Drenched

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

Disclaimer: I told my mom that I wanted to own House when I grew up. To which she responded, "Oh, yes dear. That's a wonderful goal. Houses are so much nicer than apartments." Seeing as how she was obviously confused, I clarified, explaining that I didn't want a house. I wanted House, the TV show. She laughed at me. Loudly. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Not a sad, losery person such as myself. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's. All I have is my mother's mad chuckling echoing in my head…

Author's Note: This would have been out sooner, I swear. However, I got sick last week. And unlike some skilled people, when I get sick I promptly lose all ability to think straight, much less write coherently. I shall try to develop the skill. Also, this chapter is huge. Kinda scary, even. I was going to break up into two sections, like that first chapter, and post the first half two days ago. But it just didn't seem like the break was natural. So, you had to wait. My apologies.

Moving on, I would like to request the services of a beta reader. Thanks to a review on "Her Name Was" by Storm Medicine, sense has been officially knocked into me. I make way too many stupid mistakes, and if I'm going to write a story I might as well do it properly. If anyone is interested, please contact me at: imsane(underscore)honest(at)yahoo(dot)com and I'll get back to you with the nitty-gritty details. (If I start getting any nasty spam, I'm so blaming you guys. –wink-) Sadly, this means you may have to wait a little bit longer in-between updates, but I think, in the long-run, a beta really would make the story more enjoyable, for everyone.

Medicine in this fic? Accurate? Huh?

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

Chapter Five: And For You To Know What I Mean

I want my words to scream through you.
I want the poem not to mean that much.
And I want to contradict myself by accident
And for you to know what I mean.
-Nicole Burdette

---

Chase was plotting his next move.

He had already separated her from the munchkin, and as such he felt that he was doing well. Granted, getting her alone had nothing to do with him, beyond a pleading look in Foreman's direction as the man reluctantly agreed to watch the child for a few hours, promising to bring him up to Oncology later. Nonetheless, the sense of accomplishment was doing wonders to boost Chase's confidence.

Currently, Rob was standing next to "Aunty Sam" in the elevator, waiting for the lift to reach their destination. "So," Chase fumbled for a conversation starter. "Is you're name really Sam Samson?"

The woman scowled and shot him an irritated glance out of the corner of her eye.

Crap.

Chase, the relationship wonder, had done it again. The one, seemingly innocent, comment he could come up with had rubbed a sore spot. Brilliant.

"Oh, well," Chase faltered, looking at her to see her positively glaring at him.

"I mean, there's nothing wrong if it is. It's actually kind of catchy." She had crossed her arms over her chest and was turning to face him head-on. His ship was definitely floundering.

"I mean, I don't know if every set of parents would do it, but yours were obviously willing to be unique and daring." She was tapping her foot now, in that 'I'm too annoyed to put my frustration into words' sort of way that all men knew and feared. The ship was sinking, and sinking fast.

"It's just, you know. Not every kid could handle a name like that with the dignity and refinement you have so obviously achieved. It's very impressive."

He looked up to her face cautiously, nearly flinching away from her, expecting screeching of some kind.

Instead he saw her scowling lips twitch.

Chase narrowed his eyes.

She burst into laughter. "The look," she gasped, taking in some air before she started to chuckle again, "on your face!" She bent over double, one hand to her stomach as she continued to roar and the other holding onto his arm to retain some balance.

Had he not been so overwhelmed with relief, Chase would have been giddy at the contact. "But-You...?"

She inhaled again, "'Your parents were obviously unique and daring,'" another small fit of giggling as she righted herself, taking her hand off of his forearm and smiling. "Priceless."

Chase found himself grinning while he glared, "You're a cruel person."

She flashed another smile and patted his shoulder. "Only to people I like."

That sounded promising. "And you've decided that you like me already?"

"Sure," she glanced at him, passing her gaze over his leather-clad feet all the way up to his head, smirking at his mop of hair. "You seem nice enough to me."

Chase smirked back. This might turn out to be an easier seduction than anticipated. The gods were smiling down upon him. "Well, I am, I suppose, a relatively nice and charming guy."

"Or your accent has me fooled into thinking you are."

"The accent never lies. We Australians are a very friendly bunch," he looked across the elevator at her, coming to the startling realization that she was nearly as tall as him. "And we also have the odd hobby of discovering the origins of interesting names..."

She rolled her eyes and reached out her hand, "Angela Samson."

Chase took it in his own, noting the calluses on the pads of her fingers, "Robert Chase." He reluctantly released her hand, "And yet I still don't know how you came about the title of 'Aunty Sam'..."

"Well, you see Robert," she face become earnest, "When two people love each other very much, like my older brother and his wife, and they're ready to take the relationship to the next level-"

Chase adopted a hurt expression. "Again with the needles cruelty."

She grinned, "I joined the baseball team in high school and they took to calling me Sammy."

"Ah, so you were a real slugger then?"

"Sure," she gave a sardonic smirk, "Or my last name was 'Samson' and we decided that it was infinitely cooler to use surnames while playing."

Chase nodded his understanding. He was certain his colleagues had first names, but why use them when Cameron and Foreman worked just as well?

"In any case," she turned to him, "it stuck."

"So do you still play baseball now?"

Rule one on getting a woman's phone number and/or a date; feign interest.

She laughed. "Oh, no. The team coach practically cheered when I graduated and he didn't have to keep me on the team any more." She pushed her hair behind her ears, "I actually illustrate children's books."

"Really?" That was a new one. "So you're an artist then?"

"Well, I don't know I'm an artist," she shot him another blinding smile, "But I am creative." A slight pause as she sent a suggestive look his way. "Very creative."

Chase wasn't sure he knew an appropriate way to respond.

Fortunately, at that moment the elevator dinged and the doors opened. "This is the floor."

He stepped out and Sammy followed, "And you? I know you're a doctor, but what's your specialty?"

"I work with the diagnostics department."

She caught up to him, "So that must mean you work with Al,"

It took him a moment to process, "You mean Allison?"

"Yep.

He had forgotten, for a moment, that Cameron was related to the energetic, beautiful and fiery woman walking next to him. A detail that could prove to be more than a little troublesome. It was generally idiotic to have a week-long 'fling' with a colleague's family member.

There was also the line to consider.

"Oh, here it is," Sammy looked to her right and opened the door to 213 before Chase had the opportunity to properly flee.

Rob looked in to see Clara in her bed, chatting with a large black man to her right, Cameron sitting in a chair on her left.

And he could almost see the line, The Line Not To Be Crossed, red and blaring up at him across the entrance of the room.

"Alright, I'm here," she smiled at her family members, "The fun can now begin."

The three people in the room stared blankly at the woman in the doorway as Chase tried to gain her attention so he could leave.

Clara broke the silence. "Sammy, I'm not sure how fun we can make cancer."

"Are you kidding?" Sammy strode in the room, leaving Chase gaping out in the hall, "This family? We can make anything fun."

She went over to Cameron and gave her a fierce hug, pulling out of it and holding her shoulders, staring at her intently. "We are getting together more often. My no good brother refuses to be accommodating and invite us both over dinner at the same time, and I need a weekly Al fix."

Cameron nodded, obviously holding in a smile, "Yes ma'am."

Sammy then turned to Clara, bending down and kissing the older woman's cheek. "You look fantastic."

Clara glanced down at her hospital gown and then back up at Sammy, eyebrows raised.

"It's true! You could wear a trash-bag and still look like a billion bucks."

Clara rolled her eyes, "Such a suck-up."

