FOREMAN

"Then she pulls him into the janitor's closet. You can't tell me that's platonic." she pleads, her voice high. Looking into the distance, Cameron lets out a quick, dreamy exhale. "She came out after a minute. He took twice as long. The look on his face was... I think they made out. It wasn't long enough for sex."

"Bullshit," the Australian doctor says with an assessing look at the woman in the queue. "They were not making out." He sits with Foreman and Cameron at a round table in the hospital cafeteria eating lunch together.

The chosen topic of discussion for House's team was House's new lady friend. She may not be new for him, but she is to his team. How he kept this woman a secret, Eric doesn't know. House has only a few friends, if he can call them that, and the African American thought he knew all of them. Until the curvaceous doctor strolled into the conference room one day, whipping up a double dose of caffeine and hand-delivering it to the most unbearable man in the entire hospital.

"So, what? You think there's nothing going on between them?" The immunologist questions, her pitch rising.

"Actually, yes. House flirts with every woman he comes across," Chase says, scratching the edge of his eyebrow with his thumb. Leaning forward, he lowers his voice a touch. "This one just flirts back."

Cameron slowly blinks, spearing a piece of grilled chicken from the top of her chopped salad. "You don't have to believe me, but I know what I saw." Lifting the fork to her face, she pauses to stubbornly insist, "He's in love with her."

The two men share a laugh, brushing off the female's theory.

"Now that's bullshit." Foreman takes the last bite of his rice, putting his empty plate on the tray in front of him, similar to Chase's long-empty pot pie tin. He chews it and swallows before saying, "Love can't be built on false pretenses. House is a walking, talking falsehood. He'll never love anybody because he won't allow them to—"

"Shut up!" Chase's harshly whispered interruption makes the two others stare at him, taken aback.

He gestures behind them with his head and they follow his sight to find the subject of their conversation leaving the register with her food. She's headed right for them. She has her slim, pink flip phone held between her shoulder and her ear.

Melina sets her tray down at a small, clean table just a few feet over, chatting happily with someone on the phone. They eavesdrop discreetly, pretending to enjoy what's left of their meals.

"I've been thinking about the song you were playing. Jesse Baker, I think?" Her voice goes up at the end of her question, her lips licking her lips. The redhead takes a pen and pad out of her pocket, scribbling something or other onto a page. She starts to smile. It's tiny and near imperceptible, but it's there. "Well, as it turns out, his granddaughter is in our hospital right now and she's selling his piano, which wasn't even out of tune by the way. I know it's not your typical collectors item, but I know how you are with guitars—"

Her face dims, her smile sapped of it's hope. She's not unhappy, her smile waning but not vanishing.

To Foreman, the curious part was that she was talking about their patient, Leona Baker. He can't help thinking House is on the other end. He does, after all, play the piano and buy collector's guitars. He's also known to hang up on people rudely at inopportune moments.

She sniffles, dialing another number on her cell and bringing it to her ear. Her hand moves against the pad again, jotting down a long set of notes while she waits for someone to pick up.

"Yes, I'm calling about a delivery." With the notepad in her hand again, she writes and writes, pausing to look up and tap the end of her pen against the paper while she listened. "Last name is S-W-E-E-T-Y. Yes, I need to change the delivery address. It's the Store-Box off of I-275, at the corner of Lawton and Harris. Yeah. Just go to the front office and ask for unit 29. The combination is 7-2-7-3. Sure, Wednesday works."

Foreman's eyebrows shoot up and he leans back as though physically struck by realization. He looks to Cameron whose mouth is agape as she barely holds back a smile. They'd all been eavesdropping on her conversations, as any good team of House's would.

The black man slaps his knee and points at Chase. "Ha! Told you."

"What?" Chase questions, looking between him and Cameron, a plastic straw caught between his teeth.

She rolls her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses. "S-W-E-E-T-Y as in Sweety. As in, House wasn't calling her his sweetie, he was calling her by her last name." Smiling, she shakes her head. "Foreman thinks that proves they aren't dating."

"Doesn't it?" Foreman raises a brow at her. She just rolls her eyes. They both look to the blonde, hoping he'll break the tie. The Aussie shrugs, shaking his head. The three of them can't seem to agree. Cameron smiles at the boys, plotting her own bet for once.

"We'll start at $50."

MELINA

Greg was right.

Her genetic test results say that she can't possibly have Schizophrenia. All her life, the labs, the tests... All of it was based on a lie. She doesn't know how to feel about it. Relieved? Disturbed? Definitely confused.

