Interlude #2

Disclaimer: Don't own anything related to House. This is fun, non-profit entertainment . . . unless a scriptwriter position opens up. ;-)
Author's Note: This takes place post -No Reason.

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Nervousness was not a feeling he allowed himself to be acquainted with on a regular basis. About once a year was his ideal target . . . he wouldn't think about the actual numbers. With a slight frown, Greg House ran through a few more scales on the piano as he willed himself to not look at the handset from the cordless phone resting beside his full glass of scotch. She would call – had said she would the day before. And she had made him promise to be home and answer the phone. She knew things, she had said with a laugh, and would share them if her demands were not met.

Mothers could be a real pain in the --

The ringing of the phone stopped his thoughts and the C scale. House almost let the machine pick it up before remembering an incident involving peanut butter, a neighbour's cat and the threat of his father being informed to his latest 'adventure'. He picked up the phone.

"Are you ready?" was the slightly muffled question on the other end. House rolled his eyes, bit back a barbed retort (again, she knew things), and quickly scanned his living room. Allison was either still at the gym or running the errands she had mentioned earlier, the deadbolt was firmly in place and Wilson was at a conference in New York. He should be safe.

"Yeah," House replied. Clicking on the speaker phone function, he carefully set the handset on top of the piano just behind the sheet music for the Nat King Cole song his parents had danced to on their first date. "Happy anniversary," he said quietly as he began to play.

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It was a twisted law of the universe, Allison Cameron decided with a groan, which dictated torrential downpours to begin when she had no jacket or umbrella, six bags of groceries, and her gym bag while fumbling for her keys to the townhouse. Of all the idiotic times for House to lock the deadbolt . . . the thought drifted off as she remembered why he had a new oneinstalled in the first place. Swallowing her impatience, she set down a few of her bags in order to go through her purse. Once the house keys were procured she slid the lock open and quickly got everything – her self included – in the front entryway.

It was then she noticed the soft swell of a melody coming from the piano. Divesting herself of her soggy shoes and socks, Allison left the bags by the door before stepping into the living room. House's back was toward her (how many times could a person rearrange their furniture?) as his hands moved deftly across the keys. A glass of scotch was to his left, beads of condensation trickling down it. What appeared to be the handset from the cordless phone was behind the sheet music in front of him; Allison was about to question House about it when a shiver made its way down her back. She made her way to the bedroom, arching an eyebrow in surprise when House did not acknowledge her presence.

Making quick work of changing into dry clothes, Allison had grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom when she figured out it was a Nat King Cole song House was playing. It was an old favourite of hers (though she would not admit this to House – not yet, at least). She quietly began to hum along, the last few lines scrolling past her mind's eye as she made her way into the living room and sat down in the black leather recliner.

And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too,

Is when I fall in love with you.

As the last notes faded from the piano's strings, Allison closed her eyes and tucked her legs underneath her. Within seconds, she was asleep.

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House had smiled at his mother's quietly offered thank you and grimaced at his father's good-byecoloured with silent judgments before he had hung up the phone. Turning around on the piano bench, he started slightly at the sight of a conked-out Cameron in the recliner, clad in a pair of sweats and her old university sweatshirt with a small towel slung over one shoulder. She looked wet, chilled, and . . . she had left a mess of bags by the front door.

Pushing himself up from his seat, he was about to put the phone on the table beside the recliner when a an idea came to him. He positioned himself behind the chair and held the phone about six inches from Cameron's right ear as he pushed the 'page' button. A loud, strident beeping broke the silence. Almost instantly Cameron jolted into alertness, arms and legs flailing. House got the phone out of the way before she smacked it out of his hand.

"What in the h--"

"You left a bunch of stuff by the door," House interjected while setting the telephone in its proper spot. "Are you trying to kill me with spoiling food or what?" he groused as he limped over to the doorway and picked up a couple of the plastic bags.

"Some would consider it a mercy killing," Cameron mumbled, stretching out her legs before vacating her seat and going over to get the rest of the groceries. She kicked her gym bag into the corner behind the door.

"Ah, yes," House quipped, plopping his bags on the kitchen counter, "this is where I would ask 'But why?' and you would reply 'Because then I wouldn't have to put up with you anymore.'" His ridiculously bad imitation of Cameron earned him a smile. They put away the groceries in silence. When they were done House returned to the piano as Cameron plugged in the electric kettle.

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She had blurted out so many things in the heat of the moment.

"Do you like me?"

"I have to protect myself."

"I thought you were too screwed up to love anyone."

She was an idiot, Allison decided with a rueful sigh as she dropped a tea bag into her cup before filling it with hot water. Though . . . if she hadn't blurted out a few other things since then she probably would not be where she was right now. What if he had . . .?

Allison scooped out the tea bag with a spoon and tossed it in the trash, wishing she could do the same thing with some of her memories. She padded into the living room, the cup of tea cradled in her hands as she carefully blew on the steaming liquid. Bumping House slightly with her hip, she sat down when he had made room for her. He was playing the song she had heard when she had first come in.

"Who were you playing that for earlier?" she asked before taking a sip of her tea.

"My parents," House answered as his hands continued their journey over the white and black keys. "Anniversary."

"That was . . ." Allison paused, wondering if "Greg House" and "nice" could really be considered an oxymoron.

"The result of blackmail," House finished for her.

Allison only laughed before taking another drink from her cup as the sound of rain hitting the windows lent a soft accompaniment to the piano.