Drenched

by imsanehonest

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.

8. So I Can Sew It, pt two

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 got into a drinking contest with David Shore. If I won, I got House. If he won, he got what was left of my self-respect and worth. –toes ground- I'm such a loser… House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Nicole Burdette owns "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This." I'm just borrowing them both to try and make me feel a little bit better about my pathetic self…

Author's Note: -hands stones- More effective than tomatoes. One moment please… -goes into corner and assumes the fetal position- All right, have at it.

I've got an excue- er, explanation on my info page, but I shant bother you all with it here. Just know that I'm sorry! Please be gentle with the stoning… Having my skull intact by the end of it would be lovely if you can all manage it, but if not… I suppose I understand. –braces self-

-grin-

I have a new best friend. Her name is LastScorpion, and not only did she suffer through reading this whole fic with all my homonyms and misspellings, but then she offered to beta for me and get rid of such horrors. While she was at it, she also pointed out some of my lovely grammatical errors and prevented me from making another medical boo-boo. For this, I give her my most sincere thanks and weekly worship sessions. (Thursdays, if you're interested. –wink-) So, if at the end of this chapter your eyes aren't bleeding, you have her to thank.

I have snowrabbitses slaving away in my cellar, working on past chapters. Hopefully she'll be able to help me out with all of my lovely plot and characterization issues. (Her worship sessions will be held Wednesdays.)

So, umm… I tried to finish this chapter with this section, but… It didn't work. I'm long-winded, I know! My outline says I've got to cover at least four more plot points in this chapter, so… We're going to have a part three! Woot! Give me two weeks to get it out to you guys. If it's not out by then, feel free to message me repeatedly until I get it out to you.

My medical knowledge is still limited to the things I might have read about once, that one time, somewhere.

Never give me a scalpel. It won't end well.

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

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

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Chapter Six: So I Can Sew It, Part Two

I want…
I want so much I'm breathless
I want to put my power into a poem
To burn a hole in your pocket
So I can sew it.
-Nicole Burdette

---

His hair hurt.

He wasn't quite sure if it was possible for hair to hurt, but that was the best description James had for the disconcerting pain that seemed to radiate from his scalp. Not from his head mind you (which wasn't to say that it wasn't protesting his actions from the night before in its own, special, depraved, way), his scalp. Excluding the idea that he had developed a particularly nasty brand of dandruff, the only logical conclusion was that his hair hurt.

Once all of this had processed and Jimmy had confirmed that he was satisfied with the result of his ponderings, the only coherent thought left to him was, Ouch.

Yes. That summed it up nicely.

Searching for the obnoxious screech that had interrupted his peaceful rest, he swung his arm out randomly, satisfied with the crash that met his ears even as he winced. The pain was insignificant when compared to the satisfaction he felt at getting the beeping to stop. In some far off area of his subconscious, he made a mental note to buy a new alarm clock.

Slowly, he sat up, pushing covers off of himself as he tried to force his brain to stop bouncing off of the walls of his skull. His mind was seemingly content to ignore him, gleefully causing him to furrow his brow and flinch from the mild light of morning that spilled in through his windows.

Wilson cursed his inability to carry his liquor like House. That man could drink a gallon of vodka and wake up the next morning complaining of nothing more than a mild pinprick from his temple. Sure, Wilson was bitter, but wouldn't anyone be?

Resigned to his fate, Wilson hauled his legs over the edge of the bed, regretting the motion instantly as his head gave an internal explosion in protest. Groaning, he brought his hands to his head, catching a glint out of the corner of his eye. He looked to his bedside table and saw a glass of water sparkling in the sunlight and two comforting white pills waiting for him, along with a red apple.

Slightly confused at how the pills and fruit had ended up on the table, but temporarily forgetting the uncertainty of their origins for immediate relief, he internally sung the praises of Advil as he downed the medication. He then promptly flopped back into his bed, regretting the motion almost instantly.

Sudden movements were definitely a no, even if they were motions of the pathetic verity, such as collapsing. Puking probably wouldn't be pleasant either.

Hangovers had no pity.

Unlike other things. Like young, annoyingly persistent and overly compassionate immunologists.

Wilson groaned. He didn't like to inflict his sorry company upon others. They certainly had done nothing wrong, and he had no need to tell them of his troubles. James liked to be discreet with his misery, to hide it away for his personal perusal. His pain was not a spectacle, not an unfortunate personality trait and not a badge of honor. It was a private defeat, one that he liked to briefly contemplate and then erase from his mind, moving on with the more relevant matters of his existence. Through this method, he had discovered, he could learn to live with anything.

But this time, the defeat was harder to shake. James had been upset, far more distraught the night before than he had been in several decades. Truth be told, he was still distressed. He hurt, a horrible wrenching pain that he couldn't reach the source of, a wound that he couldn't sew back together. And from that gash came a loss and sorrow that he had no way to remedy.

How do you mourn for a child you would never know? Regret losing a woman you never loved? Forgive yourself for a betrayal committed over a decade past?

He was bleeding internally, and he hated it. But, at least that was better than getting the blood on his clothes. As long as there was no physical evidence, pain was easy to ignore. To overlook. Without confirmation or validation of its existence, anything could be forgotten. It made pretending easy.

However, evidence had been leaked. Someone knew, and if someone knew, that made it far too easy for the whole thing to become real.

Which left him with his original thought. Cameron was annoyingly persistent and overly compassionate, and because of this combination he had happily shared far more than he had intended.

Or at least, he thought he had. It was a bit hard to recall, and this was rather disturbing to Wilson. This was the second time in the past two months that he had woken up with little recollection of the night before, indicating bad things about his drinking habits.

He hoped House would never hear about this. The diagnostician gave James a hard enough time as it was, stating more than once that Wilson's stomach was not 'up to par' with Greg's drinking standards.

Jimmy, again, suppressed the bitterness, and focused his attention on the slightly more troubling problem on his hands.

What had he done last night?

Cameron had driven him to a bar when his car broke down. She had shown up again around his fifth glass of scotch.

He remembered that.

He had spilled his soul, agreed to talk with Sara, and then puked his guts out.

Sadly, he remembered all of that as well. The humiliation of the experience was great enough that no amount of alcohol would ever allow that particular occurrence to slip his mind.

Cameron had then driven him home and he had promptly sprawled on the couch, not even bothering to kick off his shoes before he attempted to reach sweet oblivion.

He woke up this morning in his bed with his pajamas on.

Obviously, something was missing. And this absent chunk of time was very bothersome, as he had the suspicion that something important had occurred.

