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.

12. Drenched, 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: When I was young and impressionable, I thought to myself, "One day you shall create a TV show! A brilliant TV show that shall combine great characters, fantastic actors and medical stuff to become the best TV show ever! (And throwing in RSL would be pretty awesome too.)" Sadly, that day is not today. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

Author's Note: I am slow and horrible. shame But looky! The chapter is here now! –points and displays enticingly- Eh, eh?

A million thanks, once more, to the brilliant LastScorpion, who despite the fact that the cookies I continue to bake are entirely electronical and, as such, completely lack all of the awesome things that make cookies great (sugar, chocolate, yumminess), continues to aid me. She's my hero!

Medical stuff isn't quite made up on the top of my head, but it's close to it. Any corrections or tips would be most appreciated.

Oh, and even thought I haven't mentioned it in the past chapters, I still don't know anything about General Hospital either. So to all fans of that show who happen to read this, my apologies.

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

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

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Chapter Eight: Drenched, Part Two

I want water up to our waists
And I want to be drenched by the rain
Up to our ankles with holes in our shoes.
I want to think your thoughts
Because they are mine.
I want only what's urgent to you.
I want to get in the way of the barriers.
-Nicole Burdette

---

Foreman was annoying.

This was no great revelation, but that didn't make him any less annoying.

House couldn't deny that the neurologist was a good doctor, but his constant need for validation was becoming more than a little bit tiresome. Generally, the man was smart enough to steer away from House when such matters were at the forefront of his mind, but on occasion he slipped, providing his boss with ample opportunity to mock and criticize him.

Admittedly, House had been a bit more harsh than usual this time. Typically he tried to keep his taunts limited to Foreman's professional failings, where the doctor's ego had been, not always without reason, bloated the most. It was always amusing to remind the neurologist that he hadn't gotten into the department based on skill, but on an unfortunate mistake from his past that he had tried, so very desperately, to leave behind him.

Not to say that Foreman wasn't right. He was. House would've been an utter moron to hire Foreman because he was a delinquent, Chase because of his father or Cameron because of her looks.

But there was no reason Foreman needed to know that.

House was not going to stroke and preen his fellows so that they could feel better about themselves. He wasn't going to offer undeserved compliments or let mistakes slide by unnoticed. And he wasn't going to allow them to, say, turn to him for reassurance, subconscious or not, when they felt that they had potentially ruined their careers forever.

Theoretically, if the situation were ever to come up, that is.

House did not believe in coddling. Didn't want his employees to think that he was happy with them 'just the way they were.' The minute they became comfortable was the moment that they would cease to improve themselves -when they would feel that they had impressed him enough to stop thinking, making them useless as diagnosticians.

And when they did that House would have to fire them. Which, he thought, would have been fine, if it weren't for the fact that he would have to replace them.

He really did hate the application process.

So, House did his best not to let his employees know that they were all competent doctors. That they did, on occasion, serve as assets during the diagnostic process. If they weren't aware of these things already, House certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell them.

But, while in the middle of destroying his neurologist's ego, the man had, very foolishly, touched House's Gameboy. In anger, no less.

No one messed with House's things without his explicit permission. They were sacred, almost holy, objects that provided hours of entertainment and that were, most importantly, his.

So, House promptly abandoned the battle with the neurologist's professional aptitude and turned to something far more vulnerable to his attacks; Foreman's character.

Of course, soon after the man had been sufficiently humbled and House had just begun to enjoy himself, a screaming and wailing youth had delivered a death sentence. And that was far more interesting than Foreman's shattered sense of self.

Interesting and more bothersome than House was comfortable with admitting, either to himself or the general population.

People died every day. He saw people die every day. But they rarely held any significance to Greg personally. Sure, he always lost a few patients each year, his grandparents had long since been laid to rest, his dog had been hit by a car when he was eight.

But Clara wasn't his patient, with the comfort of obligatory emotional distance, wasn't a family member, with the comfort of forced emotional distance (House's doing. His grandmother had tried to get him to play for her one too many times) and wasn't a canine.

She was a person who he had shared far too many Skittles with to pass off as easily as he would have liked.

Really, his own fault for forgetting the bonding power of Skittles.

Most foolish.

So now, as he hobbled his way to the elevator, he was interested, for more than mere curiosity's sake, and he didn't have nearly enough information to charge into the situation fully prepared.

He needed to hit someone up for information.

And since Wilson wouldn't give it to him and he didn't want to receive it from Cameron (who would want to voluntarily subject themselves to the weepiness she was bound to exude?), House decided to search for the next best source.

Twenty minutes later House was seated happily in the corner of Exam Room Three, Chase shooting irritated glances over his shoulder periodically as he examined a middle-aged, balding man.

"I know that it may be a bit hard to notice, House, but I'm with a patient."

House tapped his cane on the ground and shrugged. "He can stay. I don't mind."

Chase scowled.

House turned to the patient. "Do you care?"

The man gave a mindless blink.

"See? He doesn't mind either."

Chase turned to face his boss with a sigh. "What do you want?"

Originally, he wanted to know Clara's condition. But now, after finding Chase in the last place House had expected (Blondie kills a patient once and he never wants to come across one again. Talk about irrational), House suddenly found himself with a different set of questions in mind.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why you aren't holding hands and wiping fevered brows?"

Chase rolled his eyes and turned back to the simpering bald man. He didn't seem at all shocked by House's knowledge of Clara's situation. "I'm not needed or wanted right now." He sent House a significant glance. "It's a family thing. People with tact and a sense of what's appropriate are aware of this."

House tilted his head. "Are you implying that I lack manners, Doctor Chase?"

"Never," he said as he flashed a light in the man's eyes. "Just throwing out random comments to hear the sound of my own voice." He quickly turned off the flashlight and stuck it in his coat pocket, giving the patient one of his patented charming smiles. "You've got the flu, Mr. Martin. The best thing to do is go home and drink lots of fluids." He made some, likely meaningless, marks in the man's chart. "Stay off your feet for a few days and you should be fine."

Mr. Martin's eyes widened and he simpered a bit. "Are you sure it's just the flu?"

House sighed loudly and with much irritation. "It's the flu." He glared as the man all but trembled in front of him. "Go home. Eat soup." He gave a, clearly dismissive, wave of his hand. "Bye."

The man quickly stood up from the exam table and scampered out of the room.

House felt a brief moment of pride before Chase distracted him.

"Why are you here?"

"To annoy you."

Chase raised an eyebrow.

"Do I need a better reason?"

"No." The intensivist inclined his head slightly before sending House a smirk. "But you have one."

If House was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was slightly bothered by Chase's insight.

Fortunately, House made a habit of lying to his conscience and happily ignored the comment.

"Tell me about Clara's status."

Chase gave another eye roll and re-opened the chart in his hand, chewing his pen. "Ask Wilson."

"Wilson won't tell me." He grinned at his employee. "You will."

The younger doctor looked up from the paperwork and raised a brow. "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because I know that you want nothing more than to see me happy."

Chase snorted.

"And because you know that I'll find out sooner or later anyway."

The pen was extracted from Chase's mouth as he sighed and sent a decidedly annoyed stare in House's direction.

Which, of course, translated from wombat, meant that House was about to get his way.

"The cancer's metastasized to her lungs." He gave an artful flick of his wrist and dropped both file and pen onto the exam table. "She has three months. Maybe four."

"Huh." He tapped his cane on the tile floor as he thought allowed. "So then she really is dying."

House wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that yet. But, if the sudden and unexplainable weight that washed over him was any indication, it wasn't good.

"What?" Chase asked as he took the other chair in the room, smirking at his boss. "You thought it was a prank?"

House mentally shook himself and let out a dramatic sigh. "You know what those forty-year-old women will do to get attention."

Chase just smiled and waited for a real answer.

