As always, thank you very much for reading, and I hope that you enjoy this part.

III.

Somewhere between month three and month ten, the two of you actually learned to talk about what was going on between you without looking and acting like embarrassed teenagers. Somewhere in month eleven, she moved in.

There weren't any big speeches or declarations or promises of forever. Her lease was up and you were both tired of packing overnight bags. It seemed an easy decision to make and there wasn't even a real discussion about it. She just mentioned that she needed to sign a new lease and you said that was stupid and she said that she had to live somewhere and you said you had the room. Speaking in the silences between words was one of the talents you shared with each other and you were glad because even though you could say that you wanted her/needed her/loved her, you still didn't like to do it if you didn't have to.

You drafted Wilson and Mason and West into helping move her things into your apartment. Her living room furniture was donated to charity except for a few bookcases and a chair that would fit in your bedroom and you had a spare room where her bedroom set could go. It was filled with boxes of things you wanted to forget but had never had the energy to throw away. At least you said you hadn't had the energy. Maybe you hadn't had the heart. Golf clubs were shoved into one corner and there were three boxes just for boxing gloves, running shoes and shorts that were just a couple of inches too short.

Cameron had never looked into any of those boxes - had never lingered in that room – but she insisted on at least going through them to see if anything could be donated. Your face had that hard, tight look on it when she opened the first box. You expected some sort of sorrowful look followed up by words of condolence. Then you wondered why you were still underestimating her as she quickly sorted through things with efficiency, detachment and not a word of pity.

She asked a few questions about your running, because she was a runner too, but they were real questions about training and distances and marathons, not attempts to wheedle her way under your shell, because she had done that months ago and there hadn't been any wheedling needed. She was grinning as she asked if you'd ever knocked someone out, and you were smug when you told her that you had. You decided to hang your old gloves on the wall in your study.

Two days of packing and lugging furniture and toting boxes and it was done. You hadn't actually done any of the lugging or toting, but you reserved the right to act exhausted and put out while your employees, friend and lover lounged around your living room eating pizza and drinking beer. You made love that night and the next morning you bitched about how her toiletries were taking over your bathroom and by the next week it was as if she'd always been there.

Three months later and she was the one who took the phone call about your father's death.

You walked through the door and knew immediately that something was wrong. She had that look on her face, the one you hated seeing, and she'd pulled the bottle of scotch from the back of the cabinet and put it on the coffee table with a glass. You hadn't gotten good and drunk since that night after revealing your relationship to the whole hospital.

"What happened?" you asked her, getting straight to the point.

"Your mother called," she said and you sat down and poured a drink for yourself. She'd only put out one glass.

You hadn't told your parents that you were seeing someone and you damn sure hadn't told them that you were living with someone. They'd known about Stacy because that was back when your mother still insisted on visiting every Christmas, but you'd but an end to that after your infarction. It was bad enough putting up with your father when you could at least discuss sports and boast that you'd run a four minute mile – something he'd never done. You couldn't take having him stare at you, or, more commonly, your cane, and then spout off some platitude about being grateful for being alive.

So, if your mother had talked to Cameron, then the cat was out of the bag. You grimaced when you thought about the fact that you were sure she'd insisted on coming for a visit. Your parents had liked Cameron that one time they'd met. Great. You'd be subjected to a nice round of 'you shouldn't have waited so long to get together.'

"Wonderful," you said as you took a drink. "When should we expect them?"

Cameron sat down beside you and rested her hand on your knee. It was an affectionate, soothing gesture and you'd rarely shared those with her outside the bedroom.

"What?" you asked, more forcefully than intended, when she didn't seem inclined to speak.

"Greg…"

And that was when you knew that your father was dead.

That should have been the moment when your face crumpled in tears and you clung to Cameron for support as you bemoaned the fact that you would never get the chance to make things right. Your life wasn't a made for tv movie, however, and even though he was dead, you could still remember that you hated him, even if you couldn't think of all the reasons right that second. You didn't realize that you'd slammed back the rest of your drink, and glanced over, startled, when Cameron reached to refill it for you.

You let her. And then you didn't touch it. She gave you tacit permission to get completely wasted, but that wouldn't fix anything and you didn't know what you were trying to fix anyway. Your father had died. The father you hadn't ever cared about seeing again anyway.

It was just that when you hated someone, they were supposed to stay alive so that you could continue to hate them. Hating a dead person seemed pointless and petty.

"When's the funeral?" you asked.

You could tell that Cameron was taken aback by your lack of emotion, but she shouldn't have been. She knew how you felt about him even if she knew few of the details. Her streak of idealism still ran deep, apparently. She cleared her voice, and you could tell that she'd been near tears even if you hadn't been.

"This Saturday. New York," she said and then hesitated before adding, "You want…"

"Yeah," you answered, because you knew she was asking if you wanted her to go with you.

It was unclear to you why you wanted her to tag along to the funeral of someone you didn't give a crap about, but maybe it went back to misery loving company and anyway, your mother would want to meet her. You didn't need her support; you wanted her company. Explaining your motivations to yourself was something you'd had a lot of practice doing.

She was the one who told Cuddy that you were going to need Friday off. You knew she'd done it when Cuddy walked into your office looking primped and perfect as always in a low cut suit but with a sympathetic look on her face that you'd only seen a handful of times over ten years. She asked if there was anything you needed and you told her a month off clinic duty would be a good start. Your sarcasm had probably startled her. Like Cameron, she'd expected you to be acting sad and bereft. She rebounded quickly though, you had to give her credit for that. With a toss of her hair and an exasperated look, she told you not to press your luck. As she was leaving the office, she casually told you that she'd get someone to cover for you for the rest of the week.