Paranoid about the drugs she was taking, she often chose to stop taking them. This caused problems, obviously. Being safe and sane about her medical care was even more imperative because of that. She could never believe the thoughts that made her question her treatment because it would only lead her down the same slippery slope as always. She'd find a way to detox her medication, which she hasn't done in ages and would leave her in a tizzy

That's not a path she wants to go down, so having a trusted doctor is necessary in these uncertain times. It's even better that he's her genius boyfriend.

"I need Greg," she tells the four people in the room. Nothing is said, but she can feel eyes on her. She continues to look for him, second guessing every other clue.

She looks to the man by the white board. He's wearing sneakers and jeans, so very Greg-esque. But again, no cane, which takes three points off his Greg score. The other two, sitting silently at the table, both wear lab coats, disqualifying them. Greg score 0. He hates the white coat she adores. It makes her feel common, like one of many. Part of a group.

Looking back to the first man, she looks closely at his clothes. His shirt is unwrinkled and tucked in, tie cinching his collar. The jeans are dark and baggy, yet snug around thick, meaty thighs. He stands a few inches under six feet.

That's not like Greg, except for special occasions. Maybe he had a meeting with a judge or some kind of hearing. Last time that happened, he'd dressed up. But where's his cane? Usually it along with his limp is the easiest way to identify him. Another deduction.

A limp is a hard thing to fake consistently over long periods of time. Greg has a very unique one. He uses his cane on the wrong side. His weak spot is in the upper outside quadrant of his thigh. She's noticed the absence of mass there once or twice, when her hands rest on his legs or he's fixing his clothes after a rowdy night.

"You're... not Greg." She makes sure it doesn't sound like a question. Maybe it was the recent

She gives a second glance to the two in white coats, but crosses them off once more. Both of them turn their bodies in their seats, something that Greg would lift his bad leg to do.

"Are you feeling alright?" asks Not-Greg, his hands parting from where they were clasped. He stands, no longer leaning against the conference table but standing straight with even weight on both legs. Definitely not Greg.

Holding her chin, she scrutinizes the man's face. It doesn't put any butterflies in her stomach or warm her face. He's attractive, sure, but not her type. Not the reaction she has when she sees Greg. "Sorry, we haven't met. You must be... Chase?"

She's guessing. She hates guessing. She's never been good with faces, even before her Prosopagnosia began cropping up. She had a limited bit of information to work with and figuring out who this man is with that would be difficult to say the least.

Greg doesn't talk about his team a lot. In fact, he only told her it consisted of an Australian, a beautiful woman, and a man too much like himself. She heard bits and pieces of the lore whenever Greg finds it relevant to share.

"I told you Chase is the pretty one," says the man by the white board. His gruff voice, lean frame, and grumpy tone solidify him as the nephrologist she's looking for. "That is Foreman." Her gaze whips around to him, giving him another once-over.

Now that he's facing her, her eyes find his wrinkled white shirt, the long button-down collar lifting and crinkling. The tails of his shirt hang in front of his fly and even the hem is unkempt. He wears no tie and the first three buttons are left open, displaying his white undershirt's collar. When she looks at his face, she sees stars.

Crystal orbs meet hers, dusky gray stubble decorating his angular face. His mussed, gray-brown hair above thick, expressive eyebrows. That's her man, she thinks to herself proudly.

Relieved, she nears him, letting her grip on her file soften. The results inside had her troubled and almost nauseous. She needs to talk to him, if only to hear his brutal honesty. To tell her she's overreacting, that she'll be fine.

"No, you said Cameron was the pretty one. And your physical descriptions were lacking," she banters back. It's his way of flirting.

"She's actually is his girlfriend?" obnoxiously whispers someone behind her.

"Jealous?" Greg responds, looking over her shoulder before returning his eyes to her form. He spent a moment staring, then blinked it away. "I would be if I were you, Dr. Chase."

Melina smiles, a tiny thing but enough for Greg to see. Enough for him to know she finds it flattering when he acts like a teenage boy around her. And if he didn't flirt at all, it would give away that they were hiding something.

It makes it a little easier to ask him to step into his office. She still fidgets, but it's minimal. "Greg, a moment?"

He looks at her like he's seen a ghost. "Right. Give us a minute," he says to his team, taking his cane from where it hung over the whiteboard and limping to his office's door. He lets her go ahead of him, holding the door.

The door shuts behind him and Melina hands over the file in a rush. Her file. Stuffing the open folder into his hands, she points to her affected gene strand, or rather, her unaffected gene strand.

