Drenched

Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

Disclaimer: You know how kids ask for ponies when they're little? And then they get all happy and excited whenever the opportunity to give gifts comes about, thinking that maybe –this- time their parents went that extra mile just to make the special day even more special. This excitement is generally followed by a period of intense mourning when they don't get said pony, and life is generally miserable for them for a while. Well, I'm like that, except I ask for House. Still not mine though. –sadness- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. I'm now off to enter my mourning phase.

Author's Note: Along with uploading this chapter I've fixed some little issues and two big mistakes from the last section.

1) I stated that Clara had stage three breast cancer, which I then immediately followed by saying that the cancer had not spread to the axillary lymph nodes and axillary tissues. About, oh, a day, after posting I looked at my notes and discovered that having the cancer spread to the axillary lymph nodes and axillary tissues is, in fact, a part of the definition of stage three breast cancer. I marvel at myself sometimes. In any case, this has been replaced with a statement saying that the tumor is 5 and a half centimeters large.

2) Having just watched "Hunting" two days ago, I realized that Cameron was not high off of her meds, but high off of recreational drugs. This has been corrected.

I know nothing about General Hospital. I looked up the name of the characters and picked one at random. My excuse is that "Drenched" takes place in the future, so anything could happen in the soap between now and then. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I still know nothing about medicine. Feel free to correct me at any time.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Distractions", and actually, now that I think on it, works quite nicely with "Skin Deep" as well.

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

Chapter Two: To Travel In The Lightness

I want to give you your reflection.
I want your eyes on me.
I want to travel in the lightness with you
And stay there
-Nicole Burdette

---

"You have a cold."

"But my nose," the patient gave a demonstrative wheeze, "is so stuffed up."

"Okay. It's still a cold."

"It seems like I'm producing a lot more snot than when I usually have a cold. You didn't even look at that. And what about my throat? And my head?"

House glared at the skinny man sitting on the exam table. "It's a cold." It was times like this when he really wished he still had his Vicodin handy. Or at least permission to use his cane as a weapon. "Go home. Take some Dayquil. By morning you'll be fine, and likely twice as irritating."

"But what if you're wrong? I mean, I could have an upper respiratory infection."

Although, now that House thought about it, he didn't really care all that much about having authorization to beat patients. If they got a good whack every now and then, maybe they would be less inclined to be stupid. "Do you have any idea how much I hate the fact that people like you have access to the internet?"

The young man gave him a brief puzzled glance before launching into another round of pointless talking. "Look, I don't want to cause any problems,"

"Too late," Greg muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Could you just run some tests?"

"Well, if there was a test to measure irregular amounts of snot production, and if it were at all necessary, I might consider it."

The kid was about to open his mouth and start to talk again when the door to Exam Room Two opened, revealing James Wilson as he poked his head in.

House had never been happier to see his friend.

"Hey, when you're done in here I need to talk to you," he began to leave.

"Wait," House waved him over and James closed the door, coming closer. "Mister..." he looked down at the file in his hand, "Charles Brown," he looked up at the man, "Your parents don't like you much, do they?" Charles opened his mouth again, but House continued on, "Has a stuffy and runny nose, a headache, a sore throat and a slight cough. Diagnosis?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows as he looked from doctor to patient, "He has a cold."

House gave a pointed stare to the man on the table, "Now I've had a consult. Go home." He stood up from the chair he had been seated in across from the patient jerked his head towards the door. "Let's go. Quickly before he wants me to do a full body scan."

Wilson was right behind him out of the exam room.

"I hate the clinic."

"Really? And I thought you were moved by the power of healing."

"It's hard to be inspired when all you've got to work with are morons who need Band-Aids," House gained the attention of one of the nurses working at the station, "Doctor House checks out at 4 PM. Write it down."

Wilson looked down at his watch as they headed for the elevator. "Its 3:36."

"Details. What do we need to talk about? Getting lonely? Want to come over to my apartment so we can have a sleep over again?" Greg pushed the up button on the elevator with his cane, imagining how much more satisfying it would have felt to push it into Charles Brown's nose.

