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.

13. Like You Do Already

Drenched

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

Disclaimer: If I was David Shore and did own House, it would be much easier for me to come up with witty disclaimers, since I would be brilliant. (Of course, if I was David Shore I suppose witty disclaimers would be a bit excessive. Damn lucky bastard. –bitter-) House belongs to David Shore and FOX. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. My hopeless pining though; that's all mine…

Author's Note: I'm sorry! Thank you all for waiting so patiently. I wish I could say that things will speed up now, but… Well, college takes up more time than I, personally, believe it should. I'll be certain to have a real heart to heart with my professors about it, but I don't know if they'll be sympathetic to my cause…

However, on the bright side, including the epilogue, this story only has three chapters left! We're nearing the end, folks!

LastScorpion has, once again, worked her magic. A –huge- thanks to her for all the hard work she's put into this monstrosity, including taking time out of her Friday to look over this beast. Without her, I've no doubt that most would have abandoned this tale out of sheer frustration at my ridiculous mistakes. Yay for LastScorpion and, again, many thanks!

Medical knowledge? What medical knowledge? Any tips or corrects are, as always, most appreciated!

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

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

Chapter Nine: Like You Do Already

And I want you to be a tough guy
When you're supposed to
Like you do already.
And I want you to be tender
Like you do already.
And I want us to have met for a reason
And I want that reason to be important.
And I want it to be bigger than us
I want it to take over us.
-Nicole Burdette

---

House gave his wrist a snap and sent the yo-yo flying out in front of him, smirking in satisfaction when Foreman jerked back in his seat from across the table, files scattering around the man.

The neurologist looked up from the mess the files had become and glared. "That wasn't funny."

"Yes it was." He flung the yo-yo again, Foreman throwing himself back in his seat once more.

Greg smiled. "What's not entertaining about that?"

Foreman scowled, standing up and gathering all of the papers together before striding into the hallway, pen firmly in hand.

"Take your temper tantrum to the children's oncology ward. Teach them resentment!" House yelled after the doctor, good humor fading only when he realized that his last source of entertainment had just stomped out of the room.

This was why he needed a set of three. With the triplets he could annoy one, have said minion flee, and still have two left to bother. He supposed twins would be satisfactory, but really, always nice to have a spare around, just in case.

House looked about aimlessly, finding nothing of amusement in his immediate vicinity.

This was a problem.

He staggered to his feet, limping into his office and flopping behind his desk, letting out a mild groan as he did so. His leg hated the rain, hated the dampness and the cold. It was mornings like this one when it took all of his will-power not to demand an extra Vicodin from Wilson. How easy it would be, to fool the man into giving him just one more, wracked with guilt as he was. To swallow that little something extra, just to help take away a little of this extra pain. A little of this added hurt.

It would all have been so very easy.

But of course, Wilson wasn't around to harass and beg from when House needed him.

Boy Wonder was getting a boo-boo face for that.

Quickly ridding himself of his thoughts, House turned on his iPod, music filling the room while he snagged his tennis ball and began to throw it rhythmically in the air, trying to keep the beat.

Now this; this could distract him for hours.

And it would have if a certain she-demon hadn't entered to room, crossed her arms over her chest, glared down at him, and given him a look that clearly said, 'I am not amused.'

House momentarily contemplated bouncing the tennis ball against her head, but thought better of it.

Cuddy wouldn't hesitate getting out the handcuffs, and House just wasn't up for something that kinky so early in the week.

His boss screamed something at him, which the music easily drowned out.

How House loved music.

He furrowed his brow and gave the ball another toss. "What?"

The glare intensified.

House sent her an innocent grin.

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, Cuddy walked behind his desk, flicked off the iPod and huffed back in front of him, re-crossing her arms and sending him a disapproving look.

He rose his eyebrows expectantly. "Was there something you wanted?"

"What are you doing here, House?"

He glanced around briefly, taking stock of his surroundings before turning back to Cuddy. "Nothing," he said and nodded in satisfaction. "Nothing at all." The tennis-ball went back into the air and House locked his eyes on it. "Foreman was doing something productive earlier, but I put a stop to that nonsense."

Cuddy shook her head. "Why?"

"To spite you, mostly."

"House."

The diagnostician glanced up at the woman, noting with distaste the concern in the her eyes. The sympathetic tilt of her head, the gentle frown of her lips.

"Why are you here?"

House scowled, standing up from his chair and hobbling out of his office into Diagnostics. Anything to get away from her damn sympathy.

"She's dead." He shot behind him as he grabbed the yo-yo he had left on the glass table, walking to the opposite end of the room. "Nothing I can do about that, no matter where I am."

Funerals never really had been Greg's thing.

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?" House sat down once more, his leg causing too much pain for him to remain standing. "Funerals exist to help people grieve and mourn." He rubbed his thigh. "I have done both, quite dramatically, may I add, already. Shame you missed it. The ritual sacrifice of a goat in her name was my favorite, although having some trouble getting the blood stains out of the carpet." He sighed. "Just one of the many tribulations of tribal worship."

Cuddy looked decidedly exasperated. "House, Cameron wants you there."

House gave his leg another fierce rub, focusing all of his attention on his limb. "No she doesn't," he muttered.

Because she didn't want him.

She was just very good at making herself believe she did.

--

House stared at the television in rapt attention, his companion similarly occupied on the bed to his left. Neither said a word, entranced by the figures moving on the screen. There was an angry yell and the sound of a dramatic slap.

Both observers gasped.

A few muffled sobs, moving music and an enraged screech sounded before a commercial took over the screen.

House turned his attention to Clara. "Intense."

She smiled weakly and shook her head. "Skye is evil, Greg." She gestured for Skittles and the doctor reluctantly handed them over. "Emily's going to kick her ass."

"Were we watching the same show?" House blinked pointedly at her. "Skye threw the first punch." An intense stare. "The battle has already been won." An obnoxious eye-roll. "Duh."

"Has it now?" Clara played with her drip. It still bothered her, despite its almost continuous presence for the past month. "And what evidence do you have to support this claim?"

"Years of soap-watching experience." House gave a sage nod. "She who punches first loses the least amount of hair."

"And thus, wins the war."

"Exactly," he agreed happily as he snatched the candy away from her.

There was a moment of comfortable silence as the watched an ad for cereal, a cartoon character with a ridiculous hat eagerly promoting the product.

Oh, the simple minds of children. Manipulated so easily.

There was a slight cough and Clara straightened her shoulders. "Greg."

He snickered as the cartoon man toppled feet over head off the screen. Silly cartoons. "What?"

"I want you to speak at my funeral."

House turned away from the television, eyes widening as a shot of pure panic and confusion flowed down his spine.

Clara stared at him seriously for a beat, before her lips twitched and she let out what sounded like an echo of her formerly throaty laugh. "I'm sorry," she said as she flopped back into her bed and House started to breathe again. "I just had to see that face." She sent him a genuine smile, eyes all but glowing in mirth.

House took in another breath of relief before adopting an appropriate scowl. "I'm going to graffiti your grave stone," he grumbled.

Clara smirked. "Al would castrate you."

His brow furrowed. "And then make me eat my own balls." He winced before glancing at the woman once more. "Fine, no graffiti. But I'm taking the last of the candy." He poured out the remainder of the Skittles from the bag and tossed the plastic onto her bed, swallowing the candies in one gulp.

Clara glared down at the plastic and then brought her gaze back to House.

He stuck out his tongue.

She rolled her eyes and gave a reluctant smile. "What are you going to do when I'm gone?" She tossed the bag into the trash to her left and looked back to him. "Sob hysterically before curling into a ball and dying out of the sheer misery?"

House narrowed his eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Of course not." A small pause. "Wouldn't be surprised if it happened, but that doesn't mean that I want it to."

"According to you," he leaned forward in his seat, glancing up at the television, "I've been miserable forever." He looked back to her. "I doubt that your absence will fling me that last inch into the spiraling whirlpool of discontent."

"Me either," Clara said agreeably. "But that doesn't mean you'll be able to keep living like this."

House rolled his eyes. "Says the Doctor Phil wannabe."

Clara stared at him seriously.

He gave a sigh. "I don't need to be happy."

"Well you certainly don't need to be miserable."

"So what should I do?" He asked as he leaned back in his chair. "Open up my old, jaded and worn soul and allow someone to heal the poor thing for me?" House smirked. "Let your darling sister get off on helping the cripple rediscover the warmth buried within in his oh so very fragile heart?"

"No."

House frowned. "No?" He studied the woman intently. "You don't want Cameron to make me happy, therefore make herself happy, therefore make you the happiest of all?"

