A/N: Oh dear, this is all getting very dramatic. I'd originally had something else/ more fun planned for this exchange, but the more I went over it in my head, the more I just didn't think Cameron would be down with it given how things have been going between them over the last couple of chapters. Fear not, though. This story is written with House X Cameron endgame in mind, and they'll get to a better point with one another eventually. For now, I hope you at least enjoy some of the sentiment of this exchange as it winds up towards a shift in the plot. Dun dun dun. Thanks for reading and please review :)

"Fine... Then talk."

Cameron waits; mouth downturned as she meets House's gaze uneasily. Still, she makes no effort to move from the prison of his body, and as silence draws out between them, she becomes aware of the subtle scent of his shampoo. She recognises it as the type available in the hospital locker rooms; unobtrusive and unisex.

He showered when he got into work. Didn't even want to stick around long enough to do that at mine... Didn't want anything to do with me after we-

"It's not hard."

She interrupts that line of thought, shaking her head as she urges House to either speak up or to leave her be. She's almost convinced that he means to say nothing in spite of his insistence on leading her here, but finally, he argues gruffly

"It is. It's hard to know what to say to a woman so that she won't bite your head off. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows how you guys can-"

"-No. This has nothing to do with that. This is about you and me. Don't bring gender into it. I've never bitten you, not once... I just wish you would return the favour."

"Well, if I'd known you weren't into that, I-"

"-House!"

"What? Is that not what you wanted to talk about? Isn't the whole reason you're mad at me the lack of conversation last night?"

"I-"

"-What did you want me to say? Did you want me to tell you it was good? That you're hot? That you're good in bed? Well, proverbially. Because I can. I can tell you all of those things. If it matters that much to you to hear me say it, then fine, I'll feed you whatever you need to mend your ego. Truthfully, I hadn't pegged you as the type, but I'll give it a go-"

"-House-"

"-You want details? You felt good; on me and around me. You look better in the flesh than you ever have in my head, and that's a rarity. The noises you make are something else; they're real and they're fucking dangerous... How am I doing so far? Do you want more dirt? Do you want me to get down and nasty with it? Do you-"

"-No. No, that's not what I want."

"What then? What would you have wanted to happen last night? What do you want?"

"... You can't give me what I want."

The blonde shakes her head as she speaks softly; studying clear blue and deepening frown lines. She feels both exasperated and begrudgingly flustered by House's words, and as he waits for her to elaborate, she's crucially aware that it would require very little movement to kiss him. On top of all that - shrouding all that - is a deep and weary sense of defeat, and as her gaze drops to the hard line of House's lips, she wets her own but makes no move to close the distance between them.

"What, then?"

House pushes, swallowing at the pink flicker of the blonde's tongue. His tone remains gruff, but his expression reveals a hint of wariness. He's unsure whether she means to answer him, and he's concerned that if she does, she'll tell him something he won't like. He imagines that this is inevitable - typical, even - but as he waits for her to speak, he's troubled by a myriad of images that have complicated and muddied the way things work between them recently.

The look on her face when he'd squared up to her the first night he'd slept over at her apartment; a glimmer of uncertainty overridden by foolish, dog-loyal trust.

Her laughing; genuine and uninhibited. Allowing him that.

Mostly though he sees the blood in the bath. Red and terrible, with a dreadful smear - four lines - so reminiscent of a handprint.

Gritting his teeth, House's attention drops momentarily to the soft wool covering the blonde's hip before finding cool green once again. He wonders if she has decided to stay silent, and removes one of his palms from its dominant post beside her shoulder in favour of brushing several unruly strands of hair from her face with unlikely gentleness. He catches a tic at her jaw in response to this gesture, but she neither plays into him nor flinches away. Progressing tentatively, he finds her chin with his forefinger and thumb and keeps them there - pressed lightly against soft skin - before leaning in experimentally. He brushes his lips against hers for just a moment and then she stops him; turning her head to the side just a fraction, but it's enough for him to pull back and study her with a frown.

"You can't give me what I want."

She repeats, before injecting a little more aggression into her tone and calling him out.