"As fun as that was, no. I like getting up with enough time to make it into work in the morning. Not to mention having all of my limbs in full functioning order every morning. You really have no idea how uncomfortable your couch is, do you?"

The elevator opened, empty, and the doctors stepped inside.

"None, nor do I care. Having an awesome leather couch is more important to me than your shoulder. Cope," a slight pause, "The duck will be disappointed."

Wilson sighed. "Will you let the duck and spandex story die?"

"Never. I plan on reminding you of it as long as you find it obnoxious."

"I'll obviously have to deal with this a while then."

"Obviously."

There was a lull in the conversation as the doors opened and the men stepped out, headed for Greg's office.

"Last Thursday you had Jonathon Pratt as a patient. The case Cuddy made you take."

House looked sideways at his friend, "Yep. Common allergic reaction caused by a hypersensitivity to excess amounts of formaldehyde in thirteen year old paint. Sent him home that same day. Didn't even need to call in the wife."

"Was... was anyone else in the building effected?"

Translated from Wilsonese that meant, 'Is Julie okay?'

"As far as I know the rest of the Pratt folk are healthy and chipper, no worse for wear."

There was a visible relaxing of tension from Wilson's shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me it was him that day?"

"Didn't seem significant," House pushed open the door to his office, making his way to his desk.

"He donated a million dollars to the hospital," House sank into his chair as Wilson sat in the seat opposite, "Which I wouldn't have known about, but some of the money is going towards buying the oncology department more equipment."

"Imagine that," House picked up his yoyo and began to play with it, hoping that Wilson would drop that discussion at his evident lack of interest. This was getting far too close to feelings for his comfort.

"Now normally, since you are House, after all, you would have gloated about this fact. You don't make a million dollars for the hospital every day," a pause, "Hell, you don't lose a hundred million dollars everyday either, and we still celebrated that."

House stopped playing with the yoyo and shot his friend an irritated look, "It wasn't important. I was still caught up in the misery of having to treat the man to really care about his check-book or name."

Jimmy was smiling. "You're lying."

House glowered. So much for killing the conversation. "Okay, I admit it. I was trying this new thing out called 'tact'. Had this crazy idea that you didn't want to hear about me working my medical magic on your wife's boss a week after she left you. Since my efforts were clearly unappreciated, next time I'll be sure to not make any efforts to spare your dignity."

There was a pause, "Thanks," James looked uncomfortable. "For not mentioning it, that is."

"You're welcome." House felt uncomfortable.

The 'thanks' was more than a sign of appreciation, and they both knew it. It was an acknowledgement of two things. One, that Wilson and his wife had separated, a fact that the two had been dancing around for nearly a month. Two, that a week ago, Wilson would have been troubled by Greg taking on Pratt's case. That he hadn't been as fine as he pretended he had been.

"Julie didn't leave me."

House looked up sharply. "You left her?" He was surprised. Wilson didn't give up on people, even when it would have been infinitely better for him to do so. How else could Wilson's continued friendship with House be explained? Why else would a man lock himself up with a junkie for two months, knowing full well that when the doors were thrown open again that addict could easily continue the habit, despite all of the effort and best intentions in the world? It was Wilson's pathology, caring. And that caring made him all too aware and sensitive to how others were feeling, an empathy that made his friend, a generally intelligent individual, do stupid things. For example, his continued association with Greg.

House, himself, hated having sentimental attachments. They had their values, but for the most part they extracted too much from a person with too little reward for it. Someone who cared too much left themselves open to pain. As his leg took up most of the tolerance he had for such things, as a rule he kept his personal attachments to a minimum.

Of course, there were exceptions to every rule. Most of them had turned out poorly for House, but a few...

He glanced at Wilson.

They had been alright.

James nodded. "You were right, which should please you." He rubbed his neck. "Trying to make it better didn't make either of us happy."

Another silence. "Took you long enough," House grumbled as he flung his yoyo. "Make a note; never doubt House."

