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.

9. So I Can Sew It, pt three

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 own very few things. My car. A CD or hundred. Some books. Not House. -sadness- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

Author's Note: Only two days late! Better than a week! Please don't hurt me!

This section has not been looked over. -fear- I'll be sending it to LastScorpion later tonight and will update it with corrections if she is willing to grace me with her abilities. -bows before LastScorpion-

My medical knowledge is about as useful as a broken shoelace. You can use it if you want to, but it'll come undone a whole lot and no one will take you seriously.

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

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Hope this helps tide everyone over until later tonight! -does jig of excitement-

Thank you and enjoy!

EDIT: This chapter has now, at long last, been LastScorpion approved. -thumbs up- Thank goodness too. I used 'excrete' instead of 'exert' for crying out loud... -shakes head in shame- Anywho, join me in singing her praises! –choir begins to sing praises of LastScorpion-

EDIT NUMBER TWO: Thanks to the careful observations of Phoenix Lumen, Clara's tumor has reduced from five inches, to a far more reasonable five centimeters. Many thanks for pointing out the mistake!

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Chapter Six: So I Can Sew It, Part Three

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

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Manipulation is an art form, and a risky one at that. Only the most skilled can maneuver its subtleties without being caught, navigate the delicate combination of human reaction, probability and pure logic to control others without inspiring resentment.

Greg, however, was not the sort to give much attention to these feelings of offense. He did not care if those he needed to control didn't like him so long as they did what he felt was rational.

People were stupid. He typically spent most of his days trying to get them to act less so than usual. And while he wasn't praised for these efforts, no one could doubt his intentions.

This wasn't true manipulation.

The idiocy evident in humanity was something that Greg was (nobly) attempting to stifle. He felt that people should recognize this and do as he said.

Sadly, more often than not they wouldn't acknowledge his efforts and he would have to lie (but only when it could not be helped), use brute intimidation, guilt and, on very rare occasions, a hint of compassion to make them see his point. He was never gentle, never subtle. His aims for such acts were clear, his purpose obvious. When House was pulling strings the puppets had complete knowledge of it. They were being tricked, but only as much as they allowed themselves to be, knowing they could yank away their strings at any time.

The true masters of manipulation let their toys believe that they were real boys and girls, unhindered by strings of any sort, much less ones that were being held by others. These hapless fools were unaware of the influence constantly being exerted upon them, the clever and downright sneaky methods that were being used to so casually to direct them. And while Greg could see the beauty in this, from an abstract point of view, once this method was applied to him he had a tendency to become a little touchy.

He did not like being controlled, and the average person was frightened enough by him not to attempt it. This just reaffirmed House's belief that life is made easier by treating people like crap. Fear made people want to leave him alone, and when they actually did, both Greg and the individual were left happier for it. They kept their distance, House could be as sarcastic as he so chose and no one was left feeling slighted.

That is, unless Greg was forced to insult them at some point, whether because of some act of senselessness on their part or simply because he was bored. But this, too, was a community service in his mind. Spines were in short supply amongst the human race and Greg was the equivalent to fertilizer, helping people grow their own.

He really was the self-sacrificing type.

But some persons already had spines firmly intact. And the instant he met such a person and didn't show her his teeth, she was foolishly given to believe that he wasn't dangerous. She had then attempted to use him for her purposes, whatever they might have been. House was not innocent, wasn't sweet and couldn't be expected to sit back idly while someone attempted to maneuver him to suit their own ends.

It was time for the puppy to bite back.

So, he had gone to Wilson's office, rifled through his files and discovered that Clara Samson was in for one last check-up before her surgery the next day. After reading this information, he had promptly left the office, snagging her file as he walked out of the door and began the journey to room 213.

Currently, he neared the room with a frown on his face. The transparent sliding door was ajar and he could hear familiar laughter from within, mixing with the higher chuckles of Wily Cancer Woman.

A deep breath as Clara's laughing halted. "So I'm trying to make a new casserole before the in-laws come, Al's trying to reassure Matt that he hasn't ruined Christmas, Mark's running around the house with the remains of the old casserole on his shirt, looking for his keys so he can go buy more cheese at the grocery store and Sammy's working around me, cleaning up the mess from the spill."

House heard a decidedly Wilson-esque snicker. "This is managing to make my holiday stories seem positively mild. And I'm from a very loud, very large, Jewish family. I'm beyond impressed."

"Oh, that's not the half of it."

"This got worse?"

"Much worse. When the in-laws do show up, only minutes later, I'm still working on the food, half of which is now on me, and Sammy's on the ground between my legs, picking up the last of the old casserole. Of course, they enter and she pops up from between my legs looking triumphant, while I'm all but exhausted above her."

A snort.

"Matt's still crying and Al's starting to panic because she can't calm him down. Mark still hasn't found his keys, so he's storming around, looking furious with the other half of dinner on him. And to top it all, seconds after we reassure the in-laws that their daughter and I are not lesbians, neither Al nor Matt has been abused and that Mark is just frustrated because of his ability to misplace the most common of objects, my brother Will walks in."

A puzzled silence. Cameron had another sibling?

"Oh, right. You haven't met Will, have you?"

"Unfortunately, no."

She eagerly continued. "This was when he had first discovered the biker scene." House could almost see how hard she was trying not to giggle. "His hair was bleach blond and spiked, his entire left arm covered in tattoos, had at least six rings in each ear, one in his nose and one through his lip."

More Wilson laughter.

"They haven't come back to our place for dinner since."

There was more laughter and House rolled his eyes. Time to break up this charming pow-wow. He had a lot to accomplish today and he was not going to be deterred from his busy schedule by doctor-patient bonding.

"Aww, isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?" Greg had opened the door more fully and stepped into the space, seeing Wilson seated happily in the room's sole comfortable chair, leaning forward and grinning. On the bed Clara was grinning just as wide, looking slightly smug at the positive reception of her story. "I particularly liked the lesbian part. When you write your novel, be sure to put special emphasis on that, would you?"

"I will, just for you Greg."

"What brings you here?" Jimmy looked down at his watch. "General Hospital doesn't come on for another hour." He smirked. "Did you miss Clara?"

House scowled. "No."

Wily Cancer Woman brought a hand to her chest. "But Greg, I thought you cared for me? All those sweet nothings whispered into my ear… They were lies?"

"He does lie a lot. Especially to himself." Wilson shook his head sadly at Greg and then turned back to Clara. "Don't worry, he's in denial."

House scowled. "Don't you have more dying people to talk to? You do have more than one patient that needs your emotional sincerity and strength."

"But you only have one patient, right?" Clara asked, eyebrow raised. "Should you really be criticizing?"

"We're not talking about me."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "And he'll criticize anything, whether it's his place or not."

House sighed, becoming impatient. "Hello? Dying people in other rooms. Go forth Saint Jimmy!" House made a shooing gesture towards the hallway. "Heal the sick."

"I'm on my lunch break." Wilson's gaze focused on House's right hand. "What's that file you've got?"

House gave an internal grumble. Wilson knew he wanted to talk to his patient but insisted on being difficult. Fine. Then House would just have to make him leave.

"Lunch, huh?" House leaned back against a clear wall and tried to pull off a wistful look. "A salami sandwich sure would be delectable right now." He rubbed his leg forcefully, ignoring the indent in his thigh as he sighed. "Shame that my leg's being particularly pissy today."

Clara's brow was furrowed, but Wilson was just glaring.

"If only I had my pills this morning."

Still glaring.

"Then I wouldn't be starving."

A glare, but a slightly annoyed one.

"Wasting away."

Definitely irritated now.

"Dwindling to nothing before your very eyes." He threw in an extra rub, adding a wince for dramatic effect.

Wilson flinched with him.

And there was the guilt House had been searching for.

Jimmy sighed, standing up from his seat and sending Clara an apologetic glance. "Sorry to leave you alone with him." He glowered in House's general direction. "His 'feed me' meter is going off."

Clara nodded. "Understood. When the baby cries, it must be looked after." She smirked. "Even if the baby is six feet tall."

House grinned. "Goo goo."

Wilson pointed a finger at him as he reached the door. "Don't harass my patient."

"Me, harass someone? I'm a joy, Jimmy. What on Earth are you talking about?"

Wilson shook his head and rubbed his neck, almost groaning as he left the room.

Cancer Woman sent him a slightly confounded look. "Well we're alone now," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Why did you want us without adult supervision, Greg? Normally I would go with 'make-out session,' but seeing as how you met Mark I somehow doubt it."

House narrowed his eyes and hobbled to the chair Jimmy had just departed, sitting down with a flop as he pulled up the folder to his line of vision and began reading. "Clara Samson-"

"Yes, that would be me."

He was only slightly surprised by the fact that she didn't seemed to be alarmed that he had gotten a hold of her medical file.

"Forty-four years of age." He tilted his head and looked up at her. "Didn't your husband say he was thirty-eight?"

"What can I say? I like 'em young." She raised her brows and made a smacking noise with her lips.

Greg eyed the display with a mild sense of disgust. "The youth are our future, you know."