"No." She smiled sweetly at him, opening up a drawer and pulling out another bag of Skittles.

House gaped.

"You should 'rediscover the warmth' by your damn self." She opened the bag and popped a Skittle into her mouth smugly.

He blinked. "You don't want Cameron to help me?"

"No." She poured out a handful of candy and then hid the rest away in another drawer. "And neither do you." Clara smiled knowingly. "Because she doesn't just want to 'heal' you. She wants to change you." She gave a soft sigh and shook her head sadly. "And you won't let her do that."

House narrowed his eyes. "What has given you any indication that she could chan-"

"Could she make you happy?"

There was a slight silence as House gave the question more consideration than he felt should have been warranted.

He quickly cleared his thoughts and brought a hand to his chin, adopting a confused expression. "What is this feeling, 'happiness', of which you speak?" He brought a finger to his temple and tapped repeatedly. He snapped his fingers. "Is it similar to 'irritation'?"

She ignored his comments. "You know she could." Clara gave a smile of indulgence. "And that's what scares you. That she could fundamentally alter your personality, make you lose that misery that you've made such an intrinsic part of who you are. And if that changes, who knows what else will?"

House gave an eye-roll. "She couldn-"

"She could," Clara interrupted quickly, in a tone that broke no argument. "But that's not the only thing that's stopping you." She stared at him seriously. "Do you think you could make her happy, Greg?"

House let out a dramatic sigh, giving the woman an annoyed glance before quickly looking down to his cane.

"Al could make you less miserable," she said, leaning forward on the bed. "You can't deny that."

House still refused to look at her.

"But you're not willing to let her." Clara shook her head sadly and returned to the folds of her pillows. "You're too damn stubborn to allow someone to attempt it. Too wary of the consequences to contemplate the benefits of such a change." A tired grin. "We both know your desire to be miserable is entirely your own, that you're the only person who has the power to change it."

House glanced up.

"But Al could never accept that." Another head shake. "She would believe that she had failed you, failed herself." She stared down at her hands. "She wouldn't be able to fix you, and it would kill her."

Clara looked away from her suddenly brittle hands, staring at House with an intensity he had no choice but to share.

"And you don't want to cause Al that kind of pain."

For a long moment, House could say nothing. Could do nothing but contemplate the statement, the absolute certainty with which the woman said it. The nagging sense, buried deeply in the corner of his mind, that she was right.

He reburied the thought instantly. "That's sweet of you to say. Not true, but sweet."

Clara ignored him. "You're doing what you think is best for her, protecting her." She was still staring at him, staring through him. "You won't love Al because you don't think you can give her what she wants, what she needs. You won't let her fix you, change you, and she wouldn't be happy unless she could."

House shuffled his feet, doing his best to distract himself from what she was saying. To overlook the high pitched ring of truth in her words.

The woman on the bed smiled. "You care about her."

"Or I think she's annoying," House snapped. "But your explanation works too." He spared a glance at the television and gave a nearly audible sigh of relief as General Hospital came back on. "Now silence. Can't miss the cat-fight."

Clara grinned, shaking her head slightly and bringing her attention back to the screen.

--

Cuddy sighed. "Even if she doesn't Clara would have."

House looked up from his leg and glared. "Would she? And you've gathered this from the three times you came in contact with the woman?" He widened his eyes mockingly. "Oh what insight you have."

Cuddy tapped her foot. "I gave you the day off for a reason." She put her hands on her hips. "Shockingly, it wasn't so you could sit in your office and do nothing except for torment Foreman."

House frowned. "Why is our favorite doctor from the hood still here anyway?" He raised his eyebrow at Cuddy. "Someone's just asking for a lawsuit."

Cuddy opened her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted but the neurologist's entrance.

"I'm here because I'm not going to the funeral," Foreman remarked blandly as he went to the table, picking up a deserted file.

House pointed an accusing finger at the younger man, looking to Cuddy.

"I am, however, going to the wake later in the afternoon." He smiled smugly at House, slowly making his way to the door.

House lowered his hand, pouting.

"Go, House," Foreman said from the doorway. "Maybe if you leave I can get some work done."

"If by 'work' you mean stealing all of the TVs in the hospital."

Foreman rolled his eyes and waved to Cuddy before leaving the room just as suddenly as he had entered it.

"Felon!" House yelled after the neurologist. He looked back up to Cuddy. "Just you wait. One day he'll snap and his inner delinquent will come out. You'll regret making me hire a third fellow then."

Cuddy grinned. "If you push Foreman to that point, I don't think anyone could blame him for whatever he planned to do to you."

House shook his head sadly. "Where's the compassion, Cuddy?"

"I think I lost it around the fifteen hundredth reference to my breasts."

He furrowed his brow and then shook his head. "Nope. It was worth it." He leaned forward. "That was the one comparing them to fresh produce." He wagged his eyebrows.

The vein in Cuddy's temple gave a satisfying jerk.

House really was the master at irritating his boss.

"Go to the funeral."

He jutted out his bottom lip. "But Moooom..."

Cuddy glared. "You aren't fooling anyone, House." She walked around the table and stood directly in front of him, making her that much more difficult to ignore. Damn her and her evil schemes. "Who are you trying to save face for?"

He scowled. "I'm not 'saving face.' I simply have no wish to subject myself to hysterics."

"No," Cuddy shot quickly. "You don't want people to think you care." She leaned down, staring at him intently.

House took the opportunity to look down her blouse.

The Ladies, he was happy to note, where in tip-top condition.

"It's too late House. We know you gave a damn about someone other than yourself."

House narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You have no proof of that!"

Cuddy blinked. "The past four months you spent more time with a dying woman than you did with your Gameboy."

He brought a hand to his chin. "This does speak highly of her..."

She rolled her eyes. "Go and pay your respects to a good woman."

"Never," House muttered, giving his leg another rub, trying to ignore her.

Clara was dead. It was sad, but death happened. In oncology, death happened often. There was nothing special about this particular patient, even if she wasn't his. There couldn't be anything special about her.

It would set a dangerous president.

"Fine, don't go." She shook her head and went towards the door, looking over her shoulder before she exited. "But you'll regret it when you admit that you miss her."

With that she left, and House had nothing but a tennis ball to distract himself from how much he had enjoyed those Skittles.

---

Wilson had been to enough funerals in his time to know how these things went. He'd had enough people die to understand the way they worked, how to keep calm and do what was expected of him. He could never say that he particularly enjoyed it, but he managed grief, and all of the trials that came with it, well enough.

But not like Allison.

She was an expert. A master of mourning, champion of the wearily depressed. Able to retain a soothing sense of tranquility throughout the whole nasty business of death and still care for those around her. It was amazing, how remarkably together she was amongst all of this grief. How she had been so composed throughout the past months.

Too composed.

Clara's deterioration had occurred just as predicted. Three months and twenty-three days after Wilson had given his sentence, she died. It had not been a gentle process, the slow decay of the body as it shut down, as it gave in to the disease that was sapping every ounce of strength from it.

Watching it happen had been easy for no one.

By the second month Mark was at his wife's side all but a few hours of the day, during which he would disappear without comment. No one dared to ask where he went.

Sammy remained caught between episodes of intense lethargy and extreme activity, either wholly removed from the situation or so involved that she didn't have the time or perspective to analyze it properly.

Matt cried. When he wasn't doing his best to ignore the fact that his mother was dying, wasn't attempting to enjoy every last instant he had with her, knowing that there wasn't much time left in a way that other eleven year olds might have missed, he was crying.

Or he was with Foreman, the neurologist showing a tolerance and patience for the boy that surprised Wilson. Foreman did not, as a rule, bother himself with patients or their families unless he had an official obligation to do so, which he most definitely did not have with the Samsons. And yet Wilson had seen Foreman chatting with Matt in the lab as he ran tests or in Diagnostics, when House wasn't around.

Wilson wasn't sure what to make of it.

And then there had been Cameron, who took care of all of the things that were far too painful for anyone else to manage. She called the lawyers for the final will, looked into hiring private nurses, oversaw the transfer of power at Clara's business. She forced Sammy out of apathy, called Mark when he had been gone for too long, held Matt when he cried.

In fact, during the whole ordeal Allison had managed to care for everyone except herself.

Save for her first break-down in the women's bathroom, Cameron had shown next to no sign of emotional flagging throughout the months. So busy working to keep her family as unburdened as possible by the distractions of death, the well meaning friends and the necessary tasks that could steal away precious moments, and unwilling to take time off of work (despite Cuddy's pleas that she do so), she hadn't allowed herself the opportunity to mourn.