Sighing, acknowledging that there was little he could do at present time about the selective amnesia, Wilson slowly sat up, holding a hand to his head as he righted himself. He assumed that the fact that he didn't feel like screaming was a testament to the Advil taking effect, although the room did shift uncomfortably while his head gave an annoyed pound at the movement.

Sitting up: a success. Things were going well.

He glanced over to the side-table, picking up the apple with a frown on his face as he caught a flash of neon yellow from bellow it.

Still frowning, he picked up the post-it note.

W,

I assume that if you can read this without your eyes falling out, you've taken the Advil. Eat the apple on an empty stomach and wait for the magic.

Wilson raised his eyebrows (painfully) in suspicion.

As if anticipating this response, the letter continued.

Don't diss it until you've tried it! Trust me. Without this highly effective method I never would have survived college, much less med school.

I set the alarm for seven and turned off your cell and pager, both of which are on the coffee table in the living room. I'll lock the door on my way out.

See you at work,

-C

Wilson would have fallen back on his bed in self-disgust if he had been willing to deal with the trouble of sitting back up again.

Memory was coming back to him now.

Wilson had left his briefcase in her car, forgot to lock his door and been utterly smashed when she had entered his apartment. She had turned up the heat in the house and mentioned the three months from a year ago that he preferred not to think about.

Then there had been some comment about getting naked.

Wilson groaned again as he recalled the feel of her thin shoulders under his hands, the smell of her hair, the soothing feel of her pressed against his side.

Dammit.

What the hell had he done?

Wilson stood up and started pacing, determined to figure out what, exactly, he had done with Allison Cameron last night, headache be damned. He riffled through the fragmented memories of the night before, bringing to mind thoughts of contentment, discomfort and profound gratitude. Whatever had happened, he had… enjoyed it. Yes, there were vague feelings of mild irritation, but even these were tainted with a hint of humor and appreciation. Even the awkward feelings he could recall had been pleasurable in some way, a sudden flash of blue (green? Gray? What color were those eyes?) flashing through Wilson's brain as he unconsciously smiled.

Crap.

Wilson's pacing increased as his panic grew.

He couldn't have, wouldn't have, slept with her. She wasn't his to have.

She was too young, beautiful and smart to waste herself on a man who couldn't keep a marriage together even if he had been physically stapled to his wives. Who spent more time at work than at home, had one, less-than-friendly, friend and a reputation for betrayal that was legendary.

And she loved House.

He wouldn't, even if he had swallowed all the liquor on the east coast, have slept with Allison Cameron.

He took in a breath and stopped the pacing, bringing a hand to his neck and rubbing. There had to be an explanation.

One, Wilson was not the sort to forget having sex. A combination of concern towards his partner's feelings and his obvious enjoyment of the activity provided him with a clarity that not even alcohol could diminish.

Two, her note left no hint of any intimacy other that of colleagues quickly becoming friends. Cameron, as a result of her conviction and emotional honesty, would not be able to hide her feelings if someone gave her a wall to cower behind. This was not necessarily a fault, although it did provide the careful observer with clear indication of her emotional status at virtually all times.

Wilson felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. House had to be giving her hell, likely noticing the distress caused by Clara's cancer.

In any case, even through writing Wilson had the impression that she would not let a brief sexual encounter go unnoticed.

Third, he was in night clothes. When a man has just slept with a woman, he does not get up, clean off, pull on a T-shirt and some pajama pants and then get back into bed. This was doubly true of a drunk man. James was no exception to these basic laws of human nature. Like women going to the store for an outfit and coming home with seven, so too were men able to do nothing requiring more thought than becoming unconscious after sex. It was just the way the universe worked.

Four, the sheets were clean.

If a man won't get changed after sex, he sure as hell isn't going to clean the sheets.

Wilson heaved a sigh of relief, giving his neck one last rub before bring the arm down. He could only assume that he had fallen asleep while she was still in the apartment, which, while embarrassing, didn't carry the moral consequences that he had feared he would be faced with. Content with his conclusions, feeling ridiculous for his initial assumption, James grabbed the apple, took a bite and headed for the bathroom to get ready for work.

By the time he had gotten dressed, by which point the apple was long gone, Wilson was surprised to note that his headache had been reduced to a dull throb at the base of his skull, which if not pleasant, certainly didn't leave him inept. He made a mental note to be certain to thank Cameron for letting him in on her cure.

And to apologize, of course. Dealing with a drunken colleague and being groped (or at least touched far more frequently than is appropriate), was not the ideal way to spend a night after a twenty-eight hour stint at the hospital.

His guilt was made even worse by the fact that he had selfishly appreciated her company. At the bar, Allison had been an unpredictably illuminating presence, and her kindness to him afterwards spoke volumes about her infinite patience and nurturing nature. Such a help and aid had been shockingly welcome to Wilson, who was far more used to picking up the pieces of others rather than having others scoop up his pathetic remains.

He was profoundly grateful to her for sweeping him up again.

Perhaps too grateful.

James gave himself a mental kick and decided to give Cameron sincere thanks when he saw her, but to otherwise ignore the events of the night before for the time being. They were far too complicated to pore over and he had much more pressing issues to deal with at the moment.

Like how he was going to get to work.

He made his way to the living room, quickly picking up his cell phone from off of the coffee table, turning it on and pressing speed dial.

Two rings later, and someone had picked up the phone.

"House?"

A grunt.

Decidedly cheerful for Greg, so early in the morning. Frankly, James was surprised House had been up at all. It was only eight. When he wasn't trying to spite Wilson or ruin his friend's reputation in some way, Greg never came into the hospital earlier than nine thirty.

But, Jimmy wasn't one to question good fortune when it came his way. "Could you give me a ride to work? Car's broken down."

"Can't," there was a slight intake of breath as James heard the thump of House collapsing onto some piece of furniture. "Shame too, 'cause you aren't pretty enough to hitchhike effectively. And as thigh flashing will get you nowhere, you're so going to be late. Cuddy will hit you with a ruler for being tardy. You'd like that, wouldn't you Spandex Boy?"

Wilson thought it best to ignore the reference to the duck story, lest he encourage the older man. "House, come on. I know you don't like driving the Vette over the bike, but help me out here. How many times have I driven you to work?" The correct answer was, 'at least twice a week for the past five years.' House, however, made no reply. "Now get off of your ass and repay the favor."

"As moving as a plea as that was," a muted gasp, "still can't."

Wilson furrowed his brow at the pained sound. "What's wrong?"

"My leg hurts."

There was a silence as James turned that comment over in his head, finding that it seemed odd for some reason. House's leg hadn't bothered him enough to prevent him from driving in many years, and ever since the year before one Vicodin left him perfectly capable of performing most tasks without complaint...