"They're also limber and ripe for corruption."

"He's good in the sack so you married him. That seems rather shallow, doesn't it?"

"This coming from the man who hired my younger sister because she was like," she frowned slightly and looked to the ceiling, trying to remember something. "Oh yes. 'A piece of art in the lobby'?"

Erp. Well that wasn't good. If she knew the lawyers could know, and if the lawyers knew he might end up paying through his nose...

She smirked, apparently gathering his question from his slightly bewildered expression. "She was very mad a night about six months after she started working for you. I got a call. You're safe. I took the brunt of the rage and convinced her not to sue." She grinned and then let out a small whistle. "The things she called you," she smiled. "I've never been more proud."

Really? Although the woman didn't show it, House had the suspicion that she had a vocabulary so extensive that even the most hardened sailor would turn green with envy when she put it to use. If Cameron had impressed her, her little explosion must have been especially spectacular. "Anything particularly colorful?"

"Plenty. But I'll spare your ego."

"Gee, thanks. Wouldn't want to get all weepy. Didn't bring my cover-up with me today." Internally disappointed that he would never know the extent of Cameron's swearing capabilities, House turned back to the file. "History of breast cancer in your family-"

She nodded, interrupting him. "My grandmother died of it before I was born and my mother passed away from it when I was ten."

"Right." He sent her an annoyed glance and again looked to the papers in front of him. "Unfortunate, but not shocking that you've developed it yourself at a relatively young age." He put the file down and stared at her, Clara returning his gaze steadily. "But there is something about this case that is," he brought a finger to his mouth and adopted an perplexed expression, "off."

"Oh I wonder what it could be?" She grinned, but he saw her fingers clench slightly at the sheet that covered her legs. She was nervous.

"Stage One breast cancer I could understand. Even Stage Two, while odd, wouldn't be unexplainable. But a woman doesn't fail to notice a five centimeter lump on her breast. What's more, a person with a family history of breast cancer as prominent as your own isn't likely to miss the implications of any bump at all. Most women who have had their Mommies kick the bucket due to the disease go into panic attacks if their breasts feel tingly."

She smirked, loosening her hands around the sheet and leaning back into the pile of pillows behind her. "Their husbands must be left terribly unsatisfied a majority of the time."

She was trying to distract him. A shame it wasn't going to work. Especially since his knowledge of breasts was quite extensive.

"You, however, managed to overlook the mass on your," House quickly peeked at the file, "right breast even as it grew bigger. No one with half a brain can mistake a growing lump for anything except a tumor." He threw the file down on the floor, knowing it was useless to him and that he had gathered all of the information he needed from it. "Now, I suppose you could be hiding the signs of your idiocy from me and your skull might be blissfully hollow, proving that you lack both true intelligence and common sense. But, even if this was the case," House gave her a significant glance, "which it is not," she bowed her head graciously at the admission, "there is your husband."

Her brow furrowed and her hands inched towards the sheet once more.

"Admittedly, he doesn't look like he's going to be working for NASA any day soon but he's not completely slack-jawed either. And he's clingy. Even if you failed to notice that lump he wouldn't have. Unless you were hiding it from him."

House noted with glee another small clench of her knuckles.

Everyone had a tell.

Wilson rubbed his neck when he was stressed or worried. With how much that man seemed to mother everything he came in contact with, House was surprised he had any skin left behind his ear. It was a habit bordering on compulsive, providing the only obvious physical indication the oncologist gave towards his mental state. The other, far more subtle, things had taken Greg many years to learn.

Cameron clenched. Crossed her arms over her chest and tensed when she was nervous or apprehensive. Not much could inspire this reaction in the immunologist and he very much doubted she was consciously aware of it when it occurred. So far, only the death of a patient and House himself had caused her to adopt the position.

Chase bit on anything that wouldn't give leave splinters in his gums, but when he was afraid or suppressing a particularly juicy piece of personal information, he moved to his finger nails. During Vogler's reign they were quickly bitten down to the quick. During the months following his father's death, his fingers constantly appeared as if they were on the verge of bleeding.

Foreman's eyebrows went crazy at the slightest provocation, practically disappearing into his hair when he was annoyed at his boss. House almost saw this as a challenge and was still trying to have them flee from his neurologist's face entirely by the end of the man's fellowship. However, when he was angry, Foreman's nostrils flared. The difference between general frustration and actual rage was subtle to most, but vital to House. It let him know when he had pushed his neurologist too far, when Foreman would cease to listen and become ineffective at diagnosing.

Cuddy was a bit harder to pin down. Appearing composed at all times was an important aspect of a job that she loved, and as such she had mastered the ability. There were things, however, that she couldn't control. Whenever overworked, Cuddy would develop painful migraines that caused a small vein in her forehead to pulse repeatedly. Greg liked to count how many jumps it made per minute. The more it made, the worse off Cuddy was.

And Clara Samson, when nervous and cornered, fiddled with her hands.

"The reason you have Stage Three breast cancer is because you were too scared to get the lump checked out when it was still manageable. Wilson's screwing around with radiation and a lumpectomy when he should be removing your breast. You just don't want to let him do it because if he does order a mastectomy, it'll be your own fault. You'll lose that which makes you a woman, and you won't have anyone but yourself to blame."

Her fingers wrapped together, each squeezing another until the twisted mass became tinged slightly red.

"The few months out of the hospital don't really seem like they're worth a breast now, do they? Were you really that afraid of ending up like Mommy dearest?"

An appropriate end to a successful dissection, House thought, feeling almost smug. She nipped him and he bit back, drawing blood and leaving her more than aware of his ability to harm and his complete disregard for her mental well-being.

House was certain that she would not meddle with him again.

And then, shockingly, her grip loosened on her own limbs, she looked up and stared at him squarely. "My turn?"

House was left with nothing to do but blink as she sent him a grin.

"You're trying to make me angry."

"Nope." And he wasn't. He wanted to teach her a lesson. If she got mad in the process, well. That was an amusing perk. "This is just me in my normal state." Also true. He poked and prodded everyone in this fashion. "General Hospital makes me more pleasant." House tapped his cane on the ground repeatedly. "Typically, pissing people off comes naturally to me. A gift, some say."

"No."

House looked up sharply. No? She seemed far too certain for his comfort.

"You're making an effort to be especially malicious. You're not just trying to piss me off for fun." She gave him a penetrating look. "You're doing it to be cruel." She leaned back once more into her pillows and smirked. "Hate to break it to you, but it's not going to work. I'm of a very pleasant temperament."

House rolled his eyes. People always wanted to make these things personal. "I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm simply pointing out some interesting observations. If they upset you, well," he shrugged. "Like I said, a gift."

"I don't think so. You want to get me upset, and not for sheer amusement's sake."

House frowned at her. "I don't know; amusement's a pretty strong motivator."

"You want to punish me for not telling you that I'm Al's sister."

He closed his eyes and shook his head before snapping them open again. Annoying and presumptuous then. "Brilliant deduction. Now if only it was at all based on reality."

He wasn't concerned about her not telling him that she was related to Cameron. He just wanted to make sure that she learned not to attempt to do something similar again.

He wasn't angry. Irritated, but not mad. Anger implied that he cared about the subject beyond his need to satisfy his curiosity. That he was bothered by the fact that she lied to him.

Everyone lied. Soon after people grew teeth they developed the ability to lie through them, no exceptions. That she was no different was no blow, no disappointment.

Although the fact that he hadn't been expecting her to be similar was.

"That's it, isn't it?" She stared at him. "Why did it bother you so much?"

"Maybe it didn't bother me." House glared. "Did you ever consider the possibility that I just like seeing people suffer?"

Another mildly infuriating grin. "People can be jerks, but there's always a reason for it. You obviously want to see me suffer, the question is why. Apparently, I annoyed you at some point."

"Not especially." House searched his pockets and sighed. Forgot to bring the Game Boy. "You lied, which is far from surprising. It is, however, curious." He looked up from his jacket and sent her a puzzled glance. "If you're willing to lie about being related to a member of my team, a relatively insignificant detail to most people, it makes me wonder what else you're willing to lie about. Hence," he gestured to himself, "my presence here."

"I didn't lie. Just left out 'a relatively insignificant detail.'" She gave a sly smile and Greg grumbled. "If you assume that it wouldn't matter to me, why shouldn't I assume that it wouldn't matter to you?"

He quickly adopted a serious tone. "Because it could affect the performance of one of my employees. We're not sorting trash here; it's not all mindless busy-work. If Cameron's not doing her job properly, people can die. When something has the potential to distract her," he shot her a pointed look, "like her darling sister sick with a variation of the illness that killed her husband, I should know about it."

She was silent.

He tilted his head to the side. "That's the reason I should use from now on. I suppose it carries more weight than the whole, 'I like knowing stuff' excuse."

Clara smirked.

What did it take to irritate this woman? Her patience was frustrating.

Oh, the irony.

"And you did lie."

"I didn't lie!"

House grinned. "Omitting a truth is the same as telling a falsehood."

She made an exasperated sound.