"But you love me in spite of it." Finally, she turned her attention to the man in the room. "Hi Mark."

He glowered at her. "That's it? Your sister-in-laws get praises aplenty, but you have nothing nice to say to me?"

She shrugged. "Not really, no."

"That's it," he strode around the bed and grabbed her in a head-lock, mussing her hair, "You will show more respect to your elders, missy!"

She was laughing from her awkward position, "Fine, uncle! Uncle!"

The man, Mark, grinned and let her go. "Much better," he winked at Allison, "You just need to know how to deal with the unruly youngins."

"Speaking of which," Clara smiled as Sammy rubbed down her hair, "Where is our changeling?"

Chase chose this time to interject, still from outside the room, "He's with Foreman."

Cameron seemed to notice him for the first time, "Chase," she smiled, "What're you doing here?"

"He was being quite the gentlemen and showing me the way," Sammy chimed, still smoothing her hair.

"Rob, it's good to see you again!" Clara waved her hand, beckoning him in, "Come on in from out of the hall and meet my husband."

Chase looked to Cameron, who seemed unfazed by her sister's invitation.

With a large breath of air, he stepped over the line.

---

There was a small tapping coming from somewhere behind Foreman.

He wasn't certain what it was, and this was a bit concerning. Especially since some things in the room, when tapped, were prone to shattering into an infinite number of tinny pieces. Tinny pieces that the janitors then had to clean up, all the while glaring at the cause of their extra labor. And Foreman was already on their hate-list simply for coming in contact with House on a fairly consistent basis. (It was almost as if when the man entered a room trash simply materialized, promptly making any space he had been twice as dirty as it was before he had sullied it.)

Hoping to avoid further antagonism from the maintenance crew, Foreman spun around to see the kid, the one that had been left under his supervision not five minutes before, poking at a glass vile with his fingernail.

Foreman sighed. Chase owed him, big time. In fact, Eric could envision his colleague doing an absurd amount of clinic duty in order to make up for this baby sitting. He was amazed by the lengths that man would go to in order to flirt with an attractive woman.

Romantic relationships, for Foreman, were secondary to his work. When he felt he had the time for such things, he would consider them. But as for now, when he was still striving to make a name for himself in the medical community, he simply had no patience to deal with the delicate workings of women.

The kid had picked up a vile and was examining it, holding it up to the light and twisting it.

This spelled disaster. "Be careful."

The kid gave him an annoyed look and continued to observe the glass. "I am," he looked up briefly. "What sort of stuff do you put in these things?"

Foreman smirked. "Lots of things," he looked down at his hands. "Blood, urine," he glanced up to see the boy quickly set the vial down, "the usual."

"Oh," the child had moved on and was now on the other side of the room, this time eyeing a computer.

Foreman felt it best to distract him, before he got curious and started pressing buttons. "What's your name?"

"Matt," his attention now on a microscope, "Yours?"

"Eric Foreman."

Matt nodded and continued his examination. "So what do you do in here anyway?"

"Run tests." Eric wanted to turn back to the mold, but knew better. The second he was focused again he would hear a crash and the microscope would be broken on the floor.

"Do you get to blow things up?"

Foreman smiled. "Sadly, no. Although Chase would love that."

"Chase?" He came around and sat on a chair next to the one Foreman was in, and Eric rotated accordingly to maintain the conversation.

"The doctor who just left with your aunt. He's an intensivist."

"So what kind of doctor are you?"

"Neurologist," noticing that Matt didn't appear to be too eager to bolt out of his newly acquired chair, Foreman turned back to the microscope "But I work in diagnostics with Chase."

"So you two work with my Aunt Al then?"

Foreman looked up from the device and shot the boy an amused look. "Aunt Al?" Foreman grinned. "Yes, I work with her." He turned back to the scope.

"Cool." Matt looked down at the counter and began to trace patterns on the black surface. "So do you like it?"

Foreman returned his gaze to the boy. "My job?"

Matt nodded.

Eric heaved a sigh, "Sometimes."

"Why only sometimes?" The child had a deceptively innocent expression on his face.

How to put this delicately? "My boss makes me want to shove a sharpened pencil up my eye socket."

Matt grinned at him. "But I didn't ask you if you liked your boss," he picked up a pair of forceps that were lying on the counter. "I asked if you liked your job."

Foreman narrowed his eyes, both annoyed by the boy's audacity and impressed by his intelligence. "The boss comes with the job."

"But other than your boss you like it?"

Foreman sighed. "Sure."

"Then you like your job. The stuff that comes with the job isn't the same thing as the job itself." Matt smirked.

Foreman was glaring. He was irritated, mostly because the little bugger was right.

Foreman did like his job. It was challenging and made him test his abilities on a daily basis, constantly forcing him to expand his knowledge and think outside of the boundaries med school had insisted he remain in. It required him to leave his comfort zone, to think in ways and methods he had never contemplated before.

Most importantly, however, his employment at Princeton-Plainsboro made him able to say, after over a decade of practicing and studying medicine, that he was still learning.

Diagnostics was exciting. It was interesting. It was perfect for him.

Or it would have been, if he felt that he was getting even a portion of the respect he felt he deserved.

With a clatter Eric was pulled from his thoughts, glancing up to see Matt giving him a sheepish look as the boy picked up the forceps he had just dropped.

He didn't like the feeling of being picked apart, especially by a ten year old. Time to change the focus of the conversation. "So why did you want to stay in here anyway? Isn't your mom upstairs in Oncology?"

"Yeah," Matt quickly hopped off the chair and went back to where he had first picked up the vial, "This stuff just looked more interesting."

Foreman stared at the boy, apprehensive. "Is that really the only reason?"

Matt nodded, peering at a glass dish, pointedly avoiding the doctor's stare.

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "You know, its okay if you're scared because you're mom's sick."

He turned around and glared. "I'm not scared." Matt had a determined look on his face, almost as if he was trying to convince himself just as much as Foreman. "It's just weird is all." He paused. "I don't want to see her without hair yet," he looked down at his feet, as if he was ashamed. He quickly shook his head, going back to his observations. "Besides, there's exciting stuff in here."

Without her hair yet?

Foreman considered the boy.

He was smart, almost frightfully so for a child so young. What's more, he appeared to be curious, fascinated by the, mostly ordinary, things that surrounded him. As such, Foreman speculated that Matt knew far more about his mother's condition than any other child in a similar place would. Too curious not to look up the information (the internet really was a wonderful tool), too smart not to realize the seriousness of the situation.

The curse of intelligence combined with the ambition to discover.

Put blandly, the kid was likely scared to death, despite his best attempts to prevent himself from being so. Yes, Matt was probably genuinely interested in the various wonders of the lab, but more likely the major reason he asked to stay was to use the room as a convenient distraction, a little detour before he faced his, possibly dying, mother.

Had anyone talked to him about the disease? About the circumstances? Matt obviously thought that Clara was already doing chemotherapy, when in reality she was just finishing up radiation, about to go into surgery. Being smart was a burden all its own, especially for one so young, but to be so and then have that intelligence taken for granted? For others not to recognize it, appreciate it? To have the full and complete capacity to understand the severity of a situation, and yet have no one explain it to him? That was cruelty all its own, which combined with the insult that they didn't believe him capable of comprehending the current circumstances.

That would be a fate far more unkind than anyone deserved, much less this boy.

"You want to look in the microscope?" Cameron was getting to him. He was becoming overly sentimental.

