Cameron thought she could blow past Kayla's bizarre confession, but it left her feeling nervous. The moonlight shone in through the windows, and the shadows of the tree crawled along the wall like gnarled fingers. And somewhere out there, in that moment, a mutant was recruiting for a war.

She stared out of the window, biting her lip and frowning severely as she contemplated the weirdness of the world she thought she knew, then rolled over—almost screaming when she saw the glowing eyes hovering beside her. Breathing hard, she fell against her pillows and ran her hands through her hair, listening to the cat's quiet purring. With a sound that was partially a laugh and partially a sob, Cameron got to her feet and went to the window, searching the dark forest behind the cabin. By their own accord, her eyes were drawn to the dark patch of overturned soil where Wilson had been buried. Hot tears blurred her vision and she tried blinking them away, feeling an impenetrable urge to have a clear view of her surroundings.

A faint rustle from behind got her attention and she turned, expecting to see that the cat had moved. But she still lay there, staring up at her. Another sound came from the hall, and still the cat was motionless; turning only one ear towards the noise. Illuminated even by moonlight, Cameron couldn't exactly hide, so she walked across the room, pausing only for a second as she contemplated the gun...but she didn't know how to use it, so she carried on empty-handed. Anyway, how could she defend herself against a man who healed, had anger issues, and potentially wasn't in control of himself?

The hallway was empty, at least in appearance. All her life she had known appearances could be deceiving. Her mind hanging on the knowledge that there were genetically different people out there, her imagination was running wild as she reached the top of the stairs. She paused there, her eyes trained on Kayla's closed bedroom door and her ears trained to the downstairs. She saw nothing, but distinctly heard a sudden belch.

She was instantly reassured. She boldly walked down the stairs, peering into the dark. At this time of night, the couch was better illuminated, and she could see House leaning forward, rubbing his forehead. Then he glimpsed her and watched her every move as she approached.

"Can I have some of that?" she asked.

He looked up at her in surprise, but began fixing her a glass. "Wrong," he said, as she circled the coffee table. "The obvious solution is to leave."

"That won't solve anything."

Setting the bottle down, he looked at her moonlit face. She'd clearly been crying—again. House stared at her a moment longer, then picked up her glass and leaned back, letting her take it from him. "What have you done with Cameron?" he grumped. "This isn't like you, you're supposed to be confident and optimistic and cheerful, to an annoying...extent," he finished after a slight pause, realizing she was drinking the whole cup in one shot.

She brought her head back down, staring at the empty glass with red eyes. "I'm tired of being optimistic. There's no point. Which I guess means you were right. Again."

House saw her vague motion to the beer bottle, and he picked it up and started refilling her glass. "Okay," he muttered. "Something's bothering you, and I don't think it's me."

"I'm just..." She sighed softly. "Tired of the disappointments."

"Yeah," he said humorously. "As you can tell, I'm very fulfilled. Everything's going my way."

"So, what, there's...no right answer. For anybody."

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "Knew you'd catch on."

Cameron looked at him, watching his face as he refilled his own glass. Setting down the bottle, he turned his eyes back to hers. "It's normal. We all get that equation with a hard answer or no answer at all."

"This isn't normal."

"It's life and death. It's textbook."

Realizing they were on different pages, Cameron retraced her steps to his plot point. She leaned forward to align their faces. "He was like your brother... Wasn't he?" she added, as their eyes locked.

He gave another partial nod. "Yes. And it's textbook. We're not different."

A little sensitive to the word, she stared at him. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true," he retorted. "No offense, but humans don't matter. In fact, what it all comes down to is that we really suck the big one. We're parasites."

"You don't think anyone matters?"

"Didn't we cover this in the car?"

"You said you hated everyone in the car. Now you're comparing everyone to mosquitoes."

"Mosquitoes aren't parasitic; they collect blood for their offspring. We're bent on destroying this planet despite our offspring. So to put it simply, mosquitoes are better parents than people."

Cameron took a quiet sip of her drink, deciding not to at least mention the war to her immedicably depressed friend. So instead, she asked, "By that logic, Kayla doesn't matter."

"She matters to me. And I don't matter."

"Of course you do!"

"I matter to you." He looked at her then, and shrugged. "Would you rather I not finish?"

She sighed, frowning again as she leaned back on the couch, bringing up her feet. "I was stupid to think you could cheer me up."

"Thought you said there was no point." He raised his glass. "Welcome to the dark side."

She grunted in displeasure, but clinked her glass to his. They drank in silence.

"Speaking of the dark side, have you heard from Foreman?"

She looked at him in thinly-veiled annoyance. "Not since the restaurant...and I'm not surprised he cut contact with you."

"Yeah. Wish more people would do that."

"Just...keep being yourself."

"Not to burst your psuedo-blonde bubble, but I disproved that theory a long time ago."

Cameron winced a little at the terminology. "Well, you could drive your vehicle into their living room," she grumbled.

House looked at her askance and gave her the shadow of a smile. "I don't have that many cars."

"You could try whacking them with your cane."

He gave her a look that could only mean she'd lost her mind. "Or," he began, "You could tell me to express myself in a calm and grownup manner."

"You didn't listen to your mother... And I assume you didn't hate her." She shrugged as he looked back at her. "Why would you listen to me? Or any advice I might give you," she continued, pointing her eyes straight forward. "If you're not different, then you're going to do what you're going to do like everyone else."

"Then what's the point of giving me advice?"

"It's your choice whether you're special or not." Still slumped against the back of the couch, she turned her head to glower at him. "Anakin joined the dark side to save Padmé. What's your excuse?"