Music to House's ears.

"Fine, if it'll make you happy to hear me say it, I lied." Her arms were crossed over her chest, and if she had been standing House was certain she would be tapping her foot. "But if I had told you that I was Al's sister right from the start, can you honestly say that you wouldn't have treated me differently?"

"In no way that would be significant."

She gave a less than dignified snort. "Now who's lying?"

House produced a bewildered look, not entirely for dramatic effect.

"I've heard too much about you, Greg. You would have seen me as nothing more than a way to get to Al and then used me accordingly." She arched a brow at him. "I don't enjoy being a tool with which my loved ones can be hurt."

Greg sighed. Right. Big bad House, out to torment the innocents. Nice, kind cancer lady trying to protect them. "I didn't realize my tendency to emotionally scar everyone I come in contact with was so well published."

"I'm not saying that you would want to hurt her. Just that you would."

"Of course." House leaned forward and lowered his voice, "My subconscious is just dying to lash out, seeing as how I usually keep all my feelings bottled up inside." He nodded repeatedly as he slouched back into the chair.

Clara simply rolled her eyes. "People fascinate you. Why else would you so willingly surround yourself with anomalies?"

"Anomalies?"

"Al, Rob, Jim. I don't know about Eric as I only saw him for a bit yesterday, but those three, who you spend most of your days with, are some of the most interesting characters I've ever come in contact with."

House inclined his head slightly. He wanted people around who could entertain him, keep him occupied. If Greg got to pick his own team and who he associated with, he would be damned if he was going to allow himself to be bored.

"Most, if they were at all interested to begin with, would be frustrated more than anything else by such personalities. But not you. You like figuring out how they work, why they function as they do."

House nodded in an overly enthusiastic manner. "Oh yes. People are just lovely."

"You make a lot of assumptions, don't you?" She sounded mildly irritated, but her lips were upturned. "I'm not saying that you want to have a picnic with these people, or even that you necessarily respect all of them. You enjoy picking them apart and then you like trying to make them act and think in the way you think they should."

House shrugged. "Trying to make people think logically isn't a crime."

"And it wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so careless going about it."

He sighed and smacked himself on the forehead. "I know, I know. I remind myself every night before I drift off to sleep that each soul is delicate and is to be handled with care. I wonder how I manage to forget come each morning?"

Clara still had the fond smile on her face. "Yes well, despite your forgetfulness, you're not entirely without tact."

House opened his mouth to say something insensitive.

"Oh no." Clara held out her hand and House's mouth closed. "You're mostly without tact."

House nodded in satisfaction. His reputation was not to be dirtied by rumors of thoughtfulness.

"But," she held up a finger, "you have displayed an ability to be considerate if you choose to." Her grin widened. "As is made apparent by Jim's exceptionally boyish grin this afternoon."

"You mean my getting him a hooker this morning?" House nodded. "Really wakes a guy up. Thousand times better than coffee."

She laughed. "I meant you letting him drive your car, which he told me about with extreme glee. Remarkable, considering that he's barely been functioning as of late. Especially yesterday. He seemed to disappear halfway through the day and didn't even say goodbye before we left, and that's not like him."

House grumbled and shifted in his seat. "My leg wasn't cooperating anyway, and he gets annoying when he mopes."

"And it made him happy."

House shifted some more.

"Jim is one of the few people that you seem to respect, and as such, that you deem worthy of your consideration. How he gained that respect, I can only guess at."

If the man who saved your career, your life, the one thing that kept you voluntarily breathing each day, your good name and what was left of your self-worth, didn't deserve your respect, then who did?

Clara continued, not waiting for or likely expecting a response.

Smart woman.

"Al, however, hasn't." She gave him a fond scowl. "Most likely through no fault of her own, may I add." Another smile. "But because of this, you wouldn't spare her from your unbridled curiosity. It should come as no surprise to you that I have little desire to help you subject her to it."

House blinked at her.

Clara blinked back.

Greg reached for the file that he threw on the floor, frantically going through sheets of paper.

"I know I'm profound, but my opinions don't generally inspire such frenzied responses. I must have been particularly insightful here." Her lips were turned into a sardonic smile as she viewed his search with amusement.

At last, Greg had found the page he was looking for.

He groaned.

Of course.

"You're a shrink."

Clara grinned proudly. "Yep."

House sent her a look of disgust while resisting the urge to somehow cleanse himself. Perhaps through a trial by fire. He certainly couldn't go on as was; he felt like he had been sullied.

"Don't look at me like that." She crossed her arms and sulked. "I'm not a cannibal."

"You feed on the insides of humans." House tossed the file again. "The definition fits."

House bounced his cane on the floor once more and then looked up sharply.

Everything made much more sense now.

"This is why you didn't tell me. Cameron trying to get you to 'heal' me? Needed to keep your relation covert so that you could go about it in a properly sneaky fashion? Can't be obvious while trying to mold minds to go with the Cuddly Princess's agenda." He scowled at her. "You must deceive people into being stuffed animals, that's the key. Make them want to be made of fluff."

Clara snorted. "Even if you paid me," here she interjected a very significant glance. "And you would have to pay me a whole damn lot. I'm good." House found himself oddly cheered by her complete lack of modesty. If someone is skilled at something and they know it, they shouldn't beat around the bush. Modesty, like many things in life, helped none and annoyed many. "I wouldn't accept you as a patient."

"Why?" Greg did his best to make his eyes water and widened them significantly. "My emotional scars just too deep for you to reach?"

She let out a bark of laughter. "No." She looked at him like a child who needed to have the intricacy of basic addition explained to him. "Because the problems you have you don't want to fix."

House blinked. "That's... different."

Clara shrugged. "I'm not your typical psychologist. If I did the same thing as everyone else, there would be no reason to give me absurd sums of money. And I happen to like these sums of money. They buy me food and satisfy my other numerous fancies."

House smirked.

"With you, Greg, I have no agenda beyond my own entertainment. I'll have fun picking you apart, just because it's what I do, and if you goad me, like now, I'll share my findings with you. But I'm not going to sew you back together again."

"So," House gestured towards her, "it's all right when you tear people apart," he indicated himself, "but when I do the same thing I'm emotionally damaging?"

She made a show of pausing and tilting her head up to the heavens. She then gave a slow nod. "Seems right, yeah."

"And the difference is...?"

She grinned. "I'm careful." She locked his eyes with hers and said nothing for a short time. Then she sighed and sent him a disappointed look. "You, however, lack restraint or delicacy with such matters."

House suppressed an inner groan. "Restraint shouldn't be necessary if the statements are true."

"And it isn't, if you don't care about the reaction of the person you're picking at." She stared at him once more. "Which you don't, and as such your poking has dramatic, negative, effects on the people who are forced to deal with you every day."

House returned the stare levelly. Only three people were forced to deal with him every day. Wilson did it out of choice and Cuddy out of an obligation she could quickly end if she so chose. That left his underlings, and as fond as she seemed to growing of "Rob," House knew there was only person forced to submit to his prodding that Clara truly cared about.

"You're trying to manipulate me."

"Am I?" Clara's eyebrows rose.

"You want me to feel guilty about the way I treat Cameron."

She smiled. "Is it working?"

"No." He leaned back in the chair and rested both hands on top of his cane, focusing his attention fully on the woman in front of him. "But I'm fascinated by your attempts." He smirked. "You are against the way I disregard the precious feelings of my fellow man, but you feel no guilt in exploiting these same emotions to get you want from people." House sucked in air between his teeth, wincing comically. "Quite a conundrum."

Clara sent him a slightly sad smile. "Greg, you more than anybody should know by now that everyone manipulates everyone else. What's important is why they do it and how." An intent stare. "That's how manipulation turns into gentle guidance, mutual exploitation becomes the foundation of the strongest friendships and lies become small blessings. And," she smirked, "according to Allison, it's what you do with every patient that goes through your department, every employee under you, each unfortunate employer and," she gestured out of the room, House turning to see Wilson through the glass walls, chatting with one of the nurses in the hallway with a sandwich firmly in hand, "every friend you have."

She paused, and then amended, "It is also, sadly, the origin of politics."

House shrugged. "Every silver lining has its cloud."

She grinned and there was a silence in which her eyes remained locked on him, observant but not intrusive in their scrutiny. Waiting.

She wanted his reaction, his rebuttal.

He just wasn't sure that he had one.

Fortunately, Greg was spared from responding by the entrance of a tall black woman with features far too hot to be human.

Really. He was getting sunburned.

She halted on the other side of the bed, placing a hand on Wily Cancer Woman's shoulder. "First, Jim says he'll be back in a bit. Apparently a nurse wanted him to check in on a patient. Second, I need to take you home at four, right?"

House peeled his eyes away from the woman to give Clara a mildly offended look. "Why didn't you tell me you had a personal nurse? Please tell me you take complete advantage of her services." House looked back to the woman, who was glaring at him. "And if you don't, give me permission to."

Clara shook her head and turned to the woman, sighing in exasperation. "Sammy, this is Greg House. Al and Rob's boss. Greg," she looked to the diagnostician, "this is my sister-in-law, Sammy."

