A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

-9-

She usually liked this time of day. Early morning. Jonas, the janitor who had taken over Manuel's job (after Manuel's untimely death from the chemical burns he'd sustained in that supply closet mishap), was still hard at work, power waxing the floors. The sun had yet to fully crest over Princeton Plainsboro, and she had yet to take the first sip of her coffee.

If this was a usual morning, she would have been calmly reading the paper and sipping her brew, while waiting for her colleagues to shuffle into the diagnostics room. They would arrive as they always did: yawning, blinking those last few grains of sleep from their eyes, mumbling their tired hellos.

But this was anything but a mundane Thursday. It was the day after the debacle of Myrna's non-party. Cameron almost wished she could leave the two new case files for Chase and Foreman and let them deal with House today. He was certain to be in rare form. His whiny little wench must have given him a real earful (okay, so she was not a wench and she was anything but whiny, but the bitter words just sounded so right...). And Cameron didn't feel like being on the receiving end of the vitriolic salvo that was going to come rolling off that acid tongue. Like a heat seeking missile it would hone in on her, spew its poison, and make her burn and bleed.

Cuddy had already done a remarkable job of cutting her down. After Myrna sauntered off, calmly disappearing into that cab and abandoning what was supposed to have been her evening, Cuddy was fuming. And, really, Cameron couldn't blame her. Hell, if Cameron were in Myrna's position, she would have hightailed it home too. This silent admonition came hard enough; no way was she going to let Cuddy in on it.

So she took her medicine, grimaced and pouted and made all the Cam faces expected of her. And as they drove home, Cuddy fell into a heavy, sulking silence and finally left her alone.

But Cuddy's diatribe was nothing compared to what House was sure to dish out. Hopefully she could get Chase and Foreman on her side; maybe they could defuse the situation.

Morning was coming on quickly, dragging along with it a barrow full of Anxieties: lovely blooms for Cam to care for and cultivate. The gift that keeps on giving. Grey strips of daylight backlit the blinds. The white board cast a dull shadow against the carpet. Suddenly he was there: twirling his cane, one hip jutting out, his left leg set straight and strong, taking the brunt of his weight. His left arm would be slung over the board, his thumb rubbing his ring finger as he...stared...and stared, those ridiculously expressive eyes boring into hers. And he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't move, wouldn't say a word. The eyes would do it all, tearing at her, reducing her to rubble...

Her stomach churned (the Anxieties were blooming nicely). Eddies of steam rose from her Styrofoam cup, urging her to drink up. But the thought of hot liquid pouring down her gullet made her eyes water. She rubbed her forehead and took a perfunctory look at the top file. Thirty seven year old male, unexplained seizures, no history of epilepsy...

The door opened. She gasped, flinched, her right hand jerking against her coffee cup. The cup toppled over, her brew spilling over the files, splashing against her left hand, singeing the skin. Tan streams flowed merrily across the legal pad.

"Oh...fuck." She grabbed a thin napkin that had escaped saturation, pressed it against her pain...and sobbed.

"Hey."

With some trepidation, she raised her eyes then hissed her relief. It wasn't him. Thank God it wasn't him. If he saw her this way it would just add fuel to his fire. It would goddamn make his whole day.

"Hey, what's up?" Chase smiled at her, concern in his eyes. He shrugged off his pack and set it on the floor. "You okay?"

"Uh, I don't really know..."

Such a pretty boy...caring, considerate lover...wanting so much to please...disgusting the way you treat him...

"Well, let me help clean this up a bit." He made a quick jaunt to the coffee maker, grabbed some paper towels from beside the machine and wet them in the sink.

Cameron hiccupped another sob and hung her head. The sound of him fussing around, working to fix what ailed her was sweet. But it would take more than cool water on paper towels and an earnest intensivist to make everything right.

He was back, wielding a wad of wet towels like a trophy. With his free hand he lifted the file folders and set them on a dry area of the long table, then tossed the coffee soaked legal pad in the waste basket. He wiped down the table, balled up the coffee saturated towels in both hands, and threw them in the trash. "Six points and the crowd goes wild," he exclaimed. His smile was open; his eyes were somewhat bloodshot but clear. He threw her an expectant look, hoping for a laugh. But as much as she wanted to appease him, she just couldn't make it happen.

Chase pulled up a chair and sat beside her. "So?"