Matt turned away from the vials. "Yeah," he walked over to where Foreman was, the doctor getting out of his chair and gesturing for the boy to sit. "What's in it?"

Foreman grinned as the kid strained to reach the scope. "Mold."

"Really?" He had finally gotten comfortable, examining the substance and seemingly spellbound by it. "Cool."

---

It had been ten minutes, and Wilson had finally admitted to himself that getting soggy was not helping the situation.

He needed to leave, find a bar and consume massive amounts of alcohol. For the first time in over a decade, the beers just weren't going to cut it. It was time to get spectacularly drunk.

That, while perhaps not being more productive, would make him feel much better. Until the hangover the next morning, that is. At that moment however, Jimmy was far more willing to forego common sense for some immediate gratification.

With these thoughts firmly in mind, James left his balcony, coming in from the rain and dripping from head to toe as he rapidly snatched his brief-case and trench-coat. He left his office without a backward glance, throwing the trench over his shoulders and hoping that his damp clothes wouldn't seep through the thick wool before he got out of the hospital. He walked quickly through the halls, smiling at the people he knew as he passed, hoping that they didn't recognize his haste.

Jimmy didn't like to have his emotions on display. Oh, he slipped sometimes, most often while in the company of a certain hobbling miscreant. His friend knew how to make Wilson lose his temper and reveal far more than he had intended, almost as if Greg had an innate ability to irritate him. The older doctor exploited this gift gladly, using it to probe into the depths of a very private man.

Wilson was, generally, a closely controlled device. His emotions were held on a tight leash, Wilson monitoring them with a fierce watchfulness that allowed him to hide his true sentiments and thoughts. It was why he was capable of lying to House without getting caught, despite how honed Greg was to identifying untruths and his familiarity with James. When Rebecca came, Wilson was able to say that they were cousins, without House suspecting for a moment that he was lying. How he had been able to deceive his friend about the dinner with Stacey when Greg bought the monster truck tickets. Why House still didn't know that his first detox period was due to Wilson's plan or the real reason for James' divorce with Elise.

It was how no one knew how exhausted he was, after a month of barely sleeping in an empty apartment with thoughts of regret cycling through his head. How he was able to offer support to his patients instead of his own disappointment and despair when he informed them that they were dying. It's why he wasn't falling apart at the seams now.

James had only two weaknesses. One was anger, the method House typically exploited to wring information from his friend. Somehow, with a spark of rage his thoughts were no longer hidden, his haven destroyed and his usual tolerance eliminated. His empathy and insight into the minds of others would disappear and he would be left only with his own emotions and the intense desire to express them. During such times he could be cruel, harsh. Painfully honest without consideration or tact.

The other flaw was desire. Want clouded his judgment, deconstructed his thought process, made him stupid.

Years ago, when he was far younger, if he had wanted a woman she would gladly allow him to take her, only a few words of comfort and reassurance needed for him to get her in his bed. He was never unkind to them, never failed to offer them his friendship. But nor did he ever seek them out again.

Sara had been the first woman he had ever wanted with all strings attached. He had thought her perfect, every aspect of her being reaching a nearly divine level that he felt blessed for being allowed access to. He was the luckiest man alive, truly happy and content. Until he threw it away, because he had found someone else that he had wanted.

But even that hadn't stopped him. It was during his marriage to Elise that Jimmy had gained his reputation for sleeping around, and with good reason. Any mildly attractive woman he came in contact with ended up in his bed in a matter of weeks. He was still kind, still considerate and gentle, taking care of each one of them with a tenderness that they seemed to appreciate. The only difference being that, unlike when he was younger, he didn't try to care.

During college he had slept around because he had fallen a little bit in love with everyone he saw, because he had thought that he had wanted and needed each of them. Later, after Sara, he had slept with a multitude of women to prove that he didn't. To prove to himself that although he could sleep with every woman that passed his way, that he could hold them and soothe them, they meant nothing. And if he could prove that, he could forgive himself. Not easily, but if she, the tall woman with the red hair and the sad eyes who he had given up paradise for (the apple that tempted him, his desire the snake that urged him on), had meant nothing then in his heart, where it really mattered, he had been faithful.

But, as Greg said, Wilson's pathology was caring. For a time he had fooled himself. Had been convinced that they were meaningless flings whom he could conveniently forget, never think of again. But then, one night when Elise was out of town and James was staying with Greg, months after the infarction, he had gotten a call at three in the morning from an old one night stand, Julia. She had apologized profusely, sobbing as she explained that she was trapped in the bathroom at one of the local bars by a group of drunk men. She didn't mean to bother him, but there was no one she could think of to call, petrified as she was.

Jimmy had been out the door to go get her in two minutes.

After he had seen Julia safely to her apartment, never to come across her again, James had been forced to admit that although the sex had meant nothing, the women had. That he couldn't view them as anonymous bodies he had shared a night or two with, detaching them from their humanity so that he could forgive himself. They, and Sad Eyes, had been more than good fucks. They were people that he, however minutely, cared for. They held value for him beyond that of an easy lay. And because of that, he had no hope for atonement.

That was the night he stopped. When his want could no longer tempt him, could no longer make him lose his senses. The moment when he felt he had lost the ability to be redeemed, for hurting one wife and not knowing another, for using the women who had passed through his life as a sick form of compensation and validation. That night, he made the decision never to cheat again. And he hadn't, for all the good it had done him.

These were Wilson's sins; wrath and lust. The stones around his neck that made him sink instead of swim. That kept him from being as detached as he so desperately wished he could be during times like this.

"Doctor Wilson?"

James jerked his head up quickly to see that he had reached to first floor, a nervous looking nurse holding the door open for him as she sent him a worried glance.

"Are you alright?"

"Thank you Maria," he said as he stepped out of the small room and gave her a grin, "I'm fine, just tired." He sighed. "It's been a long day."

She smiled. "Well you were in the clinic for most of it. I'm surprised you're still standing."

They walked to the front entrance, chatting about the horrors of the clinic, nothing important, and parted ways once they were outside. Wilson hadn't parked in the garage, despite the obvious signs of rain he had seen on the horizon in the morning. He had, for some idiotic reason upon arriving at the hospital, felt like a walk.

He was really setting himself up for misery.

He shouldered his coat over his head and walked quickly to his car, starting to shiver from a combination of his already wet clothes and the mild storm surrounding him. On his way to his parking space he stepped in a puddle, soaking his left leg up to mid-calf, nearly tripped over a fallen tree-branch and dropped his brief case into a different puddle.

The gods were against him.

By the time he was inside his car he was more than ready for some scotch.

He threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat, perhaps just imagining the small splash it seemed to make as it thumped into the chair, and turned the ignition.

To be met with sputter from the engine.

He turned the key again. Denial was always the most astute policy when one found themselves in a less than desirable situation.

Nothing.

Wilson let out a loud sigh and rubbed his face with his palm.

"God, you know I don't ask a lot of you, right?"

Jimmy was met with silence.

"Right." Silence meant agreement as far as Wilson was concerned. "And I've had a really bad day. The sort of day when your greatest hope is crushed and your largest mistake is brought back to bite you in the ass." Perhaps a bit vulgar, but he hoped God would be lenient, given the circumstances. "Now, I know I've done some horrible things in the past and that I probably don't deserve any act of good will on Your part. But please," he looked up to the roof of his car, "give me a break. All I want is to get so drunk that in the morning I will see three of everything and have a headache more painful than being smacked upside the head by a baseball bat. This will likely only add to my suffering, helping You punish me further. I swear I'll give my keys to the bartender when I get there and call a cab to get home. I really won't be hurting anyone except for myself. So please, be a pal and help me out here."