The drive to upstate New York was a long one, and Cameron offered to take a shift driving, but you waved her off even though your thigh was throbbing after two hours on the road. It was almost dark by the time you got to your parents' house, but your mother must have been watching for you because she was at the door before you'd made it half way up the walkway.

She welcomed Cameron with open arms, just as you'd expected. You caught yourself wondering if he would have done the same and reminded yourself that you didn't give a damn what he would or would not have done. Anyway, it was a pointless question. Of course he would have loved Cameron. She was easy to love. He probably would have grilled her about why she wanted to be with a bitter, sarcastic bastard.

You stayed in a hotel that night despite your mother's insistence that there was plenty of room at the house. When you were eighteen, you'd sworn that you'd never live under his roof again, and dead or not, that was still his house. There were traces of him everywhere in it, from the framed medals above the fireplace to the shelves full of books about military history.

Funerals had always seemed pointless to you. A bunch of people crying and talking about someone who was already dead and couldn't hear their heartfelt words. You knew that they were supposed to be a comfort for the living, grieving friends and relatives, but wallowing in sorrow didn't seem like the healthiest way to get over grief. You chose not to see the irony in the fact that you'd spent hours, days, weeks, wallowing over the loss of your leg. You'd never given it a eulogy, so it didn't count.

Your mother sat beside you, crying silently during what you supposed was a very poignant farewell speech, given by your uncle. Cameron sat on your other side and sniffled every once in a while. You were undecided about whether or not you'd give her hell about the fact that she could cry over someone she'd never even known. You'd caught her getting teary during particularly touching Hallmark commercials, so her behavior wasn't completely unexpected.

After the funeral, everyone gathered at the house and you had to put up with relatives and your father's friends coming up to you and saying how sorry they were for your loss. For your mother's sake, you forced yourself to be civil. An hour into the sob-fest, you tried to hide in the bathroom, but Cameron found you.

"Lots of people," she said as she closed the door behind herself.

She was holding a slim barrette in her hand which told you how she'd picked the lock. You wondered if you should start sending her to break into patients' homes.

"He was a popular guy," you said, the sarcasm heavy in your voice.

You were sitting on the toilet seat lid and she perched on the edge of the tub and stared at you.

"If you're waiting for me to cry, you'll have a long wait."

"No."

"Then what?"

"Just looking. You have your mother's eyes."

That was true. People had always said that, right before they'd said that every other feature came from your father. You waited for the expected follow-up statement from Cameron, but it didn't come.

Instead she told you that people were starting to leave and that your mother was looking for you.

"I know you didn't like him," she said, standing up and putting her hand on the doorknob. "I even think I understand why… at least a little bit. But I do think he probably loved you. I don't know if that makes anything better or not. I think you can keep on hating him and still be sorry that you don't have a father anymore." She gave her patented half-shrug and slipped back out the door, shutting it again on her way.

You'd been expecting some attempt at sympathy and schmaltz, but you hadn't thought it would come in the form of just a few short sentences. If it had come a few months earlier, you would have been disconcerted by how well she could read you. You spent a few more minutes staring at the tiles and tapping your cane against the pedestal sink before going back to the living room to find your mother.

The plan had been to head back to Princeton that night, but your mother had powers of persuasion even you couldn't fight. You spent another night at the hotel and then spent the morning helping her go through some things and letting her talk your ear off. Cameron kept herself busy at a nearby shopping mall and even though you knew it was her attempt to give you some time with your mother, you were irrationally mad at her for abandoning you. She came back in time for you all to go out to a late lunch before leaving for Princeton and you concentrated on giving her the cold shoulder over Reubens and fries at a nearby deli.

Your mother cried when you left. She hugged you and hugged Cameron and hugged you again. You tried not to stiffen too much in her embrace, but spontaneous hugging would never come naturally to you. She made you promise to call her and it was one you figured you'd actually keep.

It was late by the time you got back to your apartment; too late for dinner, or anything else except bed. You'd kept up your silent routine with Cameron, because you were stubborn and didn't feel like talking. Maybe part of it was because you just needed to keep feeling angry about something. Your mother had given you the baseball your father had caught at a Mets game back when you were six. Holding it had made you remember that you hadn't always hated him. You shoved it to the back of your sock drawer as soon as you could.

Cameron should have said something about the silence; about how you shouldn't shut her out; about how you had no reason to be mad at her; about how she wouldn't stand for you treating her like crap. Instead, she emptied her overnight bag, pulled on a tank top and cotton shorts, brushed her teeth, washed her face and crawled into bed. You looked at her for a minute before leaving the room and heading for your piano.

When you limped back into the bedroom you didn't know if she'd be asleep or not. You hadn't exactly kept down the noise while you'd played. She was curled on her side and a light breeze from the open window ruffled the ends of her hair. You stripped off your clothes, along with your displaced feelings. Her presence had made the funeral bearable. You got into bed and lay there staring at the ceiling until she finally rolled over to face you, like you'd known she would.

"Good to be home," she said.

You nodded your agreement and then moved to kiss her hard on the lips. She drew in a quick breath, but that was the only sign of surprise from her. When you pulled back she stared at you just like she'd stared at you in your parents' bathroom. She understood and you were glad she was there.

"Good night."

"Good night," she echoed, and you closed your eyes knowing that she would be the first thing you'd see in the morning.