10.30 p.m.
House dived into the pool and completed a couple of exploratory lengths of front crawl. He had loved swimming before his injury and had swam state in his youth—always tall, his long reach and powerful legs enabled him to glide through the water, and a languid style modelled after Mark Spitz drew early admirers in his college days. House had always regarded sport as something to be enjoyed rather than pursued, however, and he recognised early that medicine or physics would be his chosen field—the puzzles were too attractive to pass up, and he simply wasn't bothered about travelling around the country attending meets in out of the way places.
Still, the peacefulness afforded by swimming was something that he had missed post-infarction, and since being given a clean bill of health after the shooting he had wasted no time in reacquainting himself with the pool. Swimming had filled many empty hours in the late evenings when thoughts of Cameron would not dissipate, when confusion over the hallucination had rendered him sleepless and agitated. In fact, it had only been after a particularly vigorous swimming session that he had decided to ride to Wilson's and reveal to him the turmoil in his mind. Night swimming was the best. The pool tended to be near empty and those that did ply the lanes were, House presumed, after a similar solitude. He had never had cause to utter one word to his fellow swimmers, and even among those who came regularly, a nod or slight tilt of the head was enough. Better not to break the silence and disrupt what had become almost a solemn ritual.
Satisfied that he was fully warmed up, House adjusted his goggles and cap for a final time. He glanced up at the huge digital clock mounted by the window—10.30 p.m. Fifty lengths and lots of thinking to be done.
There was only a single item on the agenda.
Cameron shimmied into her running shorts and tied her hair back into a high ponytail. She retrieved her phone from the nightstand and fetched her shoes from their place by the door, tying them firmly. Following a few minutes of gentle stretching, she stepped onto the treadmill and selected her exercise music playlist. Satisfied that everything was in place she glanced at the clock on the wall. 10.30 p.m. Ten miles of running awaited, and she couldn't wait. The treadmill started and a feeling of peace swept through her body. This was her favourite thing—completely alone with only music and thoughts for company.
Cameron had often wondered, when thinking about House, how she would have handled a similar leg injury to the one suffered by the grumpy diagnostician. No doubt it would also have made her utterly miserable. She had seen enough in her medical career to appreciate how adaptable the human body was, and she was convinced that she too would have survived. But to be forced to give up running was unthinkable. She knew that House had abandoned many of his exercise routines, and empathy for his plight was probably why she was more forgiving of his idiosyncrasies early in her fellowship. But whereas before she had seen these peculiarities as merely something to be endured in a boss, now she regarded them as an integral part of the man whom she desired—not just to be endured but actually to be appreciated as an undeniable aspect of his individuality.
One mile down. Cameron thought back on the week. House had been as magnetic and infuriating as ever. This was exactly what she had been hoping for. One of the worst aspects of the frequent nightmares was not simply that they had forced her to experience afresh the traumatic event—though unpleasant, this was manageable—but that she had been unable to know if House had changed during his recovery; whether it had made him a different person. When possible, she had cornered Wilson, but the ER was far from oncology and opportunities for gathering progress reports were limited. Many times, she had even considered ringing House at home, but courage had always deserted her at the last moment, for fear of what he might say; for frustration at knowing what she couldn't say:
"Hi, Dr. House, I'm just calling to ask how you're feeling".
"I've been shot. I'm great".
"I just want you to know that I'm thinking of you".
"Of course you are. I nearly died—I bet I'm looking like a pretty attractive prospect for your next fix job".
"No, that's not what I meant".
"Yes, yes. You're an excessively kind individual. Just, for the love of Satan, don't pray for me".
She imagined telling him the truth: I'm not thinking of you out of kindness, House. I'm thinking of you because I think of no one else. Her feet thudded along with the whirring of the machine and the turning of her mind.
House was in his element scything through the water, breathing every third stroke, sneaking occasional glances at the clock. When he had first resumed swimming after the shooting it had taken him some time to rediscover the stroke pattern of his youth. But after several weeks of gradual improvement, he now felt confident that his healed leg was up to the strain. Naturally he had been advised to leave off strenuous activity, but this was the first time in many years that he had been able to throw himself into exercise and it was an opportunity he couldn't squander, not least because it enabled him to keep in shape. It made him feel strong, and it would be churlish to deny that part of him revelled in the recognition that Cameron still found him desirable. Unless she really does only like you because you're broken. House quietened the thought quickly.
His immunologist had displayed interest in him over the last week. He was out of practice, to be sure, but he thought he had detected the tell-tale signs of attraction in his office, where he had left her so abruptly. That had been unnecessary but incredibly satisfying. The way that Cameron had approached him slowly, eyes never looking away, had been hard to resist, but he was not ready to admit his feelings, nor to relinquish control over the development of this situation. Cameron was hauntingly attractive, but then so were the hookers Charity and Carli in his speed dial. There needed to be more to her, and he had to find it before making any kind of decision.