Wilson turned the key in the ignition again only to be met with the same pitiful sputtering.

He sighed in defeat, banging his head against his steering wheel and causing his car to let out a loud prolonged honk, a noise he ignored as he internally cursed his luck, wives, life and God for making him suffer so.

Moments later, there was a knock on his window.

He jumped at the noise, abruptly ending the honking, looking up to see the hesitant smile of Allison Cameron as she waved at him from outside, an umbrella over her head to protect her from the rain.

Resisting the urge to thump his head against the wheel again, feeling unable to deal with normal human interaction by this point, Wilson unrolled his window.

"Hey," he tried his best to pull off a charming grin.

"Hi," Cameron's smile widened. "I just came over because I got worried by all the noise. Is everything okay?"

Wilson nearly chuckled bitterly. Everything was just peachy. "Oh, yes, everything's fine. My car just won't start. The honk was my final outburst of frustration before I called a tow truck." He forced a laugh, of the non-bitter variety, and looked up at her. "How about you? I heard that House had you working all night. I thought that you went home while I was at the clinic?"

"I did," she smirked, "and had a nice five hour nap while I was there."

"And you woke up to come back to work?" Wilson gave her a look of mock severity. "Doctor Cameron, I'm ashamed."

She laughed. "I just came back to visit Clara. I'm actually just leaving after spending the past three hours with the family."

Wilson nodded tiredly, "Well that's good. As long as you weren't being productive for House, you're forgiven."

"After making me work for twenty-eight hours? That man's going to have to beg me to so much as pick up a patient file."

Wilson snorted, lacking the will to summon up another laugh.

She grinned slightly while taking stock of his appearance, grimacing when she saw his damp hair and the wet patches on his jacket. "You look beat," she sent him a sympathy loaded glance. "And soaked," another sweet smile. "Why don't you let me give you a ride home?"

Of course that's what she would offer. If he hadn't felt as if he was on the verge of complete emotional upheaval, he would have been happy to take her up on it. But at that moment, James did not want any companionship, however brief, that did not come on the rocks and with delightfully mind numbing side effects. "No, no. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I can just wait for the tow truck get here and hitch a ride then."

"Wait for that in the morning," she adjusted the grip on the handle of her umbrella, shifting her feet slightly. "You're car will be fine here. You obviously need rest, and you know those truckers take at least an hour and a half to get anywhere." She grinned, "Come on. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me this past month."

Wilson looked down at his hand as he rubbed the constant kink in his neck with the other. "I should really get it handled tonight." Dammit, he wanted to wallow in his self-pity for one night, that was all. He would be back to his normal self in the morning, really he would. Why was she, the fates that be and his car making that so difficult?

"James," he quickly looked up at the use of his name, Cameron staring seriously at him with a concerned expression. It, his name, sounded almost odd coming from her lips, as if she was still sounding out the letters, unused to speaking them, like they were in a foreign tongue. "Let me take you home," her tone softened, almost pleading, "please?"

A combination of determination and vulnerability highlighted her features. Her eyes begged and demanded him to give her this opportunity to help him, to erase some of the debt she felt he was due. Shivering in the cold, grasping onto the umbrella with a white knuckled grip as a particularly violent gust of wind whipped through the parking lot, she stared at him, locking him with her gaze, her will too strong to break for him away from.

In that moment, he could deny her nothing.

There was a pause as he simply stared at her before he finally, inevitably, gave in. "Okay."

Jimmy grabbed his briefcase from where he had tossed it, Allison smiling triumphantly as she backed away from his door, giving him room to exit. He stepped out, ducking underneath her umbrella as they made their way across the lot, heading for Cameron's car.

"So, where do you live?" She asked, making an effort to hold the thin fabric shelter high enough so he didn't have to stoop.

Wilson pretended not to hear her as they made their way quickly across the lot, moving closer to the immunologist's small frame, trying to make the task of keeping them both protected from the elements easier for her.

Meanwhile, he contemplated his options. He could have her drop him off at home and walk to the nearest bar. The only problem with this plan being that it would be a sixteen block walk. He supposed he could have a cab drive him, although that would be expensive and limit the number of scotches he could down.

Or he could ask Cameron to take him.

He dismissed the idea instantly. It was a horrible suggestion, a disaster waiting to happen. Cameron wasn't the sort of person who would just let something like that go. She'd want to know why, demand explanations. And then he would have to relive the conversation tonight with Julie, the one he had been trying so desperately to forget. Besides, it would sound ridiculous; she would lose all the respect she had for him. James Wilson, going to a bar, alone, at 7:30 at night to drown his sorrows. A more pathetic image, Wilson could not imagine.

All around, it was a very bad plan of action, one he decided to avoid. He would just call a cab when he got home. A few less scotches that night wouldn't prevent him from getting deliriously drunk.

They had reached the car, Wilson already comfortable in the passenger's seat as Cameron closed her door, looking over to him, "You got an intersection for me or should I drive around blindly for a few hours?"

Wilson took a breath, ready to give her an address.

Unfortunately what came out was, "Actually, could you take me to a bar?"

God dammit.

Wilson almost banged his head against the glove box at his sheer idiocy.

---

"So... The family's close then?"

Chase felt like a shock victim. It was just astounding, how much activity had taken place in that small room during the brief time he had been present

After being ushered in, he had shook hands with Mark, waved to Clara and then stood back while chaos ensued. He had kept his distance from everyone, trying his best to give Cameron her space, to not intrude in her personal life, leaving him to view the spectacle as the family began to catch-up. While Clara and Sammy talked about Sammy's latest book, Cameron and Mark discussed the layout of PPTH, agreeing that it was far more confusing than necessary.

And then they abruptly switched, almost at the same instant, Mark now asking Sammy if she was sure it was alright that Matt was with Foreman while Cameron asked if there was anything Clara wanted her to tell Will when she called him tonight?

Another switch, and Sammy was demanding to know where Cameron got her shoes and Clara was asking what they were going to have for dinner.

Moments later, Cameron had seen the slightly dazed expression on Chase's face and smiled, saying her goodbyes and informing everyone that she had to go home, patting Chase on the shoulder as she left.

On the bright side, this was a clear sign that Cameron wasn't bothered by him spending time with her family, as she appeared more than comfortable leaving him alone with them.

On the downside, it also meant that she left him alone with them.

And truthfully, Chase was a bit petrified.

Deciding that the topic of food needed to be brought to the attention of the room at large, Clara had then asked who was going to hunt down rations for the starving masses. Chase quickly volunteered, feeling as if he was in the midst of a hurricane and needing to breathe some calm air. Sammy had offered to help him, and soon they were both taking orders.

Chase was now standing in line at the cafeteria downstairs, Sammy to his right, as they waited in line to be fed.

"You could say that. We don't get together much, so when it happens we tend to be a bit enthusiastic."

Chase stared at her, hoping it managed to convey how understated he found the term 'a bit enthusiastic' to be.

"Oh stop looking at me like I'm a lunatic." She shoved him lightly, grinning. "People are allowed to like their families, you know."

"Sure, people are allowed to," Chase grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich for Matt, "Just not many people do."

"Pish," Sammy snatched a salami sub for Mark, "What you mean is that you think we're insane because you don't like your family."