Shit.

"I forgot to give you your pills last night."

"Did you? Is that why my leg's being particularly touchy this morning? Huh, go figure."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up before Greg had a chance to say anything, grabbing his briefcase, wallet, keys, the bottle of pills and all but running out of the door.

Once outside he frantically hailed a taxi, jumping in the first car that pulled over and swiftly yelling an address at the driver before retreating to his disturbed thoughts.

Wilson didn't regret those three months, even if he had hated every instant of them. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to listen to Greg as he begged Jimmy to kill him and do nothing. To watch as his friend slowly suffered and make no move to help him. James knew that he had done the right thing; that if Greg had continued as he had been he would have lost his job, reputation and what was left of the redeemable qualities House found in himself. Then, nothing would hold the diagnostician back from doing something spectacularly stupid.

But just because it had been right did not mean that it had been easy. Yes, House had gotten better, but before he had gotten better he had gotten much much worse, and Wilson had been the only one to see that. The only one to cause that.

At least when he began his patients on chemo he permitted himself to care about them, however slightly. To express concern and compassion and to offer reassurances as they were needed. With cancer, you had to poison the body if you wanted it to live. Yes, it was painful and yes it was unpleasant, but everyone knew that it was necessary. Patients walked into the pain freely, trusting Doctor Wilson to help them through.

But House hadn't thought that the poisoning of his particular cancer was needed, was unresponsive and hostile to James' usual brand of persuasive compassion (or his brand of forceful pestering, a method reserved especially for Greg) and had no desire to let 'Doctor Wilson' help him through anything. And so, Jimmy had been forced to deal with the problem another way. House's way.

He bullied the older doctor into doing what had to be done, and then did his best to become emotionally detached from the man writhing on the bed as the overwhelming need for the drug overtook him.

Just another patient. Draw the blinds, harsh light would soon cause pain. Cold compress to the head, bowl near by. Can't be left alone, self-destructive tendencies. Ignore the begging, the sweating, the shaking; all pain induced as a result of withdrawal. Above all, do not help him. This is unpleasant, but necessary. The patient will be much better in the long run if he suffers now than if you allow the current trend to continue.

Watching Greg as he detoxed and forcing himself to remain uncaring and rational while it happened had almost killed Jimmy. He had meant to keep up a harsh and demanding commentary during the whole process, but he found he was incapable of doing so. He didn't like making his friend suffer, didn't revel in it. He could barely keep up his show of apathy. Attempting outright aggression was out of the question. By the time the worst was over, James had abandoned his plan of bullying House and instead convinced himself to keep silent, for fear of losing his nerve to see the detox through.

Wilson has been certain that House would never forgive him for what he had done to the diagnostician, doubted that Greg would stay off the drugs longer than a week and didn't expect to be invited to any more monster truck rallies. Greg did not like being made vulnerable, didn't like being told what to do and was no fan of pain. Wilson had caused or done all of them, and if James could not forgive himself for such things, House certainly wouldn't.

But, he had. Had thanked him, even.

Not verbally, of course. When something of this magnitude occurred, House was not the sort to give a big hug and a heartfelt 'thank you.'

But he had given Wilson his pills.

Done out of gratitude, a sign of trust, a promise. Whatever it had been intended as, it was powerful, and Wilson had never forgotten to give Greg two pills before he went home every day.

Until now.

After what James had put House through, the least he could do was keep the doctor's supply of Vicodin, preventing House from taking more than he should and giving the man an extra fail-safe if the pain was greater than usual and he needed an extra pill. Simply, Greg had trusted him (and House didn't trust anyone), and Wilson, too wrapped up in his self-pity to remember his obligations, had let his friend down in a way James swore he never would.

He had caused House pain, for another stupid, selfish, reason. He had failed, again.

The cab stopped and James quickly threw the man some money, grossly over paying for the trip but not caring as he walked quickly up the steps to Greg's apartment. Using his spare-key for the first time since Greg had given it to him, Wilson unlocked the door and entered the apartment, sighing in relief when he saw a cane leaning against the sofa.

He walked around the piece of furniture to see Greg on his couch, still in his pajamas, right leg laid carefully on the cushions. His eyes were closed, his jaw was clenched and Wilson could just make out a few beads of sweat on his forehead.

"House, I'm so-"

"Shut up."

Wilson's mouth snapped closed.

The diagnostician held out a hand, eyes still closed. "Gimme."

James gave House the whole bottle.

Greg opened the bottle and dry swallowed a pill, almost sighing in relief as his hand remained clenched around the orange plastic.

Wilson's guilt increased. "House, I'm sor-"

House opened his eyes to glare. "Stop."

"But I need to apologize, I can't believe I-"

House held up a hand. "Seriously. Shut up. Once you start I know you won't be able to stop yourself." House adopted a sincere tone, "'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. The cancer kids made me do it.'" House rolled his eyes, giving his friend an annoyed stare. "You get so guilty and end up looking like a puppy that's just been kicked. Not to say that if you were a puppy you wouldn't deserve a kick," House grimaced as he sat up on the couch, "you've been a very bad pill-watcher. But as fun as causing you anguish is, I'm not up for tormenting you properly at the moment. So hold out for about twenty minutes, would you? Besides, your whimpering is annoying so early in the morning."

Wilson sighed, pacing in front of House, rubbing the back of his neck and calling himself a thousand types of fool. "Last night, and this morning-"

"Sucked," House interjected helpfully, smirking at the pained expression the younger doctor sent him. "You should really leave your phone and pager on. Even tried the apartment phone but got no dial-tone." Greg raised an eyebrow. "Someone must have been enjoying himself."

Wilson sighed, "Julie took the phone when she left, I haven't thought to get it replaced..."

"Still doesn't explain the cell and pager being off." House sent Wilson a penetrating look, as the oncologist did his best to keep his face blank. Telling House about Cameron being at his apartment last night didn't seem like an intelligent idea.

"It's okay Jimmy," House grinned, "Hookers are lovely women. If you wanted a private evening with one of the mistresses of the night, why didn't you just say so?"

James halted his pacing for a moment to give House a scowl.

"Hey, just had a divorce, ran into your first ex-wife... Nothing's wrong with a nice call-girl every now and then to ease the pain."

"I didn't call a hooker," Wilson muttered, not stopping his rapid movements in front of House's TV.

"Shame. If I suffered through unending suffering and agony, it should have at least been for something worthwhile."

Wilson sighed heavily, "House," he stopped pacing and turned back to his friend, "I can't believe I did this."

House groaned.

"I'm-"

"Incapable of following instructions?"

