He was late into work the following morning and, although no-one commented on the fact, he was fairly sure they wanted to. Foreman's deliberate glance at his watch would normally have been grounds for an equally pissy observation of his own, but for some reason House just didn't seem to have the energy. Instead he just contented himself with ordering up another battery of complex and utterly pointless tests on the Matthews boy. Postherpetic Neuralgia. As if.

Cameron's entrance didn't come until almost midday. He imagined she'd held out for as long as she could.

"I need your signature on this release."

"What is it?"

"A release. And here...would be where you sign."

She'd pulled her hair back into a knot at the base of her skull and the strands at her temples looked as if they were about to break with the strain. Picking up a pen, House let his eyes wander idly over the document in front of him, clicking the end softly in and out. Cameron was a narrow white pillar at the corner of his vision, her ams crossed.

"Have I seen this...Eladio Montez?"

"No. And you won't. His wife wants him transferred to Mercer."

"Is he all better?"

He could see the corded muscles in her neck, the hollow at the base of her throat pulsing.

"His white count is steady. His pressure is 120/80. He's stable."

"But he's not better. "

"He's well enough to be moved."

"But apparently not well enough to sign this himself. Or, in fact, conscious enough."

Clicking the pen nib in and out a few more times, House sucked at his bottom lip. Cameron's feet in their punishingly high heels shifted impatiently.

"Are you going to sign it or not?"

"Tell you what, I'll make you a deal." Rolling his chair back a few inches, he rested both hands on his cane. "I will release Mr. Montez from my care and relinquish all responsibility for his impending, and very possibly fatal, coronary, if you..." he paused, savouring the look on her face, "...will go fetch me a hot pastrami on rye, with absolutely no pickles and just the merest hint of horseradish."

The fingers of her left hand twitched; a spastic, seemingly involuntary movement, as if she were reaching to grasp an invisible ball. She was a fascinating creature to watch when she was upset; all angles and shadows, ticks and taut muscles and, as he was so often the source of her irritation, he had grown to recognise every stage. This one was the last. The one just before the cracks sprang open.

"Fine. I'll get Cuddy to sign it."

"And I'm sure she'll be only to happy to," flicking an eye to the clock on the wall, he grimaced, "In fact, if you call now you should catch her on the eighth hole. If you ask me, she'll be grateful. That drive down to the ninth's a bitch."

Through the open neck of her linen shirt, he could see the pale column of her throat; the sharp, hollowed angle of her collarbone was strangely beautiful. As he watched, he could almost see the breath leave her body, her hands on the clipboard tightening as she brought it up against her chest. They locked eyes and he counted the seconds down until she caved, until she couldn't hold his gaze any longer. For the first time ever he got all the way to one.

"You're still angry."

His voice was soft, confidential. Slipping the pen between the knuckles of his right hand, he switched it deftly from one finger to the next, watching her. She seemed to be waiting for something.

"Am I supposed to be apologising?"

Her mouth hardened,"I can't imagine what for."

"Well...then that makes two of us."

Tapping the pen against the desktop in a staccato rhythm, he raised his eyebrows sharply, but there was no reaction. Any of the others would have left by now, and the fact that Cameron was still standing in front of him, made him feel both irritable and a little defensive.

"You know, if you're going to be mad with anyone it should be her..."

He almost snapped the words, throwing the pen down as he did so. Shifting her stance, she shook her head slightly; a mute expression of disbelief..

"I didn't ask her anything. She volunteered."

"Issy has a big mouth," a brittle shrug and then she fixed him with those ice-blue eyes again, "But she's my sister. She had her reasons for telling you all that stuff. Just likeI had my reasons for not wanting her to. She doesn't know that. But you do."

The tension between them stretched out like fine wire; the weight of all the unspoken words flexing them to breaking point. He felt the need to say something unbearably flip, anything that would throw them both clear and back into their own separate worlds again, but, for once, the words just wouldn't come. Reaching for his cane, House pushed himself to his feet, but, before he could open his mouth she had turned and stepped away from him towards the door. By the time he caught up with her, she was pushing the button for the elevator.

"Did it occur to you thattheremight be another reason I might want to spend time with her? Other than to glean personal information about you I mean?"

She wouldn't look at him, but the colour rising in her cheeks told him he was close to the mark. Heedless to the open-mouthed stare of the elderly patient to his left, he pushed on.

