Title: Optimism
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Steve McQueen goes on a field trip and makes a new friend, House irritates Foreman and is irritated by Cameron, and everything ends on a hopeful note. Cause I'm stubborn that way ; )
Spoilers: Up to and including Hunting.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything mentioned in this story. Not even the rat.
A/N: So I was trolling through my wordpad the other day, and realized that I'd never put this story up here. It's a ficathon entry from housecameron over at Livejournal, and it was written way the heck back in January (I think). I had to include these elements: a power outage; "I'm not what you need" said by House or Cameron; and Steve McQueen. Oh, and the weather actually did this shortly before I wrote the fic. Never underestimate the strangeness of Jersey weather.
"Answer this one," House complained as he limped alongside Wilson to the elevators. "How can the temperature drop from sixty-five to the low twenties in one night?"
Wilson shrugged as he pushed the 'up' button. House literally had his hands full balancing cane, knapsack, and Steve McQueen's cage. "We're in New Jersey," he replied, letting the older man board first and getting clipped by the rat cage for his generosity. He was fairly sure it was an accident. "The only thing that's predictable about the winter weather is . . . that it's unpredictable." Wilson pushed the appropriate floor button as House, though he'd put the rat cage down, showed no signs of moving from where he was reclined against the wall.
Abruptly, House lifted his head and glared at his friend. "Stop fussing at me. You try hauling a rat all the way from your parking spot to my office."
"I'd rather not–and I didn't say anything," Wilson defended himself.
"You were going to. I could see you morphing into your 'nag mode'," House stated.
"Whatever." The elevator pinged politely and opened up; as the two men made their way down the hall Wilson asked, "Why did you bring him, anyway?"
"I'm lonely. I had to find someone to fill the void, now that you're not my best friend anymore," House explained.
"You're comparing me to a rat?"
"No, I'm replacing you with a rat. It's a much better deal. Steve doesn't drink my beer or lust after my bike, and if he starts nagging I can lock him in a closet."
"Ri–ght." Wilson held the door to House's office open. "Well, I hope Steve knows what he's getting himself into." With a little wave Wilson headed to his own office, leaving House to ponder whether or not he'd just been slightly insulted.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
House positioned Steve's cage in a spot that got sun most of the day, then pulled out his Gameboy, it being too early in the day for real work, like giving Cuddy another gray hair.
He was whipping a little motorcycle around hairpin turns when Cameron arrived. He watched from the corner of his eye as she went through her morning ritual of flicking on the lights in the department's conference room, rinsing the coffee pot and starting a new batch, and sorting the mail–which she now left on the table for Foreman, instead of handing it off to House.
When the coffee was ready, she poked her head into House's office. "Coffee?" She already had his mug in her hand.
"Yeah." She set the mug on his desk and looked curiously at Steve, who was industriously sniffing each and every bar of his cage. "Is he tame?"
House shrugged, his eyes now firmly fixed on the little screen before him. "He hasn't bitten me yet. But if you're wondering if I take him to bed with me, the answer is 'no'."
"You'd probably roll over onto him," she observed with a small smile.
House made a noncommittal grunt. He wasn't about to tell her that he'd trained himself to sleep almost perfectly still. Pain was a swift teacher.
Cameron wavered in front of his desk, obviously wondering if she'd been dismissed. Fortunately for her dignity Foreman stalked in before House could tell her to find something to do. The neurologist glared at House without speaking until it became clear that the older man was ignoring him; huffily, he then began what House thought of as 'Foreman's Rant of the Day'.
"Dr. Cuddy called me into her office–"
"And you escaped with your clothes intact?" House finally paused his game and looked up, his eyes wide with mock respect. "Either you're made of sterner stuff than I thought or Cuddy's losing her touch." He noticed Cameron edging toward the door and said, "Cameron What do you think?"
"I think that I don't want to get involved," she replied firmly, and fled.
Foreman tried agin, his voice loud with exasperation. "Dr. Cuddy wants to know why she hasn't received the latest batch of patient files. I asked you to get them straightened out. Where are they?" he crossed his arms over his chest and assumed an 'I'm waiting' expression.
"Probably in Chase's bag." House scooped up his cane and began twirling it slowly, staring at the ceiling.
"Why are they in there? You were supposed to deal with them "
"I delegated."
Foreman stared at him speechlessly for a moment, then start an irritated (and from the sound of it rehearsed) diatribe. House tuned him out, spun his cane, and wondered if Wilson would still buy House's lunches now that he'd been 'replaced' with Steve McQueen.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Five minutes later, House had switched from plotting ways to continue getting free lunches to plotting ways of making certain that Foreman never, under any circumstances, gave a speech at a hospital function that he, House, was attending. He was contemplating his chances of escape (not good) when Foreman snapped, "Are you even listening? And why is that rat in here?"