"So," Sammy removed her hand from Clara's shoulder and eyed House, "that would explain it then."

"Explain what? The cane? My rugged good looks?" House nodded at her, smiling his comprehension. "Cameron does have a tendency to drone on about them. Makes me blush, but she insists."

"No." Her mouth narrowed. "Why you're so obnoxious." She turned to Clara. "Do you mind if I'm not sure I like him?"

Clara smiled and patted Sammy's hand. "Not at all dear. It's completely understandable."

House stared at the young woman, vaguely hoping that he wasn't drooling. This was a good shirt. "I like you."

Clara grinned. "I was given to understand that you didn't like anyone?"

"There are exceptions to every rule."

Sammy smirked. "Should I be flattered?"

House responded with a resounding, "Yes!" while, at the same instant, Clara let out a droll, "No."

Sammy laughed and turned to Clara. "So, time?"

Clara frowned. "At four, but Mark's coming to get me."

"Really?" She looked positively giddy.

"Yep. Matt has a short day at school so he's coming too." She looked up to the clock in the room. "They should get here any minute, actually. Why do you ask?"

The younger woman smiled. "I'm going on a date with Rob tonight. And although I'm sorry that I won't be able to spend time in your lovely company," Clara rolled her eyes and mouthed 'suck up' in Greg's direction, "now I'll have time to make myself presentable."

"Wait." House sat up in his chair and frowned. "You mean Chase? You're going on a date with Chase?"

Sammy looked to him, brow furrowed, and nodded.

"Damn lucky bastard." Chase was going to have an obscene amount of clinic duty to cover.

What's more, Blondie was going to have a lot of explaining to do to Cameron. It explained the look of relief on the intensivists's face earlier in the day. Why he was so happy to note that she didn't mind him spending time with her family, because that meant that she might not mind his dating a member of said family.

House felt a small thrill go through him. Oh, the next few weeks would be fun.

Sammy was smiling. "That he is. Or at least he might be, if I can teach him how to dress like a human being."

"Why do I get the feeling that she's talking about me?" House whipped around to see The Hulk enter the room. He gave a friendly nod in House's direction and stood on Sammy's side of the bed.

Clara smiled. "Not this time. Where's Matt?"

"He wanted something from the cafeteria. He should be up in a few minutes." Mark blinked. "You mean you've finally found someone who dresses worse than I do?"

Sammy nodded sadly. "Rob."

The man shook his head sadly. "Poor sod."

Sammy patted Mark's shoulder. "I'm going to take him shopping tonight."

"He won't survive the night."

His sister promptly hit him on the same shoulder she had been patting a moment earlier.

"All right, since I'm not needed, I'm going." She gave Clara a peck on the cheek and hugged her brother, finally turning to Greg. "It was… Interesting meeting you."

"It was definitely my pleasure."

She shot him a smirk and then left, House resisting the urge to turn and get a look at her ass as she walked out of the room. One does not ogle The Hulk's sister while The Hulk is watching.

It's just stupid.

"Mark," House returned his gaze to Clara as she tugged on her husband's arm. "Reassure Greg that I wasn't some wily Mrs. Robertson out to seduce you."

"No seducing on her part, I'm afraid. She found me irritatingly persistent in my pursuit of her from the outset." He tilted his head and grinned. "Which is a bit odd really, seeing as how I'm such a catch."

She rolled her eyes. "So modest too."

Mark smiled and leaned forward, kissing his wife as Greg turned away and fought the need to shudder at the sap before him.

Make-out sessions (or small pecks. Greg found the both equally unpleasant to witness) were all well and good, but it wasn't exactly suitable for the masses at large. Much better to transfer saliva in the privacy of one's home.

Transfer saliva.

House tilted his head, thinking.

A smile formed on his face as his inner light bulb flickered to life.

Eureka.

House stood up, gripping his cane and quickly limping towards the door.

Clara stopped sucking face and looked up. "Where's the fire?"

"Nursery. Must do the heroic thing and save all of the small children."

"Greg."

House sighed and stopped at the door, turning to face the woman and her husband. "What? Little babies are burning as we speak. Nothing looks cute with its face aflame."

She smiled. "I'm coming back tomorrow for my lumpectomy and I'll have to sit around the whole day after for observation. You want to ditch that clinic and watch General Hospital to help pass the hours?"

House narrowed his eyes. She wanted to know if he would still associate with her. If he was willing to not use her as a method with which to torment Cameron. If he still liked her.

"Fine. But you better bring the Skittles."

He caught her grin out of the corner of his eye as he left the room, running into Jimmy as he reached the hall.

"Here slave-driver." He shoved a package at him. "I got your salami sandwich."

"Yeah, great." House started down the hallway. "Come with me."

"But Clara-"

"Is saying hello to her husband in a very personal fashion after a long day spent apart. You won't be missed." House passed the nurses station and peeked in, finding a garbage can and dropping the sandwich in. He turned around to see Wilson scowling at him.

"Now come on." House began his hobble down the hall, noting with satisfaction the sound of Wilson's sigh and the tap of his shoes on tile as he doggedly trailed after the diagnostician.

House almost felt bad for leading his friend into a confrontation he had been avoiding for, at the very least, eight years.

Almost.

---

"You said he has an ulcer?"

"A history of them, actually."

"And that he's experiencing numbness in his limbs?"

"Yes."

"It's a spinal abscess. Hook him up to an IV drip and monitor his progress. He should be better by morning. Anything else?"

"No." Doctor Rustle flipped on a light switch, looking at Foreman with a mildly shocked expression. "You went through every puzzling case brought to the neurological department."

"Yeah," Eric laughed bitterly as he pulled away from the MRI, stretching slightly in his chair. "It only took three hours."

Doctor Rustle was the head of the neurological department. An older man with graying hair, sharp gray eyes and a personality that went from sunny to thunderous at the drop of a hat, he had asked Foreman for his help after a new surge of cases had shown up in neurology, saying that his team couldn't handle the sudden increase in patients. Foreman had eagerly agreed. Their one patient in diagnostics was stable, the clinic was covered and Foreman hated feeling as if he wasn't being useful.

"Well," Doctor Rustle smiled, "the time it took is more than understandable, considering that these are all of the challenging cases we've had in the past five months."

Foreman stopped stretching and abruptly sat up, brow furrowed. "What?"

"I've been watching you." The man shrugged and leaned against a counter of the lab. "A few weeks ago Doctor Cuddy let it slip in a meeting that you were the most promising doctor to come to PPTH in the past ten years. The Dean doesn't give out praise easily; I wanted to see for myself if you were as good as she thinks you are."

"So, you got the records for the cases you've had in the past few months and asked for consults." Foreman shook his head in disgust and headed for the door. "Some back-up in the department. Unbelievable."

"Doctor Foreman!"

Foreman halted his progress towards and turned around, scowling at the older man. "You can't just play these sorts of games with me and then expect me to laugh it off. I am a doctor, not a lap-dog to perform for you."

What did it take to get respect in this hospital? What did he have to do to be taken seriously? Antagonize everyone like House? No one liked the man but everyone respected his medical opinion, and he made certain that the time he did spend on work was spent on cases that deserved his attention, not mindless quizzes from aging doctors.

"Foreman, calm down." Rustle held out his arms in a calming gesture. "Why do you think I did this?"

"Right now, it seems like you wanted to waste my time."

The older man snorted. "As opposed to what? Sitting around in diagnostics while your skill goes unnoticed?"

Foreman said nothing, forcing himself regain his temper and listen to the man.

"I didn't do this to waste your time." Rustle sent Foreman a significant glance. "I did it to test your ability."

"Why?" Foreman crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "I'm not in your department. My ability shouldn't be a concern to you."

"Then let's change that."

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "What are you proposing?"

"I plan on retiring within the next two years, you're aware of this?"

He nodded. "I've heard rumors."

"The department is fine as it stands. We have good doctors working for us with solid records and of adequate ability." Rustle smiled at Foreman. "But they aren't great."

Foreman shifted his feet. It was true. If a patient had a serious neurological problem they did not, as a rule, come to Princeton-Plainsboro. The department lacked the resources, prestige and credibility of others at the hospital. This did not mean that the department wasn't sufficient. It just wasn't excellent.

"None of my doctors could solve any of the cases that you just went through and diagnosed, correctly, in less than a day of debate. They're good people, good doctors, but they're uncertain. If no one made decisions for them, they would be content to watch patients die."

Foreman grinned, understanding dawning on him. "And you can't leave the department in incapable hands, in worse condition than when you arrived at it." Even when a doctor's career had ended, his reputation was still susceptible to damage. And reputation was important if one wished to publish work after retirement.

"No." Rustle forced a smile. "I can't. Which is why I'm here now. You made good decisions for every single case you saw, your directives for treatment and further testing were intelligent and sufficient and your diagnostic abilities are excellent." He mimicked Foreman's stance. "Frankly, Doctor Foreman, I want you in my department. It needs a doctor like you to survive once I'm gone."