Her mother had it, but she hadn't given her the gene. She had some other, unknown disease or affliction. They don't even know if it's terminal. She could die at any minute or she could live another 60 years.

Unable to force them all down, a tear escapes. Greg's finger swipes it off before it has a chance to fall. He places himself between her and his fellows. He doesn't want them to see either her crying or his reaction to it.

"Hey, no crying. Not Schizophrenia isn't the worst diagnosis in the world." His nervousness shows in his furrowed brows, his Adam's apple bobbing and his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. "I-I'll bring some Reubens up to your office and we can talk it out over lunch."

He's trying. She can hear it in his stutter and his hopeful expression. She loves him even more for it. And his suggestion is sensible. She'll have time to think it over and then they'll have a calm conversation about it. How unlike him to have such a healthy response.

"You're right. I just panicked when I saw..." Melina blinks, trying to will the wetness from her lashes. She's got to pull herself together. She's still at work, so she sucks the tears back up through sheer will. "Yeah. Lunch. I'll see you then."

Turning around, she makes it just a few steps before she thinks better of it. She looks back to him, her mouth opening. That's as far as she gets before the door opens. Their voices had been low. Had someone heard them?

She ponders to herself, looking over the strange intruder. His gray suit and blue shirt are nondescript. Dark wisps of hair around his temples, none on his crown, match the shade of hair below his lip. Plain and unadorned, his appearance tells her nothing about who this man might be.

"Which one of you is House?" he asks, deep umber eyes scrutinizing the two doctors.

She looks to the diagnostician, wondering what his response will be. Greg, always enigmatic, has a vague answer.

"The skinny brunette," he says, placing his girlfriend's file on his desk. It causes the stranger to do a double take at Melina.

"But her hair is red," refutes the man, sounding almost unnaturally calm. She doesn't point out that her hair is ginger, not red, or that she isn't the only skinny person in the office. The newcomer's movements are robotic, feeling almost planned.

Perturbed, Greg turns his entire body to face the intruder, nudging Melina gently. He must also recognize the odd behavior. "I'm skinny," he explains, breathing out frustratedly. "What do you want?"

Though she knows she'll forget, she studies the man's face. He's emotionless, reminding her somewhat of herself. "I was a patient of yours," he says. Knowing who House was, his eyes never left the nephrologist's face.

It takes less than a second for his words to sink in before Greg is dismissing him like any other patient. "Oh, well, if you want to leave the chocolates downstairs—"

BANG!

The shot rings out, like lightening inside her body had struck with such intensity that she was frozen stiff. Everything feels like it's happening in slow motion.

Warm, crimson fluid splashes her skin. Greg goes down, his grip on his cane failing. He stumbles into his desk and Melina reaches out to steady him, her hands on his arms. She's not strong enough to hold his weight, crashing to the ground with him. She curls her arms behind his back, hoping to cushion his fall a little.

Melina's ears ring as she pulls herself up, looking over Greg's prone form. The bullet entered through his right abdomen, but there's no exit wound, meaning it's still inside. She needs to get him down to the OR as soon as possible.

As her hearing starts to clear, she hears shouting. She looks up and finds herself the target of the pistol. Slowly, she raises her hands. Greg's breathing is strained and his blue eyes are losing awareness.

"Get up!" the intruder yells, waving the barrel of the weapon. "I won't tell you again."

She does as commanded, her knees knocking together fearfully as they lift her body up. Greg's hand swipes for her blindly, his eyes trying to focus on her. He's probably confused, delirious from the pain

"S-sorry, I'm sorry." It's difficult to speak around her heart in her throat, but she manages. His bright blue eyes are now dull and red

"Get away from him," He orders. She obeys, backing up to the bookshelves. As she gets further from the prone man, the stranger gets closer, his aim returning to Greg. They lock gazes, brown and blue warring against each other.

"I'm the one you hate." His eyes are more aware now, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he swallows thickly. "Leave..." Greg heaves out the word, straining until he gives a wheezing cough. Blue meets brown is a war of wills.

"You're right. I just want to hurt you," the gunman admits, raising his pistol again. He fires and a bullet that strikes Greg, his head lolling to the ground alarmingly.

"Greg?" she asks, afraid to move even as the dark-haired stranger backs away slowly. He turns tail and sprints down the hall.

She glances into the conference room and one of the others is already on the phone with the police. Her eyes are wet again, tears brimming on her slashes. The reality starts to set in while she stares at her boyfriend laying in a bloody puddle, growing larger by the second.