"Uh," Wilson sent him an amused look, "no. You never doubt yourself as it is. If none of the rest of us did it you'd wreck havoc everywhere you went."

"Don't I do that already?"

"Yes, but this would be unrestrained havoc. At least now we've got you localized to one unfortunate area."

"Is this how Cuddy views my employment here? A disaster waiting to happen that she has been cursed with for the overall good of society?"

Wilson stood up, "That is my suspicion, yes."

"Huh," another toss of the yoyo, "That explains a lot of her antagonism towards me." He looked down at his watch and let out a small gasp, "General Hospital is on," he frantically searched his desk for a remote.

Wilson blinked. "House, this isn't healthy,"

House shuffled some papers on his desk around, still searching.

"The Gameboy I understand. Monster Trucks? Fantastic. Yoyo? A classic hobby. All of these are perfectly acceptable obsessions in my mind. But soap operas-"

"Ah-ha!" House held up the remote in triumph, quickly turning on the television.

"It's jus-"

"Shh! Pester me at the commercial. This is going to be a good episode,"

James made his way to the door, "You're wasting your brain cells on this."

"Hey, you're the one missing out. This is drama at its best. Now would you shut up?"

A sigh, "I'm going to go check up on my patients now. You know, like doctors do."

House raised his hand and waved his fingers, signaling for his friend to leave. He heard a huff of irritation as the door closed.

Now if only Alexis would wake up from her coma...

---

"I'm amazed."

"About?"

"Your cafeteria actually has food that's edible."

Cameron smiled, "One of the many things we pride ourselves on, here at Princeton-Plainsboro."

"The saving lives thing is secondary?"

"Of course. Food always comes first."

"Ah yes. This is definitely the hospital for me. My experience has been that doctors make the person better, the food then kills the person and everyone is left generally unhappy."

"Rest assured, that won't be a problem here. Unless you get the food we give to the patients. Then we might have some issues."

"This isn't what you serve patients?"

"Afraid not."

"Well that just won't do. You're my inside source, I expect to have nothing other than these roast beef sandwiches while I'm here."

"I'll work on that,"

"Excellent." Clara took another bite of the sandwich.

"So how did you convince Mark that you should come alone?"

"Easy," a swallow, "Didn't tell him I was coming."

Allison frowned, "Clara,"

"Al, there's nothing he can do right now."

"That doesn't mean he shouldn't know,"

"Even if it's only going to worry him more? I'm just going to talk with Doctor Wilson, take some tests and then go home. There's no surgery happening, no treatment. If Mark came he would just hear all of the gruesome details, and I find his fluttering grueling already. Just imagine how bad he'll be when he so much as hears the word 'chemo'." she grinned as she picked up her sandwich again, "Not that I don't love him for it."

They were sitting at one of the tables in the cafeteria. Clara had driven down right after her last case for the day, having had no time for lunch, and was going to meet with Wilson in a half an hour. Cameron had asked the boys to cover for her and was watching her sister eat, sending what she hoped was a very disapproving look Clara's way.

"Besides, he's got his new contracting business and this is the first day he's been back at the office since I found out. No reason to bother him with trivialities."

"Your condition is hardly trivial, and you know those tests are going to leave you in bad shape. He's going to know you haven't been at work all day when you get home."

"I know," Clara set down her sandwich. "And I will tell him everything Al, you know I can't keep anything from Mark. I just need to do this alone first, without having to worry about him and how he's taking the news. You understand? I just need time to... to process the hard facts."

Cameron looked at her sister, noticing the hollows under her eyes and the quiet desperation laced throughout every feature. The way she didn't hold her hands still, full of nervous energy, anxiety. Fear?

For six days Cameron had been trying to come to terms with Clara having cancer. It wasn't the disease, not any more. That had been the first hurdle to overcome, the first motion of acceptance. She was now prepared for that particular aspect of this latest disaster, had reminded herself of the need to become aware of the functions of the illness. Prepared to re-master the art of pretending. Pretending not to worry. Pretending not to see the bruising of needles. The hair as it feel out the scalp. The deteriorating frame of one so desperately loved, pretend not to see them withering away before her very eyes. Pretending that this day didn't have the possibility of being the last.