It was so much more fun when they resisted. So much more gratifying when they fought back. So much more useful. Resistance provided a better distraction than amused indulgence. A more helpful vice to, however briefly, allow him not to think.

He missed his Vicodin.

He gave himself another shake. "As a general rule I don't blindly accept every word to come out of a hysterical child's mouth."

There was a barely noticeable tensing of Chase's shoulders, a detail House might have missed had the other doctor not instantly slouched his posture once more. "Matt? Is he okay?" Asked in a strained tone of forced clam. A poor deception to hide authentic worry behind.

"No idea." House narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care?"

He shrugged as he stood up from his seat, gathering the file and pen. "Just curious."

"You don't get curious." House studied his intensivist intently, eyes widening in anticipation. Here was a worthy diversion. "You said that you wouldn't be drying any tears now. Not that you wouldn't at all."

Chase turned to the other man, a quick expression of panic flashing across his features.

House smiled. For all that the man tried so desperately to keep himself from being entangled in anything so sympathetic as concern, he had allowed himself not only to fall under the charms of an, admittedly, very attractive woman, but her entire gene pool as well.

House did not like relationships.

Well, House didn't like people.

Relationships were hard to maintain when one party spends most of the time while with the other contemplating whether to hit them in the head with a cane or in their groin. (Groin usually won.) He didn't like people, didn't trust people and found no pleasure in losing any iota of control. Emotional bouds were not conducive to assuaging these dislikes, so he refused to take part in them.

Chase, on the other hand, avoided relationships because he was afraid of them.

Although the man had no particular hatred towards humanity, he was just as trusting as House when it came to the integrity of the populace at large. Rowan had made certain of that with his 'vanishing father' routine.

But Chase was far worse off than Greg.

Chase, despite everything, liked people. And not just liked, but the closer he came to an individual the more responsibility he felt in regard to their well-being and happiness. The more intimate the relationship, the greater his need was to make sure that the other person was content.

After all, a happy drunk was a safer drunk, one that would be far easier for a fifteen year-old to manage than if she had been upset.

And since Chase still put such a large portion of his self-worth into every person he cared for, he gave them the power to hurt him.

House had expected his first underling to be smarter.

But he wasn't, and his happiness was now directly tied to that of a dying woman, her son and her (very hot) sister-in-law.

House sighed, giving Chase a disappointed look. "Robbie." He shook his head and tisked at the intensivist. "I thought Mommy and Daddy taught you better that that."

Chase's face was disturbingly blank as he stared at his boss. In unnerved the diagnostician, more than he was willing to admit.

"Goodbye, House." Chase turned back towards the patient table, reaching for another file.

A clear dismissal.

And House was not one to be brushed aside so easily.

He stood up from his stool and limped closer to the Aussie "You're not here out of courtesy." He smirked. "You're running away from the situation while you still can." A pause. "Because you know what's coming."

Chase's attention remained firmly locked on the files in front of him.

House continued to grin. "You're not being polite." His smirk widened. "You're being a coward."

"House," the intensivist snapped, glaring up at House, angry. "Enough."

And with that he strode out of the room at a pace House was not going to attempt to match. He might have been able to pull off a nice hobble-jog, but he could tell that Chase's entertainment quota had been exceeded.

So sensitive, his intensivist.

House shrugged to the empty room. "I only speak the truth."

With a sigh he exited, making his way to the elevator, mentally preparing himself for the sobbing masses.

If he hadn't been so curious (and just curious), he would have avoided the emotional hot-spot that had become Clara's room all together.

But curiosity was a powerful force.

When he finally reached room 213 he saw Wilson keeping vigil in front of the glass wall, hands crossed over his chest and staring into the room with a stern expression.

House smirked as he came up next to him. "Have the common folk displeased you, Boy Wonder?"

Wilson looked up to the man and gave a lopsided grin. "Always."

House nodded. "I figured."

They both turned back to the scene taking place in the next room. Sammy was seated in a corner of the room, saying nothing and staring at a wall. Samson was pacing in front of the bed, hand to his brow and muttering franticly. And Clara was talking on her cell phone, while simultaneously stroking Matt's hair as the boy cried, firmly latched to her side on the bed.

"This is too much."

House glanced at the oncologist. "You mean all of the disgustingly sappy concern flowing about? Couldn't agree more."

Wilson sent his friend a glare. "No. The concern is a good thing. It's the hysterics and constant work I'm worried about."

The diagnostician returned his gaze to the room, eyeing the scene with interest. He looked back to Wilson. "The phone?"

The doctor gave a helpless nod. "Work. She hasn't stopped planning, plotting, comforting and talking since she got out of my office five hours ago."

"Five hours?" House whistled. "Impressive."

"But not healthy." Wilson rubbed his neck and sighed. "Especially if she wants to continue working at such a fast pace." A sardonic glance at House. "Which I'm sure she does."

House frowned. "That's not going to help her condition."

Wilson furrowed his brow and eyed his companion suspiciously. "No, it's not."

House shifted his feet. That comment had been less caustic than he intended.

Fortunately, Wilson knew better than to press him. "And she won't listen to me. She's somehow convinced herself that she can do more now that she's dying than she could when she was completely healthy, and nothing I've said has managed to change her mind." He sighed. "She needs rest if she doesn't want to..." He trailed off.

"Kick the bucket sooner than the clan would like?" House offered helpfully.

Wilson smirked. "Not the words I would have used, but yes."

There was a moment of silence as the both turned back to Clara's room.

"You didn't tell me." House locked his eyes on Mark as the huge man's shoulders slumped. Utterly defeated. "About this."

"Doctor-patient-"

"Confidentiality, I know." Another small pause. "When did you suspect?"

"About a week ago." Wilson scratched at his neck. "I wanted to try some more things, see if maybe I could..." He shook his head. "Well," he grinned bitterly, "I couldn't."

House studied his friend intently.

Wilson cared too much and he was in the wrong specialty to afford such sentiments. He took each dying patient as a personal failure, as lives that he had been unable to save and for which he was entirely responsible. And the weight of this responsibility would have been enough to break the back of another man.

He did a good job at hiding this fact, this unconditional and unhealthy caring, from patients and colleagues, did every thing he could to make sure that he didn't burden them with a similar weight. But House saw it.

House saw a lot of things others missed about the Boy Wonder.

The diagnostician brought his attention back to Clara.

She was being a moron. Killing herself for some phone calls and hysterical family members.

It was the epitome of stupidity.

"I could make her rest."

House started, blinked and frowned. Had he just...?

"Are you offering to help my patient? For nothing in return?" Wilson was glancing at House in disbelief.

Well, now that he took the time to think about it...

"That depends on your definition of 'nothing.' I get to irritate her into submitting to my will. I consider that the best kind of fun." He smirked. "Plus, in her weakened state she'll be an exceptionally easy target." House shrugged. "I see no downside in this arrangement for me."

Wilson frowned. "You hate easy targets. They aren't enough of a challenge for you." The corners of his mouth twitched. "You like her."

House let out an exasperated sigh. "Saying it as if it's true doesn't make it any less of a delusion."

"And denying it repeatedly doesn't make it one."

The diagnostician grumbled and stared at Wilson seriously. "It's not true."

Another infuriating smirk from the oncologist. "Then why help?"

"I like to bully people."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

Apparently, Jimmy was not satisfied with this response.

Another sigh. "You know how stupidity irritates me. Especially when the idiocy is being carried out by an otherwise intelligent person."

"It only bothers you if you have something to lose by their idiocy. You have nothing to prove here. No stakes in her living or dying." Wilson had a smug look on his face. "And you know it."

"Sure I do." He grinned. "I'll lose my Skittle supply when she dies."

He shifted his feet and did his best to ignore the implications of the fact that he couldn't, truthfully, refute Wilson's statement. Not that it mattered.