Wilson exhaled and gave his neck a particularly forceful rub.

House gave an exasperated gesture and slowly pulled his leg off of the couch, sitting up fully with only a slight wince as his feet touched the floor. "Look, if listening to your pathetic apologies would do me any good, I'd be all for it. But really, they're just going to give me a migraine, and I don't like migraines. They hurt. So," Greg had an expression that many have on their face when they're talking to a particularly dull child, "The best apology you could give is not apologizing at all, got it?"

Wilson stopped pacing as he pulled his hand away from his neck, bringing it to his face as he nodded.

"Good."

There was a rattle in front of him and James lowered his hand. Greg was looking at him expectantly, bottle of pills held out expectantly in front of him.

Wilson stared at the capsule, sending a confused glance to House. "But I forgot to-"

"Yeah. You did."

"And you still trust me to keep these?"

"Yes."

Shocked, Wilson put the pills in his pocket without further comment.

House clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Great. Now, for the fun stuff." He leaned forward. "Why did you forget?"

Wilson glared. "I thought you said you didn't want me to talk about it?"

"No no no," Greg shook his head sadly. "I said I didn't want to listen to your outpouring of guilt. That doesn't mean I'm not curious as to what would make Saint Jimmy forget his responsibilities. Big difference."

"You're annoying."

"But somehow still charming."

"Your particular brand of charm hasn't been appealing since the invention of the wheel."

Pause. "Are you comparing me to a Neanderthal?"

"Yes. It seemed like a more than apt description."

"Ouch. And this from the man who just caused me twelve hours of pain..."

"So you don't want me to feel guilty unless it benefits you, in which case you shall encourage such feelings?"

"When opportunity knocks I am more than willing to take complete advantage of it."

Wilson sighed.

"Tell me." He was serious now, expression somber.

James brought his hand back to his neck, compulsively kneading the skin. "It's Julie."

House stared. "What about her? You two decide that you need to 'give it another go'?"

Wilson snorted. "No," he began to pace again, "she..." He exhaled loudly, stopping his rapid movements and staring at the older man. "She's pregnant."

Greg said nothing, still staring intently, knowing there was more.

House knew him too well.

"And she's not keeping the baby."

He had said it. Without the alcohol in his system that let him think that it didn't matter, that it meant nothing. That it didn't hurt.

He all but collapsed into the large brown chair in the room, bringing a palm to his face. "She's not keeping it." It was said softly, murmured into his hand, almost a whisper. But he knew that House heard him.

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Neither said anything for a time, Wilson removing the hand from his face and tilting his neck back onto the chair, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, regret in his mind. House seemed content to let the man gather himself, not a noise coming from him.

He heard a rustle of fabric and the step thud of House walking down his hallway, but ignored the sounds.

Minutes later, there was a tap on his shoulder. "Come on," Wilson jerked his head up to see House hovering above him, fully dressed. "You don't want to be late to play with all the cancer kids, even if they are manipulative bald little buggers." House hobbled away from James, headed for the door, his grip white on the handle of his cane.

Wilson eyed his progress with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Fine dear, I could use some Midol though." House was scowling quite effectively. "Here," he threw his keys at Wilson, James catching them just before they hit his face.

He would have been upset, but he was still blinking repeatedly at the keys. "You're letting me drive the Vette?"

"Well I can't, and I am not riding bitch with you in control of my bike."

Wilson grinned.

"Come on; car's in the garage."

They made their way to the car, Wilson smiling in satisfaction when he turned the key to the, absolutely beautiful, vehicle and it hummed at him.

He didn't know cars could hum.

"Don't you salivate on my car."

Wilson glared. "I don't salivate."

"That dribble on your chin begs to differ."

Wilson rolled his eyes as he pulled out of the underground building, heading towards the hospital, enjoying every second of the experience. He recognized it for what it was; Greg helping him forget.

Too many people assumed, including House himself, that Wilson got nothing from the friendship the two doctors shared. And while he could be annoying beyond reason, had a tendency to cause more problems than any other man Wilson had ever met and never passed up an opportunity to be a jerk, House knew Jimmy. Knew that, when faced with a problem with no solution, Wilson needed to forget. Needed a distraction.

Greg was excellent at providing these, and did so, expecting, and wanting, nothing in return.

It was selfless, although House would never see it that way. He would insist he was just trying to entertain himself, and if that meant watching five hours of baseball games on TV, going to a monster truck rally, or mocking James while he drooled over the Vette, so be it.

"I will never understand why you don't drive this thing more."

House shrugged. "Chicks dig the bike, what can I say? Besides, this keeps the paint job from getting screwed up."

"But it drives like-"

"It's straight out of heaven? I know." House patted the glove box fondly. "My big, red, '65 angel."

"I think you have more affection for this car than for people."

"And this surprises you?"

"Not at all. I think I like this car more than most people."

House sent him a suspicious glance. "Hey; hands off, Boy Wonder. She's mine."

James grinned, "Relax, Sparky."

House growled and James's grin widened.

"So how's Pratt?" He pushed aside the thoughts of Sara and Julie.

"Eh," House leaned back in his seat, "He's not dead yet."

"Always a good sign."

"He had an allergic reaction to peanuts, then had the same reaction a week later, but not to peanuts."

"That... Makes no sense."

"Nope. But that's the kind of thing we're stuck with in the department where they send the cases that don't make sense."

"Go figure."

"How about you? Got any interesting patients?"

Jimmy's thoughts went straight to Clara. But, assuming that House meant medically interesting, "Nope. Nothing unusual."

"Nothing at all?"

"No cases that would interest you," medically.

James felt the diagnostician's accusing eyes on him without turning.

He sighed. "You found out about Clara, didn't you?"

House grumbled. "Yes, and not from you, I might add. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wait, this is familiar, hold on." Wilson tilted his head and gave an exaggerated gasp. "That's right. This is the same conversation we had when Chase's dad came in. What was my answer then?" James furrowed his brow, "Oh, right. Doctor patient confidentiality."

"Stop trying to protect my minions."

"Someone should. You're not exactly gentle with them, are you? Do you remember what happened when Chase's dad came?"

"I tormented both Chases endlessly. Your point?"

"I would want to encourage this kind of behavior because...?"

"It's fun to watch people cry?"

Wilson let out an exasperated sigh. "Grow a soul or something."

"I would, but I don't think they work like Chia-pets, and anything requiring more effort than that is beyond me."

"I find it funny that you can keep people on the verge of death from keeling over, but you can't handle watering a plant."

"Yeah, well. People complain when you don't take care of them. I do it just to shut them up."