This, she had managed to do with only a small pang of regret, a momentary reminder of Brian and his smile, his face and hair. The way he would hold her close on cold nights and sing songs in the shower, but quietly, thinking that she couldn't hear him.

The fact that this disease, this illness, was directly related to Clara, well, that was taking a bit more time to process. Her sister didn't help, with her ready smile and joking manner, easily saying words like 'chemo' and 'mastectomy' without so much as a faltering grin. It was hard to associate that familiar happy demeanor and the fearless facade with the tumor that was slowly killing her. With every smirk and joke, Clara had been reinforcing Allison's denial, allowing her to believe that nothing was wrong. Since Clara sounded fine over the phone, seemed alright mentally, able to joke and laugh and ignore the disease, there was no problem. There was cancer, and the sister she loved certainly had it, but Clara would be fine. Clara was fine. She had been so busy trying to convince herself that Clara had been well that she hadn't noticed that she wasn't. That each smile was strained, every joke half-hearted and forced. That even as Clara reassured those around her, told them exactly what they needed to hear (it was her job, after all), she would lose a little more energy, become a bit more tired.

Of course Clara wouldn't want Mark here. Allison wasn't the only one pretending, wasn't the only one nearly exhausted by it.

"I'm sorry," Allison grabbed Clara's hand from across the table, squeezing it. "Do whatever you think is best."

Clara squeezed back and smiled, narrowing her eyes, "You just had a revelation, didn't you?"

Cameron let go of the hand with a grin, "Maybe a small one."

"Hm, I seem to inspire a lot of those in people..."

"Or you force them out of your patients by sheer force of will."

"That too," the eyes remained narrowed, "Are you alright?"

"I distinctly recall telling you that you were not to worry about anyone save for yourself and getting better."

"And you thought I'd listen? Al, I thought you knew me better. I'm a mother and a psychologist. All I do is worry. I'm paid to worry. Hell, I run an organization of psychologists. I pay other people to worry."

"Pay them to worry for you and hire a nanny," Cameron looked at the big clock set above the entryway to the cafeteria. "You ready to go meet Wilson?"

Clara's hands were busy, clearing off the table, gathering her leftovers and piling them and her garbage on to her tray, "Yep, I should probably get going, actually. I'm supposed to meet him in office in about," she looked up at the clock, "Three minutes. Late to my first cancer meeting. Perfect."

"Here," Allison grabbed her sister's tray and looped her arm through Clara's, halting the nervous movements. "I'll take you there before I go back to work. The boys can cover me for a few more minuets." She felt some of the tension in the psychologist lessen as she bussed the tray and headed for the elevator.

"That would be nice. Knowing my luck, I'd end up getting lost. Do you think he'll be upset?"

"Doctor Wilson?" Cameron resisted the urge to laugh, "No, I don't think so." She pressed the up button. "Do you remember me talking about House?"

Clara gave her an amused look, "Your sarcastic misanthropic boss with a limp and cane who you pined after for a year? Might have heard of him, once or twice."

Cameron blushed, "Yes, well. Wilson is his best friend,"

"Really?"

"Yep," the elevator door opened, "And House's levels of callousness can only be matched by how nice Wilson is."

"That's reassuring," the sisters stepped into the lift. She paused, thinking. "It must take a special breed to put up with what that man does on a consistent basis, based on the stories you've told me. I'm glad I'll be able to meet him," she tilted her head, "I think I need to meet Doctor House too. He seems like an interesting character."

---

Wilson was sitting in his office, waiting for his newest patient, Clara Samson, to arrive. She was a few minutes late, but that wasn't surprising. Most of his patients were, the first day.

It was one thing to say you had cancer. That was always difficult. But what was infinitely harder was coming to terms with it. Accepting the harsh realities of the disease, removing it from an abstract concept and applying it to one's self. Unfortunately, he and his office were the first step of recognition.

