"What were the results of the Hepatitis test?"

"Irrelevant."

House scoffed. "Not if that was what was killing her."

"I'm telling you it's irrelevant," Cameron suppressed a smile. "You can't expect me to give you results of tests we didn't run."

The dim lights of the restaurant created a buzzing atmosphere rather than an intimate one as she, Richard, and House dined on their mediocre faire. Her second glass of wine sat nearly empty next to her picked over plate. Cameron had never been to Devono's before and had only come at Richard's insistence. How he'd researched the current yuppie `it' spot in Plainsboro from his apartment in Boston no longer surprised her as it once might have.

House, on the other hand, had seemed slightly baffled not only at Richard's having gotten the reservation, but by the ease with which he was able to add House to their group.

"I thought Wilson said he was living in Boston," House's low voice had grumbled into her ear while they were waiting to be seated. In her response, she bit back her annoyance at Wilson's divulgence, trying unsuccessfully to stop the sudden tremor her body experienced at their close proximity.

She had taken over the conversation immediately once they sat down, attempting to avoid a repeat of House's visit to Boston. She chatted with Richard about his work until she felt House's gleeful sarcasm was about to burst forth with zeal. It was in that moment of desperation that she'd devised a small game to keep the master puzzle-solver occupied - not unlike convincing a wearisome child to see how high he could count, she mused. She'd racked her brain for old, puzzling cases from her time in Boston, presenting them for House to solve as she slowly gave him bits and pieces of information. Biopsy negative. MRI clean.

Richard had seemed mildly interested at first, but his interest quickly turned to annoyance as he watched their tentative enjoyment of the game and each other. Four scotches later, he was openly glaring at House, eyeing his as well as her uneaten food.

"I've got it," House said.

"You sure? Because the last two guesses didn't go so well." Cameron's eyes sparkled and she tried not to think about what it meant that she was speaking civilly to House, let alone having a good time.

"Hey," Richard suddenly disrupted the game. "Ali, it's your song, isn't it?" She was taken aback at first by the abrupt shift in his mood, but, worried as she was about his seeming unhappiness, she cocked her head as though she were listening closely.

"Yeah, I like this song," she said, only somewhat agreeing with his original statement.

"Ali is one hell of a dancer," he said to House. "You ever seen her dance?" House shot Cameron a weary look of displeasure, then shook his head once in answer to Richard.

"We don't really dance in the office Richard." She forced a laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood while at the same time placing her hand on his arm - as if that would stop him.

"You dance, House?" Richard asked, his face full of cruel innocence. Cameron had to make a conscious effort to keep her mouth from dropping open. She'd never seen Richard act like this - ever. She avoided House's gaze while silently counting to five before saying anything. House brings out the competitive nature in people, she mused. Yeah, but that doesn't excuse Richard, the other voice in her mind argued. "I mean," he continued, "before your...thing." Cameron looked down in shame while an emerging anger began to boil inside her.

"You mean my crippling disability?" House shot back. It was game on. "Gee I don't know, Dick. Can't say I ever took ballet - oh don't worry, I'm sure all your football teammates did it. Helps you to be more graceful, find your feminine side. I hear chicks dig that."

"Ali," Richard ignored House, putting his hand on her arm. "Dance with me." She turned to him and was shocked to see a trace of anger in his face directed at her. She glanced back at House, his face once again a neutral mask of disinterest.

"Ah...well...okay," she stumbled. Though she had a strong desire to smack Richard in the head, her fear of his and House's bickering match turning into an all out brawl made splitting them up the most favorable option. Her head spun a little as she stood, reminding her of her still relatively empty stomach. She felt uncertain and strange as Richard led her to the dance floor, leaving House a solitary, lonely figure. Foremost in her mind was her surprise at Richard's distress. She knew that he had never held House in esteem, but she hadn't perceived any outright despising until now.

On the dance floor, Richard seemed to lose some of his anger. He pulled her close, a contented sigh escaping his lips. She loved Richard, she really did. He was strong, reliable, and he knew exactly what he wanted. She was what he wanted. It'd been too long since she'd felt wanted for herself alone, and so she had let him love her, welcoming it, even.