And Wilson couldn't do a thing to change it, the immunologist ignoring his every attempt to get her to rest, to slow down. To just take a moment to experience some of her own pain instead of everyone else's.

It was only when her brother came that Wilson had any success at making sure Allison didn't exhaust herself to help the people she loved.

Will was an interesting character, one not easily defined by normal conventions. He was only slightly taller than Cameron, just as naturally thin, and had it not been for the fading neon green hair and the series of rings coming from his lip, eyebrows and ears, Wilson might have found him rather feminine in appearance. As it was, however, Wilson simply smirked when Clara had gathered her youngest sibling in her arms and scolded him for not telling her about his newest piercing. (One of the three in his lower lip.)

And it was only with the presence of Will that Allison allowed herself to be pulled away from her family, her younger brother managing to transport the relatives away from their melancholy, spinning tales about his time across the country, mostly detailing his time spent with his traveling motorcycle road-show.

Nothing was a better treatment for grief than adventures that were far too magnificent to be real.

And with that momentary cure, the lagging of sadness when William Burroughs told his stories, the oncologist was able to steal Allison away from her needy family, the woman believing that Will's enthusiasm and uplifting personality would do as substitutes for her own presence, if only for a short time.

So, James would take her to lunch to observe her consume every morsel he could convince her to swallow. It was all Wilson could do to make sure that Allison got a meal in her before she would head off again, checking on a patient, phone call or family responsibility.

It wasn't much, but at least for an hour every day she permitted him to help her. To aid her in forgetting, if just for a bit, that death was eagerly waiting around the nearest corner to take away someone she loved. And, for a time, he was able to make her laugh, to listen to childhood stories, to learn more of the fascinating details that made Allison who she was.

He enjoyed those hours more than he had any right to.

Wilson shook himself, sitting up straighter in his seat as tried to look over the heads of fellow mourners, eyes instantly and without thought locking onto the steady form of the woman who had been occupying far too many of his thoughts as of late.

She was seated in the front pew, Wilson just able to make out the stubborn tilt of her chin, the strong set of her shoulders, her hand on her brother's arm. While everyone else's head was staring at the floor, eyes downcast and forms slumped dejectedly in their seats, bent in the way that only those who had experienced true loss can manage, she sat up straight.

Because she thought she had to. To protect everyone else, but never herself.

Wilson knew he could have done it for her, sheltered Allison just long enough so that she could lose herself to sorrow, the way one was supposed to with death. Allow her to experience the irrational and enraged sadness at whatever powers that be for taking one so fiercely loved. After that anger, the rest of grief was easy. No less painful, but more simplistic.

Wilson could have done it, would have, if only he could reach her.

He wished he could bridge the gap between them. Spanned the distance over the rows of pews, the hospital, her colleagues and House. Wished he could go to her and force her to feel, to rid her of this false composure, created to provide a little more strength to those she thought needed it. Make her confront the detrimental effects this mock courage had on her; allow her to realize the dangers of her continued to comfort and support while she remained persistent in avoiding her own grief expertly.

Because Wilson knew that when it finally caught up to Allison, it would overwhelm her completely.

Because the question was not whether Allison Cameron would break.

The question was when. And how.

And who would be there with her when it happened.

And Wilson knew that it couldn't, shouldn't, be him.

He let out a quiet sigh before he gave his head another shake. Today was for Clara, for her memory and spirit. This pining- hopeless, selfish and in the most inappropriate of settings, wasn't what she would have wanted.

At least, that was certainly what Wilson wanted to believe.

--

Wilson glanced down at Clara's folder at the foot of her bed, frowning at something.

"How are you doing?" he asked, jotting down a note.

"I'm great."

He looked up from the file, flicking his gaze over his patient critically before frowning. "Clara," he said seriously. "Stop lying to me." He threw a quick look at the clock on the wall.

She shrugged, flinching at the movement. "Stop asking me questions you already know the answers to," she smiled sweetly, "and I won't have to."

Wilson's scowl intensified.

Clara let out a sigh. "I'm doing as well can be expected."

Wilson's eyes narrowed as he closed the file. "And how well is that?"

She grinned. "Well enough." She slowly sat up on the bed, folding her hands in her lap and staring at her doctor intently. "How are you, Jim?"

Wilson gave a sardonic grin, giving the wall another quick look before responding. "We're not talking about me."

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Maybe we should be."

Wilson rolled his eyes and opened the file once more. "I'm fine."

"Jim." Clara crossed her hands over her chest and gave him a severe glance. "Stop lying to me."

"I," Wilson snapped the file closed, "am not lying." He placed the folder at its proper spot at the end of her bed, smiling up at her.

Clara ginned back, obviously unimpressed. "Then why does it look like you haven't slept in weeks?"

"I'm a doctor," he remarked blandly as he walked around to view various monitors. "I get paid not to sleep." He gave a slight nod at the equipment and then came to Clara's side. "Could you roll over on your side, please?"

She nodded and did as he asked, wincing as she turned. Once she was settled Wilson brought his stethoscope to her back, listening to the sound of her lungs.

There was a small silence as Wilson heard the disturbing crackling coming from Clara's organs.

"You're allowed to be concerned for her, you know," she said suddenly. "You don't have some jerk with a bad tie and pocket protector in your face telling you," she lowered her voice, "'not to worry.'" She glanced at him over her shoulder.

Wilson sighed, bringing the cold metal away from her back. "Clara, we don't have anything to worry about. Cameron will be fine."

"Then why do you keep looking at the clock?"

Wilson's cheeks brightened slightly.

"Eager for lunch?"

"I'm hungry," he muttered, going back to her file.

"And not just for food, I reckon."

Wilson glared as he pulled out the folder. "Let's go over your chart, shall we, Doctor Samson?"

"Sure Jim." She stole a glance at the clock. "Although we better rush if you want to get down to the cafeteria by noon."

Wilson calmly opened the file and smiled pleasantly at her. "We'll take as much time as we need, Doctor Samson." He concentrated on the notes in his hand.

"Jim."

Wilson frowned and looked at his patient, her serious tone worrisome.

She stared at him desperately, pleadingly. "You should be there at noon."

Wilson furrowed his brow, looking at the shell of a woman in front of him. It was amazing, even in a month, how frail she had become. How helpless and weak. How, in a matter of weeks, the role of caretaker had been stripped from her, forced to depend on others, those she had spent her life caring for, to watch over her. She was no longer able to provide for her family in the ways she felt she was obligated to. So who, then, would look over them?

Clara's gaze hadn't lessened in intensity as she stared at Wilson.

"Okay, Clara," Wilson said as he walked back to her side. "I'll be there at noon."

--

There was no preacher at the funeral, but a close family friend was leading the service. All mourners were silent as he spoke, a few muffled sobs resounding throughout the large room, filled to capacity with those present to honor the life of a woman he had just begun to know.

It was hard, to say goodbye to one loved so desperately.

Wilson remained quiet, tried to listen to the man's words. It was hard, to sum up a person through an awkward combination of letters, syllables and sentences, and although the attempt was a good one, it still failed to contain every brilliant and shining aspect of Clara.

The oncologist pitied the man saddled with this task; that of describing a woman larger than life through something as simple as words.

It was several moments later, during a particularly meaningful portion of his speech, that the doors to the entrance of the Church slammed open with a dramatic flourish.

As one the group turned, expressions raging from irritation to curiosity to grief across the sea of faces as they saw who had entered.

Wilson just grinned.

House gave a quick cough, shuffled on his feet, fiddled with a black tie that looked out of place on him, and then quickly strode forward, hobbling down the rows of mourners without looking at them.

Without a second thought Wilson scooted over, making a gap between himself and the edge of the pew. In moments House was seated in the gap, stretching out his feet in front of him and rubbing his leg.

He shot Wilson a look. "Not a word."

The oncologist held up his hands in surrender, smirking uncontrollably as he brought his gaze forward once more.

He knew House had liked her.

It was just a shame that the diagnostician had come to this realization so late in the game.

Greg remained silent for the remainder of the service, staring at and rubbing his leg while pointedly ignoring his surroundings.

After all, if House could forget where he was, he could forget why he was there.

After the service they went to the cemetery, Wilson forcing House into his own car rather than having the man attempt to drive himself. He knew how the leg acted up on rainy days.

Everyone stood under black umbrellas at the graveyard, some huddling together for warmth as they heard more of the same praises, starting to fidget as the downpour became more violent. Others stood off alone, more private in their misery.