There was a small moment of silence. "You would tell me about a new case if the patient wasn't related to someone on my team. Why aren't you morally outraged about that?" House, when his expertise in the art of whining was displayed to its full effect, was incredibly trying.

"You wouldn't care or ask about a new case if the patient wasn't related to someone on your team."

A pause. "You have a point." House huffed. "Still. You should have told me. Or someone should have told me."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "You're honestly upset about this, aren't you?"

House shrugged. "I like knowing stuff."

Wilson grinned. "Right. How did you find out anyway?"

"Went into her room when I was avoiding clinic. Watched General Hospital."

"Wait," Wilson turned to stare at his friend while they were at a stop-light. "You watched General Hospital with a patient?"

"Twice."

"Even though you knew she was Cameron's sister?"

"Not exactly."

Wilson narrowed his eyes briefly at his friend before turning back to the road. "You like her."

House sent him a bewildered look.

"Don't look so insulted. I never said you wanted to have sex with her," Wilson gave his friend a serious look, "Seriously, don't. Her husband could tear you in two."

"I do not like her. I don't like people, especially patients. And I saw her husband," House shook his head. "He's The Hulk in disguise, mark my words."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You like her and that's why you're mad now. If you like her, you can't use her like another puzzle piece to bother Cameron with."

"I'm mad because I've been lied to by my entire team, your patient and you."

James smirked. "It's okay to admit it, you know. She's a very nice woman."

"Jimmy, I don't like her."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"You know, I'm starting to understand your point about how the 'annoy them to death' definition of friendship is rather irritating."

"And I'm just starting to get why it's so appealing. Funny how that works, huh?"

House glared. "I hope a cancer kid pukes on you."

Ten minutes later Wilson was pulling into the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital parking lot.

House looked out the window and then quickly pulled his head back in. "Am I imagining the herd of reporters out there?"

Wilson shook his head, parking the car and staring at the mass of people. "Not unless you've decided to share your hallucinations." Wilson eyed the crowd suspiciously. "They look like they're out for blood."

"Maybe Cuddy's decided this is the way she wants to kill me. It might just be more horrid than death by extended exposure to the clinic."

---

Cuddy had been mean to him.

After he and Wilson had battled through all of the reporters and made their way into the hospital, she greeted them, eyeing the crowd of vultures with an angry stare.

She had then told House that if he didn't get Pratt checked out of the hospital by the end of the day, she was going to throw the billionaire out, gown still on, sickness or no. And while House would actually be amused by this, he thought it best to make an effort to diagnose the man. He liked his job, and he certainly didn't want to have to train a new Dean of Medicine, not after he finally taught Cuddy how to roll over.

So, Greg had obediently made his way to the office, and was now idly tossing his tennis ball in the air from one end of the table while Chase worked diligently on a crossword from the other.

The diagnostics team, hard at work.

After a few minutes without the entrance of his other two doctors, House reluctantly stopped playing with his toy. "Where's Foreman?" Chase looked up, eyebrow raised. "He have a car to steal? Drugs to sell? Or is he out getting me those chocolates?"

"Actually," Chase pushed the crossword aside and brought the pen he had been using to his mouth, "he's giving a consult."

"Disappointing. And Cameron?"

"Not in yet."

"Hmm... Perhaps filming a 'Girls Gone Wild' tape?" Or sleeping off a day spent watching a heart monitor beep and wiping runny noses.

Probably the latter.

A shame. His version was more fun.

Chase blinked. "Informing you that Cameron would sell her soul before being in one of those-"

"Would be entirely useless."

"Got it."

They fell into a comfortable silence, Chase stretching in his seat while Greg gave the ball another toss.

House... tolerated Chase, despite his many glaring faults. Unlike Foreman, he wasn't a great doctor, and unlike Cameron, he didn't work hard to make up for this lack of raw intelligence. Instead he was content to remain average, common. To coast along, performing his job without actually caring about it. Personally, House had no problem with this, so long as Blondie was willing to step up when it was needed of him.

The fact that House was content with less than Chase's best was more than a little lucky for the Aussie. If he had any other boss (one who could recognize his potential to be more, much more, than what the young doctor was settling with), Chase would have been smacked upside the head and forced to work harder.

Chase was creative. When he actually took the time to consider a case as something more than a necessary chore, invested something greater into the work, he could be brilliant. Foreman was smart, but he was smart in a way that a textbook is smart. You can look up every disease known to man and draw lines from point A to point B, but sometimes knowledge alone isn't enough. Chase was resourceful, imaginative. He wasn't always right, but when he was interested in a case and was willing to apply himself, he drew lines from point A to point Q. When these leaps weren't blatantly stupid (and they were most of the time), they were pure genius. Chase could look at a set of symptoms, see the same data as everyone else, and come up with an off-the-wall diagnosis or solution that no one else would have considered. Like taking an X-ray to find a tape worm, extracting liquid from an eye to bring back sight or ultrasounding a brain when the MRI machine was being used.

He had a unique perspective, and unfortunately, that was a quality that was often seen as worthless in the medical profession. Except in one area.

Diagnostics.

Of course, these flashes of brilliance happened so rarely that House had a tendency to forget that Chase was capable of producing them, as did just about everyone else.

House had the impression that Chase liked it that way.

Thanks to Mommy and Daddy, the intensivist didn't expect anything from anyone, including himself. It was why he had been so eager to sell House out to Vogler, anticipating the swing of the axe long before House had considered using it. Why he had tried to hide the death of his father from his superiors, certain that they would be unwilling to give him any allowances. It was why he didn't strive to advance his career. If others could disappoint you, you could certainly disappoint yourself, and if you wanted more, you could fail and never reach it.

But, despite these flaws, House tolerated Chase.

Didn't like him (House didn't like people), but tolerated him.

He and the Aussie had reached an understanding early on in the intensivist's fellowship. Chase would do what House asked, would contribute as needed, but would not be given any expectations to fill beyond basic grunt-work and an occasional theory about a patient. House would be sent an odd look every now and then when he suggested something particularly outlandish, but he did not need to concern himself with Chase questioning or berating him for his theories or patient care. Chase wouldn't ask his boss any personal questions, and House would do the same for his employee.

It was a simple, non-verbal, agreement (one that House, admittedly, had broken several times to satisfy his curiosity and that Chase had broken once, when House's addiction had been at its worst), and it worked well for them. House could understand Chase, and Chase could appreciate what other's saw as House's flaws.

As a result, they made a great team.

House made a mental note to get them matching outfits.

"Does Wilson's wife work with Pratt?" Chase had pulled the pen out of his mouth and was now leaning back in his chair, slouching rather artfully.