Five miles down. Cameron wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She had realised during House's weeks off quite how much she had taken his presence for granted, how much she found comfort in his proximity. It was a strange discovery. Most people did all they could to avoid the man; she, along with Wilson and Cuddy, was the only one who sought him out. On the topic of seeking company, Chase had attempted, during the weeks away from Diagnostics, to engineer a meeting more than once but she had managed to avoid him. It wasn't that she disliked talking to him—though a touch self-centred he could be amusing company—only that she feared being asked to consider a relationship between them. This was impossible. Though she had regretted the circumstances at Café Spoleto, she had not been lying when she had told him that there was nothing. Chase was handsome in a conventional sort of way, and she knew that many of the nurses looked longingly at him.
But Cameron yearned for unconventional.
House's mind was what she wanted to enter. Everything else, even his rugged handsomeness and blue eyes, was an added bonus. She wanted to be in his mind as he woke and as he went to sleep. She wanted to pop into his brain at unusual times: when he was exercising, maybe, or talking to Wilson, or eating a reuben sandwich, or drinking scotch alone at night. She knew that during a difficult case diagnoses consumed him, and yet even this she wanted to disrupt. She wanted to be forever on the edge of his thoughts, and she wanted to inhabit his dreams. She wanted to give him sleepless nights and cause him to look forlornly into a hot chocolate mug in the dead of night. Cameron didn't know if a woman had ever occupied House's thoughts to this extent, but it was something to aim for.
House was tiring, his stroke becoming a little ragged, his breathing a little more desperate. But the lengths ticked over. 39, 40, 41. If he were to research Cameron then he would need to talk to others. Everybody lies, and if you wanted to find out about somebody, then that somebody was generally the last person you should ask. It had also not escaped his notice that the few times they had engaged in personal conversation, it hadn't ended well. Not only was she hard to figure out, but she had a disconcerting ability to see through him. The only time he had felt truly superior had been on their date, and even that had been something of a Pyrrhic victory. He had hurt her and the realisation caused him pain. If he were one for self-psychology, he would suppose that this was the original sign of a buried desire. No, you're not being honest. You liked her even before that. You asked her out to see monster trucks.
But who to ask about Cameron? He had never seen her parents. The only option was the other fellows. Cuddy, perhaps, maybe Wilson. The latter two were easy—they already knew about the hallucination and House's interest and would happily divulge the necessary information if they knew it. Trickier were Foreman and Chase. House knew that they were close to Cameron and spent time with her outside work. This was both an advantage and a disadvantage—it was good in that they would have useful information; bad in that any inquiries on his part would arouse suspicion and could cause them to inform his target. It would be ideal if she remained ignorant of his interest for as long as possible—he didn't want her upsetting the dispassionate analysis he intended. He needed to be clear-minded and as objective as possible.
49, 50. House reached the end of his set and, still half-submerged, rested his head on the edge of the pool, breathing heavily. While riding into work on his first day back he knew that he needed to understand if he truly liked Cameron; not simply that he was attracted. But he needed more information, and the only way to get it was through gathering evidence. This involved questioning witnesses and careful observation of the woman herself, both at work and, ideally, away from work, too. He needed to conduct a thought experiment: could he see Cameron as more than a subordinate? If so, what could she be—companion? Lover? Girlfriend? Adrenaline flashed through his body at that. Steady.
Yes, this was what he needed to do. He had settled on a tentative diagnosis of deep attraction. Now it remained to test the hypothesis with closer study, the result of which would hopefully cure his affliction. With any luck Cameron would show herself to be utterly unsuitable and his feelings would fade, leaving him to get on with his life.
With any luck this would all be over soon.
Physical attraction is nothing.
Everybody lies.
House sighed and hauled himself from the pool, which was now deserted, its calm surface seemingly mocking the turmoil in his mind.
Cameron glanced down at the digital display and saw that she was in the home stretch. The pre-set programme increased the speed for a sprint finish. Nevertheless, her breathing was measured, in stark contrast to her thoughts, which kept flitting back to House and the argument concerning him in Café Spoleto. Chase had rung earlier in the weekend apologising for his behaviour. She had sensed that there was more he wished to say, but she had ended the call before any confession could be made. The best policy was simply to pretend that Chase regarded her as nothing more than a colleague and friend. If this strategy was maintained long enough, any feelings he had for her would likely disappear and she wouldn't have to confront the matter at all.
But even if Chase was dealt with, she was no further in deciding how best to cope with her own feelings for House. It had been easy, when House was away, to theorise at her dining table in the night. But now he was back, as sexy as ever, and it was proving difficult to maintain composure. Her attempt to initiate contact on Friday had backfired spectacularly—he had left her unfulfilled and dissatisfied, two emotions with which she was intimately familiar when it came to the Head of Diagnostics.
But Allison Cameron was nothing if not determined. A career in medicine was a challenge anyway; more so for her. House had been right when he had perceived her reasons for pursuing this career. She was damaged, yes, but she was also relentless and had no intention of backing down as far as House was concerned. She had promised herself that she would play the game, and that was what she would do.
The treadmill beeped and gradually slowed. Cameron grabbed the rails on either side and took several shuddering breaths. Sweat dripped from her brow. The hard exercise had cleared her mind.
It would be House or nothing.