Finally it was done, and the people ran to their cars and got out of the wet and cold, entered the comfortable warmth of a heated and upholstered paradise.

The Samsons stayed outside in the wet longer than the rest.

Wilson tugged on House's jacket and started back to his Volvo, House quickly turning on his heel and following suit.

The men slumped into the car, shaking out their umbrellas and shrugging off the worst of the rain from their coats before closing the doors.

There was a silence as they simply stared out the window, entranced by the rain, happy to ignore the significance of what had just occurred.

It was only when they had spent five minutes staring at nothing that Wilson turned to his friend, curious. "Why did you come, House?"

House replied instantly, still shaking water off of his coat, pointedly not looking at the oncologist. "Cuddy threatened to really 'ride me' if I didn't." He glanced up. "Didn't want to find out what that meant, so I thought it best just to submit to her will."

Wilson smiled and shook his head, amused.

Denial must have been engrained in Greg's personality.

With a smirk he turned on the engine, preparing to pull out of the parking lot.

"Whoa, Sparky." House hit his friend's wrist with his cane.

Wilson scowled and rubbed at the now pained joint. "What?"

"Where do you think you're going?"

The oncologist blinked. "To the wake."

He stared pointedly. "After you take me back to my bike."

Wilson rolled his eyes dismissively. "You can't drive now. Especially not that," he paused, searching for a word, "thing you call a vehicle."

House glared. "We both know you're just jealous because the bike gets me all the chicks."

Wilson ignored him. "You might be able to force your leg into cooperating with you, but no sane person would risk driving a bike in that." He gestured outside to the rain.

"But you're functioning under the highly unlikely assumption that I'm sane." House frowned, sending Wilson a hurt look. "I thought you knew me better, Jimmy."

Wilson nodded reluctantly. "Point taken." He moved his hand to the shifter and pushed down the emergency break. "You're still coming with me to the wake."

House groaned and glared. "And why's that?"

"Because you have no choice," Wilson answered happily.

The diagnostician huffed and slouched in his seat. "Twenty minutes." He crossed his arms over his chest. "After that, I'll make a scene." He tilted his head. "Think screaming 'rape' in the middle of speaking with Samson's mother would be a bit much?"

Wilson threw him a disturbed look. "You wouldn't."

House simply raised an eyebrow mutely.

Wilson amended quickly. "Okay, you would." He sighed. "Twenty minutes it is."

Soon enough the two had arrived at the Samsons' home, House quickly retreating to some darkened corner. Wilson suspected the man planned to hiss at anyone who came too near.

Wilson, however, resisted the urge to begin an instant search for Allison. He knew the family hadn't returned from the cemetery yet, knew that even if she had arrived, she did not need him hovering over her, looking over her shoulder, constantly worried for her.

He just didn't think he could help himself.

After a few minutes of pointless wandering, he spotted Chase standing uncomfortably by a wall, eyes locked on the front doors of the house while biting his nails.

Wilson decided it would be quite appropriate to join him.

He took his position just to the right of the young intensivist, the Aussie sparing him a glance before he turned his attention back to the entrance.

He gave the Wilson a distracted nod. "Hi."

Wilson returned the gesture. "Hello."

They stared at the doors.

This situation had to potential to get awkward. Wilson thought it best to take some preemptive measures.

"How are you?"

Chase jerked his head up, sending Wilson a surprised glance. "Fine." A small pause. "You?"

The oncologist observed with interest as Chase shifted on his feet, continuing to bite his nails viciously, seemingly unaware of how close his teeth were getting to the pads of his fingers.

"I'm fine."

There was a long pause.

Without warning Chase turned to the older doctor. "So," he gave a sideways grin. "You hate this too then?"

Wilson smiled. "Loathe it, actually."

The men shared a moment of mutual understanding, ruined only when the front doors opened and the family filed in, Mark, Matt, Sammy and Cameron spreading out amongst the guests.

Chase sent Wilson another nod before quickly following Sammy through the crowd, knowing that the man wouldn't take the abandonment personally.

Wilson, unlike Chase, couldn't afford to be so direct in his diligence, in his caring and desperate worry, in his nearly painful concern.

It wasn't his place, to care for her when she wouldn't care for herself. A rule he wasn't going to forget, this time around. He wouldn't want people, House, to get the wrong impression.

That was the responsibility of the man Allison loved.

And that was a role that Wilson, certainly, did not play.

So he discreetly made his way around the room, mingling with the masses, watching Allison's head duck and weave amongst the guests, following slowly behind, far enough away not to cause suspicion, close enough to satisfy his own need to make sure she was all right.

He was allowed that much. To watch from a distance.

He was in the middle of a conversation when Cameron came upon House.

Wilson observed the situation carefully, noting the calculated disinterest House regarded his employee with, the resigned wariness with which Allison approached him.

He marveled at how difficult these two people could be.

It was at that point that his attention was drawn back to the conversation he had entered, tearing him away from the two doctors and back to the group of psychologists from Clara's organization.

When he turned back to the corner where the two had been talking, it was only to see House stalking towards him rapidly, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him along as the diagnostician hobbled towards the front doors.

"It's been forty minutes and Grandma is giving me a naughty look," he muttered as he pushed open one of the doors, shoving Wilson outside in front of him. "Let's go."

Wilson stumbled to his feet, flinching back when House tossed him his jacket, pulling it on quickly to keep the rain from soaking through his clothes.

"House." The man was already out into the driveway. Wilson hurried to catch up, glancing at the doors behind him and then back to House. "What about Cameron?"

He didn't turn or slow down. "What about her?"

"Did you see her in there?" He gestured to the building behind him. "She needs help."

The older man turned around rapidly, almost causing Wilson to run into him. "Is her problem medical?" House stared intently. "No?" A small pause. "Then I'm leaving." He started heading down the driveway once more.

Wilson rubbed his neck. "House..."

"Sure hope it's not serious," the diagnostician shot behind him. "That would be inconvenient, seeing as how I'm going home."

Wilson caught up to House, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him to turn around. "You have to help her."

House scowled at the hand on his shoulder, Wilson removing it quickly.

"I don't have to do anything. You just want me to." House smirked. "Very demanding of you, Jimmy."

Wilson threw his hands up in exasperation, almost yelling. "Oh yes, because what is more demanding than asking you to walk across a room and look into the well-being of a woman you've tortured for the past three years?"

House simply smiled at the oncologist's loss of control. "You love her, don't you?"

Wilson blinked, feeling his heart stop. "What?"

The older man grinned. "You never tell me what to do." He inclined his head. "Well, not in such an obvious manner." He furrowed his brow. "You poke, prod and annoy, but you never flat-out tell me what I have to do. You know it doesn't work. You try to manipulate me into doing the things you think I should without actually ordering me to." He looked at Wilson up and down, smiling. "But now you're frantic, out of your senses and quite pointedly commanding me to help the Madam of the Fuzz."

Wilson shifted on his feet, scratching viciously at his neck while throwing another look to the house, trying to bury his mounting panic.

"I've known you too long, Jimmy."

Wilson turned back to his friend, who had a demented grin on his face. "You never get this flustered unless you care too much."

Wilson sighed, lowering the hand from his neck and trying to ignore what House was saying.

Denial was a skill he had learned from the best, after all.

"You love her, Jimmy."

He looked up to see House, an amused expression on his face, leaning heavily against his cane. He didn't show an inch of self-doubt.

And even though he knew it would be pointless, Wilson denied it. "I don't."

"You do."

"I don't," he responded quickly. He gave his head a shake. "And even if I did it doesn't matter. She wants you."

House's face became sober. "She doesn't know what she wants." He turned and started for the car once more.

Wilson followed. "Cameron isn't a child."

"She still thinks she can save someone if she just," he adopted a high-pitch tone of voice, "loves them enough." He gave the oncologist a glare. "If that's not the logic of a five year old, I don't know what is."

Wilson dropped the point, knowing that he would make no progress on that subject tonight. House didn't understand that sometimes love didn't involve logic.

"She needs you now, House."

He stopped. "No, she doesn't." He turned, smirking. "Not at a time like this, she doesn't. A drunken Saturday night?" He inclined his head. "Then she needs me." He started forward again, hobbling past vehicles to Wilson's Volvo.

"I'm not leaving, House."

"Obviously."

Wilson tried to catch up his friend. It was remarkable, how quickly that man could run away despite his disability.

"Then where are you going?"

"Home."

Wilson sighed as they reached his vehicle, finally able to slow. "You don't have a car."

House dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key ring. "But I do have your keys." He frowned at the keys before turning back to Wilson, a bewildered look on his face. "Wonder how that happened?"