He was more than satisfied with his Skittle comment.

Wilson scowled. "You're unbelievable."

House smirked. "I'm entirely believable." A shrug. "You just have no idea how much I like Skittles."

"Then you're impossible."

"That I can agree to."

House glanced at Wilson to note the smile over the oncologist's face.

He had never been as good at lying to Wilson as he was at lying to himself.

"Thank you," Wilson said, still looking into his patient's room. "For helping Clara."

"Don't be," House grumbled. "I'll make you pay me back."

Wilson snorted. "I don't doubt it." He kneaded the skin bellow his ear. "Now for the fun part." He sent House a sardonic look. "Telling a caring family that they have to leave their dying loved one."

House smirked. "How does one go about that in a properly tactful manner?"

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You care?"

"Nope. Just like you to explain your misery so you have to live through it twice."

Wilson smirked and opened his mouth to respond.

"You don't."

Both Wilson and House frowned, turning around towards the voice.

Cameron was grinning at them, only a few feet away. "You get someone else to do it." She strode forward. "Give me five minutes and I'll get the room clear."

Wilson's concern was all but shining through his eyes. "Cameron, are you-?"

She held up a hand, cutting the oncologist off. "Five minutes." She gave another smile and entered the room.

The two older doctors observed her in silence as she kissed Clara on the cheek before pulling Mark aside.

House sent his friend a penetrating look. "You've been having lunch with her."

Wilson gave a distracted nod, eyes narrowed and focused on Cameron.

The diagnostician tilted his head. "You're worried about her."

Wilson brought his attention to House. "I've seen more people react to the imminent death of a family member than I would care to remember." He gestured to the doctor in the room, now pulling Sammy up from her seat. "Her reactions haven't been normal." He sighed. "Haven't been healthy."

House frowned. "It's not just that."

Wilson sent him a confounded look.

"Sure, this reaction isn't normal, but I doubt every response is." He gave his cane a tap. "It's not just that little tid-bit that's bringing out your inner mother-hen." He gave the man a critical look. "It's the fact that it's her."

Wilson shrugged and turned back to the room, hand loosening his tie slightly. "She's a co-worker and I'm worried about her mental health." He grinned at House. "I, unlike some, have no problem with expressing concern towards my fellow man."

House's eyes narrowed. "Fellow woman, certainly." He felt a pang in his gut, one that he had no wish to identify.

Wilson turned away from Clara's room and scowled, rolling his eyes. "Here we go again."

House continued on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "But you don't just want in her pants. If so, you would have done it already." He narrowed his eyes. "How long since you've been eating together? Four months?"

"Five."

House smirked. "You care about her." The pang gave another painful flare.

"I care about everybody, remember?"

"But there's caring and then there's caring. There's a difference between the two, even for you, Saint Jimmy." He eyed Wilson intently. "She's not just a co-worker to you anymore."

Wilson returned the stare, suddenly serious. "She's a friend." A small pause. "Just a friend."

And his earnest, desperate, look, the one that all but pleaded for the man to believe him, was enough to convince House.

He grumbled. "Make sure you go sweeping the area for centrifuges. They bring out the weepiness in her."

Wilson's eyes widened as House turned back to the room, watching as Cameron gently pulled Matt away from his mother and set him on his feet, House doing his best not to wonder why he had told Wilson that.

Fortunately, this task was made easier when Mark strode out of the room, holding onto Matt and saying something about ice cream. Too Hot To Be Human (Indian name) soon followed. He turned his attention back to the room just as Cameron gestured him in, removing the phone from Clara's hand.

Wilson grinned at him. "That's your cue."

House brought his free hand his hair, smoothing it. "How does my makeup look?"

"You'll dazzle them."

He nodded sagely. "I always do." With that he strode into the room, feeling rather than seeing Wilson's eye-roll from behind him.

When he entered Clara was scowling at her sister from the bed. "Al, I'm in the middle of an important call-"

"Which I can take care of for you." Cameron interrupted smoothly, cell phone in hand and staring at Clara with an almost frightening patience. "You want to transfer all of the assets and immediate control of the organization to Emily, right?"

"Yes, but it's not that simpl-"

"I know. And Emily will need time to gather paperwork and get prepared herself before either of you can really get into the details." Cameron smiled. "I'll help her with the preliminary things while you rest. And I'll call up Will too." She smirked. "Your phone has a better long distance plan than mine."

Clara sighed, a smile on her face. "Exploiting me even now, are you?"

Cameron gave a small, forced, grin. "For as long as I can." She shook herself and then looked to House. "I'll leave you to do your thing." She smiled. "No mercy."

Clara crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the other woman. "You're cruel for siccing him on me."

"Better you than me. Lord knows I'd be the one he'd torment if I didn't distract him with you."

House got the distinct impression that his presence was being ignored.

Couldn't have that.

"Ladies! Let's not fight." He sent them smiles. "I'm gracious and talented enough to annoy you both."

Clara snorted. "What a relief that is."

Cameron smirked, continuing on as if House hadn't spoken.

She had known him too long to indulge him properly.

"I'm off to make phone calls." She pointed at Clara. "Rest." Another finger House's direction. "Behave."

"Slave driver," he grumbled. He turned to Clara. "Next thing you know she'll be ordering Foreman to go harvest the fields."

Cameron just shook her head as she left the room, the door shutting silently behind her.

House kept his attention on Clara, moving further into the room. "Don't think she won't. She's really good at hiding the fact that she gets off on seeing me suffer, probably the guilt keeping her from reveling in it properly, but she still does." He made his way to a chair and pulled it closer to the bed before sitting. "Just imagine the fun she'll start having if she expands her slaves to other members of the team." House narrowed his eyes at Clara, who's gaze was locked on something behind him. "Not to say that she'll start running a plantation any time soon, but... Baby-steps."

Still nothing from Clara.

House frowned. "Not defending your sister's honor, far-off look. You're ignoring me."

He swung his body around to see Wilson standing next to Cameron, hand on shoulder, sympathy apparent in every motion. But Cameron gently removed herself from him, gesturing to the cell phone still in-hand, bringing it to her ear and walking away. Leaving Jimmy alone, rubbing at his neck and staring after her.

House frowned at the interaction and shrugged, turning back to Clara. "Wonder Boy trying to aid those in need once more. Nothing unusual." Although the fact that his help hadn't been accepted was troubling.

He again, didn't bother to think about why.

Clara shook her head, looking at House. "Right." She grinned. "You don't need to baby sit me, you know."

House raised an eyebrow. "Sure I don't."

She sighed loudly. "And with the death sentence so too comes the complete lack of trust."

"In regards to doing what's best for your own health?" House brought a hand to his mouth before inclining his head. "Yes. All of my, admittedly small, faith in you has been utterly extinguished."

"I expected no less from my flesh and blood, but you too Greg?"

"Your family is extremely persuasive. Besides, the sooner you expire the sooner I have to find myself someone new to watch General Hospital with."

"And who would want to go through all of that trouble again?"

House gave a sage nod. "The application process would terrify even Cuddy."

"Now that would be impressive."

A shrug. "I have very strict guidelines."

"You might have to let them slacken a bit in a few months." She smiled sweetly at him, bringing a hand to her chest. "After me, who could compare?"

House leaned back in his chair and smirked. "Someone's smug."

Clara shrugged. "Well it's true. With my thoughtful insights and the free candy I supply?" She repositioned her pillows around herself before leaning back into them. "You've got yourself a sweet deal here."

House shifted his feet. "The candy is nice," he muttered.

She smiled. "Like I said, you're bound to be disappointed." She reached out to her left and grabbed a stack of files from the bedside table.

House frowned and stared at her.

Clara looked up. "What?" She rubbed at her face. "Do I have something on my nose?"

"Put down the papers."