He always saw it happen, the moment when a person went from knowing they had an ailment to recognizing that they had cancer. It was an experience both inspiring and heartbreaking, to see the steely resolve enter the spirit, the reserves of strength and determination called into play. And to see the hope for a miracle die, the internal acknowledgement that the end could be near.

That was generally the hardest thing to accept, that every day from there on out should lived as if it was the last, because it very well could be.

Wilson exhaled and rubbed his neck. Oncology was not a specialty for doctors unable to handle the unpleasant aspects of medicine. The death and the tears and hopelessness, the need to concede to the fact that sometimes there was nothing that could be done.

Most doctors didn't believe in God, and why should they? They bested His efforts to end lives, constantly out-smarting Him and bringing people back from the edge of death. God certainly had nothing on them. But in oncology, where if you were lucky half of your patients lived for another decade, the belief seemed to be mandatory, and Wilson was no exception, although he'd hardly call himself overly religious. Sure, he kept his yarmulke under his bed and took it out when his mother threatened to beat him upside the head unless he wore it, but he hadn't been to a synagogue in years. His belief was less about faith and more about comfort. It was reassuring to believe that when there was nothing left to be done some higher power would lovingly accept the ones that couldn't be saved into His arms and care for them.

Most doctors, however, thought that James was overly sentimental.

Not many people understood why Wilson had wanted to work in cancer. Julie certainly hadn't, but then, Julie had never understood a lot of things about him.

She was gone now. Had moved out of the apartment, taken her things and disappeared. He had gone over one day when he knew she would be at work to get some clean clothes, entering to find that every trace of her had vanished. The crystal candle holders she had bought, the rug in the entryway, her clothes and jewelry. All gone.

It was almost as if she had never been there to begin with. It was disturbing, to think that with the removal of some simple objects it made it seem as if the past five years had never happened, that his life with someone could be so easily erased. It bothered him, his home becoming an alien force bent on making him acknowledge his renewed state of bachelorhood, almost daring him to celebrate it, since he clearly wasn't as forlorn by Julie's absence as he should have been.

He resisted the urge, staying at the office later than usual, catching up on paper work until the early hours of morning and then going home and staring at his ceiling for several hours, unable to sleep.

But, at least his shoulder was no longer suffering the ill-effects of nights on House's couch. Would it have really killed the man to buy a sofa that didn't leave one questioning the state of their joints in the morning? Leather was classic, but it sure as hell wasn't very comfortable.

Just then he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," the door opened to reveal a woman of a slightly above average height, sharp features, auburn hair and brown eyes. Behind her stood Doctor Cameron, who gave her sister a kiss on the cheek and waved to Wilson before turning outside of the door and heading down the hallway.

The woman smiled, "Doctor James Wilson?"

"Doctor Clara Samson?"

They both grinned and Wilson stood up behind his desk, shaking his new patient's hand before she took a seat across from him.

"Oh, adding the title. Very nice. But, please, feel free not to mention the whole 'PhD' thing. You're the doctor, I'm a shrink. I don't want people to get confused and come to me when they have a heart attack."

Wilson grinned and sat as well, "It sounds like you've had an unfortunate experience with this."

She gave him a rueful look, "Once, someone had an attack outside of our building and their wife saw the plaque on the entrance. Came running up, expecting us to save her husband when all we could really do is call the ambulance and calm her down."

Wilson winced in sympathy, "Ah, hysterical wives. Always a joy,"

"Always," Clara began to fiddle with the bag she had in her lap, "I'm sorry I was late, I lost track of time talking with Al."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, "Al?"

"Oh, right, sorry. Allison. Cameron, I think you call her?"

"Right," Wilson continued smiling, "We tend to forget the people actually have first names here."

"I've noticed. If it wasn't for the sign on your door I wouldn't have known yours."