Wilson cursed under his breath. He had left his keys in his jacket.

He looked at the diagnostician desperately. "House..."

The man brought up his hand, trying to see the small metal objects in the dim light from a streetlamp, taking no notice of the rain pouring around him. "You do it."

Wilson blinked. "Do what?"

House found the proper key and shoved it into the driver's side door, glancing at Wilson. "Go coddle, comfort and reassure the princess." He turned the key and opened the door, slumping inside the vehicle.

Wilson stopped the diagnostician from closing it.

How could he make House understand? What could he say to make him see?

Wilson rubbed his neck.

"Greg, she's not..."

Another fierce rub.

Mine.

"I don't want her, Wilson."

The oncologist stared blankly at the man, certain his mind was playing tricks on him.

"Hire someone else to play her savior."

Wilson studied his friend carefully, the hard and cold demeanor, unsympathetic scowl, the mild look of disgust across his features.

And, for the first time in years, James found that he couldn't tell whether or not Greg was lying to him.

He didn't consider the possibility that this was because he wanted it to be true.

The diagnostician poked Wilson in the shin with his cane, causing him to back up. "I'm taking your car." House said as he moved to close the door. "You can drop me off to pick up the bike tomorrow after work."

Wilson found himself frozen, even as the rain got between the collar of his shirt, causing him to shiver.

House rolled his eyes. "Go, Saint Jimmy." He made a shooing gesture with his hand. "Save another innocent from themselves."

With that House slammed the door, turned on the car, and drove off, leaving Wilson alone in the rain, contemplating possibilities.

---

The black dress had hung limply in the closet that morning as Allison was getting ready.

She tried her best to ignore the fabric for as long as possible, cleaning her apartment, watering her plants, balancing her checkbook.

If she had been capable of sleeping she would have, succumbed to blissful oblivion, ignorant of all of the pains that the real world, life, had to offer.

But sleep continued to elude her, to torment her in the night with unhappy dreams and frightening visions of what was to come. And Allison didn't have the strength to bear those.

So it was that at three AM Allison Cameron was paying her bills as she attempted to ignore what the rest of the day had in store. She avoided her closet and tried not to think too heavily on the significance of that black dress, of what wearing it meant.

She hadn't worn a black dress since Brian died.

Except for her evening with House, two years ago.

Both had, ultimately, been worn for mourning.

It had been a long four hours, between when Allison woke up and the seven o'clock funeral. Most of it was spent on evasion. Trying to evade the dress, the memories.

But not the reality of the situation. Never that. The possibility of death could be avoided for as long as possible, the concept that a person so loved might be approaching the end of existence. But once departed, there was no use in contradicting the unkind truth. Death didn't go away if you believed that it didn't happen. Denial made the pain no easier to tolerate, delayed the grief for only so long.

Everyone may lie, but the truth always catches up in the end. Why should she submit herself to the exhausting chase? Better to accept this hurt for what it was and then move on.

Cameron always had been a very practical person.

Clara, Allison's half-sister who had made sure that all of Allison's dreams had turned to reality, who had cared for and loved the doctor unconditionally with patience, humor and wisdom, was dead.

She had died of breast cancer.

The death had been long, painful and unpleasant for everyone involved. Clara had withstood it all with the utmost poise, and now her suffering was over. She had moved on, if not to a better place, then to somewhere the disease couldn't hurt her any longer.

Who was Allison, to ask any more than that? An end to her sister's pain?

And so she tried to be grateful, to remind herself of that very important fact.

Clara's pain was over.

Now her family's was just beginning. And they, unlike Allison, lacked the experience to cope with loss. Didn't understand the depth of pain they were about to be faced with.

She hadn't had the time yet, to fully contemplate her own.

After what seemed like days, weeks, years, Allison confronted the black dress. She had bought it a month ago, just for this occasion. To be worn once and then thrown away. Never to be touched again.

She slipped it over her head, felt the silk brush against her skin, deceptively soothing as it gently fell into place around her calves.

It took far more will than it should have not to tear the material off in that instant, staring into her bedroom mirror and fleetingly wishing that the day was through.

Grief is always distasteful.

Twelve hours of publicly displaying a modified, socially acceptable, version of this despair was hell.

She arrived first, to the church. Walked up and down the aisles, wondering if Clara would have approved. Her sister never had been fond of churches, but this one was nice. Simple, almost plain, but beautiful. The way the sparse light that made its way through the thunderclouds came in through the stained glass, creating a muted mural of colors on the carpeted floor.

Clara would have loved that, at least.

After a short time she sat down in the front pew, the designated spot for family, staring critically at the altar. Staring at the mahogany coffin. Pointedly not thinking of what, who, lay inside.

It was just a shell, after all. A beloved shell, one that Allison had cared for deeply, but a shell nonetheless.

Shells, no matter how intensely treasured, didn't love back.

--

It was a Sunday afternoon, three months after Wilson's diagnosis, when Matt decided that it was high time the family had a picnic.

Allison had frowned at the notion. For the past month she had been all but living with her sister's family, as had Sammy and Will, the three helping Mark take care of his wife and child while he attempted not to let the surrounding circumstances overwhelm him. It was hard, to keep up a façade of contentment and strength when half of your world was dying.

It was apparent that the family needed a break from the constant medications, from the chemo sessions and the persistent fear that when Clara took another breath, it could very well be her last. But, despite this, when Allison glanced at her sister, saw the skeletal outline of her body, how weak she had become, how she was in a perpetual state of exhaustion, the doctor had no choice but to internally dismiss the boy's hopeful declaration as impossible.

But, perhaps simply to be contrary and spite her very concerned younger sibling, Clara had agreed to the idea happily, starting to struggle out of the bed that had begun to consume her in the past months before the request had left her son's lips.

Or maybe it wasn't spite that motivated her. More likely, she simply wanted to do something to make Matt happy, to remind herself that she was still capable of it.

It had been a lot of work, and more than once Mark tried to turn the van around, convinced that Clara didn't have the strength to leave bed, much less go gallivanting about a park.

But through the gentle persuasion the woman was famous for, Clara coaxed him into completing the trip, promising him that she would be careful and that, should she feel unwell, she would be the first to demand that they return home.

Mark had given in, too tired to attempt to argue with his wife, even in her weakened state.

It was a dangerous thing, after all, to argue with Clara.

When they arrived, Matt and Sammy took much joy in laying out a blanket while Mark, Will and Allison helped Clara out of the car, the large man hauling her to the spot his son and sister had proudly claimed under a tree and setting her down gently, the two sharing a look of such caring and longing that Allison felt intrusive for having witnessed it. As if it was something too intimate for her to have been allowed to observe.

Before long everyone was comfortably settled, Clara seemingly tired, but no worse for the trip. In fact, in comparison to the dreary demeanor that had been adopted within the past week, the entire group seemed happier. With addition of sunshine and an escape from the oppressive environment the Samson home had become, in a matter of minutes the family had returned to the comforting dynamic of innocent insanity.

And Allison, laughing along with the rest, entranced by the clean air, the sight of her family cheerful and carefree for the first time in months, allowed herself to forget what was to come. Let herself indulge in an innocence she had long since left behind, just for a few hours.

It had been horrible, stripping herself of that innocence at the end of the evening.

Midway through the afternoon Matt, after exploiting the 'love me please' look Sammy had taught him, managed to get his father, Sammy and Will to join him on the playground. Allison had pleaded exhaustion and, as such, was currently enjoying observing the heated game of freeze-tag taking place as she made herself a sandwich.

"I only want one thing from you, Al."

Allison turned away from the battle raging on in the playground, raising an eyebrow at her sister.

"Only one?" She sent the woman a suspicious look. "Ever again?"

Clara tilted her head. "Well, no," she admitted somewhat reluctantly. "I actually want two things from you."

Allison raised a brow in question.

"The first is your sandwich."

Allison scowled.

Clara just gave her a bright grin.

With a sigh Allison threw up her hands, shoving her hard-made meal into the psychologist's eager fingers.

The older woman wore a smug look on her face as she took a large bite, grinning in satisfaction as she chewed. "Yum," she mumbled, lettuce falling out of her mouth.

Allison shook her head sadly, doing her best to suppress a smile. "And you're supposed to be a role model."

Clara swallowed. "I am a role model. I enjoy my food thoroughly. There's no shame in that."

The immunologist glared. "No, you enjoy my food thoroughly." She pulled out two more slices of bread, rummaging through the condiments. "The last time I checked, there was a good amount of shame to be found in stealing."