Though her back was toward House, she could feel the two men glaring at each other, her in the middle. She had worn the blue dress for House, this she knew. Though she hadn't seen Richard in nearly a month, though he had gone to special lengths to arrange their evening, and though House was only supposed to see her in the dress for five minutes, tops, she had worn it for him. And so, here she was, dancing with Richard in her damn blue dress as waves of self-doubt washed over her.

"You boys just about finished?" she queried icily.

"Ali," he sighed her name, stretching the simple letters out in a way that both pleased her and annoyed her at the same time. "Sweetheart, I love you, but someone's gotta stand up for us here."

"What are you talking about?"

"Honey, he's trying to suck you back into his world, can't you see that?" Cameron balked, nearly stopping on the dance floor. "Don't look at me that way! You're the one who told me how hard it was for you to leave the first time. He's a man that knows what he wants Ali, and he wants you. If you can't see it...sweetie, but I can. And someone's gotta let him know that you're not his to take."

Richard wanted her. He wanted her for his own. So why was it that she still sought out House's desire - needed it? She was under no false pretences about Richard's character. Yes, he was an ass. He was egotistical, prejudiced, and territorial - but then again, so was House. The difference was that Richard had made a place for her in his life. Though it sometimes seemed a pedestal from which he could show her off, it was a defined place nonetheless, which was more than House had ever been willing to offer.

"Richard, you're not making any sense," she murmured. "I love you. I'm going to marry you. House is just...someone who happens to work at the same place I do."

"Ali, if you really love me, trust my instincts on this one," he replied. She sighed in frustration, yet remained silent while the song played on. She hadn't really ever liked this song, and now she was beginning to hate it.

Back and forth they swayed, turning slightly until Cameron and House were finally facing each other. She should have stopped at his look of exasperation, at his shrug of indifference. But years of observation and unrequited caring had taught her more than she would have liked, and her gaze sought out his right hand, rubbing his leg methodically.

She wondered then what it would have been like to dance with House. Where he would have settled his hands. How his breath would have played across her shoulder. Her neck. Would she have wrapped her arms around him tightly, desperately? Or would they have simply fit? His eyes locked with her own, for a moment, clear. She wondered if he had been thinking the same thing.

"Did you ask me to dance to punish him?" she asked suddenly, a coldness passing through her.

"I don't like the way he looks at you," Richard answered. She stopped, pulling out of his arms, fixing her right hand to her chest as though the pain of her conflicting emotions could be felt physically in the core of her heart. She loved him - Richard - she could tell herself that until she was blue in the face. Yet the full price of that declaration, she felt, was just beginning to make sense. Before either could speak further, Richard's pager obnoxiously went off.

"I gotta get this babe. Be right back." She remained motionless as he kissed her cheek and squeezed her arm before making his way to the lobby.

"Hot date?" House greeted her as she took her seat.

"He got a page," she responded absently. Then, "I'm sorry he did that. I'm sorry I said yes. You must -"

"Heart disease," House interrupted suddenly.

"What?"

"Patient X. Heart disease. I'm betting you had to do a transplant." His gaze held her own steady. She felt as though she was being tested. "Am I right?" She gave way to the moment, absorbing the glasses clinking around her, the pockets of laughter - light and airy, low and sultry - that littered the room. House across from her, intense, persistent. It reminded her so much of another place, another meal, another time. She pulled it toward her even as she pushed it away.

"Muga, 7.9," she said softly, smiling down at her unfinished meal.

"I've got an emergency," Richard announced, returning to their table. "I've got to catch the next flight back. Leaves in an hour and a half. I'm sorry Ali - we'll have to make it up next time."

"What?" she furiously hissed. Richard eyed house contemptuously.

"I hope it's not too serious," House said with mock concern. Richard, either ignoring or completely missing the underlying sarcasm, responded seriously, noting that his patient needed an immediate chemical peel if she was to be ready in time for her party in the Hamptons. House shot an incredulous look at Cameron.

"Walk me to the lobby." It was somewhere between a plea and an order, which Cameron dutifully followed - once again avoiding House's gaze, vehemently strutting after Richard, hands balled into fists at her sides.