"Not especially, no." He hadn't liked his father since he left had abandoned Rob to deal with the trials of caring for an alcoholic parent alone. A few years, he had come to hate his mother as soon as a bottle touched her lips. Towards the end, those times had been far more frequent than those when she was sober. Not to say that he hadn't loved his parents, but there is difference between loving someone out of habit and liking them by choice.

"And why's that?" Sammy was looking at him earnestly, seemingly genuinely interested.

Oh no. None of that. Chase was not the sort of person to pour out the trials and woes of his life to a woman he had met a half an hour ago. "Do I need a reason?"

"It helps," she picked up a roast beef combo for Clara, catching his eyes with her own briefly.

"Look," Chase reached for a turkey sub for himself, "why I didn't like my family doesn't matter. What's important is that I didn't." He set down the sub on his tray and continued on down the line without looking at her, hoping she would discover his desire to end the conversation.

"Didn't?" Apparently, she was not easily deterred. "Have you changed your mind since the days of your youth? Seen the error of your ways?" She smiled.

"No. They're just not around anymore for me to dislike."

A small pause. "That's harsh."

"But honest." He finally glanced at her, seeing that she had snagged a meatball sandwich for herself. "Look, I'm not saying it's bad what you have with you're family, it's just not something I can appreciate. As a rule, people hate their family. People who say they don't are just keeping up appearances." He looked away from her, picking up a bag of chips.

"Hmm..." She took the sandwich for Matt off of his try and placed it on her own, smiling as she pulled a wallet out of the small purse that hung from her shoulder, "Alright, Doctor Chase. I'll make a wager with you," she handed her money to the casher and turned back to him. "I bet that if you spend as much time with my family as I do, you'll love them by the end of the month."

Chase raised an eyebrow. "Will I?" This, Rob could deal with. Flirting in disguise was much easier for him to interpret than his own feelings. "An interesting proposition. One small problem though," he moved forward as she finished and set his own purchase in front of the register. "I don't think I'll see your family half as often as you will."

"I disagree, not that it matters," she shrugged, "I'll only make you come and socialize with the gang when I'll be visiting Clara. Three times a week for a few hours in the evening. You could manage to slip away for that long, couldn't you?"

This seemed almost too easy. A reason to skip out of work and a bet he was sure to win. There had to be a catch. "And what are we betting on here?"

"Dinner." She smirked as he finished paying and they moved out of the way for the people behind them. "The loser of the bet pays." She balanced her tray with one hand and held out her other, "Do we have a deal?"

Chase accepted her hand, again marveling at it's rough texture. "We have a deal."

"Good," she broke the shake and struggled with her tray, "Now help me with these sandwiches."

Smiling, Rob took a sandwich from her tray and transferred it to his own, leading the way back to Clara's room.

When they arrived, Sammy entered with a bang.

"We come bearing food!"

Chase looked in to see that Matt had been returned to his parents, the boy sitting comfortably at the foot of his mother's bed, grinning at his aunt's entrance.

Mark rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "I hope you're not waiting for any type of worship or praising. I'm too hungry," he held out his hand. "Gimme."

Sammy pouted and gave the man his sandwich, passing out the others with far less enthusiasm than that with which she had entered.

Mark sighed dramatically. "You know I'm kidding."

Sammy continued to dispassionately hand out sandwiches.

"Don't guilt me Sammy. You know I hate guilt."

A sad sigh from the woman.

Mark gave Chase a look that clearly stated, 'Women,' in that exasperated yet affectionate way that all men knew. Responding to the unvoiced command, he recited, "Thank you Sammy."

She grinned. "Much better."

Clara laughed. "The power of the younger-sister pout,"

"An art I have most definitely mastered."

Chase sent Mark a glance of sympathy and found an empty chair near the exit of the room, ready to bolt if he felt the need.

Sammy turned her attention to her nephew. "Hey squirt. You have fun with Doctor Foreman?"

"Yep. I got to look at mold under a microscope." The boy looked so obviously excited it was almost painful. Chase took a bite of his sandwich, grinning. He was certain he was staring at Foreman-Junior.

"That's..." Mark searched for words, finally deciding on an uncertain, "nice."

Sammy shook her head in shame. "Kid, we have to get you interested in some sports," she grabbed a chair from next to Mark and brought it next to Chase, smiling briefly at his surprised expression before turning back to Matt and sitting down. "This mold fascination will get you mauled once you're in high school."

Matt looked down at his shoes.

"Nonsense," Clara eyed her son as she unwrapped her own meal. "The boy's smart, he doesn't need sports!" Matt turned and grinned at her. "Don't listen to her, Bud. She played softball and she finger-paints for a living."

Sammy stuck out her tongue at her sister-in-law.

"And while she's getting dirty," Clara smiled, "you'll be ruling the world." She ruffled the boy's hair fondly and went back to her sandwich.

Matt positively glowed with smugness.

Chase grinned as he took another bite of his food, turning as he felt eyes on him to stare at Sammy. She was smiling rather evilly. Chase was instantly nervous.

"Oh, by the way guys," she looked towards her family, all of whom looked up from their meals when she spoke, "we have to make Rob here love us by the end of the month or I have to buy him dinner." Chase glared. Had he been a shyer person, he would be blushing by this point. He liked having fun with women, flirting with them. He just didn't like people, especially that particular woman's family, aware of the details. "So do your best to be charming."

Chase was prepared for the big-brother lecture, and so was particularly surprised when Clara and Mark both groaned.

"So you're the next poor sod then?" Clara shook her head sadly, winking.

"Hey!" Sammy narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"She's just warning him," Mark adopted an equally serious expression. "She gives you any trouble, you just come to me. I'll put her in her place." He pretended to flex and his family seemed to give a collective snort.

Chase looked to Sammy to see a combination of irritation and fondness overtaking her features. Rob had to join in on the fun. "So, she has a reputation then? A real man eater?"

"Oh yes," Clara nodded, a solemn expression on her face. "It's horrible. Men are never the same after Sammy spends a few hours with them. Most of them run off sobbing."

"Not to mention she drives like a woman possessed," Mark shuddered from his seat, swallowing. "Every time I get out of a car after she's been driving I feel the need to kiss the ground at my feet and scream 'Land!' in relief."

"And her house is really messy," Matt added. "The floor's covered with paper and other junk. You can't even see the carpet."

"Yeah, and all the toxins from the paint don't help make the space more homey," Clara bit down onto her sandwich again.

Chase nodded. "I'll be sure to get a gas-mask."

"You're all evil." Sammy brought her sandwich to her mouth and glared.

Everyone laughed.

"You know we only do it because we love you," Clara said, grinning.

"So you say," she muttered, using her sandwich to try to hide her grin, a smile that Chase could see easily from his position next to her.

"Hey, Rob?"

Chase looked up to see Matt staring at him intently.

"Yeah?"

"Why does your hair look like something's run over it?"

There was an awkward silence, during which Chase resisted the urge to smooth down his hair self-consciously.

There was a small snort from the bed, Clara holding one hand over her mouth, desperately trying to stop the laughter from escaping.

But it was a lost cause.

In moments the entire room was roaring with laughter, Chase chuckling just as hard as the next person.

This might be a harder bet to win than he had originally anticipated.

---

Cameron was back at home, in bed, pajamas on and more than ready for sleep to overtake her.

And yet, she found herself staring blankly up at her ceiling, thinking of James Wilson instead of getting the much needed rest she knew she had been sorely lacking these past few days.