Clara pointed an accusing finger. "You gave it to me!"

"You asked for it!"

Clara furrowed her brow. "Oh what a horrible thing for me to have done."

She blinked at her younger sister.

Allison huffed as she grabbed for the meat. "You know I can't say no to you when you ask for something."

Clara smirked. "Well that seems more like your shortcoming than mine, doesn't it?"

The immunologist glared.

Clara simply smiled as she took another bite of the sandwich. "I love you too."

Allison grumbled, getting some tomatoes. "And what was your second request, sister dear?"

Clara held up a finger, increasing the rate of her chewing and swallowing her mouthful of food quickly. She straightened as much as she could on the ground, expression quickly becoming serious.

She stared at Allison intently. "Be happy."

The younger woman frowned, confused, setting down the beginnings of her second sandwich. "I am happy, Clara."

"You're satisfied," Clara said with a sad grin. "Not happy."

Allison scowled, grabbing for the sandwich once more. "Yes, well, you tell me the difference between satisfaction and happiness then." She looked around for the lettuce. "Because I certainly don't know what it is."

"The difference," Clara said, quickly taking another bite, "is that you've settled for what you have."

The doctor's head shot up, a frown on her face.

Clara looked at her, her expression containing… Pity?

"You've settled for this." She groped around for a napkin, still speaking. "For living life through your job and wanting what you can't have."

Allison opened her mouth to give an angry retort, but Clara didn't provide her with the opportunity.

"For fixing and mending and then moving on when they're not broken any more, before you can lose what you spent so much time trying to heal." She smiled sadly.

Allison lowered her head, refocusing her attention on her sandwich, trying not to recall her husband.

A hand grasped at her wrist, thin, frail and stark in appearance, clinging to her in desperation.

The young woman looked up into her sister's eyes.

"There's so much more, Al." Clara smiled. "You just need to stop being afraid, stay instead of leave, open your eyes and see it." A note of panic went into her voice as her grip tightened. "Promise me you'll try to do more of that."

Allison stared mutely for a moment, taking in the sight of fierce desperation on a woman who was normally so calm. The pleading face of a dying woman.

"Of course I will, Clara."

The woman seemed to let out a large sigh of relief, slumping backwards, leaning against a tree. "Good." She released her sister's hand, pulling her sweater more firmly around herself. "Good."

Allison frowned. "Are you okay, Clara?"

The older woman waved an impatient arm. "I'm fine."

"Should we leave?" Allison leaned forward, hand going to check her sister's pulse.

"No, not yet." Clara grinned, gently shooing away her younger sibling's hands. "I'm not done with my sandwich yet." She brought the bread to her lips and took a large bite.

Allison shook her head, a faint grin on her face as she finished the creation of her second sandwich, reaching for a napkin.

"Oh, a sandwich."

Allison turned just in time to see Will biting off a third of her meal in one go.

"Thanks sis."

She just glared.

"Now that," Clara remarked as the others came back from the playground, taking another nibble at her food, "was stealing."

--

Allison inspected the altar for some time, marveling at the pretty picture the flowers gave death. She turned when she heard Will, walking briskly to the front pew, staring at her expectantly as she sat neatly, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. The picture of serenity.

Will extended his arms, turning fully around and allowing his sister to examine him. His hair dyed to his natural muted brown, all rings, piercings and chains removed from his person, tattoos covered by a respectable black suit.

No tie, but one could only ask for so much.

Will raised his eyebrows in question, looking at Allison expectantly.

"Satisfied?"

She grinned, standing up and giving him a gentle hug. "Very."

He returned the embrace fiercely, strong, sinewy arms clinging to her desperately. "She wouldn't approve, you know." He laughed bitterly, lowering his head, speaking into her shoulder. "Hell, Al. She's the one who got me started on the piercing in the first place."

Allison smiled. "And the tattoos, if I remember right." She rubbed his back with long, firm strokes, hearing the hitch in his voice. "I know she wouldn't." She carefully loosened his arms from around her, holding him in front of her at arms length, straightening his jacket. "But appearances must be kept." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Will rolled his eyes, sniffing and wiping at his cheeks, even though no tears had fallen. "Still playing mother, even now."

She grinned. "It's my job."

He smiled and sat down at the pew, tugging Allison down to his right. "As soon as this shit is through I'm dying it magenta in her honor."

Another grin. "She'd like that."

He gave an authoritative nod. "Damn straight she would."

Allison laughed and resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

Will, even at twenty-eight, was her baby brother. The one she and Clara had raised since he was seven, who they had accurately marked as a ladies man since his infancy, who had given them kisses and flowers for extra slices of cake.

And no amount of metal or shades of various horrendous hair colors could make her forget that little boy, much to Will's chagrin.

Before long Dennis arrived, one of Clara's closest friends from grad school. He had reluctantly accepted the task of the master of ceremonies, none of the family willing to attempt such a feat. Not even Allison had the courage for that.

The others came soon after, Sammy leading Mark to the front of the room, his hand firmly clasped in hers, Matt trailing behind.

The large man, usually a cheerful, reassuring presence, looked lost. Forlorn. Defeated.

It hurt, to see such a strong man broken.

Sammy got Mark settled at the edge of the pew, sitting next to him and exchanging a look with Allison, her hand still entwined with her brother's.

Allison let out a small sigh. Sammy would take care of Mark today.

Leaning forward in her seat, Allison held out her hand to the small boy still standing, trails of tears already streaming down his face.

Matt looked at the offered hand, then back up to his aunt.

"Hello, Aunt Al."

Allison smiled. "Hello, Matt."

Matt gave a half-hearted grin in response.

Blinking rapidly to clear her eyes, Allison took Matt's hand in hers and pulled him forward, setting him on her lap and hugging him fiercely. She knew he was too big for it, that under any other circumstances he would have pushed her away, blushing and awkward as he straightened the suit he was wearing.

But these weren't any other circumstances, and he leaned back into her, letting out small sobs as she rocked him, whispered reassurances into his ear and told him how much they all loved him.

In a few minutes it was through, and Matt shifted on her lap, Allison letting him go and allowing him to take the seat to her right, sniffing as he spared a glance to his father, tears silently streaming down the man's face.

Matt looked scared.

Will poked his head out from the other side of Allison.

"Hey, Squirt."

Matt turned away from his father to look at his uncle, a question in his eyes.

"You think my hair would look good if it was magenta?"

The boy grinned, giving a nod.

"You want to come with me when I get it done?"

Another nod.

"Awesome." Will smiled. "Maybe we can get something done to yours too, eh?"

Matt's face lit up at the same instant Allison sent her brother a warning glare.

Will coughed, looking at his older sibling nervously. "Well, we'll see." He looked back to Matt, ruffling the boy's hair fondly. "Hang in there, Kid."

Matt took in a deep breath and nodded, returning his gaze to the coffin at the front of the room.

Allison sent Will a thankful smile, which he responded to with a wink.

And then, suddenly, without Allison being aware of how it had happened, the Church was filled to the brim with people and Dennis was speaking, sharing kind words about Clara, bringing those around her to tears.

Acting on instinct, allowing herself to shut down into autopilot, Allison brought a hand to Will's forearm, knowing that although he wasn't in tears, it was only pride that kept him from weeping openly. Her other arm she wrapped around Matt's shoulders, the boy shaking from his silent sobs. Down the pew, Mark was stoic, unmoving as he stared blankly ahead, liquid falling from his eyes unceasingly. Sammy was similar next to him, arm around his waist, tears trailing down her face.

It was amazing, how many people could cry without making a sound.

Allison let it all happen, numbly doing what was expected of her, allowing the meaningful words to sweep over and through her, without actually listening to any of them. She had no doubt that they were heartfelt and sincere; she simply couldn't afford to hear them.

She carefully remained mute and dumb for the entire service, only taking note of the opening and closing of the entrance to the church, frowning when all other activity stopped and the group turned towards the late arrival.

Allison didn't bother. To move might shatter her carefully crafted stability. Movement might make her lose some of the self-control that she was clinging so frantically to.

She needed that control. The people she loved needed it.

She couldn't afford to turn.

And so it was in this same state of numbness that she drove the family to the cemetery, that she stood with them in the rain, watching as the shell was covered.

And then she drove them home, mentally checking their vital signs as they stepped through the doors.

Sammy had regained herself, looked sure, confident and capable. She would be fine throughout the night. Will was similar, although he stretched the collar of his shirt uncomfortably. He had never been one for socializing with large crowds. Allison would ask him to stay with Mark, later in the night.