"Richard," she began before he could get a word out as he stood, waiting for his coat. "I haven't seen you in weeks, we haven't even finished dinner - and as for your behavior tonight...we need to talk. And not tomorrow, not next week - now." Her eyes pierced his own, fierce and demanding.

"This is the nature of our profession Ali, of our lives. You know that. Would you be as upset if House was called away for some kind of emergency?" He shrugged into his coat, the pulled out his wallet.

"That's not the same," she protested, shaking her head. Her curls tensely jarred to and fro.

"Because he `saves' people while I merely make them pretty, is that it?" Richard asked, and for the first time she saw hurt beneath the anger in his eyes.

"No," she gently put her hands on his arm, stopping his movements. "Because he's not the man I'm going to marry." Richard held her pleading gaze for a minute, but they were interrupted by the hostess returning his credit card.

"They're just words Ali," he said, a little softer and with a sigh. "You're someone different with him. I don't know how to describe it. He comes into our lives out of no where, whisks you off - what are our friends supposed to think? What am I supposed to think?" He gently tucked her hair neatly behind her ear, and she dipped her head. "Leave with me." This time it was more of a question.

"You want us to drive you to the airport?" she asked in confusion.

"No, Ali, I want you to drive me to the airport." She looked over at House, sitting less than patiently at the table. Richard's cruelty, however "well-intentioned" he had tried to spin it, still rang in her mind. She owed House - at least this one thing, if not more.

"Richard, I can't just leave him here...," she trailed off as his face drooped into a weary grimace.

"You can't leave him, Ali. That's what I'm trying to say. That's what I'm afraid of." He kissed her forehead lightly. "I had them call a cab. They've got my card, so the check will be all taken care of. I will call you." He continued to stand in front of her as if waiting for some kind of reaction.

"You better go," she finally said. He nodded silently, and then he was gone. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to their table. House, seemingly oblivious to everything around him, was attempting to balance various pieces of cutlery on his water glass. She swallowed the smallest of smiles.

"Papa bear seems angry," House greeted her return.

"You about ready to go?" she asked, downing the last of her wine.

"Check?" Cameron nodded her head no, still swallowing.

"Richard picked up the tab. Hell, who am I kidding? He probably expensed it as a business dinner. That's probably why he wanted you and Wilson to come."

"So let me get this straight," House continued, ignoring her personal comments, "We can order anything we want off the menu still, and he covers it?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, "I guess. Why? You really like the food here? You barely touched your plate."

"Food?" he asked, his face bright. "No." He flagged down a waiter passing by. "Scotch on the rocks," he ordered, "And another glass of wine for the lady."

"Actually," Cameron interrupted, her face becoming brighter as well, "I'll have the same." House peered at her sideways, saying nothing until the young waiter left.

"Great thing about alcohol," he finally said. "It's so..."

"Universally pleasing," she finished - and she swore that, for a moment, she had caught the hint of a grin on his chiseled face.

Several drinks later, House's mood was approaching that of a normal human being. The smooth, searing scotch cleared his mind, better allowing him to observe and analyze the world around him. Scotch - pretty much alcohol in general - had always acted as a compliment to his pills, allowing him to do his job and, more importantly, to grasp again a feeling of normalcy he'd long since forgotten.

The magical healing powers of alcohol could not, however, be applied in the same way to Alison Cameron. He'd tried to stop her after the fourth drink, but she'd only erupted into a lecture on men underestimating the drinking tolerance of women and then into another lecture on the hypocrisy of him, an admitted addict, telling her when to quit. He'd shrugged at that statement, unable to argue, though a small part of him still wanted to remind her of what she'd be feeling in the morning. Only a small part though. A very small part. Minuscule. Not so miniscule, however, that its mere existence didn't disturb him.

"Richard loves me," she said, quieter now, placing her drink firmly on the table.

"I'll bet he does," House responded dryly, not even bothering to feign interest or sincerity. She wasn't going to be remembering this conversation in the morning. He took another sip of his drink.

"At least I think he loves me." She looked confused, her eyes gazing at a nonexistent spot on the tablecloth. "We look nice together, anyway, that's what everyone says. Don't we look nice together?"

