Well, here we go again! The third in the ongoing "Date" series. As before, these do take current episodes into account, so beware of spoilers! Thank you all for your continued support!

Three Dates Later

Prologue

He was back to drinking full tumblers of scotch. Without ice. Ice just watered it down and took up valuable space that could be better filled by alcohol. It had been two weeks since his last date with Cameron and he'd almost reconvinced himself that he liked being alone with his misery.

That last date had been their sixth. She'd bought tickets to a rock concert in Newark. He could still picture her in tight jeans that flared around black thick-heeled boots and a red-patterned shirt that had clung to her curves. The tickets had been a surprise and he should have been grateful, but instead he'd been distracted. He'd been distracted since their fifth date. The date where they'd gone out to dinner and seen Stacy and Mark eating at the same restaurant.

The concert had been her way of getting them back on track, and her disappointment had been palpable as they'd driven back to Princeton in silence. A quick kiss, a murmured goodnight and she'd left him sitting in his car with the engine still running.

Six official dates, a handful of informal ones, and he'd known that there wouldn't be another. He'd breathed in the lingering scent of her perfume on the short drive to his own townhouse, and committed the feel of her lips and the taste of her mouth to memory.

She'd been in the office early the next day. Waiting for him with hair pulled back, clothes immaculate as always, but more makeup than usual to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

"Uh-oh. Looks like I'm in trouble." He'd tried to show his nonchalance through sarcasm.

"No. Not in trouble," she'd said, and he'd been surprised by the even tone of her voice because there was clearly a thread of sadness in it and it had made him think she needed to cry but wouldn't let herself.

"So what is it then?" he'd asked, as they switched places; her rising gracefully from his chair and him dropping artlessly into it and thumping his cane on the floor for good measure.

"I think maybe we need to take a break until you can sort some things out for yourself."

"Oh please," he'd scoffed. "What, have you been talking to Wilson and Cuddy? They put you up to this?" And of course he knew that they hadn't. Knew that his own actions had pushed her to this.

"House," she'd said lowly, and he'd realized that after six dates they were still only using surnames. "I can't compete with her. I don't want to compete with her."

"With who? With Stacy? She's married, remember? Completely off the market."

Her eyes had closed briefly and he'd actually felt a stab of remorse.

"You were fine for a while, but now… it's like you're a different person when she's around, and even when she's not around I know you're thinking about her. You didn't cut into her husband's therapy session just for laughs. You haven't been snooping around her office for fun."

"You'd be surprised. All of those things have been very amusing," he'd said, without the slightest trace of humor.

Cameron had started pacing in front of his desk and he'd wanted to just grab her and shove her out the door. He hadn't wanted to hear anymore from her. The voices in his head gave him enough to listen to.

"Look," she'd continued to talk and he'd just sat there. "I don't know if she's the love of your life and you're never going to be over her or what. I don't know if you're hoping that she'll dump her husband and come running back to your arms. I don't know you anymore, and I really thought I was beginning to. All I know is that I can't do this. I can't be the other woman cutting into a relationship that isn't even real."

"Cameron," he'd surprised himself by trying to placate her, but she'd just shaken her head and pressed her lips into a tight, thin line.

"No. Whatever's going on with you… you need to work through it… and I don't think I'm helping." The last part had been spoken very quietly and she'd dropped her gaze and thrust her hands into the pockets of her labcoat.

His hurt had instantly manifested itself in righteous anger. "So now what? You going to quit again?"

She'd flinched slightly but had looked up at him again with firm resolve a mask over her features. "No. I'm not going anywhere, and if you can make up your mind about what you want, maybe I'll even be willing to try again."

He hadn't said anything else, although she'd waited for some word, some sign that he understood and was going to try to fix things. After a minute, she'd turned and walked out of the office, and when she'd walked into the conference room half an hour later, with Foreman and Chase beside her, it had been like the last four weeks and six dates had never happened.

Which was why, on a Friday night, House sat at his piano with a full glass of scotch on the lid, a half-full bottle on the floor, and melancholy jazz fumbling from his fingertips.