Foreman narrowed his eyes at the man. "I have a year left to my fellowship."

"House would let you go."

Foreman inclined his head. His boss had done it before. Nothing should stop him from doing it again. "What's in this for me?"

"Are you serious?" Rustle had an insulted look on his face. "You know your skill isn't put to use under House! You spend most of your time waiting for cases to show up; if you're lucky you treat one person per week and you aren't given any respect or ability to expand your knowledge in any useful way." He stared at the younger doctor intently. "You're a neurologist, Foreman. Why should you care about obscure African diseases that have nothing to do with your specialty?" He snorted. "And then, when you do have a case, you spend just as much time out of the hospital as in it." Another strained stare. "You are not being utilized, aren't given any opportunity to raise your position." He let out a bark of laughter. "You're in a black hole. You've gotten sucked into it by the promise of working with House and now that you're there you've discovered that it can offer you nothing. Getting away from that, not to mention House, should be an award enough on its own."

It would be. Not that Rustle needed to be made aware of that. "Yes, well. I've learned to tolerate the man. You need me. I certainly don't need you. An absence of House is not enough to tempt me to give up the security of my current situation. And you know that. What are you willing to offer me?"

The older doctor smirked. "My position. Head of Neurology. If you accept and join my team, it's yours once I leave."

And Foreman had reached the jackpot. "Do you even have the authority to make such a guarantee?"

Rustle raised his eyebrow. "I've been working in this hospital for over twenty years. Cuddy respects my decision and has granted me the right to hand-pick my replacement. I want it to be you."

Even if he was doing cartwheels in his head, Foreman remained stoic. "I need to think about it."

The man shook his head and gave Foreman an annoyed glance. "Don't think for too long. I've got a score of other doctors lined up from other hospitals who would gladly give up their jobs for this opportunity."

"But you don't want them. You want me. And I need time to consider my options."

Another smirk. "How long?"

"Four months."

"That's outrageous!"

"No, it's perfectly reasonable. I'll be passing up a specialty in diagnostic medicine in order to pursue this deal of yours, not to mention missing out on better offers at more prestigious hospitals with more prominent neurological departments."

And it was true. Foreman needed time to process the offer, to weigh the pros and cons. Although it was hard for him to imagine now, leaving Diagnostics could be a mistake. He needed to take that into account and make sure that if he did leave House's department, it would be a clean break with no regrets.

"You still don't need one hundred and twenty days to make this decision."

"Yes, I do." Foreman grinned. "Because, unlike the score of other doctors you have lined up, I am not desperate." He gave Doctor Rustle a hard look. "I'll have my answer for you in four months."

Rustle glared. "Fine, four months. But after that, the offer's gone forever. Understood?"

Foreman smiled. "Yes, Doctor."

The Head of Neurology scowled. "Don't push me," he snarled. "You're good, Foreman, but there are other brilliant young neurologists in the country who will accept this offer as soon as I give it to them. Don't think I won't hand it to someone else."

Foreman continued to grin. "As long as you don't think that I won't turn you down."

He left the lab with the Head of Neurology still gaping at him.

Eric wasn't a moron. He knew how foolish it would be to give up an opportunity like the one that had just presented itself. The respect he wanted from the medical community would be easier to attain if he could boast the title of Department Head. What's more, he could restructure the department once Rustle left, make it more innovative. Not simply treat illnesses, but create advances to prevent them from occurring in the first place. The possibilities were endless.

But he also knew that if he accepted the offer, his education would cease. Foreman knew all he needed to in order to excel in neurology. Any more knowledge he gained would be extraneous, taking up space in a brain that didn't need the information. What's more, the challenge that he thrived off of, the constant need to improve himself, would diminish. Yes, there would be a challenging case on occasion, but for the most part, he would be bored. Bored, but useful on a far larger scale than the one he was operating on currently.

He needed time to think about this.

He had reached the elevator and was doing his best to conceal the satisfied smile on his face (House could read people far too easily, and Foreman wanted to keep this particular occurrence to himself for a time) when someone called his name.

Turning from the doors, Foreman looked around frantically.

"Doctor Foreman?"

Eric glanced down to see a short boy in front of him.

"Matt?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Matt," Foreman gently grabbed the boy's shoulder and moved away from the elevators, "what are you doing here? Is your mom back in? Does she know that you're running around the hospital alone?"

"Stop." He swatted away Foreman's hand and scowled. "I didn't come looking for you so that you could baby me."

"All right." Foreman crossed his arms and stared at the eleven year-old. "What do you want?"

The boy returned the stare with a surprising seriousness. "I want to know what's happening to my mother."

Foreman resisted the urge to sigh loudly. "I don't think I'm the right person to tell you that, Matt."

"You are."

Eric blinked.

Matt sighed. "My mom," he looked down at his shoes. "She likes to pretend that nothing's wrong. She won't even talk about how she's sick when we get home. We'll talk about how school is going, the new building Dad's working on, what we'll have for dinner." He looked up. "But nothing about her being sick. She won't tell me about it, she won't even really tell Dad. When we do mention it she barely answers our questions and is quiet until we start a conversation about something else." He shuffled his feet. "And Dad doesn't think that I can understand it. Doesn't think I'm old enough."

Of course he didn't. What would a kid know, about death and dying? What father would want to explain that it was happening to his wife to a son so young? "What about your aunt?" Cameron could tell him. She was family.

"Aunt Al is too busy and would tell my parents if I asked her. And they don't want me to know what's going on. And Aunty Sam doesn't know much. Says that she doesn't want to know, that it'll just make her nervous and anxious."

Foreman scratched behind an ear. "There has to be someone else more appropriate-"

"You're smart and a doctor. You know what's happening." He stared at the neurologist. "You're appropriate and you can tell me."

"Matt, just because I can tell you doesn't mean I should. Your mother is a patient-"

"She's not your patient."

Foreman sighed.

"Look, Doctor Foreman," Matt's expression became far more stern than any boy's should have to be. "I wouldn't ask normally, but I keep trying to look things up and the information is always different depending on where I find it from. I don't know if she's going to die in a few days or if she'll be fine. And I need to know," he stared Foreman directly in the eye, "I have to know, what's happening to her."

With another sigh Foreman gestured the boy towards a group of chairs situated a few feet from the elevators, setting Matt in one and then sitting down in another, turning his full attention to the boy. "Matt, even if you do know what's happening to her that doesn't mean that you're going to be able to do anything to help her, medically. Knowing won't change anything, it'll just worry you."

"I know that." He glared. "I'm not stupid. I'm just an eleven-year-old kid, I can't cure cancer." Matt looked to the floor, looking as if he was searching for words. "Haven't you ever just needed to know something? It may not help, may not do anything at all, you just know. And it..." He stopped, losing whatever he had meant to say.

Eric rubbed his head lightly, letting out a small breath of air. "It makes you feel less helpless."

Matt glanced up and smiled. "Yeah."

When Eric was twelve his ten year-old brother had been shot. He had been walking home from school, gotten in the way of a bullet aimed for a member of a rival gang, and been shot in the head.

For weeks Michael Foreman had hovered between life and death, Eric's parents spending every waking moment near their dying son, holding his hand, praying, cursing the city they lived in and the violence that surrounded them.

Eric, after the first day of seeing his brother's unnaturally pallid skin, the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head, had gone to the library. The woman who his parents had asked to watch him was old and senile and could never tell when Eric would slip out of the house. So, Eric did so frequently, surrounding himself with medical books and swimming in information.

Uncertainty frightened him. The idea that his brother could leave was troubling enough, but the fact that he didn't have a reason as to why was worse. Mike would just be gone. No explanation. The bullet wasn't meant for him, that wasn't why. He hadn't made anyone angry, that wasn't the reason. Eric's parents weren't mad at Mike, that wasn't why. His perfectly good brother would die and it would be meaningless.

So Eric had searched for reasons. Poured through medical texts far too advanced for him and that he didn't understand, searching for explanations as to why his brother could stop breathing. The knowledge of temporal lobes and hemispheres of the brain soaked through him, calming him. It didn't make the situation better, couldn't help Eric help his brother. But if Mike did leave, at least Eric would know why. And knowing eliminated uncertainty. Knowing helped Eric help himself.

Mike had gotten better, had turned sixteen and joined the same gang that shot him six years before, and Eric had never lost his appreciation for knowledge. Knowing had helped Eric get into college for virtually no cost. Knowing had gotten Eric into med school. And knowing kept him from uncertainty, from fear.

Foreman looked down to Matt, who was looking at him with a painfully hopeful expression.

Foreman sighed. Cameron had said Clara was having surgery. Best to start there.

"Do you know what a lumpectomy is?"

---

Wilson had just spent twenty minutes in a line to get a sandwich. Not even a good sandwich. Who liked salami anyway? And the ones from the cafeteria were exceptionally bad, seeing as how the meat was always stuffed into a freezer and then taken out mere minutes before the order was made.

So why had Wilson done it? Because he was an idiot, that's why. An idiot who had forgotten to give Greg his pain medication and felt uncontrollably guilty for it. And to top it off, once he had given his friend said sandwich, House had promptly thrown it away.