She gave a small bark of laughter as she opened the first file. "If you want to refer my hundred twenty patients to other doctors, you have right at it." She flicked her wrist towards the door. "Go get your clip-board. I'll keep working until you get back."

She really couldn't be that stupid.

"You can't be doing this to yourself."

Clara simply raised a brow.

"Not only are you laughing about your death, but you're speeding the whole process up out of sheer idiocy."

Clara shrugged. "I'm of a very pleasant temperament and have a wonderful sense of humor." She turned back to the papers. "Plus I'm a workaholic. It's compulsive. Can't help it, really."

House scowled. "That's crap and you know it." He snatched the file she had been looking at away from her, forcing her to look at him. "You're being stupid."

She sent him a mildly amused grin.

Amusement wasn't what House was aiming for.

Time to change tactics.

"Get angry, fine. Get depressed, have at it. Just stop working long enough to take care of yourself and to feel something to let the people around you know that dying isn't okay with you."

"Why on Earth would they think-"

House threw a free hand into the air. "Because you're making them look like fools, sobbing and hysterical while you calmly pay bills." He stared at her. "While you keep killing yourself just to get one last chore done. If it doesn't bother or affect you, why the hell should it upset them?"

Her fingers clenched at her sheets.

"By being so dignified and dismissive of the fact that you are dying you're taking for granted all of the sacrifices people have made to get you here." He snorted. "Just look at Wilson."

Clara glanced up.

"He works his ass off trying to cure you, taking on a case that no one else in his field with half a brain would voluntarily poke with a stick, and you're willing to throw all of his dedication away to do a job that any lackey could accomplish." He smiled coldly. "Just like that."

Clara shook her head, looking down at her fingers, hanging her head.

Now he was getting somewhere.

She sighed. "It's not that simple-"

"You're dying. It can be made that simple."

"But I have to-"

"What you have to do is live as long as you can for the people who gave so much to keep you that way."

She brought a hand to her brow, shaking her head.

Guilt was useful only for so long. People needed something else to spur them into action.

Time to go in for the kill.

House smirked. "The way you're acting, it's almost as if you don't care if you die."

Clara's head snapped up, her eyes flashing. "How dare you."

House suppressed a smile.

"Don't care?" Her hands unclenched from around her sheets. "Don't care?" She stared at him intently. "Of course I care."

Her tone softened. "Of course I'm upset, depressed." She grinned sadly. "But I don't have the time for it now, Greg. I no longer have that luxury." She sighed. "I don't get to stew in regret, sadness. Those are minutes I could be spending with my family and friends, that I could spend tying up loose ends," she gestured angrily to the pile of folders on her lap, "getting all of this damn paperwork out of the way so that I can spend the moments I have left with the things," a small smile, "people, that really matter."

She laughed bitterly. "You think that I'm okay with dying? That I've got nothing that I'm leaving behind?" She inclined her head in his direction. "Look at my life and tell me what I won't miss. I enjoy my job, have a loving husband, a brilliant kid, a family that anyone would envy." She returned her gaze to her hands. "And I have to say goodbye to it all in a matter of months." She looked back to him, eyes hard. Not tear-filled, but perhaps that added to their sadness. "I hate dying, Greg."

She stared back at her sheets, exhaling. "And I hate the fact that it's my own fault."

House's eyes widened.

She looked up and her lips upturned slightly. "You were right. If I hadn't been so much of a coward, I could have prevented all of this." A deep breath. "But I was, and now I and everyone I love is suffering for it."

House stared down at the floor, paying particular attention to where his cane connected with the tile.

He had almost hoped that he had been wrong about her. That she hadn't been too frightened to get the lumps checked out, that she really had simply missed them. If she had just been unobservant, he could have pretended that it had been a simple error. That she was logical and rational and that was why she was so interesting. That she was a little less human, a little more intriguing and that these were the reasons for his continued association with her.

But she wasn't and they weren't.

The truth sucked sometimes.

"Now," House glanced back up at the woman as she continued to speak. "I could become absorbed in this, let it kill me before I'm actually dead, or I can move on."

She smiled sardonically. "Guess which one I picked?"

House smirked.

"So now I have to do all I can as fast as I can, while I have the time and energy to pull it off." She stared at him. "None of this matters, Greg." She sighed. "I just want it done so I can savor my family while I still can."

House shook his head. "If you continue like this, 'while you still can' won't be long."

She took in a breath, about to protest.

"You are killing yourself," he interjected quickly. "If you think that you've caused them to suffer now, it'll only be worse if you cut the time you have left in half out of stupidity."

She glared at him. "It's not stupidity-"

He shrugged. "Like you said; the paperwork doesn't matter."

Clara sighed, tangling her hands in the sheets of her bed, before, very quietly, asking, "What do I need to do?"

House grinned.

Sweet victory.

He stood up and snatched the remaining files off of her lap, dropping them to the ground and smiling as they slapped against the tile. "Right now we need to watch Jax and Jason have that brawl we've been anticipating all week."

Clara grinned. "Is that today?"

House gave a nod. "Yep." He flopped back into his chair, grabbing the remote and turning on the television. "Then you're going to sleep. When you wake up you're going to ask Wilson how much work you can reasonably do." He stared at her sternly. "And then you're going to sleep again."

Clara unraveled herself from her bed covers, letting out another breath of air. "Okay."

"Good." House glanced around, peering over the bed. "Now where are the Skittles?"

Clara rolled her eyes and got a bag of the sweets out of the bedside table, tossing them to the doctor.

House poured out a handful instantly.

Minutes later he heard a very subdued, "Thanks, Greg."

He gave Clara a quick look, getting himself some more Skittles. "Don't get used to it."

Clara grinned, reaching over and grabbing the bag away from him. "Never."

---

Cuddy was currently gazing over the sight of the clinic with an expression of utter shock on her face.

The world had ceased to make sense. If she glanced outside she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to see pigs flying gleefully across the parking lot. Armageddon was fast approaching.

Gregory House was doing clinic duty.

Without her having to blackmail, annoy, intimidate or threaten him into doing so. The universe was, certainly, about to implode.

What's more, Doctors Chase and Foreman were also present in the clinic.

This was troubling as well.

Foreman hated the clinic for the same reasons House did. It was boring, dull. Work meant for people who didn't have anything better to do. And Foreman, unlike House, was generally very good at finding better things to do. Of course, the only exception being when he lost a bet to his boss.

Chase had to be pushed to spend time in the clinic ever since his mistake. Oh, whenever asked he would go about the task of minding the sick masses easily enough, but he never went on his own accord. Had to be pointedly reminded when his name came up on the schedule, forced to acknowledge the responsibility he was trying so desperately to shirk.

Yes. Existence as the world knew it was about to end. Or at the very least, be changed dramatically.

Of course, in order to discover just why this alteration had taken place, she would have to speak with House. Perhaps even have a conversation with him.

She wasn't looking forward to this experience.

Ever since she had, foolishly, gone to thank him for saving her job, she had been doing her best to avoid one Gregory House. She had, for the most part, failed to do this as sufficiently as she would have liked.

She didn't like House. She couldn't afford to. As an employee, House was too unstable, too unpredictable and far too likely to get himself fired for her to form any sort of connection with him that was not strictly professional. That sort of attachment could distort her judgment, cause her to make stupid decisions. And Cuddy wouldn't allow that. Couldn't allow that. Because if she did, she would be compromising the one thing she had left. The greatest and final quarter of her current existence. And if that was gone, she would have nothing left.

No, Cuddy did not like House.

It wasn't that Lisa didn't care for House. In a sense, she did. She wished no ill upon him, wanted him to find happiness and hoped that he learned to stop making people, specifically patients, cry for his own amusement. Although, somewhat guiltily, Cuddy did derive a certain amount of pleasure from House's behavior on occasion. After all, the people he reduced to tears generally deserved it, and she was hardly in a position to tell them off herself. But if anyone asked her she would have denied such claims instantly.