House ceased his cane-spinning and sat up slowly. "Chase is still doing what I tell him because he knows what's good for him." He shoved his Gameboy into his jacket pocket, stood, and limped around his desk to loom over Foreman, who obstinately refused to back away. "Cuddy picked you to be in charge because she's trying to piss me off, not because you're qualified to run a department. Yes, I was listening." He dodged around the other man and headed for the door. "Oh, and the rat is here because I'm training him to sniff out cancer. See ya! "
Foreman stood stock-still for a moment, fuming, then stomped into the conference room. He sat at the table and flipped rapidly through the mail for a minute, then looked over at Cameron. She was doing her best to blend in with the wall behind her, but glanced up when he spoke. "He was kidding about the rat thing, right?"
She raised one eyebrow. "I don't know–but do you really want to ask him?"
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
By two o'clock House had beaten his own record on his motorcycle game, found out that despite his supposed 'not-best-friend' status Wilson was still willing to shell out for lunch, and been ordered to the clinic by Cuddy (who had not been amused at being compared to a prison warden).
He had just returned to his office, hoping to sneak a well-deserved nap and maybe tick Foreman off in the process when he noticed Cameron crouched in front of Steve's cage. She seemed to be poking something through the bars. House eased the office door open, glad of the silent hinges; the lack of squeaking made it much easier to creep up on unsuspecting victims.
"Come on, take it. There–knew you'd like that," Cameron said smugly as House snuck closer. Steve was sitting up on his hind legs, gripping something yellowish in his forepaws and chewing with great enthusiasm.
House leaned down, putting his mouth right next to Cameron's ear. "You know, Steve is lactose intolerant. Dairy products upset his little tummy." Anticipating a shriek of surprise, or at the very least a yelp, he was disappointed when she only twitched a little before craning her neck to meet his eyes. Clearly she was building up a tolerance to his tricks. She didn't even stammer as she justified, "His food dish was empty, and I didn't know when you'd be back." She raised her eyebrows; at this silent request House straightened up and backed off a bit, allowing her to stand. He didn't miss how she swayed slightly, nor the smudges under her eyes that makeup didn't quite cover.
"How bad are the side-effects," he demanded, his eyes narrowing as he studied her intently.
"Bad enough," she replied shortly. Then her stiff shoulders slumped and she added, "The headaches are the worst. Sometimes they get so bad that I can't think straight."
"I can write you a stronger prescription"
"Thank you." She smiled gratefully, and he panicked.
"Don't read too much into it. I'm a jerk."
"Not always." She was still smiling, damn it, and he knew why. Memories of cotton candy and of laughing with someone other than Wilson poked at his conscience; he shoved back cruelly.
"I'm not what you need." He spun away from her, limped to the window. It was snowing, small stinging flakes that turned to ice when they touched down.
"'I am what you need. I'm damaged.',"she quoted, and House wondered why the antiviral regimen didn't include 'a sudden onset of acute stubborness and sarcasm' in its list of side-effects.
"You need someone who wants to be fixed. You need someone with fewer scars."
For a few moments the only sounds in the room were those of the rat snuffling in his cage, ever-hopeful for more treats. Then Cameron spoke again, her voice soft but firm. "You know, when people talk about scars they always emphasize the negativity."
"This is going to involve rainbows and silver linings, isn't it?"
"What people tend to ignore is that a scar is what's left over after an injury heals. They're a reminder that we were strong enough to survive. And I never claimed to want to fix you." He could see her reflected in the window, pale and indistinct; as the silence stretched, and House refused to acknowledge her, she gave a sad little sigh and left. House waited until the door swung closed, then limped to his chair and tried to ignore his rat, who seemed to be reprimanding House for chasing away the nice lady who had given him cheese.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
House slung his knapsack over one shoulder and picked up Steve's cage, snorting as the rat protested the movement. He tramped into the conference room and stopped before Cameron's desk, shaking his head. Ten minutes to five, and she was still diligently working her way through a stack of folders.
She looked up at him, all wide eyes and too-pale skin. "What?"
He scowled. "You realize that you've spoiled my rat. Now every time he sees you he'll expect cheese."
Cameron blinked and started to ask why he thought she'd be having regular contact with his pet, but caught herself in time. "I don't think he'll associate me with treats after one encounter. I doubt he's been corrupted."
House pursed his lips. "I don't know," he said dubiously, "Steve's pretty smart. I think he's descended from escaped lab rats."
"I guess that explains why you brought him in today–you were hoping to train him to run gels." Her voice trailed off; never a fan of awkward silences, House turned to go–then paused.
"Actually my power went out sometime last night," he admitted. "No power means no heat; I wasn't sure how long it would be off and I didn't want to come home to a rat-sicle." Cameron smiled; trying to derail any gushing sentiments ("That's so sweet! ") he added, "Of course, now that he's stuffed full of gouda he could probably survive in Alaska. Cheese is fattening."
"It was cheddar."
"Whatever." House pulled a small plastic bottle from his jacket and tossed it to her; she caught it neatly. "For the headaches."
"Thank you." She slipped the bottle into her purse.
"Yeah, well–"
"Don't read anything into it, I know." She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. "Good night, Dr. House. I accept your apology."
House smirked all the way to Wilson's car. She was learning.