But something was wrong. It was more than just the bar, although that seemed more than a little out of character for the oncologist. Even before he has asked her for a ride, she had seen signs of disturbance to the doctor's psyche. Under normal circumstances, she was sure she would have been none the wiser about Wilson's obviously shaken state, but during their encounter she caught a glimpse of defeat. It was brief, only when she had first knocked on his window, almost as if the surprise had tricked the reaction out of him. But it was enough. From a man who rarely showed any emotion more unpleasant than a mild irritation, the second of despair was more than enough to send the alarm bells in Cameron's head ringing.

She hadn't mentioned it, keeping the conversation light and only just managing to convince him to let her take him home. When he had asked to be taken elsewhere, Allison had agreed and only just managed to stop herself from prying, internal reminders that that the personal affairs of James Wilson were none of her business halting her concerned questions.

But she couldn't stop thinking about it. That momentary slip of his defenses, the fleeting vulnerability that touched his features. Who did Wilson have to turn to? House? No. Wilson was many things, but an idiot he was not. To go to House with inner turmoil and expect genuine sympathy and concern was the epitome of naivety.

Cameron did have an intense desire to shelter broken things. To help them mend, if she could. After all Wilson had given her, done for her, she was just going to leave him alone? Dealing with something that, obviously, had disturbed him greatly? It might not be any of her business, but the doctor may not have had anyone at all to turn to. The least she could do was offer to help. After all, the worst he could do was send her away.

With a sigh, Allison gave up on sleeping, rising from bed and grabbing a pair of jeans, internally calling herself an overly-sentimental fool as she prepared to go to the bar where she had dropped Wilson off.

More likely than not she had imagined the moment, and when she arrived all she would be met with would be concerned looks and a very confused Wilson.

Twenty minutes later, she was walking into the high-class establishment, searching until she saw a hunched figure on the far-end of the bar.

Cautiously, she approached, noting the thick wool trench-coat Wilson still had on, the briefcase leaning against his bar stool, and the utter look of despair on his face as he twirled the liquid in his glass, seemingly entranced by the amber liquid.

"Wilson?"

"Hm?" He looked up drowsily, blinking when he saw her. "Cameron," he nodded once, as if reassuring himself that, yes, this was definitely Cameron. "What're you doing here?"

Cameron, blushing slightly, resisted the need to stare at her toes. "I was worried about you. I thought you might be able to use a friend."

Wilson smiled as he waved a hand at her, rolling his eyes. "I'm fine." He took a large sip of his drink. Scotch, it seemed. "Go home and get some rest." He didn't look at her as he said it, keeping his eyes fixed on his glass.

Suspecting that her concern had indeed been warranted, Allison slipped into the barstool next to him. "Do you mind if I stay, instead?"

He looked at her, no doubt noting her determination, and gave up on any attempts of sending her away that he might have had.

Wilson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Suppose not."

She smiled slightly as she waved away the bartender. Someone had to drive her car home, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be the oncologist. She looked sideways at him, noting how awkward and uncomfortable he suddenly looked.

"Sorry," he muttered, sipping at his drink.

Cameron blinked. "What for?"

"For making you worry," he hung his head slightly, "I know this," He gestured to himself and held up his glass of scotch, "isn't how you usually see me. I swear I'll sober up before poking your sister with anything."

Allison smiled. "Thank you. That's very reassuring, if unneeded."

He looked up at her sharply.

"I trust you, Wilson. I know you wouldn't risk any unnecessary harm to my sister." He seemed slightly shocked by the statement, so she continued to speak. "So why are you like... this?"

Wilson shook his head emphatically, saying nothing but taking another swing from his glass.

She sighed and decided that James Wilson and Gregory House could go head-to-head in terms of stubbornness. "I just want to help."

"I know," he smiled sadly at her, "but sometimes there's nothing you can do." Another gulp of alcohol, "Go home Cameron. I'll see you in the morning."

"You can't brush me aside so easily," Cameron started at the man intently, trying to convey her concern through her gaze. "I might not be able to solve your problems, but I could listen."

"I don't think that would be terribly practical. Besides," he raised his glass to the bartender, "I got good ol' George to listen to me whine." George waved from the other end of the bar, drying a glass. "There's honestly no need to subject yourself to my miserable company."

"Wilson," Allison grabbed his elbow, forcing him to look her dead in the eye. She took on the same steely yet concerned expression she had adopted to convince him to let her give him a ride earlier in the day, hoping that the tactic would prove to be just as effective here. "I've been at home for the past hour trying to sleep and failing because I've been worried about you. I know it's not rational, that you probably find me more irritating than helpful right now and that you're convinced there's nothing you think I can do to make it better. But let me try? Please?"

He stared at her, in that slightly baffled yet pensive way that made Allison believe that he saw something in her that she herself had missed. Then he let out a large breath, bringing the glass to his lips and taking another long swallow, lifting his free hand to the back of his neck.

"Mrs. Pratt is my ex-wife. My first ex-wife."

Cameron blinked. "That would be awkward."

Wilson raised his eyebrows and took another sip of scotch, "Yeah." He set down the glass. "I saw her this morning and ran out of the Diagnostics Office. Think I ruined Greg's carpet." He paused, "I feel almost bad about that."

"Don't," Cameron grinned, "the only reason you can't see the stains on it is because I bought a rug to cover them up." Wilson smiled (her goal achieved), and she brought them back to the subject at hand. "You ran out of the office?"

Wilson laughed. "Yeah. A bit like a twelve year old, right?" His smile faded and his face became serious, hardening his features. "But I don't know what I would do if I had to face her."

Cameron all but nudged him on when he paused, Wilson looking at her expectant face and sighing.

He took another swing from his drink before continuing. "I had an affair. Once. While married to her anyway," Cameron resisted the urge to flinch. "I wasn't going to tell her, but I could never hide anything from Sara. After she knew, and I had seen how heartbroken she had been, I went out of the house for hours. Too guilty to be in the same room with her. When I came back, she was gone. It," a pause as he seemed to search for words, "it destroyed her."

He sighed. "Doing that to her... It's the worst thing I've ever done. The biggest mistake I ever made." He looked down at his hands, holding onto the glass, "She probably hates me, she should hate me, for what I did. It certainly made me hate myself." Another swallow. "I didn't even try to find her, when she left. I knew I didn't deserve her."

There was a small silence, and Allison jumped in with a question. "Have you talked to her, since the divorce?"

"No, I've been too ashamed to seek her out. I don't think she ever wanted to see me again, in any case. That she wouldn't want me to intrude on her life."

"You should talk to her now." Allison widened her eyes, surprised at her own audacity. It was most defiantly not her position to give Doctor James Wilson, one of the most renowned oncologists in the country and best friend of her boss, relationship advice.

"And say what? 'I'm sorry for being an utter moron and simultaneously destroying your trust and the best thing that I ever had going for me'?" He downed another mouthful of scotch. "For some reason, I think that would be highly inadequate."

"That's not the point." If Cameron had been capable of physically shoving her foot down her throat, she would have done it.

Wilson turned to her, tilting his head and flicking a lock of hair out of his face. "Then what is?" He seemed interested, intrigued.

Apprehensive, afraid she was over-stepping her bounds, Cameron began to speak. "You owe it to her." When he didn't begin to berate her, Allison continued. "To give her the opportunity to either forgive or condemn you, now that time has passed."

"Is that something that you think she would want? To see me again?"

"It's something I would want." She looked up cautiously to see Wilson nodding his encouragement. More confident that her thoughts were welcome, she continued. "It doesn't seem as if she had the opportunity to confront you since your confession. She was never given the option of stating her case and then carrying on with her life, never able to have closure, whatever the outcome may have been."