Bastard.

Now, to add to the stupidity, Wilson was obediently following the madman through the halls of the hospital. To where? Who knew. Probably to ruin, disaster and the home of the devil; places House frequented in order to gather new ideas with which to torture his fellow man. Specifically, Wilson.

"Why am I your friend again?"

"Because having a cripple is the only thing more adorable than having a baby. I'm a chick magnet."

"Right. Explaining why they flock to you."

House nodded and slowed as they reached another room, beginning to open the door. "Well they certainly flock away from you. Or at least this particular one did. Time to see if she'll be more accepting with my presence."

"Sara?" Perfect. "House, I was going to talk to her later today. It's not appropriate for me to be here now."

"See, you say you're going to talk to her later, but the longer you wait the less likely you'll be to actually go through with it. Because if left up to you, Jimmy, it would never be appropriate for you to so much as look at her much less have a conversation with the woman. And you have to speak with her." House grumbled. "Your uncontrollable guilt is only acceptable when I can exploit it properly. This is just annoying." He grinned obnoxiously. "Which is why I'm here." Before Wilson could stop him House slid opened the door to the room, hobbling in with a smile.

Now was not the time for this meeting. It would happen; when Wilson made a promise, even a drunken one, it was kept. But he wasn't ready now, didn't know what to say. And she was with her husband. He had no right to intrude here, when she was worried and her partner was sick. This was an intimate setting that Wilson had been excluded from long ago. To break that unspoken law, interrupt her personal life and force himself into it once more... That would be insulting in the most profound sense.

Wilson would speak to her, but not now. Not when she was still concerned for her husband's life and when he would be reminded of the world he had given up.

Not that House would acknowledge or care about any of this. Wilson had best leave now, while he still could.

"Come on, Jimmy. Can't keep the nice couple waiting."

Too late.

With a sigh, Wilson stepped into the room, bracing himself.

Pratt was fully clothed and laying on the bed, grinning at his wife who was sitting in a nearby chair. Upon their entering both stared up at the doctors, Sara's eyes widening briefly upon seeing Wilson.

"Hi, love birds."

Pratt inclined his head. "Doctor House." He smiled. "Have you discovered something else idiotic that I've done that could explain the second attack? As lovely as your hospital is, I rather miss my home."

"Nothing more idiotic from you than what we've already covered."

"That's a mild relief."

"However, marriage is a partnership." House sent Sara a significant look. "You really do share everything, including moronic tendencies."

She looked up at the man. "I don't understand."

"Did you eat the candy?"

Sara gave the doctor a puzzled look. "Yes."

"Did you have any shortly before your husband's second attack?"

"I had a piece when I got home. He had the episode about five minutes later."

House nodded in satisfaction, hobbling to the side of the bed while Wilson leaned against the doorframe to the room, hoping his presence could be forgotten if he made himself as unobtrusive as possible.

"Good. Now, for the important part." House looked from Pratt to Sara. "What were you two doing before he had the attack?"

Pratt's cheeks instantly turned red while Sara sent Wilson a sidelong glance.

"Loverboy doesn't care what it was." House snapped at her, bringing her attention back to him.

Wilson glared at House, shifted uncomfortably and brought his hand to his neck. He nervously turned his eyes to Pratt, but the man seemed unaffected by the statement, simply staring at House. Sara, however, looked moderately mortified.

"If you don't tell me your husband is stuck here until we can find an allergen that doesn't exist. What were you doing?"

"Why does it matter?" Pratt asked. "It doesn't have any medical relevance."

"Who's the doctor here, Computer Boy?" Pratt's mouth promptly shut. "Someone tell me or you'll both be stuck here until you're old and graying, wasting my time and yours."

There was silence.

House sighed. "Fine, I'll spell it out for you." He turned to Sara. "Did you have your tongue down his throat?"

Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

Sara glanced from House to Wilson, then back again. She mumbled something.

"What was that?" House leaned forward, cupping his ear. "Didn't quite catch it."

Sara lowered her head and let out a very small, "Yes."

"See, Jimmy?" House said, turning to Wilson and smiling smugly. "I must never doubt myself. It was the peanut and people are idiots." He let out a satisfied sigh. "The universe makes sense once more."

"I don't see how kissing my wife has anything to do with-"

"The peanut extract in the candy could have easily left remnants in your wife's mouth for several hours. These extracts then could easily be transported through your lovely saliva exchange. Case solved."

House gave the couple a disapproving look. "This is the problem with being so prudish. Had you two been honest about the circumstances surrounding the attacks we probably could have gotten you out of here much faster." He snapped his fingers. "Shucks. At least we know for next time." He brought his gaze to Pratt. "Now go home. I want a real patient, not a checkbook."

Pratt blinked. "I'm discharged?"

House nodded. "Yep. Now leave." House tilted his head. "Actually, don't leave. Come with me." House moved towards a window facing the front of the hospital and pointed. "See that?"

Pratt slowly got out of the bed, glancing down once he reached the window. "Are those all reporters?"

"Yeah. They've been here all morning because of you and Cuddy has been doing her best to keep them out of the hospital. They think that we're secretly poisoning you or covering up our bad facilities because of keeping the cameras out. Apparently, they haven't heard that annoying people with microphones and obnoxious questions isn't conducive to the healing process."

"I should go talk to them…"

"My thoughts exactly." House spun on his heel and started out of the room, throwing Pratt a look over his shoulder as he got to the hallway. "Are you coming?"

"Oh, right." Pratt walked over to his wife and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back in moment."

"Okay," Sara smiled up at him as he rapidly followed House.

And then, the room was left feeling far too small, with Jimmy in one corner and Sara in another. Having so much to say, but not wanting to say it.

"I didn't mean to intrude." Wilson gestured out of the door. "House, he asked me to come with him and I didn't know-"

Sara shook her head and held up a hand. "It's all right. He isn't your patient. You couldn't have known."

Another tense silence.

"Julie, my..." He fumbled for a description to what Julie was to him. His other ex-wife? Latest ex-wife? Substitution for her?

Wilson rubbed his neck and charged on. It didn't matter. "She goes to functions, parties, for work. I used to go with her, but never saw you." Pause. "Saw your husband, of course."

Another rub.

"I didn't start to go to them until a while ago. I do now." She looked down at her hands, staring at her short finger nails.

Wilson looked down at his leather shoes.

"I've met Julie." Wilson looked up, seeing Sara giving him an earnest glance. "I didn't know that she was your…" She trailed off. "Well, 'Wilson' is a very common last name. It didn't occur to me to think that…"

That he could somehow worm himself into her life again?

"You haven't been going to the functions recently? I'm sure I would have noticed if you had been at one."

"No, not recently. Not for the past two years, actually." James had stopped attending when he realized that Julie had stopped caring.

"Oh, well. I've been going for the past year or so."

"Right. Well, that's explained then."

"Yes."

Jimmy wished that the silence could say everything that he wanted to. That in the quiet the words would simply materialize between them, spanning the distance he had created and bridging it, if only for a few moments. Just so she could know how deep his regret was. How she had become the greatest wrong he had ever committed. The mistake that haunted him in each potential kiss and every clasped hand, whose memory he couldn't recall for fear of losing the ability to wake up each morning without a self-distain that would prevent him from moving, much less living.

How much easier it all would be if the silence could speak his words for him.

Sara stood up from her chair. "I think I'm going to go check on John now." She looked towards the door and Jimmy moved away from it, leaving her room to exit without touching him. "He doesn't do well with reporters. Excuse me."

No, she couldn't leave. Not yet. Not before he had said the things he had needed to say, before she could say the things she needed to say. That he needed her to say. To forgive or damn him, curse him or bless him. Anything, so long as he could know what she felt. So long as she could know what he felt. He couldn't let her leave before they had said the things that needed to be said, not again.

"I'm sorry."

She stopped with the door open, one foot out of the room.

"I know that it's not enough, that apologizing doesn't erase what I did and that it's coming ten years too late. But I am sorry." He watched her back, saw her take another breath of air. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Yes, well." She turned around, let the door close behind her. "You did."

Jimmy sighed, grasping his neck. "I know."

She smiled bitterly. "I... I tried very hard not to love you, Jimmy." She stared at him levelly. "I didn't want to. I wasn't the kind of girl that boys like you pursued. Not pretty enough, not charming enough, not social enough. I knew that I wasn't what you really wanted."

He remained mute. Didn't try to prove her wrong, tell her how perfect she was.

"But you..." She sighed and grinned fondly at him. "You made it so difficult to believe it sometimes. You made me think that I was beautiful. That I had some appealing charisma that I was unaware of. You convinced me that you loved me. Then I convinced myself you did, and then I loved you too. And for a while, we were happy."

Jimmy smiled, remembering for the first time in years. They had been happy. Deliriously so.

"But then you had the affair." The words cut through his memories like a dull knife. "And I couldn't believe the things that you had made me think. If you had really loved me, you wouldn't have done it. If I was really as pretty and charming and charismatic as you fooled both of us into thinking I was," she stared at him intently, "you wouldn't have needed to."