That wasn't the point.

The point was that she did care for Greg, in the way an owner is forced to care for the puppy that causes nothing but trouble. Drinks out of the toilet. Frightens the cats. Goes into the garbage can and throws trash around the whole house. Runs outside when the owner isn't looking and frolics around just to prove it can. Causes massive lawsuits when it bites people that annoy it.

And while, yes, there is something rather endearing about this puppy, the havoc it wrecks is more than enough to cause the owner to develop a certain resentment towards it. The owner will still care for it, feed it, sign its paychecks, because that's what the owner promised she would do. But that's a far stretch from the owner enjoying any second of it. And from the owner being unable to send the puppy right back to the pound where it came from.

Even if she might miss the puppy if it was gone.

But only because she had gotten used to its presence.

That's all.

House, however, had somehow convinced himself that she really enjoyed his antics. That, despite them, she had grown overly attached, that her caring somehow affected her professional and personal relationship with him. And he took the utmost pleasure in reminding her of this fact at every available opportunity, undermining her at every turn.

And while this, by itself, was nothing unusual, her discomfort at his antics was. Along with her inability to neutralize them.

Generally, when House was being... himself, Lisa was perfectly capable at barking out a few comments, putting him in his place and then continuing on her way, House reluctantly obeying her commands. But, suddenly, she found that she had no responses for the sarcastic remarks he sent her way about their wonderful 'friendship' and her 'affection' towards him.

The words would form in her throat, every inflection and stress planned perfectly to get just the reaction she wanted out of him, but when she moved to say them they would fail her, leaving her gaping mindlessly at the man rather than correcting his foolishness. And House was quite happy to take advantage of these moments.

Thus, for the past four months she had been reluctant to be near him. She would do her best to yell at him when he did something wrong (or when he was about to do something wrong), and then quickly disappear. This sadly, had only had mild success throughout the time period. After all, she did run the hospital. People needed to contact her, to know where she was in case of a crisis, which, thanks to the very doctor she was trying to avoid, had a tendency to happen often at PPTH.

Going to him now, even to solve a mystery both interesting and deeply disturbing, felt like a defeat of some sort. As if breaking her vow to avoid him was the same as wanting to be with him. That she was admitting that he was right.

Which he wasn't.

Even if her subconscious was determined to prevent her from saying it.

House had just called up another patient and was limping for Exam Room One, completely ignoring the boy that stood up and followed him.

Lisa took in a large breath.

She was being ridiculous. She was his boss, had every right to question why he was appearing, unscheduled, at the clinic. What's more, in matters of a personal nature, she had absolutely no obligation to explain herself to him, in any way, shape or form. So, even if she did like him, although she didn't, that fact was none of his business. He worked for her; nothing more, nothing less.

Now she just had to stop acting like a schoolgirl and confront him like a reasonable, responsible, adult.

She gave herself a firm nod before walking into the exam room, confident that she could regain her control of the man.

"House," she said as she closed the door behind her.

He spun around in the chair he was seated in, turning his back to the patient before flinging himself back to the kid. "Be wary, child." He threw a quick glance over his shoulder before looking at the patient once more. "We're about to come in contact with a she-demon. Brace yourself."

The boy, easily sixteen, threw Cuddy a disturbed glance.

She smiled in reassurance before House spun around once more, adopting a completely false smile. "Hiya, Pal!"

Cuddy blinked, bringing her hands to her hips. "Am I supposed to find that cute?" Maybe it was best to throw out the 'reasonable adult' part of her plan.

House shook his head. "Not at all." A momentary pause. "You were supposed to be so irritated by it that you'd decide to leave me alone." He sighed. "But, if at first one does not succeed..."

"Why are you here?" She asked quickly. Anything to cut him off.

House frowned. "When I'm not here you bring down fire and brimstone, when I am here you prevent me from doing my job by asking annoying questions." He threw up his hands dramatically. "There really is no winning with you." He leaned forward, stage-whispering out of the side of his mouth, "Seems a bit ungrateful."

Cuddy felt her head throb.

The diagnostician had a gift for giving her headaches.

"House, I'm serious. What are you doing here?"

"My job, apparently." He shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the patient. "Or at least that's what some woman with delightfully inappropriate blouses keeps telling me." He gasped and turned, giving her a once-over with comically wide-eyes. "Hey, you have an inappropriate blouse on, don't you?"

Cuddy glared, far from deterred. "You have never, in all of the years you've worked for me, listened to a word that I've said, much less taken it to heart."

House furrowed his brow. "That's not true. You just said..." He glanced up to the ceiling.

Cuddy tapped her foot in annoyance.

"Give me a minute."

She rolled her eyes. "Why are you here?"

Another toss of his shoulder. "Maybe I've changed, Cuddy," he said with an earnest expression on his face. "I could've turned over a new leaf, you know."

Cuddy stared. "No you couldn't have."

Just then the patient, who both doctors had been ignoring, sneezed violently into the back of House's neck.

The diagnostician tensed, glaring at the boy. "Do I look like a Kleenex to you?"

The boy shook his head sheepishly.

"And do you think, as a non-Kleenex, I enjoy the sensation of snot all over me?"

Another shake.

"Next time, if you're going to spew snot do so into your hand, where I won't have to suffer for it."

He turned back to Cuddy to see her smirking smugly, eyebrow raised.

"Okay, so you're right." House stood up and hobbled to the sink, where he grabbed some paper towels. "I couldn't have changed."

"Then your reason for being here is…?"

He wiped at the back of his neck with the towel. "I was bored."

Cuddy snorted. "Have you stopped caring about the quality of your lies or are you just attempting to insult me?"

House threw her a confused expression, tossing the towel and washing his hands in the sink.

"You're either not trying or are under the delusion that I haven't been dealing with you for a decade."

"Has it really been that long?" He sighed wistfully as he dried his hands. "It feels like just yesterday I caught a glance of the ladies for the first time." His stare leveled to her chest. "Hello, Girls."

Cuddy crossed her hands over her chest self-consciously, irritated at herself for allowing him to get to her. Where was a weapon when you needed one?

He returned his gaze to her face, a smile on his lips. "They really have withstood the test of time. Just as perky now as they were ten years ago."

Cuddy took a deep breath before returning the topic of the conversation to its original purpose. If she ignored his childish behavior, perhaps it would go away.

Maybe.

"House, you're voluntarily working in the clinic. You would toss your own flesh and blood into the depths of hell to avoid a half-an-hour of this place."

"Which is one of the many reasons why I've never reproduced." He shrugged as he went back to his chair. "Child Services apparently has some problems with hell-tossing."

"And it's not just that you're here-"

"That's making you so feisty?"

Cuddy scowled.

House snapped his fingers, sighing loudly. "How disappointing. I thought I was more than enough to cause that."

If she ignored the immaturity, it would go away.

Maybe.

"Foreman and Chase are here too. Foreman's never here unless he lost a bet to you and Chase isn't here unless he's avoiding you."

"I don't know why you're upset with me so often then. Getting my minions here is more than compensating for my absence." House shook his head and gave her a disappointed look. "So ungrateful, despite all of the things I do for you."

Ignore it.

"But since you're also here, both of those options are out."

"Maybe they felt the sudden urge to give back?"

Cuddy resisted the inclination to laugh. "No. Foreman thinks he has better things to do with his time and Chase is the only person better at avoiding the clinic than you."

"Probably for the best." He leaned forward. "We wouldn't want him to go and kill someone else, would we?"

No wonder Chase had no desire to return to treating patients. With a support system like House, who needed self-doubt?

"The only doctor on your team who isn't here is the only one who should be."

House frowned.

"And unlike the rest of you, she takes her obligations seriously."