She looked up to the defeated man next to her, determined to give him the truth. However painful it may be. "You need to give her the option of hating you, instead of functioning off of the assumption that she does. While it might make you feel better, to believe that somewhere she has been nursing her anger for all these years against you, that you are suffering properly for what you have done, it hasn't helped her." Cameron smirked without humor, "Even if she had wanted you to suffer, there's been no way for her to know that you have been, depriving her of any enjoyment she might have taken from the experience."

Wilson laughed bitterly and consumed the last drops of his drink, waving George over again.

Allison took in a breath, "Your shame has been doing nothing except preventing you from seeing her, from letting her have her say." She put a hand on his shoulder, attempting to reach the man beneath the rough and damp fabric, to give him some comfort. "You have to talk to her. While she's here, before it's too late."

Wilson nodded, exchanging his empty glass for a full one and staring at the amber liquid. "I know," he said softly. "I suppose I knew that from the beginning. Just didn't want to admit it." He looked up, raising his drink in her direction and managing to pull-off a drunken smile, "To Allison Cameron, who daily manages to get self-centered bastards to remove their heads from their own asses. Cheers," a gulp of the liquid went into his mouth.

Cameron smiled, "You promise that you'll speak to her tomorrow?"

"Yes," Wilson said as he threw back another swing, "Even though I'm still sensible enough to dread the prospect of it in the morning." He downed the rest of his glass and grimaced. "George, another please."

George looked from Wilson to Cameron and raised an eyebrow.

"Wilson, are you sure you should have ano-"

He interrupted her. "I saw that, you know," he glared at George before turning to Allison. "Yes, I'm sure. I haven't drunk myself to oblivion yet. I can handle at least three more glasses."

Cameron eyed the man wearily, certain that if he hadn't reached oblivion yet, he was awfully close. "Wilson, seeing your ex-wife again, although traumatic, isn't worth alcohol poisoning."

Wilson wagged a finger at her, "'Snot the only reason I'm here." He took in a deep breath. "Julie's pregnant."

George, who had been standing behind the bar and waiting for Cameron's go-ahead on another drink for James, dramatically nodded his understanding. He quickly pulled out another glass, filled it to the brim and passed it to Wilson, patting the doctor's shoulder in sympathy before he went to check on some other customers.

Now Allison glared at the bartender.

She turned back to Wilson, smiling. "That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

Wilson let out an ironic snort, "She's not keeping it." He gulped down some more scotch.

"What?" Cameron looked at her colleague, shocked. "She doesn't want a child?"

"Not with me."

"But-but... she's your wife!"

"Not any more." Wilson held up his left hand, Cameron seeing the slight tan-line around his finger, but no ring. "We got a divorce a month ago."

"Oh," Cameron looked at him sadly, "Wilson, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Another sip. "We're both happier without one another." Wilson grinned at her. "Weird, right?"

"Why did you-," Cameron stopped herself mid question, blushing in shame as Wilson raised his brows at her. "I'm sorry. That was an inappropriate question. I have no right to ask."

"You were going to ask why we got married in the first place, right?"

Cameron nodded.

"Because we tricked ourselves into believing we loved each other. Both of us were tired of being alone and thought we were running out of time and options to find someone to latch onto. Especially Julie." A gulp. "She was so lonely, and so desperate, that she would have probably married anyone, so long as they didn't keep her from her work."

He gave a mirthless laugh. "In all respects, it should have been a perfect arrangement. The Head Economic Advisor to one of the largest and fastest developing companies on Earth, and a doctor, both of us too busy to actually talk to or even know our significant other. I suppose we focused so much on our work that we forgot about the time outside of it. Before we got to our offices in the morning and after we got home at night, we actually had to live with each other."

A final sip and Wilson signaled for another. "It's a depressing conclusion to come to when you realize that you don't know anything about your wife, who you've been with for half a decade." He looked up at her. "But that's not the worst of it."

He rubbed the back of his neck as he thanked George for his latest glass. "Julie and I were doomed from the start, and we're both better off without one another. But the baby…"

He sighed heavily, shaking his head and sipping his scotch. "I've wanted to be a father ever since college. Do you know how wonderful that would be? To be a parent?

"There's the whole biological reason, of course. To know that you created another life, to have a part of you live on after you've gone. But it's more than that, something beyond genetics. To be responsible for another life. To watch a person grow, to develop. Physically, emotionally. Watch them as they learned, played and just… Lived. And to be a part of that growth. To watch over it, influence it, to help them reach their full potential. Can you imagine that? To have a person be your sole responsibility, for their life to be, in every sense, far more important than your own? To shelter and guide them, show them how to carry out a life with honor and purpose. But to never live it for them. To tutor and observe and guide… To teach them the way to live but not how…" He trailed off and let out another harsh laugh, taking another sip of his drink.

"I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense. Too much scotch." He eyed his glass and took another sip.

Yes he was. He was making perfect sense. The best sense. The sense that's guided by emotion, that's not always logical or coherent, but that always rings of pure truth.

"No," Allison said it quickly, perhaps too quickly. "No, don't apologize." She looked at his bleary eyes, his lopsided grin. The lock of hair that kept getting into his eyes. "I know what you mean."

He continued smiling, staring back at her, seemingly content, when the grin quickly morphed into a gruesome line.

"I think I've reached oblivion." With that he was out of the chair, racing to the back of the building, towards the bathrooms.

Cameron sighed, looking up at George across the bar, who was smirking in the direction Wilson had run off in. "I'm blaming you for this, you know."

George went back to cleaning glasses.

---

"I feel betrayed. By all of you." House flicked his yoyo out in front of him, still upset.

Wilson, his supposed friend, had deceived him. The 'Bros Before Hoes' contract had been broken, the sanctity of their friendship destroyed and, most importantly, Greg had been made a fool of. Masterfully manipulated, in fact. By a cancer patient, no less.

The ultimate humiliation.

He finally understood why it bothered people when he treated them in a similar manner. Maneuvering the placement and distribution of information so he could better use it to suit his own purposes. To have a person do the same to him made him feel vulnerable. Used. Some might say pissed off, even.

"House, it's not the end of the world." Foreman, the sole minion in the office, was flipping through a magazine.

"I just can't believe Chase didn't tell me. Or Wilson. I'm going to have a real heart to heart with him," House sighed sadly with another flick of his wrist, "I think our friendship has been seriously damaged because of this."

"I'm sure you'll find some way to manage."

Mange? Foreman, apparently, did not comprehend the situation fully. "I've missed nearly a month of harassing Cameron. Do you understand how hard I'll have to work to make up for all that time I could have been annoying her about this?"

Foreman sighed and threw the magazine on the table. "I hate to ruin your fun, but can we talk about the patient now?" Trying to change the topic of the conversation, likely in hopes that it would make Greg forget about tormenting Cameron.

One would have hoped that the neurologist knew his boss better by this point. Although, there was no harm in humoring him. It was always fun to lure his victims into a false sense of security.

House grumbled. "If we must. Although I was hoping he'd just fix himself if we kept ignoring him."

Foreman sent the doctor a disbelieving look.

"It's worked for me before," House looked around, "Where's the Brit anyway? I'm already missing Miss Warm and Fuzzy. Only having one from a set of three," he stared sadly at the younger doctor, "and the least amusing one at that, is just depressing."

"Remind me again why I work here?"