The whole place smelled like damp coffee grounds left too long inside a can. It wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't such a clear reminder of her gaffe. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For treating you so crappy."

He laughed and shrugged at the same time, which made him look like a cheery marionette. "It's my own fault for wearing my heart on my sleeve."

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "I know."

"How's your hand?"

"Oh." Gingerly she lifted the napkin away from her skin. "It's just a little burn."

He was off again, scrounging through a small metal supply cabinet by the sink. As she watched him, she absently ran two fingers over the quarter sized patch of red, then hissed and drew them back. The skin was tender to the touch.

He hurried back, holding a blue bowl half filled with water. Between two fingers he clasped a small silver tube. A washcloth lay over his wrist. With his smile and white lab coat, he looked like a country club waiter. "Here we are." He set the items down. "Lay your hand flat in the water."

A smile played around her lips and she thought to hide it. But he was being kind and she knew he would take pleasure in her amusement. She set her smile free, placing her hand gently in the bowl. The water rose to cover her hand.

They were silent as the coolness worked its magic, seeping its way into the heart of the irritation.

"Better?" he asked.

She bit her lip and nodded slowly, feeling good, feeling secure. She was four years old again and her father was humming, gently washing and bandaging the skinned knee she'd gotten from falling off her bike.

"Okay, let's see." Chase, said, killing the memory. He opened his hand and placed it face up on the table. "Put your palm against mine."

Obedient as a trusting patient, she set her hand in his. Chase used the cloth to pat the small burn dry, then squeezed a thin line of ointment onto the skin. Already the redness had faded to a dull pink.

"Work that in good."

Using a light touch, she rubbed the ointment into her skin, her hand remaining inside his. "Thanks," she said.

"No problem."

They sat this way for a while-Cameron continuing to rub her hand even after the ointment had been absorbed. Chase watched her, offering up a soft smile.

"So...you want to talk about it? he asked.

"About...what?"

"About...what's wrong?"

"Bad night," She made a valiant attempt to maintain her smile, even as her throat constricted. Those waterworks were roiling behind her eyes, impatient to flow again. "Just a really bad night."

"We all have 'em, but..." One brow shot up. "...weren't you and Cuddy supposed to take Myrna out?"

"Yeah, it was a fiasco." Her fingers stopped their anointing, her hand settling in her lap. "My fault."

Chase sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I see."

She hefted her shoulders, allowing her gaze to drift over the steadily brightening room. "When House shows up he is not going to be a happy camper."

"Really?"

"My fault...again." Her eyes locked on his. They were red-rimmed and more bloodshot than she had at first thought. "I...said some things to Myrna I shouldn't have."

"Isn't that always the way?" He pressed a finger to his lips, seeming to suppress a smile.

"You're laughing at me."

"No, no, I'm not...really." He snorted out a laugh.

"What do you call that?"

"I call it having some good news for you." He leaned forward and touched her chin.

"Stop that." She glowered, jerking her head away.

"You'll like this."

"Alright." She heaved a heavy sigh. "What?"

"He's not coming in..."

Cameron's mouth fell open. The Anxiety blooms wilted and swayed, each one blackening and dying in turn. "You're...kidding. Right?"

He grabbed a pencil, turned it over and over with two fingers. "Last night, Foreman brought House to some private club, got him so stoned he could hardly walk. Then, at the restaurant, House had a shot of Johnny Walker, he was sucking on a lolly that was loaded with cannabis. I'm sure he had some Vicodin in him." Chase threw her a wicked look. "He passed out, hit his head against the table..." He made a whistling bomb noise through his teeth. "Totally gone."

"Oh, my god." She couldn't help snickering. "Is...he okay?"

"Su-ure, he's fine. Cuddy's giving him the next two days off to recuperate before the wedding."

"That's good," she said.

"Yeah?"

"That is very, very good."

"You're smiling."

She touched his hand. "Your fault."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The events of the previous evening might as well have happened in a distant galaxy. They were of little consequence compared to everything else that was going on. Actually, if she put her mind to it, Myrna could easily pretend they never happened at all. Yeah. It was that simple. Maybe she wouldn't even tell Greg...

But she had to tell him. He would hear about it from everyone else. And how would that look? Getting the scoop on his future wife's messed up bachelorette party from everyone but his future wife was just...wrong.