His eyes widened slightly, a brief flash of confusion passing over his features. Cuddy noted his surprise with interest.

He hadn't known that Cameron wasn't there.

But just as quickly as the confusion appeared, it was gone. "You know how she can get this time of the month…"

Cuddy took another deep breath.

Ignore the immaturity and it would go away.

"The entire diagnostics department is acting out of character." She resisted the urge to tap her heel. "Why?"

"Chase still won't put-out and I'm not the only one disappointed," House offered helpfully, turning back to his patient before she could respond, telling him to breathe.

Cuddy glared at the back of House's head as the boy took in a snotty breath.

House threw a quick look over his shoulder. "You aren't leaving."

She leaned against the door and smiled. "And I don't plan to until I get a real answer from you."

House sighed, lowered his head and pushed away from the patient's table, spinning in his chair and staring at her levelly. He sucked in some air and stared up at her.

"Foreman's here to prove that he's not a selfish bastard."

Cuddy blinked. That was helpful. Now if only House would follow suit.

"Chase is here because he's avoiding his girlfriend."

She grinned. That seemed like Chase.

"Cameron's not here because she's running errands for her dying half-sister."

Doctor Samson was dying.

And there it was.

Although Lisa didn't know the woman well herself, she knew about Cameron's sister. She was the Dean, after all, and she knew her hospital up and down. What's more, she knew that House had been skipping out on clinic to watch soaps with the cancer patient. Because she had to know House up and down, understanding him better than the doctor realized. And knowing the man as she did, the significance of House spending time, voluntarily, with a patient was not lost upon her.

And the loss of a person House had claimed as his own would affect him more profoundly than he would ever admit. Or be willing to show.

"And I'm here because I'm bored." He stared blankly at her, daring her to challenge him. To start a fight. To distract him.

Because Greg didn't have the Vicodin to make life hurt less any more.

Cuddy couldn't, wouldn't, take the bait.

"Now if you'd excuse me," House muttered, spinning around once more. "I need to teach a seventeen year-old how to blow his nose."

The patient, remarkably silent until that point, opened up his mouth in protest. "I can blo-"

"If you could, you wouldn't have so much snot blocking up your airways, would you?"

The patient huffed.

"House."

He stiffened slightly, peering over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in question.

And the owner, when her puppy was hurt, despite the hell that the dog had put her through, would always offer what comfort she could.

Because that's what people did for those they cared for.

Liked.

"I'm-"

"Doctor Cuddy?"

Lisa sighed, turning away from House to see the head nurse at the door.

Probably for the best.

She would hate for House to know he had won.

"Yes, Brenda?"

"A patient just came to me complaining about a situation in the first floor women's bathroom."

"A situation? What kind of situation?" She frowned. "Is there another leak by the windows?" It had started raining some hours before, and water often slipped in through the cracks between frame and wall. "Couldn't maintenance take care of it?"

"They wouldn't say what it was and asked for you specifically."

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose, the pain in her head increasing. "Wonderful."

"Oh," House clapped his hands eagerly from his chair. "Some secret female thing. Can I come?"

Cuddy threw a glare his way. "No." She looked up to Brenda. "Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble."

She heard House's exclamation of, "Looky. A needle with drugs in it. Want some, kid?" as she left the room.

No rest for the weary.

---

"I can't believe you fed me to Greg."

"I didn't 'feed' you to anyone," Wilson remarked, eyes darting to anywhere but his patient. "I just used you as a sacrifice."

She scowled.

Wilson gave a helpless shrug, smirking. "He promised not to steal any of my food for a week if I allowed him to torment you."

Clara glared. "You should have starved."

Her smile ruined the severity of the statement.

Wilson leaned back in his seat by Clara's bed, smiling. "You know you wouldn't have listened to anyone else."

"That's not true!"

"Fine," Wilson allowed, sending her a significant glance. "You would have argued with them until they gave up out of sheer exhaustion."

She nodded happily. "Much better."

"Fortunately," he said dryly, "we happen to have the most annoying and pig-headed man on the planet at hand, and this seemed like just the sort of situation to exploit his otherwise infuriating tendencies."

"Very convenient for you." She pause. "Until he turns on you, that is."

Wilson inclined his head, thoughts elsewhere. "An unavoidable downside."

For all that the oncologist liked to joke about his friend, and for all that House liked to appear aloof, Wilson knew better.

His friend did not handle death well. Did not like surrendering the people that he had placed emotional investments in, partly because he partook in the practice so rarely. House did not like people, and even when he did he had no desire to admit any fondness, seeing the affection as a weakness more than anything else. After all, people couldn't be trusted. They were far more likely to take advantage of the caring rather than reciprocate it.

So, as heartily as House denied that he enjoyed Clara's company, his selfless offer to bully her into resting instantly negated all of his claims.

House liked her. And the fact that she was dying was going to grate on the diagnostician.

Of course, there was little Wilson could do to help, since House refused to acknowledge this truth, much less deal with it.

One of the many trials of being the best friend of an emotional recluse.

Wilson shook himself, turning back to Clara. "How are you?"

She fiddled with her blanket. "Good, considering."

Wilson simply raised an eyebrow mutely.

Clara let out a sigh. "I'm worried."

Wilson smiled in encouragement and gestured for her to continue.

"My family doesn't know how to grieve properly. Never has." She smirked. "You should have seen us when our first dog died."

Wilson grinned but said nothing, waiting for more.

She sighed again. "Matt, Will and Sammy will be all right, given some time. They're young, haven't experienced enough of death to forget how to let the pain out. They know how to wail and cry, to suffer and mourn. And then how to continue on with life." She looked down at her hands.

Wilson furrowed his brow. "But it's not always that easy."

She looked up and smiled. "No, not for some." Her gaze returned to her hands. "Mark will keep the grief close to him for a very long time. Too long. Eventually, he'll be able to move on, but it will hurt him terribly, to keep that pain for such an extended time."

She glanced up, shaking her head. "But for Al, it's never that simple. She can't just be sad and miss the person who's gone. That's not enough." She stared intently at him. "She has to suffer for it."

He frowned. "Suffer?"

A head shake. "Life can't go back to the way it was before, can't be as good or as pleasant." She snorted. "If it does, then it's an insult to the memory of whoever's gone."

"When a good person dies," he said, almost to himself, "there should be an impact on the world."

Someone should be upset.

And Cameron, because she was selfless and wanted to spare those around her from harm, would always assume that the person should be her.

"Of course." Clara's voice pulled him away from his thoughts. "And that alone isn't bad." She sighed. "But she doesn't know when to stop punishing herself for the sake of someone else. A dead someone else at that."

She leaned forward on the bed, adjusting herself on the pillows. "Brian died over ten years ago and she's only gone on a handful of dates since then. She's lost all contact with their old friends, hasn't touched the life they had together for fear of tarnishing it in some way." She stopped her fiddling and looked at him sadly. "Her husband died and then she stopped living out of a twisted sense of obligation to his memory."

Wilson rubbed his neck.

"The worst of it is that she doesn't even realize what she's doing. She keeps insisting that she's gone out with friends, that she's goes on dates. That she just lost the phone numbers of her old classmates." Clara sighed. "But the only people she goes out with are Eric and Rob, mostly for work. All of her dates have been with people like Greg, who would never have her." Wilson's eyebrow quirked. "She hasn't made any new friends here in Jersey."

She brought a hand to her brow, rubbing above her eyebrows and sighing. "I hate to think what she'll leave behind when I'm gone."

"You're not gone yet," Wilson reassured her quickly.

"But I will be." She gave a small smile. "Last time, although God knows I should have been there to help her, I was too busy setting up my business, being pregnant, to stop her from disconnecting from everything, one, that mattered to her." A small headshake before a reluctant grin spread across her face. "Except for her schooling. The one thing she's ever done for herself. Nothing could take her away from that. Even when Brian was at his worst, she would take care of him all day until he fell asleep, then study. I would call, ask her how things were going, and she would leave almost immediately to go back to work."