Melina drops to her knees next to him. His eyes are closed but his chest is still rising and falling. His throat is gushing blood. The pool under him grows wider by the second and she thinks he may have sliced an artery.

She rips off her lab coat, bundling it and pressing it against her lover's neck. Red dyes the white fabric quickly. Her other hand pushes on his stomach wound, pressing down harshly to halt the bleeding as much as possible.

His blue eyes remain stubbornly closed, pale skin draped over his high cheekbones and angled face. Her stare won't leave them regardless, watching for any sign of life.

The hospital works quick. The gunshot must've been heard by someone because an EMT crew is rolling a gurney up to the scene.

Nurses assist as they push it into the room. There's movement all around her. Bodies swarm them, pushing and shoving. Hands grasp Greg's prone body and lift.

He's laid on the hospital bed and his form jostles. He's unconscious, blue eyes stubbornly closed against her hopes, but she follows, even when the people around her take her hands off and replace her coat with sterile gauze and she's relegated to holding desperately onto his hand.

With every bump they roll over, Greg's head bounces. Someone beside her pokes his brachial artery with a needle, taping it down and connecting a banana bag. The elevator ride takes longer than she can ever remember it taking.

"He was shot, twice," she hears one of Greg's team announce. Melina hardly noticed them running alongside the gurney with her, all of her focus trained on her boyfriend's pallid visage. "Once in the abdomen, once in the neck."

Melina finally glances away from his motionless face to add, "He needs blood. He lost a lot, type AB+."

She still can't believe what happened actually happened. It feels like a bad dream. Steering him down the last hallway, they rush through the double doors. Her hand is lightly squeezed by the large one she holds.

A soft "Hello" makes her tears well up again. She looks down to crystalline blue gems aimed up at her.

He's awake, that's a good thing. He's aware, he's speaking, so no damage to the trachea or esophagus.

Greg's bright eyes are slightly open and ringed in ruddy sclera, taking in the rushing walls and worried faces around him. They settle on her, raking over her form with a hint of concern. It's laughable, considering the state he's in. She might look a little rough but she wasn't any worse for wear.

"Oh, my God," the urologist breathes, relief flooding her and almost bringing her to her knees again. Readjusting her hold on his hand, she stays out of the way while emergency technicians float around him.

"That blood, is it..." His weak, rumbling voice trails off lowly. He's already noticed her clothes stained red from his heavy bleeding.

"It's not mine," Melina sniffles, trying not to lose her composure when he needs her the most. He's just been shot and she's the one crying about it. "It's gonna be alright. You'll be fine."

"I said... no crying." His other hand twitches like it wants to reach out, but he doesn't have the strength. "Tell Cuddy... I want ketamine."

Whether it was Greg or herself who initiated it, she doesn't know, but their hands clasp exceptionally tight, knowing they'll have to part soon. The gurney arrives next the other beds, allowing the nurses to unbuckle him and get him ready to transfer over to a proper hospital bed.

Melina scrubs and scrubs, until his blood is nothing but a memory spiraling down the drain. She hasn't been able to sit still at all, nervous energy animating her since she lost sight of her injured lover. She's freshly showered and wearing clean scrubs in a light shade, her hair tied up in a bun and covered with a surgical cap. Once her hands are clean, she'll get in there with Gillick and lend him a hand.

Standing at the sink outside the OR, she rinses the acrid soap from her hands. Palms, backs, between the fingers, under the nails—

"Melina!" The dignified shout and the swift clicking of heels draws her attention. Melina turns around and sees Lisa Cuddy pushing through the door. Her dark gray blazer and skirt shift with the swing of her arms and hips. "Don't you dare go in there."

"Why?" Melina spits, holding her hands up, facing her so they don't touch anything. "I can help. I'm worth more in there than I am out here."

Lisa's plucked eyebrows arch, surprised, before her harshness starts to subside. "You are the family. Let the surgeon do his job," her boss tells her with a sympathetic eye though she remains firm. She rubs the shorter woman's shoulder, hoping to impart some amount of comfort.

The urologist's composure breaks, her haphazard stony facade splitting at the seams. She runs a hand down her face, swallowing down a wail. "God, Lisa," she sobs, trying to hold back the welling emotion in her throat. "I don't know what to do. I just know that I can't do nothing."

Curly black hair flops over her shoulders as Lisa shakes her head pitifully. "You have to," she says, her hand tightening on Melina's shoulder. "I know it isn't easy."