But she didn't want Greg to be angry with Cameron. His rage wouldn't solve anything. It certainly wouldn't change the events of last night. After all, the two of them still had to work together. And Myrna didn't want to be the 'Yoko Ono' of the diagnostics department. She didn't want Greg's co-workers thinking she had some sort of influence over how he acted on the job. He was on his own when it came to that.

Myrna stood at the side of the bed, staring down at her future, watching him sleep. He had an angry looking bruise in the center of his brow, the result of his forehead making a solid connection with the table at Gambini's. His scruff was thicker than usual. Usually he groomed it before going to bed, thinning it just enough so it didn't look like a beard in the morning. Maintaining that shabby look actually require some effort. But last night he sure wasn't thinking about his electric razor. He wasn't thinking about the care and feeding of his scruff. He probably wasn't thinking about anything at all (nothing that made sense, anyway).

Almost six hours had passed since Chase, Foreman and Wilson hauled Greg into the apartment, Chase securing him beneath one arm, Wilson the other. Lugging him toward the bedroom, they slurred their apologies to Myrna. Foreman, looking amused and cocksure, stood off to one side, folded his arms, and...enjoyed the scene.

The toes of Future Husband's Nikes dragged along the carpet; his chin bounced against his chest. He was barely conscious, yet he was croaking out some ridiculous song: something about blaming the bossa nova. And he stunk like stale booze, marijuana and old sweat.

Sometime after he came back to earth, Myrna planned to inform him that stinking like the inside of Jerry Garcia's trailer circa 1969 was not really something to aspire to. Yes, she actually did know who Jerry Garcia, The Grateful Dead, The Jefferson Starship and all those hippy guys were. Flower power, like much of the pop culture before her time, intrigued her.

She reckoned she had been blessed with an old soul. Greg enjoyed being able to ramble on about the 'old days' and see honest fascination in her eyes.

Watching him while he slept was a rare indulgence for her. With their staggered schedules these moments were few and far between. He looked...peaceful, despite the purplish bruise. His head was tilted slightly to one side, mouth slack, top teeth barely showing, his leg pain probably a ghost in the distance, biding its time, lying in wait.

Too bad she had to wake him.

Hitching her purse a little higher on her shoulder, she reached down to touch his shoulder.

"Mmmm. You wearin' your Sunday-Go-To-Meeting scent?"

A slow smile crossed her face. She drew back her hand as he peeked at her through one half opened eye.

"Cerulean. You...only wear it for...special occasions, meetings with the boss, Frannie's pilgrimage to the great state o' New Jersey...those wild dates with me."

"Wild?"

"...swingin' on the chandeliers..."

"You're a mess."

Managing a weak smirk, he croaked, "You noticed. How sweet."

"How's your head?" She tousled his hair.

"Ju-ust ducky."

"Truth?"

"...feel like someone stomped on my frontal lobes with stiletto heels." He arched a brow. "T'wasn't you, girly, was it?"

"My stiletto pumps are in the shop. Must be some other kinky damsel out to win your heart."

"You're the only dominatrix for me." He wrenched open the other eye. "Oooh, looky, looky, You are wearin' a dress." He cocked his head to the side, his eyes doing a slow walk all over her. "A new one. I like the buttons." He patted the area next to him. "Sit."

"Greg..."

"Siddown."

Expelling a long breath, she sat.

"Gooood." His hands began their journey, running between her thighs, up over her stomach, trailing languidly across her breasts until they reached the top button of her dress.

"Listen."

"Hmmmm?" He started the unbuttoning process, but his fingers fought him all the way. The first button slipped from his grasp twice before he managed to push it through the buttonhole.

"I have good news," she said, thinking maybe she should stop him. Really, there wasn't time for this. But... it wouldn't hurt to let him continue...just a little while longer.

"Me too."

"Oh, yeah?" she said. "What's yours?"

He was on the second button now, his face a mask of concentration.

"Earth to Greg..."

"Only...seven more buttons 'til I see your bra."

"That's your good news?" she asked.

"Mmmph." Suddenly he winced, letting out a long moan, His hands fell away, dropping onto the blanket; his head lolled against the pillow. One hand traveled slowly down the cottony landscape to his right thigh, alternately pressing and rubbing the area.