"Did she tell you that it was her who asked me for coffee? Which, coincidentally, happened just seconds after I told her that we - meaning you and I - were not and have never been 'involved'."

She pushed the button again, ignoring him, but the flush in her cheeks was getting more obvious with every passing second. Pressing the tip of his cane into the floor, House frowned angrily down at his Nikes. His head was thumping and the fact that Cameron was - once again - the catalyst for his pain made his continuing presence at her side all the more inexplicable.

"OK, so it was none of my damned business. But you have to admit, it does add another pretty fascinating twist to the chain." He cocked his head, half-closing one eye, "I mean it's one thing to have a hard-on for cripples, but...the daddy issues? Now that one's really got some legs..."

The elevator door slid open and, silently, she stepped past him into the elevator. She was still staring straight ahead as the doors slid shut.

XXXX

"You should apologise to her."

Sliding a plate of Jello onto his lunch tray, Wilson frowned at the spoon, polishing it against the front of his lab coat. Beside him, House rejected traditional dessert in favour of a chocolate muffin, slipping a second one into his pocket as he did so.

"You want me to apologise for buying her sister a damn cup of coffee!"

"Because that's all it was."

"Well I did ask her if she 'wanted cream'..." He snorted irritably, pausing to glare at the cauldron of stew. The thick brown scum that covered the surface was less than appetising. He frowned at it. "I am not going to apologise."

"So...what? You're just going to ignore each other until her contract is up."

"I'm game if she is. Let's see her ask for a raise on a post-it."

His friend's weary sigh of exasperation was irritating and, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, House moved past him. Wilson handed the teller a twenty and pursed his lips as he waited for his change.

"Would it be so damned hard to say you're sorry for once?"

"If I thought I'd actually done something wrong? No."

The cafeteria was fairly quiet and for once they managed to find a table without much trouble. Seating himself, House decanted the muffin from his jacket and then watched for a moment as the younger doctor probed his Salisbury Steak cautiously with a fork. Taking pity on him, he pushed him his dessert and, with a soft sigh, Wilson took it.

"Does it really matter what you think?"

"Well my mother always told me it did."

"The fact is that, whether you meant to or not, you went too far. It's one thing to make hit and miss guesses about someone, but it's another to use their family..."

"Hey! I didn't ask her anything. She was the one who seemed to think I wanted to know Cameron's entire life story..."

His friend gave him a withering look, "Oh right, and I suppose you tried to stop her."

"My mother also told me that it's rude to interrupt."

Wilson shook his head, continuing to eat his dessert in silence. After a moment or two, House reached over and took his knife, carved his muffin into four equal quarters. Dropping them into his mouth one at a time, he chewed each one slowly before swallowing, licked his fingertips and dabbed the crumbs from his plate.

"Do you remember the 'Reactedrin' launch? The one Dyer forced you to go to that time?"

Scraping the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, Wilson frowned, confused by the sudden change of topic

"Reactedrin...?" he frowned again, "Dyer? That was what...'99?"

"October '98. Tahoe."

"Vaguely," a shrug, "I suppose. Why?"

"Dr. Michael Avery. Ring any bells at all?"

Another shrug, "Not especially. Should it?"

"He was the key-note speaker. I looked it up. Tall guy. Probably wore corduroy with leather elbow patches. Just written a landmark paper on the behaviour of pluripotent cells..."

"Oh right...pluripotent. Of course. That guy." Wilson rolled his eyes and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...why is it you're asking me this?"

Lifting his fork, House used it to delicately pick muffin from between his front teeth.

"Cameron's dead husband."

"Sorry, Cameron's dead husband was...?"

"...Dr. Michael J. Avery. Oxford Don."

"The stem cell guy?" Surprised, his friend shook his head slightly, closed one eye. "Wait...wasn't he..." he snapped his fingers, "Avery, yes! I have a book of his! 'Division and Something...' or 'Something and Division'..."

"And I'll bet it's a thumping good read..."

The edge of sarcasm in his voice was even harder than usual and, narrowing his eyes, Wilson stared at him across the table.

"Didn't you write a book once? Oh wait, that's right, no. You were just paid to write one."

"I gave them back the advance."

"Only after keeping them waiting three years!"

"Oh so what? Anyone can write a book. 'Skin-The-Cat'? Now that's a life-skill."