"Picture perfect," he drawled. She chuckled low and ruefully, and he couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. Drunk Cameron, though promising to be even more annoying and preachy than Sober Cameron, was also slightly amusing.

"Know what he thinks?" Her voice had gone lower, and she leaned across the table as though she were about to reveal a great truth. "He thinks you have a thing for me." The humor was gone from her face, replaced by something both achingly familiar and terrifying to House. "And that's not even the best part."

"Oh goody. There's more."

"Mmhmm." She paused to take another sip. "He thinks that I have a problem leaving you." She reclined back in her chair, now training her gaze directly on him. House brought up a hand to his head, beginning to regret his last drink. He slowly wiped his hand over his face, finally tugging at his chin.

"Time to go," he said, raising is eyebrows as though to shock her into compliance.

"What?" She glanced around her at the mostly empty tables. "Are they closing already?"

"Exactly," House lied, "And if we don't get out of here, all these nice people are going to lose their jobs." She cocked her head to the side, that intently mysterious look in her eye again. He shifted uncomfortably. Coming here had been a bad idea. Such a bad idea. Why had he done it? At that thought, he jerked his head a little in frustration. Great - he was going to turn into a maudlin, ponderous drunk, just like her.

"Fine. Let's leave. I've got the car so-"

"Woah there Courtney Love. I think you better hand those over." He plucked the keys from her loose grasp as they both stood, and attempted to head off her protestations by gently but firmly guiding her towards the exit. The minute he slipped his hand under her elbow, however, she froze. He watched her gaze disjointedly yet still somewhat lucidly travel from his hand up to his face. Her doe-eyed look of innocence - mixed with something that looked like it could be a distant cousin of desire - caused him to cease all thought processes and almost promised to be the final straw.

"You're touching me," she nearly whispered.

"You're drunk," he said to her in a louder, ridiculing voice. His abrupt gruffness had its intended effect, and she more silently acquiesced to his directions.

By the time they arrived at her car, she seemed to have resigned herself to his driving. Wordlessly she slipped into the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. As he pulled onto the street, House wondered if he should just take her home - she clearly couldn't drive herself anywhere in her current state, and she wasn't likely to improve much in the twenty minutes it would take to get to his place. Yet that decision involved actually going to Cameron's home and invading her space in a way that he suddenly wanted no part of. He was saved from this decision-making dilemma by Cameron's surprisingly insistent voice.

"Just take me to your place." He peered sideways at her, assessing her seriousness. "Oh please," she sighed in exasperation, "I'm going to call a cab to meet me there. You can bring my car back to work. There's no sense in you wasting the rest of your night being my chauffeur." And, though he was still uncertain, he found himself turning down the familiar route to his apartment.

The city seemed quiet and House felt like he was driving in a car commercial as he carefully navigated the dimly lit streets. Something dangerous had happened with Cameron and he needed a proper "evade and ignore" plan. She'd finally stopped giving him the silent treatment at work long enough to satisfyingly deceive and defy him, but could he enjoy that? Oh no. Dr. Nip/Tuck had to come and ruin their tentative truce with ridiculous posturing and inane accusations.

It wasn't until he pulled in front of his building that he realized Cameron had yet to call for a cab. Turning in confusion to berate her, he paused when he saw that she had fallen asleep. He was not a sentimental man. He didn't suddenly feel a pang at the way her lashes gently grazed her skin or the way a stray curl of hair caressed her cheek. No, these were mere evidence of her beauty - a fact House had never denied.

What did affect him - and this he would admit to no one - was the level of pure openness he saw in her unguarded state. There had been times, especially at the beginning of their acquaintance, when she had so clearly attempted to bare her soul, to openly and honestly confront him in what he could only assume was a nave hope of reciprocation. But, feeling that he knew her better than she did herself, House could see these instances for what they truly were: Cameron presenting to him the version of herself that she thought would be best able to win over his gruff heart. She'd never been open and honest with him because she'd never been open and honest with herself.

Sensing a lack of movement, her eyes fluttered open, locking on his own. "Home," he gestured with his head toward the building outside her window. She nodded silently, still getting her bearings.