"And I would think that was a pretty bold move given what's just happened! Do you really think I'd want to kiss you after the way you spoke to me in the DDX room? That's your team, not mine, and you went for me in front of all of them knowing full well what you were doing. That was unfair. Treating me the way you have been when I've been asked to help you is unfair. Somehow even more so, because you weren't like that last night... You weren't like that at all in the locker room."

"Do you want me to apologise? Is that it? Because I will. I may well start smoking, or melting, or whichever affliction your preferred depiction of evil endures, but I'll take that action. If you want me to apologise, then I will. I do."

"That's not what I want. I appreciate it, and I accept it, but it's not enough."

"Cameron, you-"

"-I just want to matter to you. That's all. I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not asking you to do anything huge or momentous. All I've ever wanted is to matter to you, and you can't give me that. You can give me false hope that one day I might, but I'm sick of falling for it. I'm sick of trying to decipher mixed signals that compel me to hold out hope. It's exhausting. Sometimes you do things that make it so hard...You keep me around. You check up on me. You refrain from crushing me completely and you let me think that you're doing it out of kindness, but sometimes I'm not so sure. Sometimes I just think that if you crushed me completely, you'd lose one of your toys, and that's the real reason why you don't it.

After our talk in the locker rooms, I felt as though something had changed, I really did... But you don't treat someone the way you treat me if they matter to you. Today in Cuddy's office, in the DDX room, last night... You hurt me, and it's not because I'm weak or naive or lovestruck. It's because what you do is cruel. What you do is calculated. You know what it is that you're doing, and you do it anyway... You've accused me so many times of being desperate for you to love me in return, but that's not what any of this is about. Last night wasn't about love! Despite what you often say about me, neither one of us is that blind that we'd start throwing that word around... It was sex. It was something I'd wanted from you for a long time, and I'd made no secret of the fact. It was sex, and it was good. You were good. You were what I wanted... But the way you treated me afterwards... That stung. I've always been your biggest supporter when it comes to giving you a million excuses for why you do the things you do, but do you know what? Do you know what I was thinking when I was lying in bed last night?... It was just selfish. It was mean. It wasn't 'typical House', because the situation was atypical. The whole evening was atypical. I didn't really know what to do after we'd finished either, and I think that's fair. That's fine. You not knowing what to do or say was totally understandable, I was in the exact same boat... But I would have taken anything, House... I was hurt and angry and you knew that. It was a tense and horrible situation; to have done something you can't take back. Something you've wanted for a long time but had known might come with a risk. I was upset, and maybe that angered you or you found it terribly predictable, I don't know... But I don't get why you feel the need to continue twisting the knife... I don't get why I deserved the crap you gave me in front of the others; why was that the answer in your mind?! You were kind to me in the locker room, and awful towards me this morning, and just now, you tried to kiss me! You ask me what I want from you, but I could ask you the same thing! You're both good to me and terrible to me, but none of how that makes me feel matters to you. I don't matter to you. If I did, you wouldn't do it.

I've told you countless times I don't expect you to love me, and while it wasn't always easy to accept it was unlikely to ever happen, it's always been true. I don't expect it. You told me you liked me though, and I was elated. Pathetically elated, maybe, at least I'm sure you would say so... But it's not enough."

The blonde's voice hitches with this last statement, but she takes care to otherwise keep her composure. She's afraid that House will ask her what they do now - how they move on - as she doesn't have an answer. She tries to read from his expression how her angry admission has been received, but he regards her with that same, disengaged look favoured the previous evening and she nips the tip of her tongue as she fears she's on the verge of tears whether she wants to be or not, and she has no wish for an audience.

"It's not enough for me."

She repeats quietly, and House struggles to find a response. He knows that he owes her one, but nothing comes forth in his mind save for images of her bathroom.

Her blood-streaked bath.

You do matter to me... You must do. I was afraid. I was worried about you...

It should be easy.

It should be easy to tell her at least this much. It might not cover everything - make up for everything - that she's said, but it's a start.

She knows, though. You as good as told her. Your actions showed you care about her, so what more does she want?... This is what you knew would happen. You called it.

And a part of him knows that's not fair, but his head hurts, his leg hurts, his ego hurts. He hates everything she's told him and he hates that he can still see her; straddling him with that surprising air of confidence that had vanished all too soon once their ecstasy was over. Leaning over her - close enough to kiss, close enough to bite - he can smell her shampoo and her body lotion. He can feel the heat of her - the reality of her - and hear the soft flutter of her breathing.