James grinned and looked up at Clara again, "Well we can't go around talking to one another like we're normal people, after all. It would break our top-secret doctor guidelines,"

Clara snorted, "Oh no, couldn't have that. It would almost be like putting you on the same level as us common folk,"

"Exactly, and we're against that here at Princeton-Plainsboro," Wilson was surprised at her sense of humor. It was refreshing, if misleading. Most of his patients entered his office on the brink of tears, even before he had said something, and any of his attempts at humor or small talk would not have been appreciated. Here was a woman who seemed determined not to allow her condition to destroy her temperament, but obviously still afraid of it. Stalling, after all, only worked for so long.

Wilson grabbed her file on his desk, "Are you ready to start?"

"Had to ruin it, didn't you?" Clara heaved a sigh, "Yes, I suppose that would be the best thing to do. It is why I'm here, after all."

"If you want we can continue with our conversation," Wilson said with a smirk, "I've got no other patient interviews for the day and I'm dying to figure out how 'Al' is the most fitting nickname for Cameron." He fingered the file, "But we can't avoid this forever."

She was looking at the file herself, where his hand rested on it. "Nor should we," the steel had entered her voice, the hope left her frame. Another moment of heartbreak and strength.

She shot him a smile, "But remind me and I'll tell you that story later. Very entertaining."

"Will do," Wilson looked down at the file. "Mrs. Samson-"

"Clara," she smirked at his confused expression, "Just because you're my doctor doesn't mean I'm going to let you get formal on me. We were having a lovely discussion as friends and I plan on encouraging more of them in the future. Plus, I want to break you out of that horrible habit you doctors have,"

Wilson grinned briefly, before becoming serious once more. "Clara, you have stage Three A breast cancer."

---

Cameron stood around the corner from Wilson's office, occasionally poking her head out to see if anyone had left the room yet.

She felt ridiculous. Like a five year old spying on her parents.

She wasn't trying to be a snoop, but she wanted to talk to Wilson, and she doubted she would have the time later in the day. However, she didn't want Clara to see her and think that she didn't trust her older sister to handle the meeting on her own.

Hence the continuous ducking around the corner.

A nurse walked by just as Allison was sneaking another look. She grinned sheepishly at the frown being sent her way.

"This isn't a playground, Doctor."

"Sorry," as soon as the nurse had gone out of sight Cameron poked her head out again.

She was thirty-one years old and this was what she had been reduced to.

She perked up when she heard the distinct sound of her sister's voice.

"So I wont be undergoing any treatment today?"

"No, we want to retake some tests that you've already done with Doctor Marshal, just to double check. Jane," Cameron briefly looked around the corner to see Wilson signaling one of the nurses, "could you please prep Clara for an MRI?"

"Yes Doctor," the nurse took Clara's arm gently, "This way ma'am."

"I'll be with you in a few minutes, just need to fill out some of the paper-work."

"Alright. See you in a bit Jim,"

Cameron smiled. Clara has a twenty minuet meeting with the man, and about cancer no less, and they're already on a first-name basis. Allison works with him for two years, and still feels awkward addressing him without his title.

Speaking of which… Cameron looked around the corner again to see Wilson about to re-enter his office.

"Doctor Wilson?" She walked out from around the corner.

"Doctor Cameron," Wilson looked from her to the corner she had just appeared from, "Were you… Hiding?"

Cameron blushed, "No," she muttered.

Wilson grinned, "It's okay if you were. Some of the nurses up here," he whistled, "very scary."

Allison smiled back, "Are you teasing me?"

"Only a little bit," he gave her a guilty look.

"Hm. You better be careful 'Jim'," he gave a sideways smile at the new nickname, "My older sister's going to be spending a mighty large amount of time with you. She might accidentally slip something nasty into your morning coffee for causing her sweet little sibling pain."

"Well, 'Al'," she gave an internal groan. Her family would never let her live down her tomboy phase, "I'll be sure to double-check my coffee for rat poison for now on."

"I was thinking something more along the lines of a laxative."

Wilson laughed, "Death would be better,"

"But would you deserve it? Embarrassing me so thoroughly deserves a fate just as humiliating. Death would be too good for you."

They smiled at one another. This was, most likely, the first normal conversation the two had ever had. Wilson wasn't trying to pass on his wisdom, there was no patient that they needed to save, no resurfacing of old mistakes to analyze.