"Cab," she muttered, a sharp intake of breath signaling her sudden realization.

"You can call from inside," House replied, getting out of the car and not looking back. For a moment, he wondered if she would follow. A long time ago he'd have been certain. A not-so-long time ago he would have been equally certain of her not following. He thrust the thought out of his head with a powerful surge of indifference and unlocked his door. Turning a little, he nearly started at the petite form close behind him.

Her eyes were smoky with fatigue and weariness as he motioned for her to enter first, closing the door behind them. He observed her carefully for signs of snoopiness. There was only one other time he could recall that she'd been here, to one of his few havens. Any prying on her part, however, was confined to the area around his prized piano. He'd been searching the night before for a certain piece that he hadn't played in years. His quest had resulted in the haphazard piles of music that littered the top of the piano and the floor surrounding it.

"Phone's over there," he said, uneasy in his own home. Not responding, she walked past the open keys - damn him for forgetting the cover - her hand fluttering over them for a moment with an undeniable air of...something...that House recognized but could not name. She was too close. There was a sudden eruption of frustration, and a hint of anger, inside him. Perhaps for the first time that evening he suddenly felt his lack of control fully, felt it pulling him down deeper and darker, suffocating him with its chaotic grip.

"Would you play me something?" Again with the doe-eyes. She was like some kind of stupid forest creature, unknowingly and innocently exploring a dangerous minefield.

"Ahh," he shook his head, giving her a grimace, "No." His answer was firm, yet his eyes held her own gently, almost against his will. If she was an innocent exploratory creature, then he was equal part deer in the headlights, waiting for the sense of danger to pass before making any kind of move.

Then she was up and walking toward him. Close, closer, he thought he could smell her. A turn, and she was headed for the phone across the room. Letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, House looked around him in agitation for something to do. He tapped his cane on the ground as Cameron's still vaguely slurring voice settled across the room in an uncomfortably natural way.

He began to pick up and organize the strewn sheet music, attempting to block out her presence. It wasn't long, however, before she'd joined him again, wordlessly sifting through one of the many remaining piles. He seated himself on the bench, propping the pages against the keys as he organized. She knelt near the coffee table, shuffling through the titles with a strangely practiced air. Eventually, she walked behind House, reaching over his shoulder to gently place a Chopin waltz on the piano.

He turned his head until he could almost, but not quite, see her. He followed her arm as it retreated, the tips of her fingers finally disappearing from his vision. He wanted to ask her why Chopin, why this waltz. He wanted to ask her if she knew what it was, what it meant, and how. But asking would have betrayed curiosity, and, behind that, feeling. And he had never been known for feeling.

He could have ignored her silent request, could have walked into his room, shutting the door behind him. She would likely forget most of this night in the morning. And it was perhaps with that thought that he, finally, put aside the sheaf of music in his lap and began to let his fingers stretch and prod the ivory bars. A lifetime of habit allowed him the freedom of attention necessary to pick out Cameron's soft sigh, to hear the low crunch as she settled onto his leather sofa. And then, as he danced through his fingers, House began to hear and see nothing around him but the colors of the melding harmonies in his mind.

When the song was finally over, he sat motionlessly. The feeling of desperate, hollow longing, familiar to him most often at the end of a vicodin buzz, washed over and through him, tiring and satiating him all at once. The sound of a car pulling up to the door caught his attention, and he finally glanced back at Cameron. Once again, she was sound asleep and curled into the corner of his sofa. With more stealth than he knew he possessed, House slipped out his front door, passed the driver a few bills, and sent him off. It was only when he reached his door that the full implications of what he'd done caused his head to droop and nearly left him unable to enter his own home.

She was still asleep when he finally did enter. Hating himself, cursing himself, and only (he told himself) due to his certainty of her not remembering this in the morning, he draped a blanket over her. He told himself that she'd be even more pissed if she ended up with a cold after all this. Told himself that Cuddy would blame him for any sick time Cameron had to take off.

He told himself that the reason he couldn't fall asleep in the room down the hall from her was the scotch, the music, the pain.

He told himself.