Across the room, the double doors slapped open and Isabel and Cameron stepped through, followed closely by Chase and Foreman. Watching them, House sucked on his bottom lip. Standing next to each other, the differences were more marked. Where Cameron was narrow and angular, Isabel was soft and curved. Where one's eyes flashed onto him and away, the other's lingered with a smile. A raise of the hand.

"So you don't think I should ask her out again?"

A deep weary sigh, "Just...do whatever you want."

"But you think it's a bad idea."

"I no longer have an opinion. I abstain."

"But you think it's unwise..."

Pressing his fingertips into his temples, Wilson grimaced in pain, "Unless your ultimate goal is Cameron's resignation? And perhaps a second cane...yes...I think it's unwise."

Their backs were turned to him now, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. Reaching for his second muffin, House smiled,

"Do you think she likes Mexican food?"

XXXX

Over the course of the many years House had worked at PPTH, he had compiled a comprehensive list of exactly four places where he could absolutely guarantee he would not be disturbed by members of his team. The first was the seemingly permanently faulty stall of the men's room on Witherspoon. The second was the incinerator room (less fun when the furnace was in operation), the third was the supply closet on Lucas Wing, and the fourth? The fourth was a relatively new addition and, currently, his favourite. The fourth was right here at the bedside of his silent, perpetually visitor-less friend, Sal 'Persistent Vegetative State' Hutton.

The TV was a big plus of course, as was the faint, comforting sound of the pressers. The plastic chairs were a bitch though and, KFC bucket cradled in his lap and his leg propped up alongside Sal's, House had only just gotten comfortable when the door slid open.

"You got a minute?"

Of the three of his underlings, Foreman was almost always the least unwelcome. Seating himself in the other chair alongside, he paused for a moment, his eyes on the screen, before reaching a hand towards House's lunch. Irritably, he slapped him away.

"Get your own."

"Don't you mean 'get someone else to get my own'?"

"Oh what, like she had something better to do?"

Grunting, Foreman rolled back in his chair, "She's a student, House. They're here to learn..."

"They're here to assimilate. If they were here to learn they'd be watching and listening instead of asking pointless questions and obsessing over meaningless detail." Reaching into his bucket for another drumstick, House raised an eyebrow questioningly, "Is there some special reason you're here? Or is that old myth about the smell of fried chicken really true?"

Foreman snorted, shook his head, refusing to take the bait,

"Special? No." He stretched his legs out, lacing his hands behind his head, "I just thought you might be interested in something I overheard outside the ladie's room earlier."

"Is it Cuddy? She stuffs right? Ohmigod Wilson is just gonna freak when I tell him..."

Half-closing his eyes, the other doctor smiled,

"Fine. If you don't want to know, " he reached for the remote, flipped channels to the news, "I just thought you'd maybe get off on the idea of women fighting over you is all."

Grabbing the remote back, House glowered at him and thumbed his way back to ABC. Reaching into his pocket, Foreman produced a bag of chips and, with a leisurely air, tore them open and began to eat. The sound was supremely aggravating.

"Is there something else you need?"

"No."

Eric frowned in concentration. Selected another chip. Ground it lightly between his molars.

"If I ask you what they were saying will you leave?"

"What who was saying?"

"Your Mom and the hooker." House eyeballed him coldly before turning back to the TV. "Cameron and her sister. Was there any full body contact?"

Foreman shrugged, tossed another chip to the back of his throat, "Not as far as I could see. Just sister stuff I guess."

They managed a full three minutes of silence, before House just had to ask.

"Sister stuff?"

"You know, that whole 'I'm just protecting you' thing. Cam was telling her to be careful and Issy was telling her to go to hell."

Flipping away from the commercials, House frowned, thumbed across the dial distractedly. On one channel a chimp was xeroxing his ass.

"That all she said?"

"There's only so long you can hang out outside the girls' bathroom."

House frowned more deeply, flipped channels again, "She said 'be careful'?"

"Something like that."

Foreman finished his chips and noisily sucked his fingertips. The pressers hissed softly and rhythmically. Sal's eyelids fluttered. Glancing at him sideways, House lifted another piece of chicken from the bucket, but somehow it never made it to his mouth.

"How do you know they were talking about me?"

"I don't."

Dusting the crumbs off his lap, Foreman pushed his chair back against the wall, headed for the door before turning round with a pleasant smile..

"But how many 'self-obsessed, emotionally manipulative bastards' do you know?"