A/N: This chapter has some bad language and references to drug abuse. Please don't read if this bothers you.

Lyrics are Mat Kearney.

ooooooooooooooooooo

"This is my second chance, this is my one romance

This is the cutting line on which I stand to show you"

House sat staring resolutely forward, his restlessly twitching leg the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. Thankfully, he had forced Chase and Foreman to take the tickets in coach, leaving only dependable Wilson at his side. Which was a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how introspective House felt like being at any given moment. Right now, Wilson was giving him the look. The look that meant, do you want to talk about it? House didn't want to talk about what had happened between himself and Cameron. Most of the time, he tried to avoid even thinking about that night, preferring to drown himself in scotch and work. But Wilson wasn't going to let go of this, and they were trapped in an enclosed space for at least another few hours. House needed to shut this down, and fast.

Wilson began his opening gambit. "What I still don't understand is why I am going to Seattle to treat a little girl who, judging from her charts, absolutely does not have cancer. You do remember that I am an oncologist, don't you?"

"You think those Seattle oncologists know their asses from their elbows? I'm surprised in you, Wilson. Such unexpected faith in humanity." House retorted, lifting an eyebrow. Keep it light. Keep it sarcastic. Keep the conversation off Cameron.

"And medical school," Wilson pointed out.

"Listen, I thought you would have been grateful to me for convincing Cuddy to let you in on this all-expenses-paid cross-country jaunt."

"I believe her exact words were, if House screws up it's your fault," Wilson said wryly. "You may no longer have concern for your reputation or PPTH's, but I do. I don't want any part in this escapade."

"All part of the legend, my friend," House cracked.

"Why don't you tell me what this is about, Greg? Because I sure as hell know you don't give a damn about the patient."

House noticed that Wilson sounded more tired than his usual self. Maybe one of these days he really would succeed in pushing him away for good. Although if all the prescription-stealing and affair-mocking hadn't done it, he doubted a cross-country trip would do the trick. "How do you know?" He tossed back flippantly.

"You haven't even looked at the chart."

"There's time for that. After we load up on those little mini-bottles of airplane scotch. Waitress!" House shouted. Wilson grimaced and settled back to watch the flight attendant berate his friend.

ooooooooooooooooooo

House might have been able to deter Wilson from dwelling on what had happened with Cameron, but his own brain was a far more formidable foe. He couldn't stop himself from replaying that night over and over in his mind.

She had found him in his apartment, rubber tourniquet still around his arm, empty syringe on the table, splayed out on the couch, music blasting, scotch at his side.

"House," she said softly, and he looked up, shocked, to see the expression in her eyes. Cameron no how did she get into my apartment fuck no. It wasn't anger or betrayal or any one of the number of things he expected to see in her eyes. Instead, he saw sadness. Sympathy? In that moment, he was enraged. Filled with hate and shame for himself and for what he had become, that she would look at him like that. Idly he wondered what it would take, how hard he would have to push her to make her hate him as much as he hated himself. He figured he was well on his way.

"Fuck, Cameron," he said, and his voice was menacing.

"I didn't – I knocked but you didn't answer. The door was open … I was worried," she babbled nervously, never taking her eyes off his steely blue ones.

He debated the value of reminding her that when one didn't answer the door, it meant they didn't want to be disturbed, but chose not to. "I'm fine. Go home." House moved to sit up and winced at the pain in his leg. He rummaged around for a clean needle.

"You're not fine." Her voice hadn't lost that soft edge that he didn't understand.

Their patient had died that afternoon. He still didn't know the cause.

In an instant she was beside him. He allowed himself that instant, just to appreciate the way she felt beside him. When he was truthful with himself, House knew that he was falling in love with her. He was rarely truthful. He pushed her away because it was convenient, because it was easier, it was safer, and he knew she would come back. He was a coward. But she couldn't handle his darkest bits, and she would leave him like Stacy had, and then he would be alone – only the emptiness would be worse for having once been filled.

"Don't," he growled at her, a warning not to get involved. She ignored him, reaching out to pluck the needle from him. Soft hands, pushing at his chest, asking him to lean back on the couch, as she kneeled between his legs. Gentle fingers, removing the rubber from his arm. Warm breath, on the track marks. And then she placed her hands on his injured thigh and began to knead the distressed muscle. There was nothing erotic about her actions, but it felt so good. House allowed his head to tip back and enjoyed the relief she was willing to provide.

Later, he felt her hands still. He imagined he would see her peering up at him if he opened his eyes, so didn't bother. He felt her weight shift above him, and knew that she had positioned herself face to face with him. Instinctively, he understood that she would kiss him, and he knew that once she did, she would know how he felt about her, that he wanted more than her pity. Would understand that when he said, "Everybody lies," he referred mostly to himself.

Her lips touched his, and House lost control. Suddenly, he wanted to know what it would take to make her angry. It was either give in, or push her away completely. House pushed, and Cameron toppled backwards onto the floor, smacking her head on his coffee table in the process. Shit.

"Are you OK?" he asked, keeping the worry he felt from his voice. He hadn't meant to hurt her, hadn't even meant for her to fall, simply wanted her to get away.