Greg stopped concocting a logo to put on the back of their capes and brought his attention to the conversation. "Nope. His new ex-wife does though."

Chase flinched in sympathy. "Ouch."

"It gets better."

"Does it?"

Chase was so much fun to gossip with.

"Mrs. Pratt?" The wombat nodded. "His first ex-wife."

He whistled. "Bad luck that." He stood up and grabbed his mug, headed for the coffee. "Explains a lot though."

House stared at him expectantly.

"We found her old college yearbook at Pratt's." Chase smirked. "Wilson was pining and pleading in his note." He grabbed his full cup and stirred the almost pure caffeine with a straw. "Classic."

"And you didn't tell me?" House grumbled as the younger man sat back down. Didn't people realize how much House liked knowing stuff? "That's twice you've failed me Chase."

He shrugged. "Oops?"

"Why didn't you notify me about the yearbook?"

"Didn't seem important."

House nodded reluctantly. "It wasn't." He'd be damned if he was going to let Chase off that easily though. "How about the cancer lady I was talking to? The fact that she shares a chromosome or two with Cameron slipped your mind?"

"I didn't think you'd care." The pen was in his mouth again. "It was irrelevant to the case and you looked too enthralled with your soap to listen to me anyway."

House blinked at him. Chase was many things, but he was not dumb enough to think that House would be uninterested in the personal affairs of anyone, much less Cameron.

The intensivist sighed. "Fine, Clara didn't want me to tell you and neither did Cameron."

Now for the interesting bit. "Why?"

"I have no idea. And even if I did I wouldn't tell you."

House glared. "Hey, I hold your leash." Greg tossed the ball up into the air again.

Chase rolled his eyes.

"Isn't your loyalty to me greater than your loyalty to them?" A pause as he caught the ball, "Oh, wait. You slept with Cameron, didn't you? Embarrassing performance? Afraid of the rumors that will spread if you defy her?"

Chase shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. "Her desire to keep you unaware of her personal life is not exactly irrational given your history." He sent House a significant glance.

House didn't have the time to analyze it properly however, as at that instant Cameron threw open the door to the diagnostics room and groaned.

"Reporters are like leeches."

"Blood-sucking parasites?" House tilted his head, pondering. "Seems right."

"It's chaos out there. I was almost cornered into giving an interview before Cuddy started growling, scared them all away and told me to get up here." She made her way around the table, collapsing into a chair and looking from one man to the other. "So, how's the case going? I hope it has nothing to do with that fiasco."

"Nothing spectacular here, about the case anyway. Chase is complaining about anal leakage again though. That's pretty spectacular, if disturbing."

Chase sent him an appalled look.

Cameron smirked and gave Chase a concerned glance. "I didn't realize that hanging out with my family had those side-effects."

They both grinned before Cameron turned to her bag, pulling out some files and setting them on the table.

House's gaze remained on Chase, who seemed profoundly relieved.

Chase, spending time with Cameron's family? Interesting in itself, combined with the relief that she could joke about his spending time with her family, and House had just stumbled upon some unresolved issues.

Greg made a mental note to ponder these findings at a later date.

As for now, to business.

"Alright duckies. Foreman's busy in the hood," Cameron's eyebrows shot up and he saw Chase mouth 'consult', "so it's just us." He wiggled his eyebrows and leered at his underlings. "Who's going to make the first move?" He stroked his cane suggestively.

"You need to stop including me in your sexual fantasies," Chase commented dryly as Cameron rolled her eyes and looked back to her files.

"Chase, you should be flattered. Besides, it could be fun..."

Chase stared at him. "Seriously."

Greg let out a huff of air. "Alright, fine. Your rejection's gotten me out of the mood anyway. I suppose we'll just have to talk about the patient instead."

Cameron's brow furrowed. "Shouldn't he be out of here by now?"

"That was the hope, but he just likes it so much here. When we tried to make him leave he acted like a kid that had been kicked out of Disneyland. Very pathetic."

Chase ignored him and explained. "House found out there was peanut extract in the candy at his mansion."

Cameron let out and exasperated sigh. "Of course there was."

"That sounded a bit sarcastic." House gave the tennis ball another toss, narrowing his eyes. "Losing your faith in the intelligence of humanity?"

"No," she glared at him. "He's a perfectly nice and smart man. He just made a simple mistake and it wasted a lot of time and money." A shrug, "It happens."

She didn't just say that, did she?

Mistakes did not just 'happen.' They were caused by people being stupid. To imply otherwise would remove the blame entirely, make the occurrence an unfortunate but uncontrollable event that no one could have prevented. And this, while comforting, was entirely false. Someone was always to blame and someone should always be held accountable, otherwise idiocy, and its consequences, became excusable.

Cameron, it seemed, needed to be reminded of this.

"Well he's not the only one who made a boo-boo. Be sure to save some of the credit for yourself."

"What?"

"You're the immunologist and you missed this. An agent that our patient was allergic to was in your possession, you even snacked on it, and you didn't notice. Not to mention the fact that you took the history and never once considered a food source."

"I did consider it, I just thought that since he knew he was allergic that he wouldn't have ingested anything with pean-"

"Apparently you didn't think enough. This kind of negligence is what gets people killed. Stop trying to pass out pardons when you're just as guilty."

Cameron looked away from him, staring at her files, ashamed.

Good.

She wouldn't make the mistake again.

Cameron rarely made blunders of any sort. She wouldn't allow herself to, especially when these errors could result in hurting someone else. However, when she did screw up, she would remedy the wrong as quickly as possible and learn from the experience, the guilt more than enough to goad her into never committing the act again.

In contrast, when Chase messed up, he acted as if it didn't matter. And although House doubted the man went home and agonized over every mistake he had ever made, he also doubted that he was able to dismiss them as easily as he pretended to. Greg liked to remind Chase about these inaccuracies whenever possible, simultaneously making sure that Chase took his slip-ups seriously and allowing House to view his reactions, trying to discover whether or not Chase was apathetic as he tried to believe he was.

Then, there was Foreman, who didn't like to believe that he made mistakes, much less attempt to learn from them. Not to say that House didn't make sure the lessons sunk in eventually, Foreman's reluctance to see himself as anything but infallible making the process all the more enjoyable. Brilliant people were so much fun to torment.

Sadly, it was never as satisfying with Cameron. When she knew that she had made a mistake, she took what he said to heart far too readily, offered no challenge in her acceptance of her errors and could often load herself with guilt to the point where she became worthless as a doctor for the rest of the day.

As such, allowing her to dwell would be counter-productive.