Melina nods dumbly, tired out by the emotional roller coaster she's been on today. Her voice warbles, unsteady and close to tears. "I can't just leave."

The dean smiles sadly, looking at her with a commiserating kind of calm. "I'll wait in the observation room." If it was anyone else, it would've been a suggestion, but in this moment, Lisa knows what she needs. The younger woman isn't ready to make the decision herself. She hasn't even had time to breath after the shooting.

Melina nods, thankful for the offer. She doesn't want to be alone right now

Greg's ICU stay only lasts a day or two before he's judged well enough to get a private room. It's empty save for her and the few things she has to keep herself busy. She has a few files and a few proposals for new, experimental therapies. Specifically, one on the studies that looks at animal size to urethra size. The hypothesis is that the ratio remains the same across all species, and she's quite interested to see how many have the same ratio as humans.

This could do a lot of good for animal testing on urological diseases. Hopefully. She flips through the proposal silently, leaning on Greg's bedside to be closer. His body was still warm, even now, and the A/C was unbearably cold. The blanket over her shoulders provides some relief but her lab coat was unusable. The EMT gave her a disposable blanket for shock but she kept it for the cold.

"How's he doing?"

The sound of someone in the previously quiet room startles her.

Melina's head spins to the door, eyeing the man standing by it. His white coat establishes him as a doctor, but not much else. The man, almost as tall as Greg, doesn't hold a chart or clipboard. Is he here as a doctor or as a visitor?

His voice sounds subtly familiar. A brown mop sits atop his head, his dress shirt covered by a dark sweater vest.

"Better." She shortly answers as he paces closer. He comes next to her, pulling a small stool to her side. Looking closer at his frame and dress, she gets an idea of who it might be. "James?" she asks, searching for the badge he'd typically have hanging from his left coat pocket.

She finds it on his other side and exhales a breath of relief. Nothing like a life-or-death experience to make her extra cautious of people she can't identify. She's not sure if she'll be able to relax in public again, but now isn't the time for that.

He smiles at her weakly. "Hey. How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected." Uncrossing her legs, Melina leans back in her chair and pulls the blanket closer around her. "I'm better, too, now that he's improving. His internal stitches have already fully dissolved."

He grows silent, his mouth becoming a thin line. His eyes are cast in any direction but hers, thinking extensively about how to phrase his words.

"Listen, I know this is hard, but you will get through it." James pauses, entwining his fingers between his legs, elbows resting on his knees. "How much longer are you going to stay in here?"

Big, green orbs blink at his face steadily, almost surprised that he's asking. The oncologist's warm, chocolatey pools look hopefully into her jade ones. His words are soft and smooth but his face is pained, his motions stunted. He's not totally unconcerned himself, yet he's here trying to make her feel better.

"Until he wakes up."

She can't tell him she's worried that if she takes her eyes off him, she'll lose him. She doesn't remember what Greg's face looks like, but she knows this is him. He's not wearing his easily identifiable oxford, blazer, jeans and sneakers. He's not limping. He's not cracking jokes and insulting every person in a ten-foot radius with his immeasurable wit.

It's always incredibly difficult to identify unconscious people without facial recognition, Melina thinks, resigning herself to watch duty. She knows he won't really be swapped out with someone else, except she can't help but worry.

The brunette regards her uneasily, guessing at her meaning while he holds out his open hands. "So, what? You keep yourself trapped here for a few more days?" Sighing frustratedly, he leans back and looks up as if praying, and draws a deep breath. "What if he doesn't wake up for another week?"

Squinting at the man, she clenches her fist in her darkened, blood-soaked skirt. She hadn't changed yet. She'd used her spare clothes after her first appointment with Greg and hadn't remembered to replace them. "Then I'll stay another week. Somebody has to watch him."

"We actually employ nurses to do that," he reasons, raising his brows as he looks at the nurse's station through the glass wall.

"Nurses with fifty other patients and not enough sleep?" she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I feel better keeping an eye on him."

James sighs again, this time letting out some irritation with it. "I get it. It can be hard to let go of control when you think you're going to lose someone—"

"I am not gonna lose him," she spits venomously, her voice hoarse and breathy, cracking while she's speaking. She looks down and away from her colleague, avoiding his gaze and breathing through her nose.

His mouth opens to say something, then closes as he thinks better of it. He stands, leaving the room and sliding the glass door shut silently, the tails of his lab coat fluttering in his wake.