The knock at his door barely roused him from his alcohol-enhanced introspection. He didn't, in fact, move, until the knock was accompanied by a voice.

"House, c'mon. I can hear you in there."

With a harsh sigh he rose from the piano, leaning heavily on his cane. In a split-second thought, he reflected that all drinkers should be issued canes. Wonderful for balance and a built in excuse for stumbling. He sloshed his drink as he picked it up and pivoted towards the door. Once there, he unlocked and opened it, then stepped away as Wilson entered.

"Good to see your habits haven't changed," Wilson said sarcastically.

"Since I don't remember inviting you over, this might be the place for you to get to the point," House replied, sitting down on the sofa and taking a long drink.

"Julie went to her mother's and I hate to eat alone." That was a lie. He actually enjoyed his quiet time, but with House on this newest downward spiral he felt he owed it to the man to try to pull him back. "I brought food."

"Why is it that ninety-nine percent of the meals we share consist of Chinese food?" House muttered, clearing off space on the coffee table as he noted the distinct label on the bag Wilson was carrying.

"Fast, easy and it doesn't require plates?"

"Yeah, all of those."

Glad that he wasn't being tossed out, Wilson sat down and started opening the white cardboard containers, handing House the lo mein and a fork. He was pretty sure he was too far gone to handle chopsticks. For a few minutes they just ate, with Wilson eyeing House every once in a while as if looking for an opening.

"Is this where you start analyzing me and pointing me in a healthier direction?" House beat him to the punch, as usual.

"Now that you mention it--"

"Don't bother. I'm fine."

"Right. Fine. This is your second trip down the self-pity track. Any chance you're going to hop off any time soon and stop acting like an ass?"

"Says the man working his way through his third marriage and spending inordinate amounts of time scrutinizing his friend's life," House spat out in reply.

"I'm trying to help you, damnit."

"Well stop trying."

"Fine. I guess you can screw up your life perfectly well on your own. You've done it before, after all." Wilson seemed surprised at the amount of frustrated venom in his words, but House looked merely resigned.

"At least I'm consistent."

"House…" Wilson trailed off, not knowing what to say, but obviously reluctant to leave things as they were.

"Just leave it." The words were hard and brooked no compromise.

Wilson went back to eating, and House took another drink.

They stayed like that for another hour, with House eventually turning on the football game. He knew that if he didn't distract Wilson with sports then eventually the conversation would start back up again, and he really wasn't in the mood. He hadn't been in the mood before Wilson's arrival, and Chinese food and another drink hadn't changed his mind.

The game entered half-time and Wilson gathered up the half-empty boxes and dirty utensils and took them to the kitchen. When he returned to the living room he stood in the doorway for a minute, staring at House as if willing him to open up and say something.

"What?" House snapped.

Wilson sighed. "Nothing. This game's over already. Boston's beating the hell out of them," he observed, taking a few steps and glancing at the television. "I'm gonna call it a night."

"Fine." House dismissively waved his hand towards the door.

"You know--"

"You just want to help. I get it. I told you I don't need any."

"Yeah, well, that's what you say now," Wilson said as he picked up his coat. "But Stacy's married and unless you want her to leave her husband, I'm not sure what you expect from her. Meanwhile, Cameron's not going to wait around forever."

"She's waited this long," House muttered.

"Eventually, she'll give up. Maybe that's what you want."

"Maybe." House's eyes flickered briefly to Wilson's before snapping back to the television screen.

Wilson just shook his head and shrugged into his coat. "Lunch tomorrow?" he asked, as if they hadn't practically been fighting.

"Yeah, sure. Pick me up." He already had a feeling that he wouldn't be in the mood to drive.

"Try to at least change your clothes between now and then."

House shot him a sarcastic look. "Yes, Mom. I'll even clean my room."

"Good night, House," was all Wilson said and then he left, the sound of his car disturbing the silent night a minute later.

Good. House poured himself another drink. Now he could get back to being bitter and fatalistic.