The oncologist frowned, staring at her in disbelief. "Didn't she have any help?"

She shook her head. "Brian's friend was around for a while. He assisted when he could, but as a grad student who worked full time, didn't have the opportunity to do much more than visit on occasion." She let out a breath of air. "As for Brian's family, his parents were dead, his sisters struggling to pay rent in different parts of the country-"

Wilson brought a hand to his neck, amazed. "She did it all by herself."

"Because I was too busy to be bothered."

He jerked his head up to stare at the woman seated on the bed in front of him. "I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't, Jim." She smiled without humor. "But it's true." She entwined her fingers. "And I won't be able to help her this time either."

This was no good. The thinly veiled depression and self-loathing. The worry and stress.

The first two were unwarranted. The second two were detrimental to his patient's health.

No matter how well deserved.

Wilson gave his neck one last rub before leaning forward, looking at the woman seriously. "Clara."

As a doctor, his priority was his patient. Not those who she was concerned for.

Who he was concerned for.

Now, in his patient's room, faced with her inevitable death, he was a doctor first.

"You can't worry about Cameron, not now. You don't have the energy to spare and your concern is far from needed." He smiled. "Trust her. Lord knows she's managed to care for everyone else when they've needed it." He gave a rueful grin, recalling how she had saved him from taxi cab fares and, likely, a fever over five months ago.

Clara smirked back.

He shook himself. "We both know that she's more than capable of doing the same for herself."

Clara nodded. "Oh, yes. She can." She gave him a helpless look. "But what if she won't?"

Then someone else would have to take care of her.

And Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that it should be him.

Because he liked her. Enjoyed her company and found her charming in every way. How sometimes she would laugh so hard that tears would form in the corners of her eyes. The way she ate her food, with a delicacy that most didn't show to the most fragile of artifacts. How she could get him to do anything, just by smiling at him, and how she didn't take advantage of it, like most would. The way she managed to be both young and old at the same time. Tired, jaded and wise, but also playful and full of hope, almost naive in her beliefs.

He found grace when she walked, when she talked. When she did nothing at all except simply be. And for all of these reasons Wilson knew, that somehow throughout the past months, of talking, eating and laughing through the days and weeks, through the trials and tribulations, he had become a bit in awe of her. That he might have grown far fonder of her than he should have.

That he wanted her in a way that he couldn't allow himself.

Because she could have so much better than him. Better than a man with three failed marriages, a reputation for deception and a life limited to the comings and goings of the oncology department.

And because she wasn't his to want. To have.

Because, most importantly, she loved House.

And Greg wanted her, could love her, even if he would never admit it. Even if he was doing his damn best to deny her at every turn, to keep himself miserable, unhappy and safe.

And although Wilson had done many horrible things in his life, had caused many of the people he cared for horrible pain, he could never take Greg's chance at happiness away from him.

Greg needed it so much more than James did.

So, Wilson continued to persuade himself with every passing day that Cameron was his friend, no more.

And he, for the most part, had.

House deserved to be happy. To discover some greater redeeming aspect of existence other than the simple desire to prove everyone else wrong. Wilson wasn't going to snatch away House's opportunity to find it.

For that alone, he could convince himself of anything.

Yes, he liked Cameron and she was his friend, and he could offer comfort and support all he wished. But it was not his place to want her. To have her. To care for her when she wouldn't care for herself.

The man she loved would be far more suited to that.

"Wilson."

Wilson frowned at the new voice, leaving his thoughts and turning in his chair to see Cuddy standing next to the door of the room. "Doctor Cuddy."

Clara gave a little wave from her spot on the bed. "Hello, Lisa."

"Good evening, Doctor Samson," the Dean replied with an almost strained grin before turning back to the oncologist. "Doctor Wilson, could I speak with you, please?"

"Of course." Wilson stood up from his seat. "Clara, you've got another half an hour on the drip." He made his way to the door. "I should be back by then, okay?"

She made a shooing gesture and picked up the remote to the television. "Got it Jim." She smirked. "Go do that doctor thing you do."

Wilson rolled his eyes and stepped outside the room, his boss hot on his heals. "What is it, Lisa?" He asked once they were in the hallway.

She took in a large breath. "It's Cameron."

Wilson's eyes widened. "What's happened? Is she okay?"

Lisa shook her head. "I don't know. I saw her without her noticing and thought that she would appreciate a friend more than anything else."

Wilson, more than slightly worried, barely registered the fact that Cuddy had come to him rather than Chase or Foreman.

Or House.

"Where is she?"

"The women's bathroom on the first floor."

He didn't wait for the rest of her explanation, jogging to the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator to arrive.

He had forgotten, in the instant he heard Cameron's name, that he should be letting House do this.

---

She could only assume that she fled to the bathrooms because they were the only place in the hospital that a person might, if they were lucky, be left alone and unobserved.

That was the problem with glass walls. With weak defenses and poorly constructed barriers.

People saw right through them.

So, to divert them from the wreck she had become, the spectacle waiting to be unleashed just beneath the surface, she had taken care of everything in the hours since she had learned about Clara.

After leaving Wilson (leaving his sympathy and understanding, his support that she didn't have the time, fortitude or courage to accept) she had finished the call with Emily, running out of batteries by the time the conversation was through. She had reluctantly switched to her own phone, a gigantic monstrosity from five years before that she hadn't had the time to replace, and gone outside in the rain to get a signal.

During a quick conversation in which Will said he would be in Jersey before the week was out, Cameron had quickly become soaked, rain rapidly going through the thin fabric of her lab coat.

But she had more phone calls to make.

She contacted family friends, colleagues of Clara, former patients who had become closer once they stopped seeing Clara professionally. Skimming through the flickering address book on Clara's cell, she had reached them all. Calmly and with as much grace as she could muster, she had told each and every one of the kind people who had become the Samsons's friends about Clara's condition.

Yes, she was dying. No, no visitors. Not now. In a few weeks, maybe. If Clara was up to it. Time? Four months. Yes, it's short. Please, don't be. It's not your fault. The family appreciates your support. Thank you.

Click.

Over and over again. Each conversation making it more real, making the sting all the more sharp, the truth harder and harder to deny.

Clara shouldn't be the one to have to go through this. Certainly not Matt. Sammy, the poor thing still shocked herself? No.

And not Mark. She wouldn't make him live through that too, on top of all of the grief. Not like she had.

Brian had a lot of friends.

Three months after he and Allison were married they had wanted to know why he had stopped coming to the soccer games. Why he never showed up to class any more. Why he stopped going to work.

What was wrong with Brian?

And he had been so sweet. So beautiful. Awkward, but in a way that made Allison love him all the more. That made complete strangers like him on sight, none of them able to explain why they had been drawn to the slightly geeky, yet friendly, man.

Everyone loved Brian.

And everyone wanted to know what had happened to him.

And Allison couldn't tell them that he was wasting away. That he had become skeletal. That his hair was gone, that some days he was so tired that he had to stay in bed, sleeping through the parties, games and classes that he was so missed from. That sometimes he was so weak that he couldn't eat. That he always tried to hide how much pain he was in, to protect her, sobbing into his pillow during the bad nights. That she hid that she knew, to protect him.

And she couldn't possibly tell them that the smile, the one that could charm even the most stoic of persons, brighten any day and encourage the most downtrodden, was still there. That even when she gave him bruises from hugs, even as he continued to lose weight, as the pain became worse and as he felt his future being snatched away from him day by day, he still had his beautiful smile, so out of place on a face so different from the one they all knew.

So, instead of all of that, the gory details, she had just told them that he was dying.