Cameron found herself enjoying it immensely.

She had nothing to hide from Wilson, no act to maintain. He already knew, and he wouldn't exploit or mock her, as she was certain House would. He wouldn't treat her as if she was made of glass, like Foreman and Chase, walk on eggshells for fear of upsetting her. And unlike Clara, his health wouldn't suffer if she let him know just how worried she was. It was a relief, to be able to joke with him as if he were a normal person, a friend instead of a colleague.

It made her feel light, the teasing discussion, as if the rest of the world and its troubles had disappeared. As if every burden had been lifted from her shoulders and she had been left to float above them.

"Peace! I beg you," Wilson was still grinning, "Was there something you wanted to ask me before I began to rudely mock your… Roost."

Unfortunate, that she couldn't stay there.

Cameron let the last traces of relief leave her, "I'm sorry to bother you but-"

"Cameron, you know I can't talk to you about your sister's condition,"

"Oh, it's not that," Cameron looked up sharply, "I would never ask you to break doctor-patient confidentiality. I just wanted to thank you for not telling House about this."

"Ah yes. I figured you wouldn't want our residential insensitive git involved," he paused, "Has he been bothering you?"

She gave a rueful smile, "No more than usual."

--

It had been last week, after Foreman and Chase had gotten back from checking the building Pratt had the attack in. She was in the lab, analyzing the paint they had spent three hours locating, checking for abnormal levels of toxic chemicals, when House had entered, limping up next to her as she studied the paint under the microscope.

"So… What's wrong?"

Cameron had looked up at him, mildly panicked. "Wrong?"

House nodded, "Yeah, that was the question. This is where you answer."

She turned back to the microscope, "Nothing's wrong."

Cameron no longer knew how she felt about House. Which was reassuring, in a sense, because she had never known what he felt about her. At least this way she saw their feelings towards one another as identical, if confusing.

More often than not her boss would ignore her until he had an errand for her to run or he was bored and needed to torment someone. But every now and then he would take a deeper interest into her affairs, become determined to know the comings and goings of her life. In anyone else, this would have been concern, but with House nothing was certain. To him, it was probably just another puzzle or distraction to amuse himself with.

She had long since given up on any feelings she might have had for him. Even if he returned those feelings, which Cameron was convinced that he did, he would never admit to them, making her pining pointless.

Cameron was, despite the common misconception, very practical. As soon as it became apparent that House would never return her sentiments in any tangible way, she had done her best to ignore them. To force them away, make them disappear. She had been somewhat successful. But she couldn't help the flutter in her stomach every time he came near her, couldn't help the small flicker of hope that appeared every time he showed an interest in her that was not strictly professional.

Now, however, she was just annoyed.

House sighed and pulled the microscope out from under Cameron's nose. "See, I know everybody lies, but most people lie well."

Cameron crossed her arms over her chest and glared. "The longer you keep me from doing my job the longer we have Pratt in the hospital."

He gave her a piercing look, ignoring her statement. "It's one thing not to tell me when something's bothering you, but you haven't talked to Chase or Foreman either. So not only is something wrong," he pulled the microscope away again as Cameron made a grab for it, "You're trying to pretend it's not."

"House," she took in a deep breath. "Even if something is wrong, it isn't any of your business."

"You work for me. When it affects your performance here it's my concern."

"My performance at work is fine," she glared, "You're just curious, want to see what's pushing my buttons this time."

He look outraged, "That's not t-" a slight pause and head tilt, "Well maybe it is true,"

Cameron scowled, ignoring the slight twinge of disappointment she felt, and took the microscope back from him, "Go to your office and play on your Gameboy," she peered, again, at the substance. "I'll have the results in an hour or so."

She heard the door close on his way out.

--

"He is bothering you," Wilson frowned.

"Don't worry," Allison grinned up at him, abandoning the memory, "nothing I can't handle. After two and a half years, you get used to it."

"Well that's good. I was afraid I was the only person who was capable of building up my Greg-tolerance level."

