Disclaimer: I don't own House, Cameron, or any of the other characters subsequently mentioned.
Summary: A House/Cameron fic. Set at the end of season 1. What if Stacey's visit made House realize he wasn't still in love with her, and there was someone else?
A/N: This is my first fanfic in a very long time. Please be patient, I'm very, very rusty.
"Dr. House, what are you doing here?"
"I came to see if I could get you to come back."
"Why do you want me to come back?"
"Because you're a good doctor."
"Is that it?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"No."
That's what went through my mind when I heard the familiar banging on my door so late on a Sunday night. Not knocking, banging, like someone wrapping with a stick, a cane in this case, trying to get my attention. Anyone could be knocking. I have a few close friends who wouldn't be too embarrassed to just drop by if they felt they needed to. If something had happened and they wanted to talk, or something hadn't happened and they thought I needed to talk. But the banging, I only knew one person who could begin to be obnoxious even before I opened the door.
I put the book I was reading down and scanned the room. I usually kept the place pretty tidy. A few trinkets here and there, I'm not much of a clutter bug. A few of the shelves looked like they could use a good dusting, but there was nothing I could do about that now. I throw a quick glance in the direction of a mirror. My hair is hanging in my face; tangled. I haven't brushed it since this morning and I didn't bother to put it up. I wasn't expecting company. I wondered if he was there to fire me. In a twisted, ironical, way it made sense. He came to my door to ask me to come back to work, and now he had come to my door to ask me to not come back to work again. Whether or not that was really the reason, I couldn't just leave him standing in the hall all night. After all, he had a cane. That would be his rationale anyway.
"Dr. House," I say as I unbolt the door and open it. I wait for him to initiate things, to tell me why he's here. After a few seconds it becomes clear that he's not going to, so I help him out. "What brings you here?" I ask.
He shifts, although whether the discomfort he's experiencing is physical or mental I have no idea. "Are you going to invite me in, or would you prefer I bring a folding chair next time?"
I roll my eyes. I told you he uses his leg as an excuse for everything. Rather than go to the trouble of answering I simply move aside and leave the doorway open. I've gone to enough trouble when it comes to him. I've gone to the trouble of being nice, being efficient; I've been giving, I've been witty, everything he should find attractive. But he doesn't. He doesn't think of me any differently than he does Chase or Foreman, which is to say he thinks I'm slightly less annoying than a canary and slightly more annoying than a goldfish, being as I make only the necessary amount of noise, while still wasting oxygen.
He hobbles inside and tries to look nonchalant as he sits on my couch. I know better. If he was really being nonchalant, he'd be at home playing with his play station or watching an unrealistic hospital drama on his digital television, not sitting here on my couch twirling his can in between his fingers, the way he does when he gets nervous. I clear my throat.
"Well," I ask, "Are you going to tell me why I'm here or do I have to bribe you with something?"
"Is bribery an option?" he replies glibly; he always does.
Again I decline to answer. Instead, I sit on the opposite side of the couch and wait for him to divulge the contents of his visit. I've never had much luck in that area before, but what can I say, I'm ever the optimist.
He turns to me and says, "You told me once that you used to think I was too screwed up to love anyone, but you were wrong, I just couldn't love you." I wince slightly at the memory. Wounds of the heart can be a long time in healing. Just when we think we're all clear and ready to go home, a stupid doctor with a cane walks in and surgically opens us up on a table with a table saw. Damn him. After a pause he swallows hard and continues. "You were right about the first part. I am screwed up, but you were wrong about the second part."
He stops at that. It doesn't surprise me. Greg isn't an emotional man, and I hardly expected him to come running up to my door in shining armor and profess his undying love for me. Well, the running part is out anyway.
I screw up my courage to speak, but I still can't look him in the eye. "You said once that I don't love people. I need them. You said I needed you because you were broken and I wanted to fix you. I don't know about the rest, but at least about the first part you were wrong, too. I do love… people." I wanted to say him. That's the truth. I love him. We both know it. I love him until I ache; until I'm practically sick with it. Maybe I even have been sick on a couple of occasions. I can't help myself. I push a little harder.
"Are you saying you want to give me another shot?" I ask, hoping I don't sound like I'm hoping as much as I am.
"What exactly am I shooting at?" he asks with is patented sarcastic intonation.
I smile wryly. "That, doctor, is a diagnosis you'll have to make for yourself."
He nods curtly as he starts to stand, and I know it's the closest I'll come to getting a goodbye.
"Greg, wait," I put my hand on his knee and he freezes. "Stay."