"However, we've only discovered half of the problem, so you have the opportunity to redeem yourself." She brought her gaze back up to his own, seemingly surprised. "The peanut didn't cause the second attack."

Chase, who had been more than willing to avoid the confrontation while it was occurring, perked up, disbelief plain on his every feature. "Impossible."

"Apparently not."

Cameron, still looking at House as if he had a particularly large booger hanging from his nose, frowned. "If the reactions were exactly the same in magnitude, there's no way different allergies could have caused each one. Peanuts promote very severe allergic reactions; the odds of his having another, different allergy at the same scale is impossible," she laughed bitterly. "That's why it was so hard for us to come up with an allergen to begin with. Nothing except peanut or something incredibly toxic can cause that kind of reaction."

"Technically, it's not impossible. Just very unlikely."

"If by 'very unlikely' you mean a hundred million to one?" Chase took another sip of coffee, smiling.

House nodded. "Exactly."

The two members of his team sent him confounded looks.

He sighed. "I know it doesn't make sense, but he hasn't had a piece of the candy or anything with the foul and deadly taint of peanut since the first attack." House stood up and hobbled to the whiteboard, grabbing a pen and uncapping it. "So, unless we find out that he's lying because he's afraid of looking like a bigger idiot than he already does, let's come up with another explanation, shall we? Any ideas?"

House was met with the disturbing sound of silence.

Cameron shook her head. "It had to be another reaction to peanut."

Greg groaned. "Fine. Chase," the intensivist stood up, "go quiz Pratt about everything he's eaten or inhaled since the first attack." Chase nodded and headed for the door. "And be quick about it. Cuddy's going to pull out a gun and start shooting people soon if we don't get the press to scram."

The Aussie grinned and left the room, images of a mad Cuddy on a rampage through PPTH's halls no doubt going through his mind.

Cameron stood as well, grabbing her pile of papers. "I'll go check his blood. Maybe there's another explanation that we're missing."

"No." House capped the marker and placed it back bellow the board. "We know it's an allergy."

"Then what should I do?" She asked, throwing the files on the table and crossing her arms over her chest. "File paperwork?"

And then House uttered the words he never thought he would say to a woman.

"We need to talk."

She gulped, shifted her feet and clenched.

He hated when she did that. Got tense and tightened her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller than she already was. Whenever he spoke to her she seemed to do it, like she was waiting for him to snap at her, lash out. To crush her.

It made him nervous. Irritated him. Reminded him how naive she was. How foolish. How hopelessly fragile.

It was those fragile things about her that made him want to shake her, knock some sense of self-preservation into her, scare her into being rational. Naïveté is not a trait to be proud of, it's a weakness. Thinking the best of people doesn't make it true, it just makes you vulnerable. Trust without reason is not noble, it's stupid.

And it wasn't that she hadn't learned these things; it was that she refused to believe them. House could expose a flaw in her medical reasoning and she would quickly absorb this knowledge and adapt accordingly. The instant he attempted to do the same regarding the nature of people, he would be argued with, ignored or accused of being a bastard.

It didn't make sense, that someone so obviously damaged was all but asking to be hurt by anyone wishing to do so. It wasn't reasonable, wasn't smart. Made him want to rip her heart off of her sleeve and put it back where it belonged, where it would be safe from people like him.

And she saw that. But instead of moving the damn thing herself, placing it back in her ribcage and developing an awareness of harsh realities of the world, she clenched. Her one feeble resistance against the rest of humanity. Against him.

House didn't like Cameron (House didn't like people). She was too innocent, too nice. She saw things as she wanted to see them, not as they were, and this form of ignorance grated on his nerves more than any other. Having all access to the evidence but purposefully ignoring it because it didn't lead to the answer she wanted. It was why she liked him, thought him to be more than he actually was, that she could bring out 'the best in him', refusing to believe that there was no 'great man' buried under layers of cynicism. Her crush was a small infatuation, created by the belief that she could heal him, change him.

She couldn't. But she continued to believe she could, just like she continued to believe that humanity was good.

And as annoying as he found her persistence in these false ideals, he also found it interesting.

But having an interest in someone is far different than liking them.

Or at least that's what Greg told himself.

And now, it was time to figure out if she had finally learned something.

"Why didn't you tell me about your sister?"

She scowled at him, a disbelieving look on her face. "Did you honestly think I would want to?"

"Why not? You're all about the sharing of feelings."

"Not when they're just going to be mocked and ridiculed."

"Mocked, certainly. Ridicule though," he adopted an offended expression. "That's a bit much." His eyes went wide and he lowered his voice, speaking as if he was talking to a small child. "She does have cancer, after all."

"Right, that would stop you." She stared at him intently, sizing him up. "You pick apart every weakness you find in people just to watch them squirm, because it entertains you. And it doesn't matter what or who you stomp on in order to get your few laughs in. This," she sighed sadly, "won't be any different."

Greg furrowed his brow and leaned more heavily on his cane, looking her in the eye. "You distrust me that much?"

"Yes." Said instantly, without hesitation or time for speculation, but not quickly enough for House to miss the remote sound of remorse in her voice.

"Good."

She reached around him, grabbing the files from the table and then turning back to the door. "I'm going to go run more blood work. I'll give Pratt a scratch-test when Chase is done to see if there's something else he's allergic to that could have caused this."

She left, and Greg remained with a smug feeling of triumph, tainted by a confusing disappointment that he couldn't explain.

She had put her heart back where it belonged, where it was safe.

Away from him.

---

Chase had just left Diagnostics and was on his way to Pratt's room when something ran into him.

It rather hurt, actually.

But when he realized that the 'something' he had been hit by was a five foot, nine inch beautiful woman, the pain was easy to ignore.

She smiled and he forgot to breathe for a second. "Rob! Good, I found you. Would you lik-"

Sammy stopped mid-word, squinting her eyes and looking at his chest.

Chase frowned and did the same, glancing back up when he didn't notice anything odd.

"What?"

"Who dressed you this morning?"

Chase blinked. "Erm, I did?"

"Were your eyes closed?"

"Do you practice being cruel, or does it come naturally to you?" He smirked as he said it. If he didn't know himself better, hadn't trained himself to not care about people (much less ones he barely knew), he would have thought that he had missed her.

"I'm sorry," she said, grinning at him as she took a step closer, "But unless you're blind you have no excuse for this," she fingered his tie, "and this," a pluck at his sweater vest, "being anywhere near each other."

He attempted to block out the way she smelled so he could continue with the conversation in a somewhat coherent manner. "What's wrong with them?"

"Well, for starters, the tie is bright yellow and the vest is pale green. Secondly, the tie is outside of the vest."