There was an awkward silence. The mention of House seemed to have this effect on most conversations.

"Well," Cameron looked at a clock on the wall, "I better go. Need to get back to the lab, we think the patient has lupus."

"Lupus?" Wilson pretended to be shocked, "O my, yes! Go! Why on Earth are you speaking with me when you have such exciting trials ahead?"

Cameron laughed, "My thoughts exactly. Thank you again, Doctor Wilson."

"You're welcome, again."

And with that the two turned their separate ways, Wilson going back into his office and Cameron speeding down to the lab.

---

Foreman and Chase were huddled over a computer screen, staring at the results of the test.

Foreman looked up, "It's definitely lupus."

"Yep," Chase stretched in his seat and yawned, "One of us should go tell the patient."

Neither made a move to do so.

"I did it last time," Foreman said as he spun around in his chair. "Besides, I don't think I can stand playing sensitive caring doctor anymore." Foreman was exhausted, having spent the majority of the morning in the clinic and then all of the afternoon running tests on their latest case.

If he had to reassure one more person that, yes, they would be fine, no they were not dying and that he would do everything in his power to see that they were cured as quickly as possible, he might do something violent with his stethoscope. Most likely, strangle the next patient he saw with it.

"Well I talked to the one before that."

"Alright, Franklin can wait for Cameron to get back from lunch then."

Chase smirked, "Starting to understand why House hates patients?"

Foreman glared, "I don't hate patients," he covered his face with his hand, "I just can't stand being near them right now."

He heard Chase chuckling.

He removed his hand and glowered. "And that's not what bothers me about House and his patient care."

"Oh really? You're not even a bit bitter that whereas you have to pretend to be glad to treat people House doesn't even put up the effort?"

"No. I don't care if he likes the people he treats. It would just be nice if he remembered that they are human beings and not his own personal puzzles to play around with."

"Why do you care if he dehumanizes them?"

"Why don't you?"

"He gets the job done."

"That doesn't excuse the humiliation he puts them through."

"Look," Chase sat up in his chair, "It would be one thing if he was an asshole and then his patients died. But they don't. Nine times out of ten he cures a person who, if they had any other doctor, would have been toast."

"So because he's good at what he does he gets to be a miserable bastard?"

"Why not?" Chase laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back again, "It's not as if they're forced to have House treating them, most of our cases request him specifically. If he's a jerk, it's nothing more than what they asked for."

"Card carrying member," Foreman mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Foreman sighed. "Where is Cameron anyway? If she was just grabbing a late lunch she should be back by now."

Chase was about to answer when a jarring knock came from one of the glass walls of the lab.

House smirked at their startled expressions, entering the testing area. "Ah, making the minions jump," he sat down in a vacant chair, "It's the simple things that make life worth living."

Chase gestured towards the computer, "Franklin has lupus like we thought."

"Boring, but convenient. Give him the news and send him home," House looked around the lab, "This might sound crazy, but isn't there supposed to be another one of you around here? A bit smaller and annoyingly sincere?"

"She's getting a late lu-" Foreman's explanation was interrupted by Cameron's entrance into the lab.

She looked at all of them suspiciously, seeing them all huddled together in a close circle.

"Did I miss something?"

"We were having a Super Cool Doctor's Club meeting. It was going fantastically well until you came and brought your cooties. Now it's ruined," House looked depressed.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Does Franklin have lupus?"

"Yep," Chase grinned, "You get to tell him."

A sigh, "Alright," Cameron started to leave.

"Wait," House sat up in his chair as Cameron turned around, looking at his team intently.

"I just talked to Cuddy. The prat is back."

The three younger doctors stared at one another.

"Is he referring to himself?" Foreman looked at his teammates hopefully, "Cause if he is, my day will be made."

"Maybe its Cuddy," Chase suggested.

House gave them an irritated look, "Our patient from last week."

"Oh," Chase again.

"That does make more sense," Cameron offered.

Foreman grinned, "That's a matter of opinion."

House ignored them. "He had another attack. Either he's decided to coat his house with formaldehyde or we made a mistake."