CAMERON

Past the open blinds, Cameron can see the young urologist closing her eyes and massaging her temples. She reaches out, taking the hand of the man in the bed. House still hadn't moved, and it had been three days. Foreman comes out of House's room looking not a lick happier than when he went in.

He announces to his peers, "House seems better. Now when it comes to Dr. Sweety..." He huffs, dark eyes darting down while his eyebrows rise. "No dice. She's a hard nut to crack."

Cameron squints, looking through her wire-rimmed spectacles at the male. "Really? Nothing?" She rights herself from leaning on the Nurse's station counter.

The black man shrugs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "She glared at me when I asked about her and House."

Chase stares at him, open-mouthed and lifts his hands. "You weren't supposed to ask her outright."

"Yeah, that's the first lesson House taught us," Cameron says, nodding along with the blonde. She mimics Foreman's stance and cocks a hip. She doesn't have to be rude to get information, but neither does she have to be truthful. "Everybody lies. But how you ask does matter."

Chase sidesteps a nurse about to run through him to get to where she's heading, but he remains calm. "Or force her hand," he adds, watching the hurried nurse disappear down the hall.

"I did what I felt was best." He stares down the other members of the diagnostic team, raising his thick brows. "Now it's your turn."

With a nod, Allison sets off toward the elevator. "Alright. Wish me luck."

With well wishes from behind her, she runs down to the coffee shop. The immunologist takes two lattes to go, hurrying back up to House's hospital room with a small paper bag.

She finds him as he has been for the last three days, motionless and wan. Beside him, the woman he called Sweety was gripping his limp hand, her thumb stroking his skin while her other hand covers her mouth.

"Ms. Sweety?"

The woman gasps, jolting as if electrocuted. Her metal-footed chair screeches against the linoleum. The big, green jewels in her eyes flit over Cameron's figure, soaking in all the details she could find, but never getting around to looking at her face. Consternated, the older woman's brows lower as she squints over the younger's body again, eventually settling on her legs.

She stares, perplexed, as if trying to put together a puzzle block. Taking pity on the woman when she remains silent, Cameron introduces herself.

"My name's Allison Cameron. I'm an immunologist working under Dr. House. I was there when..." She stops herself when she realizes the path she's going down, swallowing the buildup of saliva in her mouth. Licking her lips, she tries again. "I brought you a latte."

The older woman's dumbstruck expression speaks volumes, but then it swirls into a calm countenance, soft wrinkles appearing in the corners of her eyes. She doesn't quite smile, but the feeling is there.

Cameron pulls a cup out of the bag with practiced ease, handing it to the other woman. The other she keeps for herself, finding a metal stool to sit on. Crumpling the paper bag and tossing it in a small trash bin, she takes a sip of her own latte.

Taking a drink and licking her lips, Sweety nods. "Thanks. I'm Melina, I work in Urology. Greg is," she lets the word trail off, licking her lips and glancing at his profile, reminiscing. "A friend."

"You seem very close. I'm sorry about what happened."

She takes in Allison's words silently, gently stroking the back of House's hand. She bobs her head again, sniffling lightly.

There was a time when Allison was envious of the way House looked at her and the obvious chemistry they shared. Before that, she believed he was incapable of love, the same as Foreman and Chase. Now she knows it was that he couldn't love her.

She buried that hatchet in a locked coffin, packing the dirt so tightly that it should never see the light of day. Still, her throat feels thick when the urologist's other hand raises to his face, caressing his cheek, fingers catching his overgrown stubble while she brushes his skin.

"I can watch him for you, if you want to get some food, maybe shower," the younger suggests, hopeful. The questioning look she gets in return makes her rethink her words. Cameron starts to speak, but mangles the words accidentally. "Not that you're unclean, or anything. Wilson told me that you— I mean, he was worried about—"

Shaking her head, the woman quirks her lip in warmth, a dimple popping into her right cheek, close to her mouth. "It's okay. James' heart is in the right place. Sounds like yours is, too, but I'd have to—"

"Come on. One meal," the young brunette presses, leaning forward over her legs, . "You think House would want you to not eat? Not sleep? It's been three days."

Melina's head shakes and she looks down at their intertwined fingers. "He'd think it was silly if he saw me now."

Looking worriedly at the other "Because he'd want you to take care of yourself. It is silly not to."

Giving him a long stare, Melina's eyelids lower until she gazes at him through slits. It takes her a while, but she finally turns to Allison, accepting her offer with a sigh.

"Thank you, Allison," she says graciously as she gathers her purse and jacket. "I won't be gone long."