Rob was missing something. "Your point being...?"

Sammy shook her head sadly, bringing her head to his shoulder with a thump. "I'm sorry, you're not allowed around my family anymore, especially not Matt. I don't want you to corrupt him."

Chase was silent for a moment, relishing the contact of her hand still clinging to his vest. It was a shame that this wonderful proximity was about it end. "So, does this mean that I win the bet then?"

She backed away, let go of the fabric and hit him lightly on the arm.

"Ow! First you run into me, then you hit me... Awfully abusive, aren't you?"

She rolled her eyes but otherwise ignored his comments. "You have not won the bet. You are simply not allowed near my loved ones until you learn how to dress properly."

"What's wrong with this?"

Sammy had an expression on her face that clearly stated, 'you are an utter moron'. "You're not serious?"

Chase raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"You look like an Easter egg."

He glanced down at his outfit again. Yellow cross-hatched tie, light green vest, plaid white and blue shirt, tan trousers.

What was the problem?

"I don't see it."

"Oh wow." She brought her wrist up to her line of vision, eyeing her watch. "What time do you get off?"

Rob narrowed his eyes, nervous. "Why?"

She lowered her arm brought her gaze up to his face. "No questions. You're no longer permitted them."

"Because I can't dress?"

"No. Because you can't dress and don't realize that you can't dress. It's like sending a leper to a highly populated area without telling him that his limbs are about to fall off. Not only is he going to be miserable when he discovers his disease, but he's going to emotionally scar the innocent bystanders when he's walking around and loses an ear."

Chase blinked again. "Thank you for that fairly disgusting image."

A smirk. "My pleasure. The point is, you're a danger to yourself and to everyone around you." She patted his shoulder. "But it's alright. We're going to get you help. Now what time do you get off?"

"Around five." She was a woman on a mission; the smartest thing for him to do would be just to sit back and let her do whatever she saw fit. To defy her now was to risk her wrath, which he was certain would be mighty and not a little scary.

Best to just submit to her whims.

"Okay. I have to drive Clara home at four, but I should be back by then."

Chase's brow furrowed. "She's back so soon?"

Sammy smirked. "Why, Doctor Chase, is that concern? Might you have a certain fondness for my darling sister-in-law?"

He sent her an exasperated look. "Curiosity is one of my many faults."

Sammy grinned. "Well if it is a curiosity tinged with apprehension, remain calm. Just a check-up before her surgery tomorrow."

"Lumpectomy?"

She inclined her head slightly and bit her lip.

"Don't worry," Robert reassured her quickly, not wanting to see her upset. "She'll be fine. It's a very standard procedure and the chances of something going wrong are slim to none."

"Oh, I know." She released her lip from between her teeth and gave another smile. "Jim explained everything to us. It's just," she sighed, "I just can't help but be a little apprehensive."

Chase nodded his understanding, not knowing what to say. His policy had always been that when emotionally loaded topics entered the conversation, the best thing to do was change the subject.

"Wilson's been spending a lot of time with you all then?"

Sammy nodded, gesturing down the hall in the direction he had been going originally, the two beginning to walk slowly together down the crowded passage.

It never failed.

"Tons. He's actually with Clara now."

"Still talking about the lumpectomy?"

"No." She tilted her head. "I'm pretty sure when I left they were discussing casserole recipes."

Chase blinked. "Casserole recipes?"

She shrugged. "They like cooking."

"Wilson gets too close to his patients," he muttered to himself.

Apparently, Sammy heard him. She raised an eyebrow. "You think that because Clara's his patient he shouldn't treat her like a person?"

"It's not that." He looked at her, debating whether or not he should say what was on his mind.

"Do it," she said, adopting a grim expression. "If it's insulting I promise to leave some recognizable features so they can ID the body."

He grinned. "Doctors aren't encouraged to become overly attached to patients, in case," a small pause as he thought about how to nicely phrase 'they kick the bucket,' "the worst should happen."

She smirked. "Al must be wonderful at that." The sarcasm was apparent in every syllable.

"Yeah," they exchanged a knowing look before Chase continued. "It makes it difficult for a doctor to do their job properly."

"But what about the patient?"

Chase shrugged. "In my experience most patients don't want their doctors to be their friends. Makes it all too personal."

"Really?" Sammy gave him a doubting look. "Would you trust your life to someone who views you as another statistic rather than a human being?"

"All doctors care about statistics."

"But if they didn't care about you? Just saw you as another pin cushion?"

"As long as I'm a pin cushion that helps determine their salary." People could always be counted on to do the selfish thing.

She squinted at him and then turned away quickly. "I don't think I could be comfortable with that. And Clara certainly wouldn't. You should know what she's like by now." A fond upturning of her lips, "She adopts everyone she sees and becomes instant friends with them. If Jim took that personal bond away from her…" a sigh. "Well, she wouldn't be nearly as calm as she is now."

"Clara does seem the type," Chase grinned at recalling his own quick adoption, "but it still isn't good for the doctor. It makes it harder for him to make objective decisions, can distract him during a medical emergency, prevent him from giving his full attention to his other cases…"

She sent him a slightly annoyed look.

"The list goes on."

"I'm sure it does. In the long run, however, what the question really comes down to," she stopped walking as they came close to the elevator, Chase walking in front of her and then turning to see her properly, "is whether or not the doctor wants to make things easier for the patient," she stared at him intently, "or easier for himself."

Rob said nothing, feeling chided and, for some unknown reason, guilty. He didn't like letting people down, didn't like being responsible for causing someone else to hurt, but that didn't mean that he should feel bad for it. He wanted nothing meaningful from her, so she should anticipate nothing meaningful from him. If she had some expectations for him that he wasn't fulfilling properly, that was her own fault.

But he couldn't help the sinking sensation of shame he felt for disappointing her, and that worried him.

Sammy clapped her hands together. "But enough of that. I'll pick you up in front of the hospital around ten after five, sound good? You do have some extra money that you can spend, don't you?"

Chase opened his mouth to respond.

"What am I saying? You're a doctor. Of course you have extra money to spend."

He closed his mouth.

"I'll see you then." She made her way to the elevator, squeezing in with some nurses and holding the doors open as they wheeled in a gurney.

Rob was feeling more than a bit flabbergasted. "But what are we doing? And why were you looking for me in the first place?"

"What we're doing is a surprise," she said, smiling back at a nurse who gave her a grateful grin as the gurney was at last pushed into the compartment. "And I was going to ask you if you wanted to do something tonight." She smirked at him. "All in all, a very productive trip."

Her smile was the last thing he saw as the doors to the elevator closed.