"It wasn't you, Sara." He couldn't stop himself. "Never think that you are at all at fault for what I did. You were, are, perfect."

Another bitter upturn of her lips. "Not perfect enough, it seems."

They looked at one another, Jimmy sizing up her small frame, taking in the pain and hurt that seemed to radiate from her, just as raw as it had been ten years ago, just as fresh. Just as real.

And he was just as guilty now as he had been then.

"I never meant to make you feel that way."

"Of course you didn't Jimmy." She smirked, the smile causing crinkles that hadn't been there ten years ago to form around her eyes. "It's not in you, to intentionally harm someone else."

"But intent doesn't change the results." He sighed, looking again to his shoes. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, it would be foolish and insulting for me to ask for it." He looked up at her, tried to infuse his sincerity in his gaze, prove how regretful he was through his tone. "I just wanted you to know that I'm not proud of what I did, and that if I could go back and change things-"

"You can't, and if you could I wouldn't want you to."

Jimmy faltered. "But, if I hadn't... We could still be-"

A true smile overtook her features and he felt glad for having caused it. "You still can't accept that a woman wouldn't want you."

He raised his eyebrow, puzzled.

Her grin widened. "And are so earnest in your confusion it makes it impossible to be properly upset at your unconscious arrogance."

She walked further into the room, heading towards the window.

"Jimmy, you had to convince me to love you. Had to convince me that you loved me, that you wanted me." She turned to him, staring at him sadly. "Love's not supposed to need convincing."

Jimmy watched as she gazed out the window, saw her fond expression as she pinpointed a person in the crowd. Observed how her face gentled in a way that it had never done while looking at him.

He sat down in the chair she had vacated, feeling as if he couldn't stand on his own.

"I met him before he was rich, you know. It was at a cafe, about three months after I left." She smiled again, looking back at him. "He asked me if Nutella had peanuts in it." A light laugh. "Fitting, given current circumstances. I told him about the peanut oil and then we had lunch together. And again the next day. And the day after that. For six months, five days a week, without fail, we met at that cafe and ate."

She leaned against the window sill, grinning like a girl with a long and deep-seated crush that was finally being realized.

"It happened naturally, wasn't forced. After six months of cafe lunches he asked me out on a date, and as soon as the night was through I knew I loved him. And I knew he loved me." She looked at Jimmy. "Didn't believe he loved me, or thought that he did. I knew." She gave a small sigh. "But despite knowing that we loved each other, it took me eight years to say 'yes' to his proposals because of you. Because even though I loved him, I didn't think I could trust him."

Jimmy's hand was latched to his neck, kneading his skin. "I've taken far more from you than any person has a right to, and done it for far too long." He had managed to taint her happiness for ten years, kept her from trusting a man, one that was likely ten times better than him, who she loved far more than she had ever loved Jimmy, and made her believe, however briefly, that she was anything less than perfect.

"You're giving yourself too much credit." Sara gave a crooked grin, pushed herself off from the window and came closer. "It's been a long time, but in spite of your mistakes I have no doubt that you are still a good man."

She stopped in front of him, looking down at his sitting form. "I'm happy, Jimmy. Content beyond my wildest imaginings. And yes," she held up a hand to stop the protest that had been forming on his lips. "What you did hurt me deeply for a very long time, but I've gotten past it and moved on. I love my husband with more passion than I thought myself capable of, have a job that I am dedicated to and gives me purpose all while living in comfort that, while far too lavish for my tastes, leaves me wanting nothing.

"I forgive you for what you did, Jimmy, because it brought me to him. And he has led me to the life that I've always dreamed of, but never dared hope for."

Her expression became stern. "Your self-inflicted punishment has gone on long enough. Errors are to be learnt from, not dwelled upon." A gentle smile. "It's time for you to forgive yourself."

He looked down. "You are far more kind to me than I deserve." And she was. He hadn't earned the right to be pardoned. The fact that she had found her husband due to what he had done was a happy accident, having nothing to do with him. He had done nothing to repent, nothing to make it better. He had hurt her, and for no reason but to satisfy a momentary itch. Because the tall woman with the red hair and sad eyes had made him feel funny. Good. And he, selfishly, hadn't wanted to let that feeling go.

She inclined her head, looking at him steadily. "Maybe. But this is something for me to judge, not you." She came closer to him. "You're forgiven Jimmy."

He felt the subtle and gentle pressure of lips on his forehead, causing him to raise his head as Sara made her way to the door, moving with an unconscious grace that left him spellbound.

"Goodbye Jimmy. Move on and try to be happy. I know I have."

And then she was gone.

After four years, six months and thirteen days of pursuing her, two years, ten months and twenty-three days of marriage and over sixteen years of loving the idea of her, she was gone.

And Jimmy forgave himself for the first time after nine years, eight months and five days of regret.

---

Cameron had just finished Pratt's blood-work, all of which had come back negative for anything that could explain his episodes.

Although she had been expecting it, she found herself mildly disappointed by the results.

She needed to prove House wrong. About something, anything. Even if it was completely illogical and made no sense, she had to do it. She was playing into his hand at every turn, justifying everything he had ever told her, and it was driving her mad.

She no longer trusted him. He had attempted to make her abandon this trust from the outset. Doing so was a mistake, he had said. She just didn't know that she had believed him until now. Medically, she believed every word he said, trusted his judgment implicitly. But beyond the medical realm, there were limits to her trust. He could crush her all he wished, she almost welcomed it, in her foolish desire for him to notice her. But she wanted him no where near her loved ones, wanted him far away from anything precious to her.

And Wilson. She had wanted to help him, to make it better because he had been unhappy, overwhelmed by his burdens. Because, even if the oncologist wouldn't admit it, he had needed help. Needed her.

And because of that, that sick and perverse need that drew her to men like a moth to a flame, she had enjoyed his drunken company far too much. Why she had spent much more time looking in his eyes than she had looking for signs of fever. Why she had to force herself from shuddering with his body pressed against hers, and not because of his damp clothes.

She didn't want Wilson, not really. She wanted the idea that he needed her, however briefly. Why else would her interest flare up now, after nearly three years of working together? What other explanation was there for how she felt?

Because, for the first time in two years, when she stood next to her boss her stomach lacked the flutter that had been her constant, frustrating, companion while near him. House didn't need her now, with his addiction staved and his emotional status constant, if no more pleasant. And since he didn't need her, she didn't want him.

The whole thought process was maddening because it meant that House had been right. About her, about himself. She had liked to believe that she was more than a masochistic fool, that he was trustworthy, that he had come to his own conclusions based on what he wanted to believe.

But, as was quickly becoming apparent, perhaps they weren't what House wanted to believe. Maybe they were truths that Cameron had refused to accept.

She needed reassurance, someone to tell her she wasn't insane, not this creature who fed off of damaged things.

She needed Clara.

Luckily, her sister was easily accessible.

The blinds were closed to room 213, but Cameron could hear voices through the open door.

"You just missed Mark."

"Did I? I'm sorry."

Cameron stopped in her tracks. Wilson was there?

What was she thinking? Of course Wilson was there. He was Clara's doctor, an oncologist seeing his patient.

"It's all right. He's off locating our child but he should be back soon."

"Hopefully I'll be able to catch him then before you guys leave."

There was a pause and the sound of a body sinking into a chair. "You, Jim, for some unknown reason, look better. Even better than you did earlier today because of that car ride."

"I feel better."

Or maybe not a doctor seeing his patient, but rather his friend.

Why was Cameron internally pleased by this?

"Is getting a sandwich for Greg that refreshing?"

She could hear the grin in his voice. "Sadly, no. That's just annoying."

"Then what's caused this turn-around?"

There was a long silence.

Cameron knew she should go into the room now, before she heard something that wasn't intended for her.

But she wanted to know his answer.

"Letting go."

And now, she decided, would most definitely be the opportune time to enter the room.

Cameron stepped through the door and gave a small wave to Clara who was happily perched in bed. Wilson was seated in a chair to the left of her, sipping at a coffee clenched tightly in his hand like a life-line. He smiled at her and mouthed, "Apple wore off," as he took another drink.

Allison turned to her sister who was staring at her intently. "Your boss has the maturity of a seventeen year-old."

Wilson snorted into his coffee.

Clara raised an eyebrow at him. "What? Is it not true?"

"No," Wilson gasped for air. "It's entirely accurate."

Cameron grinned. "Hello darling sister."

"Hello dear." She gestured to the oncologist. "Doesn't Jim look better than usual?"

Noting Wilson's confounded expression, she gave an instant reply. "I do believe he does." She grinned at his eye roll. Friendly teasing was the way her family expressed affection. Around her sister, the impulse to partake in such fun came back to Cameron with a vengeance.

Not that she wanted to express affection to Wilson.

She gave an internal sigh and continued on with her prodding. "Jim, you must tell us your secret."

"Well," he smirked and leaned forward in his seat, staring at her earnestly. "It was a combination of the trickery from the world's most irritating diagnostician and following the advice of a very talented immunologist."