"I warned you this would happen. I warned you that your feelings would get in the way."

Blood.

Blood red.

Blood red on white; white bath, smeared scarlet.

Stitches.

Stitches above green lace.

Blood.

It had blossomed wild up the side of her scrubs just as it blooms now at her cheeks, and she's angry. She doesn't say so - doesn't move - but he can tell she's furious with him, and he supposes that's only fair. He doesn't know why he said what he did. He doesn't know why it hurts to look at her.

Why? Why couldn't I just have told her about the bath?

He opens his mouth to try and do so - to try and take back his words as he so often wishes he could when dealing with Cameron - but she shuts him down with a low exhalation of breath and a cold refusal.

"Don't you dare... This has nothing to do with me. I'm not the one with the problem here. There is a world of difference between my feelings for you and my feelings in general. You used to spare me at least some of the latter... But don't you fucking dare act like I'm upset because you're not returning my calls, or rushing to walk me down the aisle, or any of the other pathetic crap you're so sure I'm likely to suffer from. You make me suffer. You! I'm upset because the minute you got yours, you went back to treating me like shit. You didn't even wait for me to get off your lap... You called me pretty, you told me you liked me, we've known each other for years and there should be a level of respect between us. You've even implied so yourself several times in the past, and then you still go and-... I-... House, ever since what happened to me in the ER, you haven't made my life easy; you've been crappy towards me now and then with no warning or reason, but mostly, you've been nice. Mostly you've been behaving how I always wished you would behave towards me. That meant something to me, and you allowed it to. You fed into it... So don't tell me my feelings are at fault here like I'm some dumb little girl. How do you think anyone would feel in my position? Three and a half years of trying to earn your respect, for it to finally be implied that I've succeeded and that it means something to you, and you couldn't even wait for me to fucking get off your lap - to fucking unmount - before tearing me down? You couldn't even look at me."

And by now, several tears have escaped, but she's too angry to care. She wants to push him away from her so that she can leave; storm out of this hateful room with its cloying smell of candles and furniture polish. She wants to shove him as hard as she can, because a small part of her still hopes he'll tell her she's wrong - so wrong - about all of this, and she can't stand that foolish voice right now.

"I want you to move."

She states quietly, and House does as he's told slowly; rubbing uneasily at his scruff.

Rubbing at rough skin and coarse hair that had reddened her jaw; chafing but feeling wonderful all the same.

She watches his fingers before looking away. Touching her jaw. Touching smooth skin; pale and soft.

"I want you to leave me alone."

"The patient-"

"-Is the priority. I want you to let me do my job and work this case, and do what's been asked of me. I want you to ask for my help and give me yours when it's needed, but otherwise, I want you to leave me alone... If you ever had any respect for me, if our conversation last night meant anything, you'll do as I ask. I don't want to be one of your toys anymore, House. I spent a long time convinced it would be worth it; that you were worth it. Platonically, romantically, emotionally, it doesn't matter. They've all applied over time... But I was wrong. It's not worth it. Not if this is still what it feels like to be around you."

She sighs, and House wonders if the deep, almost nauseating wave of unease that washes over him feels anything like the way he makes her feel so often when he opens his mouth.

You were convinced she wouldn't leave you. Not Cameron. Cameron forgives you everything, she always has. She'll always be there for you. You can push and push and push her because she'll take it. She'll stay. She's incapable of walking away. She can't. She wouldn't...

Only, she is.

Stepping stiffly around him and pulling the candlestick out from between the door handles. She places it back where it belongs and he notes that her fingers tremble. She has her back to him, walking out the door - leaving him - and he's struck by the overwhelming urge to reach out and grab a handful of her hair. Thick hair that feels so soft and smells faintly of honey. He even raises his hand a little - fingers outstretched towards her - when she turns to look at him over her shoulder; her eyes hard.

"Don't worry. I'll wear a shirt with a high collar, all buttoned up tomorrow. Prim and proper just how you like it."

And then she's gone. Actually gone. Leaving him stood reeling from the fact in a small room dedicated to a deity he doesn't believe in.

"Fuck."