She didn't have to be told or asked. She knew the routine. Pressing her lips together, she pulled open the nightstand drawer. Her fingers scrabbled past the cuffs and leather restraint to reach one of three amber vials of Vicodin kept there. She popped the cap with her thumb and spilled three pills into her hand. "Water?"

"Unnh." He made an almost desperate 'gimme' motion with his fingers. Pain had turned his eyes a steely greyish blue.

She dropped the pills into his waiting palm and he pushed them against his open mouth, his hand trembling as he dry swallowed.

It took a moment for the world to settle back into place. Greg closed his eyes for what seemed like a long time and Myrna knew he was waiting for the sharp edges to dull. Yes, the meds were definitely doing the job; she recognized the signs: the way his eyebrows lifted, how his lips parted, how his fingers relaxed their grip on the blanket, told her the pain was in the process of packing its overnight bag. Not that there was much packing to do. Soon enough it would be back.

When he opened his eyes they were glassy pools. One side of his mouth gave a small twitch, then hitched up. Pain had left the building.

"See what you're getting yourself into?" he said.

"What?" She capped the vial and tucked it back into the drawer.

"You could have been getting a big hello from Mr. Morning Wood instead you're shoving pills at me."

"It's okay." She touched his cheek, then placed her hand in her lap.

"No, it's not." He gave her an appreciative once over. "Soo, how was your night?"

"You don't want to know."

"How many g-strings did you snap?"

"None. I cooked up some pasta and watched a Star Trek thrifecta on the Sci-fi Channel..."

The stoned glaze in his eyes morphed into a sharp glare. His brow furrowed as he hitched himself up on his elbows. "You didn't go?"

"I went but felt a little uncomfortable around Cam. So I left early. But...it'll be fine."

Those wheels were turning, Myrna could tell. She didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to get into it at all.

"She ruined your night," he said, vengeance simmering in his tone.

"She didn't ruin anything." Myrna averted her eyes, took in a breath, then exhaled slowly. "I could have tried to pretend she was tolerable." She met his eyes again. "I just didn't want to. It was all me."

"No. It wasn't all you."

She held up one hand, closed her eyes. "There...are more important things, Greg. I have to meet the movers at the apartment in an hour. My mother and brother are landing in Newark at three..."

"Help me up." She stood and stared at him for a moment before taking his hand and holding it tight. Using his free hand, he pushed the blankets off himself and turned to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Don't you want to hear your good news?" she asked.

"What?"

She was usually good at reading him. But it was difficult now; he wouldn't meet her eyes. Instead, he stared hard at the wall, his jaw working the way it did when he was lost in thought.

"Cuddy gave you the rest of the week off." Her voice was soft. "You don't go back until I do, after the honeymoon."

He looked at her then, eyes narrowing a millimeter as he pulled her close. He wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and laid her head against his shoulder.

"Looofoo," he mumbled into her hair.

Myrna pulled back and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like the morning after at Grace Slick's house.

He pressed his lips gently against hers, touching her teeth with his tongue. The feel of heavier scruff against her upper lip was nice. Really nice. It made her want to push him back onto the bed and dive in after him.

"Looofoo," he reiterated into her mouth. His breath was hot and rank, tasting like sour ash. For some reason, this turned her on even more.

"What?" She placed her hands against his shoulders, and pushed away, giving herself some distance. Tilting her head, she offered him a bemused grin.

His gaze rose to the ceiling, then made its way down to the carpet before landing on Myrna's two unbuttoned buttons. He puffed out his cheeks, and after letting them slowly deflate, he muttered, "...love you."

For a moment she forgot how to breathe.

The old in-out. What's not to know?

"Ohhh," she said, finally.

Their hands were still clasped as he stood. But he broke the connection as he hobbled past her to grab his cane. "Gotta pee," he said, lumbering off.

She took one shaky breath, then another. In and out. Rinse and repeat. Checking herself in the dresser mirror, she ran a trembling hand through her hair, then shakily buttoned the top two buttons of her dress.

...love you...

She said it all the time. But he...

Tears pricked her eyes. She bit her lower lip.

She heard the sound of the toilet flush as she quickly reapplied her lipstick. This was ridiculous. She was absolutely giddy, like a girl at her first prom, like a homecoming queen, like the time she was nine and won musical chairs at Megan Ann's birthday party.

...love you...

He said the words.

Finally.