044. Surgery

I Don't Like Her

I should cancel. I've got a patient in surgery tomorrow.

And if you were a surgeon that would actually matter.

For brief moment House genuinely wished he was a surgeon as he limped towards the kitchen and let the conversation continue almost as background noise. He also wished Wilson had backed him up in his admittedly lame attempt to find a way out of this…date tonight. The last thing he really wanted to be doing tonight was going out with Cameron and attempting what was most likely going to be excruciatingly agonising small talk. He wasn't good at small talk. In fact he sucked at small talk. And with Cameron who liked him for all the wrong reasons and who he…well, he did like her, sort of. She was an excellent doctor when she actually remembered she was a doctor and not a shoulder for the patients and their families to cry on. But that was about the extent of his liking for her. Maybe he should tell her about Chase and his father, maybe that would redirect all that caring onto someone who might appreciate it more.

What he really wanted to do was stay home. He wanted to drink beer and eat pizza and mock the Yankees with Wilson. Actually he wanted to do more than just that with Wilson but he'd gotten very good at hiding that fact and now he wasn't even sure if Wilson still remembered that House harboured those feelings. Maybe Wilson thought they'd died along with the muscle tissue in House's thigh.

We're in a restaurant, we're dressed up, we're eating. If not small talk, what is there?

According to Freud, and I'm paraphrasing, instinct of love toward an object demands a mastery to obtain it, and if a person feels they can't control the object or feel threatened by it, they act negatively toward it. Like an eighth-grade boy punching a girl.

I treat you like garbage, so I must really like you. Given your Freudian theory, what does it mean if I start being nice to you?

That you're getting in touch with your feelings.

Hmm. So there's absolutely nothing I can do to make you think that I don't like you.

Sorry, no. I have one evening with you, one chance, and I don't want to waste it talking about what wines you like or what movies you hate. I want to know how you feel about me.

You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn't perfect. That's why you married a man who was dying of cancer. You don't love, you need. And now that your husband is dead, you're looking for your new charity case. That's why you're going out with me. I'm twice your age, I'm not great looking, I'm not charming, I'm not even nice. What I am is what you need. I'm damaged.

He picked up the menu and started reading. He knew he'd been cruel…honest but cruel…and that Cameron would need time to compose herself. He therefore wasn't surprised when she excused herself after a few moments to go to the bathroom.

There was some small part of him that did wish he could love someone like Cameron. It would be easier, simpler, if he could. Life had been good with Stacy after all…at least until the infarction, then everything had fallen apart. Only Wilson had stayed after that. Only Wilson had let his anger, his bitterness, his frustration, his anguish wash over him. Only Wilson had been patient enough to help him see that there was life after the infarction. That he could still be someone, do something. He knew that Wilson had talked Cuddy into establishing the Diagnostic Medicine department and putting him in charge of it. They'd never spoken about it but House was genuinely grateful to his friend for doing that.

Cameron returned at this point and House put the menu down. He supposed that it behooved him after his honest but cruel comment to at least try and reduce the potential awkwardness of the rest of the evening in spite if his dislike for small talk. So they talked, mostly about work, about Foreman, Chase, Cuddy and Wilson. House described some of his earlier cases, ones that none of the three had been around for, and the rest of the evening passed with what might be called strained politeness. He dropped Cameron off at her apartment and went home, disappointed to find the place empty.

She had the ravioli, I had the puttanesca.

Yes, I really want to know about the quality of the food. Either something very good happened, or something very bad. Which is it?

Well, I did have a little indigestion afterwards. Maybe it was the garlic bread.

Nothing deep, mostly small talk.

I'm sure.

Took your advice, complimented her shoes, that's fifteen minutes of chat right there.

Just answer one question:

You two going to do dinner again?

I don't think so.

It wasn't until the fiasco with Harvey Park was all over that House was able to think about Wilson's reaction to that blunt 'I don't think so'. Wilson's reactions through the whole conversation had been odd. House wasn't sure if the other man had wanted to hear that things had gone well or that the whole thing had been a disaster. And his reaction after the 'I don't think so' had been even harder to read. House frowned as he leaned back in his chair. Many people thought Wilson was easy to understand but that was because they never looked beyond the obvious. House did and knew that Wilson was the absolute definition of deeper waters.

Before he had a chance to make a decision about Wilson, the man himself walked into the office and sat down in his normal chair in front of the desk.

"Are you alright?" Wilson asked with mild concern.

House raised an eyebrow. "Of course I am. Why?"

"I thought you'd be…disappointed about what happened?" Wilson replied.

House shrugged and deliberately misinterpreted the question. "Hey, fulminating osteomylitis is pretty cool. Certainly more interesting than an aneurysm."

Wilson gave him a look of patient exasperation. "I was talking about Cameron."

"Oh, her," House replied in an off-hand manner. "Why would I be disappointed?"

Wilson frowned slightly. "I though you liked her?"

House shifted in his seat and shrugged. "She's a good doctor when she concentrates on what's wrong with the patient instead of the actual patient."

"That's not what I was talking about," Wilson replied.

House was silent for a moment. "I don't like her. I don't know everybody thinks I'm lying when I say that. I don't like her. Not in that way."

"House, you can't spend the rest of your life alone," Wilson said with exasperation. "You've got to give someone a chance sometime."

"I did," House replied shortly. "It didn't work out." He shot a glance at Wilson and saw the other man's eyes widen slightly as he ventured into territory they normally stayed well away from.

"And whose fault was that?" Wilson said with admirable casualness.

House stared at him flatly and dropped the pretence. "You got married so I think that's your answer."

Wilson dropped his eyes to the floor and silence fell again.

"Maybe I was wrong," Wilson finally said, glancing up at House.

House stared at Wilson with disbelief then snorted scornfully. "I'll believe that when you turn up on my doorstep without a wife. Or a girlfriend."

"You want chocolates and flowers as well?" Wilson replied, his tone slightly facetious but his eyes serious.

House blinked at that response and wondered if he dared to allow himself to hope. "I was thinking beer and pizza actually."

"I see what I can arrange," Wilson said then he stood and walked out the door, leaving House to stare at him with confusion, hope and a slowly growing smile.