring bothered him, he didn't say so.

Mack (that was the pianist's name, or at least the name he used) announced that they were taking a fifteen minute break and after a smattering of applause he and the singer (Sadie, if the placard was to be believed) wandered to the bar. House watched them leave as if seeing his one lifeboat departing and then swung his head around to face Cameron. She was still staring at him, and he couldn't decide if she was sizing him up or imagining them in a tangle of limbs on the conference room table.

"So." What a brilliant conversation starter. He'd have to pat himself on the back for that later.

"So," Cameron repeated. She took a breath and then took some slight pity on him. "Nice music."

"Yeah. They're here every week." Damnit. He'd invited her out. He was supposed to have some kind of plan.

"Why'd you bring me here, House," she asked, her shoulders moving into a shrug. She leaned her forearms on the table and cupped her glass between her hands. "What do you want?"

His mouth puckered and then twisted to one side and then the next, while his eyes roamed the bar as if expecting the answer to be drifting in the smoke that swirled towards the ceiling.

"I'm not sure."

She looked at him in doubtfully. "You don't know? House, you're a man who has more going on in his brain than any five other men and you're telling me you don't know why you asked me out? You've got to do better than that. Because you know what? I was just about over you." Surely he wouldn't see through that little lie. "And now you've dragged me out with you and made me wonder about things all over again. So don't sit there and tell me you don't know."

House leaned back and let her words hit him. He was unaccustomed to having so many of them flung at him at once. Usually they kept their more heated exchanges to one-liners.

"I can't give you some flowery speech."

"That's not what I'm looking for and you know it," she countered, eyes turning briefly cold at the suggestion that she was some shallow love-struck girl.

"You're alone," he said frankly.

She wasn't expecting his words or his tone and she blinked a few times before taking a long drink of her vodka. "So are you," she had taken his trick of answering a question by stating something about the questioner.

"You're right. I am." He drummed his fingers on the table wishing that his drink wasn't already gone. He'd downed it in one right after she'd started talking.

"And?" She wasn't giving anything away tonight.

"And when you're in the room, I don't feel alone."

She should have answered with a sarcastic remark about how that was because he wasn't. She had her mouth open to say just that, but the expression on his face stopped her. It was open and vulnerable and almost hopeful. He dropped his gaze to the table and brought his empty glass to his mouth, obliterating the openness with the attempt to get scotch from ice. When he thumped the glass back on the table and looked up again, Cameron was still staring at him.

Her hand was already on the table and she moved it closer to his, feeling like an idiot the whole time and willing her muscles to stop moving -f or God's sake stop moving and making a fool out of me! - but they didn't and her hand ended up palm up, fingertips brushing his. He looked at her hand as if it was a poisonous snake or possibly a mythical beast and Cameron curled her fingers inwards and sighed, feeling the blush rise up her neck to her cheeks.

The weight of his warm hand on top of hers was much heavier than she'd imagined, but it was fleeting. Just a brief press against her flesh, a slight tentative look in her direction, and then it was gone and he was gripping his glass of ice again and spinning the cubes around trying to go against the nature of centrifugal force and clink together. If Cameron hadn't actually been watching, she might have imagined his touch, but her eyes had been open the entire time, and now she raised them and looked unblinkingly into his face.

"It's a start," she said, and then Mack and Sadie were back and she turned to watch them, pretending that she couldn't see House still tracing her profile with his gaze.