"Because you love me Eric." House whipped out his pager and sent a message to Chase. "You try to deny it, to hide it behind a mask of pure loathing and annoyance. But deep down, I know all you have for me are warm mushy feelings."

"If by 'warm mushy feelings' you mean the desire to strangle, then yes. You've figured me out at long last."

"That's awfully violent Eric. This is the sort of anger the develops after a life filled with crime and homeless people."

"You know I've been doing your dirty work all day, right?" It was amusing to see Foreman get frustrated. He started to wobble from side-to-side a bit, like a penguin. "I haven't even gotten a meal today because I've been running around looking for a needle in a haystack. Not the job of a doctor, I might add."

House ignored him. Oh, he knew that Foreman was upset, that the doctor was on the verge of leaving Greg's department, but House didn't care much. He was trying, and hopefully was managing, to make a point. Greg believed that Foreman had two very serious problems that would prevent him from becoming a truly great doctor.

One was pride. Oh sure, House was arrogant and callous, but when he was wrong (and he was, on occasion), he acknowledged this and moved on, looking for a new solution. Foreman, however, wasn't quite as prone to adaptation. When he was wrong, he continued to beat at the same dead horse, hoping that if he whacked it hard enough it would jump up and gallop off into the sunset.

The other was... Well, pride. Because he had worked hard and gone to medical school, Foreman felt he was above the nitty-gritty back work that came with the job of diagnostics. To a doctor whose first concern was his patients, not the simple advancement of his career, doing unpleasant work, making mistakes and getting little respect for his actions would not have been issues. And, to the best doctors, patients were always the first priority.

This is not to say that the doctor had to particularly care for their patients. House certainly didn't. The lack of sympathy, however, did not stop him from doing what he had to in order to diagnose, and hopefully cure, the sick people who flocked his way. It didn't matter if he had screwed up along the way, if he had to do work that was beneath him. Even Greg himself went out to a patient's home from time to time, looking for clues and evidence that he might have missed. He was doing his job, no more, no less.

Foreman's pride, on the other hand, prevented him from doing the things necessary to get his patients out of his hair as quickly as possible.

And so, House decided to acquaint the man with dealing with that which he did not like in order to do his job properly. So, in order to punish (and educate, of course) his minion for such foul behavior, House irritated him on a consistent basis.

"Trust me, I've talked to my therapist about it. You should really seek help, learn to let go of your sordid past."

Foreman glared. "I'm going to start talking about the patient now, and my hope is that you'll follow my lead." He paused, looking at House as the older doctor continued to play with his yoyo.

"We didn't find much at the house. Just some mold in one of the guest bathrooms, which was completely harmless," Foreman was staring thoughtfully at the whiteboard. "Other than that, it's clear. No toxins, no unidentifiable substances, no suspicious looking pill bottles." He sighed and rubbed his brow. "Maybe we should look at the office again, see if there's something we missed."

Chase entered the room without comment, sitting across from Foreman and looking at House expectantly, a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Stop smiling." Chase raised a brow and did so, looking a little put-out. "Happiness does not enter the diagnostics room. I find the lack of misery distracting. Besides," he eyed Chase suspiciously, taking his own chair at the head of the table, "that demented smile was making me nervous." House smirked at Chase's annoyed expression and turned back to Foreman. "No. Except for the new paint, the office is clear of anything obviously toxic."

"And you know this from all the times you've gone over for lunch, I assume?" Foreman was doing the eyebrow thing again.

"Well of course. Pratt's my new best bud, since I obviously can't count on you," he gestured to Chase, "or Wilson to give me to good gossip anymore. You're getting a boo-boo face for that Chase, don't think I've forgotten." Chase rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, resigned to his fate. "But, if we function off of the assumption that I'm not having tea and crumpets with computer-boy, we could pretend that I looked up his company on the net."

Greg grinned, "Not as much fun, I know. But it does have the benefit of being true." House placed his yoyo down on the table and carefully crossed his legs under the table. "He sees his clients in those offices. He wouldn't risk having an attack in front of potential buyers. The exploding into hives thing generally isn't a good sales pitch."

"Maybe it's not an allergy." Chase had found a pen and stuck it in his mouth, chewing on the cap.

Foreman shot him a disbelieving look.

Greg leaned back in his chair, ready for the show.

"Well then what else could it be?"

"No idea. But we're getting nowhere with this."

"It has to be an allergy. All the symptoms point to it." Foreman was raising his voice, irritated.

"House just said that it couldn't be triggered by something in the office," Chase took the pen out of his mouth and began to talk slowly, like speaking to a child. "No trigger equals no allergic reaction, equals not allergy related."

"Wrong."

Both men looked up to House, sending him puzzled glances.

"Oh, not that pretty equation bit," he nodded to Chase, "you get a gold star for that. It's the premise in general that I have a problem with."

"But you said-"

He interrupted the Aussie. "I didn't say that the attack couldn't be triggered by something in the office. I said that the office didn't have anything toxic in it except for the paint. That doesn't mean there wasn't something there that he's allergic to. The only problem with this logic being that he wouldn't want anything that could trigger an episode in the office.

"Soo," House folded his hands in his lap, "it would have to be something that was a relatively new feature to the building."

He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, looking at his team expectantly. "What looked shiny and unused when you guys visited? I know you noticed Foreman. Had to tell your hommies what they needed to smuggle out in the night."

Foreman glared.

"The paint job." Chase chimed.

"Already tried that. What else?"

"There's no way we could've known about anything else." Foreman growled, still glaring.

"You can't tell if something's new just by looking at it," Chase added, playing with the pen in his hand. "And we were only there for ten minutes before we started searching in the garage."

"Then we'll have this guy in here until he's old and balding." House stared at the men, knowing there was something they were all missing, waiting for one of the doctors to bring it to his attention. They had the answer. He just had to wait for it.

There was a long moment of silence, during which the two looked at one another hopelessly, each silently begging the other the bail them out of this.

Perhaps Greg shouldn't put so much faith into his employees. They didn't appear to be as competent as he had originally thought.

House sighed, thumping his forehead on the head of his cane. "Cuddy's going to be upset when she finds out we have to build a cottage in the hospital for the Pratts to live out their days in."

A moment of silence and then House heard a crinkle from above him.

He looked up as Chase popped a small red something into his mouth, sucking on it loudly.

By this point even Foreman was staring.

The intensivist looked up when he noticed all the attention on the room was focused on him. "What? You pulled me away from my dinner. I'm hungry."

"You are eating candy, loudly I might add, when we're in the middle of diagnosing a patient?" House had an eyebrow raised.

"Yep."

"I have taught you well. Gimme one."

Chase grinned, pulling another out of his pocket and tossing it over to his boss.

Foreman continued to glare.

House unwrapped the sweet and tossed it in his mouth. "Huh, good." He looked down at the colorful wrapper, seeing intricate designs but no information as to what they were. "What's in them?"

"No idea," Chase was getting another candy out of his pocket. "Want another?"

House nodded, examining the outside wrapping of the candy once he had caught it. "Where did you get them from?"

Foreman narrowed his eyes at his boss. "Pratt's house. There were tons of them in the kitchen." He didn't remove his gaze from the older doctor. "What is it?"

House bit down on the hard bit, grinning in satisfaction when he tasted the full range of flavors from the sweet more clearly.

"Gentlemen," he said, putting the unopened candy on the table in triumph, "we have found our culprit."

---

Author's Note: Congrats to March Hare! Didn't fool you (or likely anyone else, for that matter) for a second, did I? –grin-