Poor Mark, tears dried, sorrow all but dripping from him. The sadness hanging around like a cloud, impenetrable. Thick enough to destroy a lesser man.

Yes, Will would have to watch him.

Matt was tired and quiet, eyes glued to his father, observing with a silent sort of terror that can only be known by children who has lost a parent, suddenly without guidance in a world where it is so desperately needed. Allison would be sure to check on him, throughout the night, attempt to be there for the young boy as much as she could.

There was simply so much to be done.

When she opened the doors to the Samsons' home the family filed in, quickly dispersing themselves amongst the mourners. Arrangements had been made, primarily by Allison, and a family friend had let guests in, the alcohol had been enticingly displayed, elegant wine glasses ready for use, a modest selection of food offered, although Allison suspected that no one was truly hungry.

She slowly made her way through the room, accepting condolences from neighbors, patients and colleagues of Clara, making the obligatory remarks, offering a story or two, then quietly moving on to the next group, ready to repeat the experience once more.

Mark and Matt had found a comfortable niche among family friends, clinging to their companions desperately, Mark eyeing the others in his house with suspicion, resentment.

What right did they have, these people Mark barely knew, to mourn Clara in this way? Who had given them the right to stand in the same room with him, to compare their pain to his? There was no comparison, not in the mind of the spouse who had been forced to watch their loved one die while these people sat in their offices, barely sparing her a thought as they filed paperwork.

Allison understood this resentment well.

Will was on the outskirts of the group, leaning against a wall and sipping at a glass of wine, eyes on his brother-in-law as shifted awkwardly in the crowd.

Will had always been a perceptive boy, when he so chose.

Sammy was making her way through the house, taking and cleaning glasses, mingling briefly with guests, picking up after the messes that were made, making sure that everyone was offered food. She was a constant flurry of activity, and it was with slight amusement that Allison saw Chase watching her every move, one step away from fluttering on the sidelines.

It was a comfort to know that Sammy had someone looking after her.

That Allison had one less person to care for.

It was not too long after the family arrived, when Allison was in between mourners, that she ran into House.

And that did not belong in the equation that she had carefully concocted for the evening. House, standing there in the corner, leaning heavily on his cane, glaring at anyone who came within ten feet of him, was an unforeseen variable that Cameron was not prepared for. It threw her off her carefully constructed plan, made her uneasy. Made it impossible for her to continue on in the manner she had been managing quite admirably for the past thirteen hours.

"What are you doing here?"

Cameron frowned as the words came out of her mouth, wondering why her tone had been so harsh. Without realizing it she had crossed her arms over her chest, tensed her shoulders and shifted her feet, making herself smaller.

"Nice to see you too, darling," House muttered sarcastically, shifting his feet for a moment before leaning against his cane once more. "Just thought I'd swing by after a long day at the office."

Cameron simply glared.

"I came to the funeral because the She-Devil made me." House gave a dramatic sigh. "And I'm still here because Boy Wonder won't let me leave."

Her head jerked up. "Wilson's here?"

House gestured behind her, Cameron spinning around to see the oncologist chatting pleasantly with Emily and other members of Clara's organization.

She couldn't help the intense feeling of relief that washed through her when she saw him.

It must have shown, because when she turned back to House he was squinting thoughtfully at her, an inquisitive look on his face.

Cameron coughed awkwardly. "Thank you." She looked up at him. "For coming." Another uncomfortable shift. "She would have appreciated it."

House leaned against a wall, eyebrow raised. "Do you?"

"Yes," she answered instantly.

"Why?"

"Because she would be proud of you."

House frowned, obviously expecting a different response from his underling.

Cameron was painfully aware of this fact.

"You," a small pause, "and Wilson," she added quickly and resisted the urge gulp. "You don't have to stay."

House smirked. "Good, because we aren't going to." He tapped his cane on the ground in front of him, deliberately not looking at the immunologist. "Do you want us to stay?"

She remained silent, uncertain.

House looked at her intently. "Do you want him to?"

Cameron let out a breath of air. "I…"

House smirked. "You don't know, do you?"

She gaped, attempting to speak, having no notion of what to say.

House let out a bitter laugh, striding past her as fast as his limp would allow. "You have no idea what you want."

She saw him grab Wilson by the arm, tugging him away from the crowds, out of the house, out of the grief. Away from her.

And it hurt, because in the instant she had become aware of his presence, she realized how much she appreciated it.

Only to have it snatched away.

Allison was thrown off balance by the encounter the rest of the night; uncertain and cautious, losing the renowned composure that had managed to carry her, and her entire family, through the ordeal of Clara's death thus far. Without it, she began to feel as if the world was coming undone at the seams.

Where before she had quietly approached mourners and conversed pleasantly with them, expressing thanks and reassurances, now she found that her words failed her. She would come upon another section of the wearily depressed masses, only to find she had nothing to say. No way to bolster them, comfort them. Make them believe that things really were going to be all right, even if they weren't.

She wasn't the only one unsettled by this.

She decided that the best course of action to take was to avoid people, rather than risk the showing them the shattered remains of the illusion she had carefully crafted for them.

No one likes the sight of a beautiful thing that's been broken.

In the midst of her evading, Matt approached her. "Aunt Al," he looked up at her, expression concerned. "Aunt Al, are you okay?"

And it was all Allison could do to nod, send him a quavering smile, and continue on her way, knowing that she left devastation in her wake.

Fortunately, when she spotted him later in the night, Matt was all but clinging to Foreman, her nephew and colleague seated on the stairs, drinking apple juice, discussing life and death.

It surprised her, to see the neurologist present, much less offering his ear to a depressed boy. Offering his advice, his time. Foreman, as a rule, took little interest in anything outside of his own personally tailored world. Cameron was permitted access because she worked with him, because he liked to believe that he could somehow shelter her, keep her safe from House. But that consideration, under normal circumstances, would never extend to Matt.

He caught her eye as she was peering around the corner, and he raised his apple-juice glass to her, an ironic expression on his face, before returning back to the boy, expression serious once more.

Allison could only hope she would be able to find some way to repay Foreman, once this was all through.

Chase was still dutifully on Sammy's trail, which she blazed with an intensity Allison was amazed Chase could match. At one point she saw the intensivist pull her sister-in-law aside, gathering her into his arms, in a showing of gentleness from Chase that Allison had never been permitted to see, and held her.

It wasn't much, Chase simply stopping the young woman from moving for five minutes while the rest of the world continued at its rapid pace. But it was enough.

Then, once the time allotted had been spent, he had sighed, kissed her forehead and let her go, the young woman leaning forward and joining her lips to his, despite the tears that might have ruined it, before setting off once more.

Chase, with a mildly dazed expression, followed.

It was amazing, how one could work with people for years and yet never really know them.

Allison blankly made her way through the rest of the evening, sheltering her strained equanimity as best she could, thinking of any and everything except for Clara.

Because thinking about her would destroy the illusion completely.

After an immeasurable amount of time had passed, Allison found herself in a nearly empty home, only the residents and a few, terribly empathetic, stragglers remaining behind to help pick up after the mass showing of suffering.

Allison numbly went through the residence, gathering dirty tablecloths, paper plates and cups, disposing of them properly. She absorbed herself in these mundane tasks, allowed them to consume her.

It meant that she didn't have to think, didn't have to feel.

She had already failed her family by her loss of self-control. She would not fail herself by succumbing to the grief she could feel building just beneath her shallow surface.

It was while she was in the midst of clearing off a table that she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder, rousing her from her forced state of calm.

"Can I take you home, Cameron?"

Allison turned to see the most welcome sight. "Wilson?"

He stood a foot away, hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly on his feet, the boyish grin on his face that charmed even the bitterest of souls.

It felt too good, to see him there. Too selfish. She shouldn't be taking pleasure in his presence, when he was mourning for Clara. What sort of person did that make her, to be glad that he was there, suffering? To be happy because he was suffering with her?

It felt much too nice, to be close to him.

She shook herself. "What are you still doing here?"

He gave a sardonic grin. "A certain limping miscreant took my vehicle and I am left without transportation."

Allison smiled. "And you want to take me home?" She raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be begging me for a lift?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes." He lifted a finger. "However, after being duped by a cripple, called a sissy by your younger brother," he leaned forward and rolled his eyes, "multiple times, for discussing various cooking methods with Grandma Samson, and talking with the woman who helped decorate this house for several hours, I have a desperate need to reclaim my manhood." He gave a pathetic sigh. "Driving a car, I hope, will be enough to accomplish this."

Allison nodded her head, adopting a serious expression. "I can understand why this would be a priority for you."