He must have spoken with Sara then. Apparently, it had gone well.

"One must wonder how talented, exactly?" Cameron fluttered her eyelashes and suppressed the need to snicker.

Wilson caught on quickly. "Extremely, obviously." He nodded graciously towards Cameron. "I don't believe I've met her equal."

Clara leaned closer to Allison. "He is very good at flattery." She turned her attention back to Wilson. "Jim, you're coming to dinner one night. You'll have to lavish us with praise and show Sammy how sucking-up is done properly."

"How can I refute such a well intended request?"

Cameron smiled. "Stop." She gestured towards Clara, who was looking far too pleased. "You're giving her ideas."

Wilson returned the grin. "But what kind of ideas?" He glanced at Clara.

Cameron smirked. "Inappropriate ones."

Wilson's eyebrows rose.

"Shush Al." Clara hit her lightly on the shoulder. "I just like my compliments." She turned to Wilson. "Don't listen to her. Al's simply bitter because you've turned your charms to me." She winked.

The oncologist laughed. "Well, if Al would join me outside for a moment, I could sing her my praises a bit more privately?" He looked to Cameron hopefully.

Clara sighed dramatically. "Why does Al always get the quickie offers?"

Wilson's cheeks became noticeably redder but Cameron simply rolled her eyes. "I'll be back in a moment, Clara."

"Yeah yeah." She waved them out of the room, smiling. "Make sure you pull your skirt back down when you guys are through."

Wilson couldn't quite repress a small chuckle as they stepped outside of the room, Cameron pointedly closing the door behind them.

"Your sister-"

"Is insane."

Wilson grinned. "I was going to say charming, but that too." He looked back to the room they had just left, giving it a fond glance. "She and House make quite a pair." He brought his gaze up to hers. "I think he actually likes her."

Allison snorted. "Right."

"No, really."

Cameron blinked. Wilson knew House better than most. If he thought that the man enjoyed Clara's company, it could very well be true.

And that would be… unexpected.

She filed away that information to ponder at a later date.

Wilson shook himself, smiling at her. "But, getting to why I asked you out here so that you can return to your sister." He took in a breath. "Cameron, I just wanted to thank you and to apologize for imposing on you last night." He paused. "And also, to apologize for anything I might have done that was the least bit insulting." He gave a sheepish smile. "I haven't been that drunk in a very long time, so the details are a bit hazy."

"No, please don't apologize." She sent him a disbelieving look. "You didn't do anything wrong. I should be sorry for all but forcing myself on you."

Wilson's eyes widened. "Forcing yourself on me?"

Before Allison could properly respond something small flung itself at her. "Aunt Al!"

She grinned and looked down at Matt, who was tightly clenching her waist. "Hey squirt."

He looked up at her. "Hi." He turned to Wilson, who was doing his best to cover his smile with a hand. "Hi Jim."

"Hey Matt."

Mark walked up from down the hall, looking from Wilson to Cameron with a slightly apprehensive expression on his face. He had likely caught the tail-end of the conversation.

He was probably petrified by the prospect of Cameron forcing herself on his wife's doctor.

Allison prepared herself for the mocking she would be faced with at the next family gathering.

"Erm," He grabbed one of his son's arms and tugged gently. "Let's go Matt. We can talk to Al and Jim later."

Matt nodded. "Okay." He looked up hopefully at Cameron. "You'll talk before you go back to work?"

Allison smiled. "Of course. Like I would skip an opportunity to hang with you?"

Matt grinned and Mark rolled his eyes, guiding his son into the room before turning to his sister-in-law. "You really shouldn't encourage him, you know. He already worships you."

Cameron grinned and Mark disappeared behind the blinds as the door slid closed.

She then promptly turned her attention back to Wilson. "Yes, forced myself on."

Wilson frowned slightly. "Am I missing something?"

Cameron sighed. "I practically kidnapped you from the parking lot, went back to the bar and all but stalked you, let myself into your home-"

"I shouldn't have put you in a position to do any of those things to begin with."

"You didn't. I forced my way into a position to do so."

Wilson sighed and rubbed his neck, sending her a rueful look.

"Hey, Jim?"

The two doctors turned to the boy who was poking his head out into the hallway.

Wilson blinked. "Yes, Matt?"

"Mom wants to know what time her tests will be."

The oncologist looked at his watch, still confounded. "In about an hour and a half."

"Kay." Matt went back into the room just as abruptly as he had left it.

"Cameron," Allison turned back to Wilson. "Everything you did I am grateful for. You shouldn't feel the need to apologize for helping me."

She stared at him, confused. "But you didn't ask for my help."

Wilson returned her gaze steadily. "That doesn't mean that I didn't need it."

His eyes really were an amazing brown.

"Al?"

Cameron pulled herself away from her thoughts to look, again, to the boy who had come out of the room. "Yeah, Matt?"

"Mom wants to know where a good place is for, 'good, cheap and quick' Chinese food that delivers."

Both doctors responded instantly. "Chang's."

They exchanged an amused look.

Matt grinned up at both of them. "All right." He turned back into the room.

Cameron sighed. "Wilson, I imposed where I had no right to. Whether or not that helped you doesn't make it okay." She shook her head. "You have no reason to apologize to me."

Wilson snorted. "I almost threw-up on you!"

"Yes, well-"

"You were trying to be kind and did nothing to deserve my miserable company and drunken groping."

Cameron blinked. "There was groping?"

Matt slid open the door again. "Al?"

"Yes, Matt?"

"What's the number?

Cameron sighed. "I don't kn-"

"345-9826"

Aunt and nephew both sent Wilson mildly frightened looks.

He shrugged. "I don't have a lot of time to cook and I like Chinese."

Matt grinned. "Thanks, Jim." The door closed once more.

"Listen, Wilson." Cameron shifted her feet. "I don't know what you think happened last night, but we didn't-"

"Oh, I know." Wilson interjected quickly. "It's just…" He sighed. "Some of the things I did might have been inappropriate."

Cameron resisted the urge to knock sense into the man. "Wilson, you didn't do anything wrong except for trying to relax after a very bad day."

"And you didn't do anything wrong except trying to help a drunk idiot when he needed it."

Cameron had unconsciously put her hands on her hips, barely noticing that Wilson had done the same and the both of them had frustrated looks on their faces, staring at one another in complete exasperation.

Matt's head poked out again.

Wilson sighed. "Yes, Matt?" He didn't turn away from Allison, still eyeing her with weariness.

"Al, Mom says you're eating with us."

Cameron rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Jim, Mom says you should eat with us, please."

He turned to the boy. "Oh, thank you, but I would hate to impose."

Cameron grinned. "You aren't imposing if you've been invited."

Matt turned on the charm and gave Wilson his 'love-me-please' look that Sammy had taught him. "Please?"

She smiled, watching as Wilson's face adopted a pained expression, the man looking completely flustered. It was rather charming.

She wanted to spend more time with him. Wanted to eat good, cheap, quick Chinese food with him. Even if he was being ridiculously stubborn. Even if doing so was stupid, fed her unhealthy attraction to needy men. As long as she knew that she only wanted him because she thought he needed her, didn't trick herself into thinking that there was something more driving the attraction, there was no harm in it.

Nothing was wrong with becoming friends with the man, so long as she didn't fool herself into believing that she loved him.

She could manage that.

Cameron grinned. "Yeah, come on, Jim." Wilson turned to her, eyebrows raised, as she pretended to pout. "Please?"

Wilson sighed, looking from one set of pouting lips to another. "All right, all right."

Matt's smile was triumphant. "Great." He disappeared behind the blinds.

Wilson looked to Cameron. "You and your family are utterly impossible to argue with."

She laughed. "I know. Wonderful, isn't it?"

He chuckled. "For you, sure. For the rest of us it's a bit more troubling." He rubbed the back of his neck and slumped his shoulders, giving up. "Fine. Since you won't accept my apology and I certainly won't accept yours, how about we say that we're even?" He held out his hand, a desperate look on his face all but pleading for her to throw him this small bone.

Cameron grinned, taking his hand in hers and shaking it firmly, ignoring the small voice in her head that marveled at its textures again.

"Fair enough."

He let out a sigh of relief. "Finally, an area of compromise." He gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

Allison nodded firmly. "I believe we shall."

They entered, Wilson marking his arrival with a droll, "Clara, thanks to you that was the worst quickie I've ever had."

Cameron smirked. Given time, Wilson would be more than capable of holding his own amongst her relatives.

Matt's head tilted from across the room. "What's a quickie?"

---

Author's Note: If this story was separated into parts (which it is not, because I have no foresight whatsoever), this would be the end of part one. Thank you for sticking with me for so long!

The chapter coming up will be the 'interlude' and… Different. This either means that I'll be able to finish it very quickly or very slowly. I'm hoping for the former. Also, it might be long (not as long as this, obviously. -glares at long-winded self-), and I don't want to post an incomplete section of it. So please, bare with me oh faithful readers. This story will be finished, have no doubts. It just might take a while. -sheepish grin-

Thank you all again!