Disclaimer – They're mine, finally (Oh no, wait a minute, everybody lies, right?)

House's office Tuesday 8.42am

With one hand supporting his ever so delicate head, the other clasping an open tub of Vicodin, House began to wonder if this damned hangover would ever decide to call it quits. Four Vicodin, one prairie oyster and countless mugs of strong, black coffee had failed to alleviate his discomfort. In fact the prairie oyster had almost made things worse, the rich, viscous concoction unsure whether to observe the rules of peristalsis, or come straight back out of his mouth in a projectile fashion. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his primary objective upon opening his eyes that morning had been to call in sick. Something that under normal circumstances, he would never dream of doing.

God knows he physically wasn't up to working today. His grey matter was firmly fixed in neutral, and most likely would find itself stuck in reverse as the day progressed. The womb-like properties of his darkened bedroom and down-filled quilt, and the cool ceramic tiles on his bathroom wall that he had pressed his face against at 3am, seemed far more inviting than eight hours of verbal dodge ball and the inevitable 'I told you so' from Wilson.

But curiosity was getting the better of him. Had got the better of him. He didn't want to hear the sordid details of Cameron's hot date from a smug Wilson, a Wilson who would be all too ready to remind him that he had failed to get his act together and make a move on her before someone else got in there. He wanted to ensure that he was there to conduct a post-mortem on the previous evenings events, to cast a critical eye over every subtle nuance in their body language, to observe their awkwardness (or familiarity) towards each other. Most importantly of all, he had to go in, having wasted precious nod-nod time thinking about her, questioning his judgement, wishing he could overcome his hang-ups and channel his feelings for her in a better way, before reprimanding himself for allowing his emotions to interfere with his logical thought processes.

By seeing her face, it would perhaps clarify a few things, make him remove the splinters from his behind and climb down from his fence. Or, bring him sharply to his senses and reaffirm his belief that his long-established guard should remain firmly in place, that surrendering to his feelings for her would ultimately be the ruination of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that his happy band of travelling minstrels were assembling in the outer office. Foreman was rummaging in his bag, looking for something or other, whilst Chase, clearly recovered from the effects of his lost weekend, was firing on all cylinders, busy discovering the joys of flicking himself in the head with a rubber band. Nice. His gaze turned to the happy couple. Not sitting next to each other, a good sign he thought. No visible hickeys, no hand-holding, no sign of friendship rings. Even better.

Maybe they were playing it down, deliberately distancing themselves, keeping their cool. No, Cameron wouldn't be able to carry that act off for long. If anything significant had taken place, she would have that faraway look in her eye, mentally picking out meringue-like dresses and clutching a volume of Keats to her bosom. Which she wasn't. She was clenched, he thought. Perhaps a little more clenched than normal. Hard to tell, what with his double vision and thumping headache. Time for a closer inspection, time to go dig for dirt.

'Good morning. And how are we all today?'

'Doing better than you by the looks of it,' Foreman ventured.

'Well, you know me. Being gorgeous is so last season. Thought I'd go for the rough and ready look, offer the ladies a viable alternative to Mr. Darcy here,' House replied, dipping his head slightly in Clarkson's direction. 'Remember, age and experience will always triumph over youth and naivety. Besides which, when Angelina Jolie comes knocking at your door in the middle of the night, inviting you to be her Tomb Raider, you don't pay too much attention to personal grooming the next day.'

He felt Cameron's eyes fixed firmly upon him as he spoke, and as he noticed it, he also sensed her avert them, concentrating them instead on her lab coat, the site of so many imaginary flecks of dust. He was equally aware of Clarkson's eyes being centred on Cameron. Of his relaxed and open body language, of the barely repressed desire for her emanating from him. And the clear impression he had of her becoming even more clenched, as she picked up on the vibes the young doctor was giving off.

'Dr. Clarkson, tell me, how do you funny little Brits go about showing a lady a good time?'

Clarkson looked at House. 'Surely you don't need any tips from me, Dr. House. Assumed you would have written the book on such matters.'

'Very true, Tony. I'm not asking for my benefit, but for the benefit of young Robert here, who has clearly been out of the loop for a while. I mean, he's going wrong somewhere in his technique, 'cause even our resident Pollyanna, Dr. Cameron, took a raincheck on him.'

Cameron felt the colour rise in her cheeks as Clarkson's gaze fell upon her again. Chase momentarily stopped flicking himself with the band, puffed out his chest slightly, as if about to assert himself and defend his masculinity with a smart remark, then thought better of it, realising he would get his butt whooped, and reverted to what he did best, by flicking the rubber band at Foreman instead.

'Well, Dr. House, I like to think us Brits know how to make a woman really feel like she's a woman. You know, treat them with respect, pay them attention, hold them in high regard. Don't rush them, woo them gradually. Make them feel like a princess.'

The last remark made Cameron's ears perk up. A princess. Yes, he had made her feel that way last night. Made her feel special, important, appreciated. And hadn't rushed her. Hadn't tried to get in her pants when she had over-indulged in the House white. Perfectly charming but...

'Dr. Chase, you getting this? You know, you really should take a leaf out of Tony's book with regard to the pursuit of women. I mean, I know women like the strong, silent type, it makes them think you're actually listening to them, but you've taken the whole 'lights on, no-one's home' approach to another level entirely. Almost made it an art form,' House teased.

House could feel his alcohol induced grey cloud of misery lift slightly, as he began to embrace the delights of making his younger colleague wince.

'Dr. Cameron,' he began, his back turned to the group now, as he wiped the whiteboard clean, 'what's your take on the whole Anglo-American approach to lurrrve? British guys push the right buttons for you? Fancy being wooed?'

He turned to gauge her response, to see if he had managed to push any buttons by asking the questions, so soon after her date with Clarkson. As he did so, he noticed her chair was empty, and he thought he caught the briefest glimpse of her ponytail swishing out of sight, as she hurried away down the corridor.