He returned the nod. "A necessity, really." His smile slowly faded as he gave her a once over, gaze finally settling on her eyes. "You look tired, Cameron."

She was. Oh, how terribly tired she was.

"Let me take you home." James looked at her, deep brown eyes almost pleading with her, sincerity and desperation apparent in just that single stare. "Please."

In that moment, she could deny him nothing.

"Okay," Allison said without further thought, anything to appease this man who, she was coming to find, meant much more to her than she realized.

And that thought was enough to shake her out of the blissful complacency she had slipped into at his presence.

He wasn't supposed to mean more to her.

She shook herself, turning back towards the table. "Just a few more things I should take care of..."

James frowned, stepping closer. "Cameron."

Allison shook her head, picking up some silverware. "I just need to help clean up the kitchen-"

"Allison," he interrupted gently, taking the dirty dishes from her hands and staring at her seriously. "Stop."

And Allison found she couldn't pull herself away from that stare.

"He's right, Al."

The new voice released her and she turned towards the sound, seeing Sammy standing by the entrance to the kitchen. She gave a reassuring smile. "Go home. We'll take care of it from here."

She gave Allison a pat on the shoulder and then walked back into the tiled room, Chase appearing from around a corner with a pot in-hand, asking where it belonged.

"Allison?"

She looked back to James.

"Let me help you this time." He gave a small smile. "Okay?"

Perhaps it was because she suddenly found herself exhausted, so overcome by the events of the day and more than ready to abandon it all to whatever relief rest would allow, but in that instant it seemed so natural for Allison to look up at him and say, "Okay."

And so she muttered her goodbyes and allowed herself to be led out of the house, feeling James' hands hovering above her back as they made their way to her car. Not touching, but close.

Allison mutely handed over the keys to her car as they reached the vehicle, knowing full well that she wasn't alert enough to drive without the threat of causing a serious accident.

James accepted them without comment.

They drove in silence, the oncologist getting Allison's address before she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, trying not to think.

Think about the funeral. What it meant. Who she was saying goodbye to. It was always hard, thinking of all of those who had been stolen from her, taken away long before Allison was willing to give them up. Especially now, so soon after. When the sting was still fresh.

She tried not to think of Clara, of her smiling face and her courage, her humor and spirit. The way she could take care of everyone, protecting people who could not protect themselves. Her generous and giving nature, the way she could never sit idly back as others suffered. How she was a wonderful mother and wife, all of her faults and mistakes in such fields easily outweighed by her successes. Matt really was a brilliant boy.

She tried not to think about what Clara meant to her. How she had helped Allison through every trial and tribulation she had ever faced, aiding, comforting and advising her sister throughout childhood, adolescence and adulthood, asking nothing in return. Allison attempted not to think about what her life would be like, now that Clara was gone. Tried not to recall how desperately she needed her older sister. Tried to forget how much she loved Clara.

When people die, it hurts because we love them so much.

"Allison?"

She opened her eyes, ignoring the wetness she felt on her cheeks, sniffing and attempting to cling to the last thread of composure that was left to her after this hellish day.

The car was parked and Allison dimly noted her apartment complex in the background as James examined her critically, his concern almost palpable as he gave her a worried glance. He raised a hand as if to wipe away the tears on her face, only to rest it against the side of the passenger's chair instead.

"Allison." He leaned forward. "Are you all right?"

And looking into those brown orbs, distracted by their depths and tired of pretending, she didn't bother to create a clever lie.

"No." She looked down at her hands. "No, I'm not, James." She looked up and gave a half-hearted smile, feeling another onset of tears begin to fall. "I'm not at all."

And with that the floodgates broke, and Allison's vision became blurry, her world began to spin and she found herself completely incapable of doing anything except for crying.

She brought a hand to her brow, wiping distractedly at the small rivers coming from her eyes, body wracking with sobs.

She had forgotten, how powerful hurt like this could be.

Allison was still crying violently when gentle hands grasped her arms, carefully pulling her out of the car and then lightly guiding her, fingers clasped in hers, urging her forward when she wanted nothing more than to collapse, to puddle to the floor and weep. Weep for a woman who had given so much and who had been denied the opportunity to give more.

"I loved her so much, James," she gasped out between her sobs, feeling her lungs start to burn, the earth shifting under her feet.

She was brought to a stop, his hand still holding on to hers, hearing James' muffled curses as he dug inside his pocket.

"I need her," Allison moaned quietly, the intensity of her tears increasing as she held onto his hand more fiercely, like a lifeline.

The sound of metal objects being jangled together met her ears.

"I know," James whispered, thumb moving soothingly against the skin of her palm as he fumbled with keys. "I know."

"I need her," a gasp, "but she's not here." An overpowering sense of vertigo overtook her and she stumbled, grasping onto James shoulder as she staggered. "And it hurts." Another huge intake of breath, accompanied by weeping. "It hurts so much."

There was a small click and then she was being pulled forward.

"And it never gets better." She shook her head frantically, thinking of Brian. "You get better at ignoring it, but it never goes away." Another fierce sob ripped its way through her throat. "You always need them, and they never come back." More frenzied head shaking. "Never."

The world rotated dangerously.

Then there were arms around her, gathering her close and pulling her to a strong chest. "Shh… I know, Allison. I know it hurts." He grabbed her shoulders, pushing her back slightly, creating space between them. "But right now I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?" He gave her a stern, anxious look, shaking her a bit when she didn't respond. "Okay?"

Allison nodded, knowing he was right, knowing she needed to calm down.

She just had no idea how to go about it.

James stared at her in concern. "Breathe, Allison."

She took in a gasping mouthful of air.

James smiled. "That's good," he said with a relieved laugh. "Now again."

Slowly, Allison took another breath.

"Good." He grinned again.

How she loved seeing him smile.

He brought a hand to her hair, stroking it soothingly. "Feel better?"

She breathed again, noting how the world had stopped spinning, how her head was clear once more. The warm feel of James' skin against hers.

Yes, this was much better.

Allison moved to nod, bringing her head down and noticing the mess she had made of his shirt with her tears. "Oh." She backed away, getting a clearer view of his, now ruined, suit. "I'm sorry…"

James followed her gaze and smirked. "For this?" He gestured down to the shirt. "Peh." He waved a hand dismissively. "Never liked this tie anyway."

Allison snorted. James brought a hand to her back and guided her to a couch. It was only then that she realized that they were in her apartment.

"Besides," James continued. "Snot looks good on me." He grinned. "Adds a certain air of dignity."

She laughed as she sat down, reaching forward and taking a tissue from her box on the table.

He gave her a few moments, content to sit quietly while she gathered herself, knowing better than to push her.

She was so grateful to him, for that. For everything.

She didn't know what she would have done without James these past months. Just his presence was enough to ease her, relax her, soothe her when everything in her world was thrown into a chaotic mess. He had become her rock, her foundation, that which she leaned upon when the universe came crashing down around her.

Her gratitude and appreciation towards him for aiding her, being with her, was endless.

"I'm so sorry, Allison."

She frowned, looking up from her Kleenex.

He sat up straight on the couch, hand clasped to the back of his neck, kneading the skin, staring at the upholstery of her cheap couch.

Allison resisted the urge to pry his fingers away from the much-abused skin. To ease that ache, real or imaginary, more tenderly.

"I just wish there was something I can do, something I could say to make it better." He sighed, looking up at her. "I just wish I could make it hurt less."

Allison frowned, confused. "Like you do already?"

James gave a small smile, shaking his head. "Only better." His hand moved towards her face again, but he halted it once more, bringing it back to his neck. "I don't want to see you suffer, see you pretending for the sake of everyone else." He looked at her ruefully, regret plain on every feature. "I want to help you."

She closed her eyes, marveling as she shook her head, confounded by his unwarranted fears of inadequacy. Of failure.

Couldn't he see? Didn't he know how much he meant to her, how he had managed to make these horrible, painful, agonizing months, this whole unfortunate year, bearable?

Allison knew that she was teetering on an edge that she had sworn to avoid, aware of the dangers of falling off this particular cliff. Knew the possibility of loss they faced, how very easily they could hurt each other, if they so chose.

Knew that she had a choice.

There's so much more, Al. You just need to stop being afraid, stay instead of leave, open your eyes and see it.

Allison opened her eyes.

She stayed.

She edged closer to him, taking the hand attached to his neck in her own.

He started at that, almost flinching back at the unexpected contact, causing Allison to smile as she brought their entwined fingers down to his lap.

She looked at him seriously, locking his eyes in hers.

"You do already."

And then Allison leaned forward and kissed him.