"Ow." She nodded, looking up at him cautiously. He exhaled in relief.

"Then get out," he told her coldly. He was embarrassed. He lacked the courage to face his fears, his addictions. Intellectually, he knew she understood all this, and yet tears still sprang to her eyes, and he hated that he pushed her there. "Get the hell out, Cameron," he said more forcefully.

Cameron stood cautiously. "I know you care about me, House," she said brokenly. "House-"

He made to step towards her. She shrank back. His heart broke.

"I know you care about me," she sobbed wildly. "I've seen you, when you don't think I'm looking. You watch me, House, you want me and we both know it. Why are you so afraid?"

She had him there and they both knew it. House longed desperately to rewind this evening, to go back to watching his soaps in drugged-out bliss. He was feeling horribly sober all of a sudden. He chose his words carefully. She could never know.

"You think I want you, Cameron? How do you know I'm not watching to make sure you don't kill another patient?

"I know," she replied stubbornly, tears continuing to fall.

"Cameron, I am going to say this one more time, and then I am going to call the cops. Get. Out." He advanced towards her, driving her back towards the door with his cane. She stopped on the threshold, challenging him one last time. When he allowed himself to meet her eyes, he saw that he had misjudged her, that just because she hadn't shouted like he had didn't mean she wasn't angry as hell.

"Are you really such a miserable person that you'll drive away something that might have been the best fucking thing that ever happened to either of us?" She swore with a fluency that shocked him, but it was too late to back down now. He said nothing.

"This was the last time I'll ask, House. I hope you die alone." With that, she was gone.

ooooooooooooooooooooo

I hope you die alone. House awoke from his fitful sleep with a jerk. That was the last real thing she'd said to him, until she put in her papers for the transfer a few days later. He had signed off on them, believing it actually would be better if she was gone.

Only it wasn't. His team dynamic was off, he hadn't done laundry in a month, he was drinking more scotch and popping more pills than even he thought was healthy. He missed her, and that terrified him more than anything. He had cut her out of his life to avoid precisely the feeling he had right now – like a gaping black hole was eating him from the inside out. And then the incident with Tritter had happened, shaking him even though he wouldn't admit it, and a week later she had called. I hope you die alone. He knew she hadn't called him, had in fact hoped to avoid him entirely. He knew she was probably desperate about her patient, struggling with her own sense of self-worth as a doctor. He had abused that knowledge to get here, he realized. He wanted to see her. Had to see her. Needed to see her. Didn't want to live alone anymore. Didn't want to die alone.

The plane touched down with a thud and House was jostled from his thoughts. It was all very well and good to have this self-realization, he thought morosely. It was the question of what, exactly, he was going to do about it that he still had no answers for. His stomach clenched in anticipation of seeing Cameron in just a few moments, and he pushed his way to the front of the plane. "Cripple coming through," he muttered when the flight attendant he had called "waitress" gave him another look.

Consequently, he was the first from his team to arrive at the arrivals gate, where he found not Cameron, but a sour-faced Asian woman giving him a very hostile look.

"You must be House," she remarked.

"Bum leg give it away?" he retorted, wondering who the hell she was and why she knew him. Hopefully not another disgruntled patient.

She shrugged dismissively. "Nope. You just look like the misanthropic ass I was told to expect."

House smirked. He was startled, but he appreciated a healthy dose of snark, having mastered the art of sarcasm himself. "A friend of Cameron's, I suppose? There's nothing like a jilted lover's description."

"Listen here," the petite woman turned on him with a ferocious snarl. "I promised I'd play nice, so I'll only say this once. You don't deserve her, even if you're a famous doctor, and whatever you did hurt her. So you better undo it."

"I intend to try," House said, calmly.

"Because she's broken," she steamrolled over his admission, as though she hadn't heard him. "She's broken, and you broke her, and I have enough broken people in my life right now, and I've got problems of my own. Moaning about McDreamy and McDenny and McDirty-Orthopedic-Chick when people are getting shot-"

House smirked. This chick had issues.

"Seriously?" she said, noticing his amusement. "Don't sass me or I'll leave you here."

"I wouldn't dream of sassing you," House replied, his heart already lifting slightly. She might not have come to the airport, but if Cameron was "broken," as this crazy woman put it – that meant she still cared. House still didn't know what that meant, only that it was better than the alternative.

"Fine." The woman was still talking. "I'm Cristina Yang, first year surgical intern at Seattle Grace. You are the ass who is currently preventing me from scrubbing in on a really cool surgery. Where's the rest of your team?"

As if on cue, Wilson, Chase, and Foreman appeared, breathing heavily and looking crossly at House.

"What?" House shrugged. "Can't keep up with a cripple?" He was met by glares. "I see some people get cranky with jetlag. Wilson, Chase, Foreman, meet angry Asian intern." Cristina was glaring at him now, too.

"Gee, isn't this going to be fun?" House noted, hobbling quickly towards the exit.

oooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: So now you know why Cameron left … stick around, this story is just starting to get good!