So now she did it again. Said the things she had to, talked to the people who should know.

At least she had never done this, with her father. It was all simple then, the matter of death.

"Daddy's sick, Allison. He's going to leave… And he isn't coming back." A sniff. "What was that?" A frantic headshake. "No, of course not by choice, Al. Daddy would never want to leave you." Another breath of air. A laugh. "No, he doesn't want to leave me, Mom or Will either." A frown. "Why?" Hands playing with Allison's hair, tears falling on her scalp. "When people we care about die, it hurts because we love them so much."

And Clara had braided her hair and they had cried all night. And in the morning Daddy had looked the same as the day before, and he had told her that he loved her and, for an eleven year-old, that was enough to make it all hurt a little less.

Of course, she had been too young to catalogue every change in her father, to notice the transformations in body, form and temperament.

She was young enough not to have to watch him die.

Ten years later and she had no such luxury. She had critically observed Brian's death up to his final breath, and then been grateful that his suffering was over. That he didn't have to keep smiling just for her.

Twenty years after her father's funeral it was happening again. Now was the time to bring out the paper and pen; to start her surveillance of another loved one. To note how the disease ate at her, slowly destroyed every indication of the spirit and joy in her sister. As it robbed her of a good life.

As it robbed Allison of one other thing she cared for.

It was always cancer.

By the time the calls were done, Cameron was freezing, drenched from head to toe, reluctant to return inside.

She couldn't let her family see her like this. Couldn't let them think that she couldn't handle it. Not when they needed her.

And she couldn't let her colleagues see her.

Couldn't let House see her.

Wouldn't allow them to lose what little respect she had fought so hard to gain from them.

She had gone to the bathroom, the one place where she should could, possibly, be left alone long enough to pull herself together. Just a few minutes. She didn't need to dry off, just regain some composure. A couple of minutes alone.

That's all she needed.

Of course, it was at that moment that a woman had entered the room, taken one look at her and then quickly fled.

And if the expression on her face hadn't been so petrified, her terror so entertaining, so wonderfully amusing, it might have made her cry.

Instead it made her laugh. Caused her to lean over the sink and howl into the porcelain, far more amused than the situation warranted.

The woman had been scared, frightened, of her. Allison Cameron.

Pure, sweet and innocent Cameron, who never hurt anyone except for herself.

The laughter increased in volume and concentration, Cameron stumbling away from the sink to lean against the far wall, still laughing, recognizing the hysterical pitch to it, the unnatural intensity of the chuckles.

And if she wanted to, she probably could have stopped.

But then she would think about Brian and Dad.

And Clara.

Her personal hero. Her rock, her foundation. The closest thing she had to a mother since she was twelve.

And how she would be gone, just like them.

Thoughts like that hurt. Laughing was so much easier.

Before long Cameron found herself sliding down the tiled wall, flopping onto the floor without grace, the laughter quickly morphing to sobs. Like a switch had been flipped.

Apparently, it was a thinner line between laughter and tears than she had anticipated.

Her vision blurred, the world spun, she couldn't gather enough air to support her crying. She tried to stop, pulling her legs close to her chest, hugging them with her arms, bringing her face down to her knees, trying to take slow, long breaths.

This wasn't like her. She didn't have emotional break-downs. Couldn't afford to, didn't see the purpose.

Cameron was, after all, a very practical person.

Sobbing uncontrollably on a bathroom floor wasn't practical. Wasn't sane. Wasn't useful to anyone, least of all herself.

She took another breath, attempting to calm herself, having only minimal success.

Then there were hands on her shoulders.

"Cameron?"

She jerked her head up and blinked at the blurry pocket-protector in front of her.

"Are you all right?"

She tilted her head back further, taking in the kneeling form of Wilson, hair disheveled, tie loose and jacket hanging off his shoulders, staring intently at her, hands moving from her arms to her forehead, checking temperature.

Cameron nodded at him, tears still leaking out of the corner of her eyes. "I'm fine," she managed to squeeze out.

Wilson smirked, bringing his hands back to her shoulders and looking at her huddled form head to toe. "This may be going out on a limb, but I'm thinking that you're lying to me."

Cameron gave a snotty snort, staring up at the oncologist, smiling back and rubbing at her cheeks with a hand. "Maybe just a little."

He grinned. "Well, if it's just a little…" He let go of her shoulders, slumping to her side and leaning his back against the wall she was currently huddled against. He inclined his head in the direction of her legs. "Why don't you uncurl, there?"

She nodded, loosening the grip she had on her legs and allowing them to unfold in front of her.

"Better?"

She gave another nod, leaning her head against the wall and taking another deep breath.

"Good."

She heard the sound of rustling fabric "Here." He pressed something into the palm of her hand.

She glanced down to see a napkin between her fingers.

She laughed. "Do you keep a supply of these on-hand?"

He nodded seriously. "Always." He grinned. "I was a boy scout."

She gave another chuckle and blew her nose, tossing the paper into the trash bin on her right once she was through.

They were silent, both staring ahead, Cameron sniffing occasionally and Wilson sitting silently by her side.

And it was nice to have him there.

Until she remembered what happened next.

Because Wilson seemed very much like someone Allison could turn to, someone who appeared more than happy to accept her, help her.

And she knew what happened when she clung to people like that. The feelings that were manufactured out of desperation and despair, of loneliness and loss.

And Allison had already decided that she wasn't going to fool herself into thinking she loved him. Especially not like that. Through horrible circumstance rather than any deep affection, out of her using him for her own means. And while, yes, she wanted to, nearly needed to, accept his help, to turn to someone, just for a while, she didn't dare.

Allison didn't know if she could bear losing Wilson's friendship like she had lost Joe's.

She coughed, wrapping her arms around herself to block out the cold, looking at Wilson. His kind expression and his caring eyes, the way his hands almost twitched at his sides as he studied her intently.

Maybe, if she was very careful, she could remember that he was her friend, nothing more. That everything else, all the other feelings, were artificial creations her mind had induced to make her feel less alone. That his help was just one concerned friend to another, without strings or commitment.

And for the comfort she wanted so frantically, she could manage that.

"You're in the women's bathroom, you know."

She didn't bother to ask how he knew that she was there. It seemed unimportant.

Wilson turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "And you're drenched." There was a question in his tone.

Cameron gestured to her pocket, where her phone bulged. "Couldn't get a signal."

He shook his head sadly. "I see."

Cameron blushed. "I should probably consider getting a new phone."

"But then we wouldn't have any more adventures like this one." Wilson smiled, giving her a sideways look. "I would hate to be deprived of them in the future."

Cameron laughed. "In that case, never mind."

Wilson nodded. "Excellent."

There was another comfortable silence; odd, given the circumstances. Two adults, one soaking wet, both wearing lab-coats and sitting on the floor, staring at teal tile.

Strange, that Cameron didn't want to be anywhere else at just that moment. Yes, there were things to do. People to see, clothes to change. Loved ones to care for. But for now, that could wait.

She was busy watching tile.

"I'm sorry."

She turned to Wilson.

"It's not your fault."

"I know," he said (although she wasn't sure that she believed him), looking at her. "But I'm still sorry."

Cameron nodded, bringing her gaze back to the floor.

He did the same.

After a time she realized that he wasn't leaving, that he was willing to stay sitting on the floor of the women's first-floor bathroom, just to be with her.

And that was enough to make her feel better about the deal she had made with herself. To think that perhaps she could, if she was careful, allow herself to be comforted by him.

"Wilson?"

He looked up and she caught his eyes with hers, forcing him to stare at her.

"I hate your disease."

He sighed. "Me too."

Cameron smiled bitterly, feeling another tear slide down her cheek, bringing her head down to rest against Wilson's shoulder.

And all she thought about, as his arm slowly wrapped around her, was how nice it was, to have someone to cling to.