"Hm. Good question. Couldn't possibly be the giant hole in my leg."

"Your particular charm predates your infarction. Stop pinning everything on the leg."

"How would you possibly know—"

"Stacy told me."

He frowned a little, staring into her eyes and feeling completely betrayed. "Why would she tell you?"

"Because I asked her," she answered reluctantly.

House looked at her a moment longer, then averted his eyes, setting his glass down on the coffee table with a deceptive calmness. His eyes found hers again before he grabbed his cane and clambered to his feet. When he limped for the stairs, she followed him. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass."

"I'm not leaving."

He paused a short way up the steps. "You're not staying!"

"No. You're not telling me what I'm doing. Not this time," she continued. "I'm not your fellow right now. I'm your doctor."

"Well, Doctor, you know what, there seems to be something...a little off about your hospital, like—oh, I don't know, a shortage of serious injuries!" he growled, and began to descend again. "You had no right to stick your nose into my personal—"

"You never tell anyone anything!"

"Keep pushing me. I can make use of the back doors just fine."

He paused as soon as he finished his sentence, and his anger fizzled as she stared at him. Not knowing which of the men was more frightening, she looked away, trying unsuccessfully to stave off her tears. Now standing a few inches from her, he raised a hand to touch her, but couldn't bring himself to. She withdrew, still averting her eyes and he stammered nonsensically, reaching for words he couldn't find. Finally he said, "I'm sorry. But it's true, I... I don't need—"

"My pathetic sympathy?" she asked, her eyes fixated on his free hand. She imagined it reaching for a gun, or squeezing her throat.

"I was going to say a doctor." He continued looking at her distracted eyes, finally lowering the rubber bottom of his cane to the hardwood with a gentle thuud. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, when's that going to start?" she muttered.

"Look at me!" he scoffed, with a vague motion to himself. "I'm a world-famous diagnostician. With only a handful of losses on the score sheet. My fake marriage lasted longer than your real one. And you, you're 47 years old and still doing your boss' bidding."

Now she looked at him, with narrow eyes. "You know I work for someone, but you can't get my age right?"

He paused, then said, "48?"

"45."

"Oh, what..." He waved a hand of dismissal. "Whatever. Only one of those things is important to me."

She crossed her arms and continued to stare at him. This time he was beyond sympathy, past all forgiveness.

Either not sensing it or not caring, he dared to limp closer. "Remind me again what business you have being here?"

"I care about your life, House. Even if you don't care about mine."

"I just said it was important—"

"What I do is important as long as it serves you, but I don't serve you."

House tilted his head back, squinting at her, then said, "You know what? You were right before." He shrugged then and added, "Why am I listening to you?"

He turned and started making a limp for the staircase. She waited until he was as far from her as possible before saying, "You owe me that much."

Turning left on the landing, his eyes locked with hers as he continued to ascend.

"Put it on my tab."

She raised her eyebrows and turned her head. "Guess I'll need to create a tab."

Looking up, he overestimated the width of the stair, banging his foot. He frowned at her. "You don't keep tabs on your friends?"

"Of course not, you imbecile!"

House pulled a contemplative face. "Wilson had a tab."

"Yeah, and you never made good on a single dime."

Something in her expression and tone of voice made him think she had learned of his robbing a corpse. Suddenly he couldn't account for the point he'd been trying to make, so he turned around and began to descend. Relatively surprised he was retracing his steps, she moved nervously as he began to approach. In an effort to distract him from her obvious anxiety, she looked him square in the eyes and kept talking. "Wilson should have taken legal action. The fact that he didn't means—"

"It means our friendship meant even more."

Cameron raised her eyebrows, looking sadly at him. "He was an idiot."

House pointed at her with his cane. "Do not speak ill of the deceased."

Here he paused, wondering if she would scorn him for hypocritically stealing from the deceased; but she only stared back at him, wondering why he had gone silent. Deducing that she didn't know, House turned from her and began walking away. "You're right, though," he said.

"So it's fine when you say it."

"I have a pass. See, 'cause of the whole brother thing."

"Fine," she said, and started following him. "What you don't have is a tab with me."

He stopped and turned around to face her again.

"House, your whole life everybody's been listening to you."

He looked at her for another moment, suddenly feeling the weight of consequences. He moved closer, gesturing to the couch beside him; then quietly turned away and sat on the nearest end. She stared down at him for a moment, then circled the coffee table as he said, "Sorry. Handicap access."

She responded with a sigh as she sat on the far end. House put his cane on the coffee table with a loud clatter. He leaned back, realizing she was waiting for eye contact. But when he looked at her, she saw that she was staring past his head in horror. Fairly certain that she didn't have a neurological disorder, he turned his head to see an idling car. A woman was in the driver's seat, and it looked like she was loading a weapon.

House looked back at Cameron, who appeared to be on the verge of hyperventilation. "Nice knowing you."

Her eyes shot back to the window as the car door was closed.

"Even nicer that I didn't have to listen," he grumbled, and began pouring another glass.

It was the knocking on the door that made them both pause. House looked over at Cameron and said, "Do you mind getting that?"

"You're closer."

"You're not a gimp!" he whispered hoarsely.

She sighed and got up, grabbing his cane and making him stutter in annoyance. Feeling like the fool bringing a stick to a gun party, she took a deep breath in a completely unsuccessful attempt to calm her screaming nerves, then opened the door.

Holding a narrow black clutch, Cuddy smiled at her before her eyes went to the cane. She gave a wry laugh. "Did your leg infarct?" she asked lightly, and stepped inside. Staring at her in disbelief, House got to his feet and leaned on the couch for support, waiting for his cane.