Cameron eyes lingered over the gown hanging on the door to her office. It was late in the day and she was considering whether or not to change before checking in to her hotel. The dress was strapless, black with white stripes that were thin at the bodice but fanned out near the bottom. She loved it. Was excited to wear it. Sort of.

She had to go to the gala because it was a hospital function. Doctors from around the country - some of the best in their fields - were going to be there. This time they were raising money for Alzheimer's research, and Cameron hoped that meant Foreman would be among the attendees. She'd called him a few days ago to check and had found out that he hadn't even gotten an invite. A quick call to Cuddy had changed that, but she had never heard back as to his final decision.

Her conversation with Richard that morning flew into her mind like a jolt of electricity, ceasing her thoughts and causing her to wince. She had felt off-balance all day. She felt free, and that disturbed her. Sad, distraught, determined to fix things - all things that she should have been feeling. The freedom felt scintillatingly dangerous. It frightened her.

A knock at her door drew her out of her thoughts. "Come in," she beckoned. Wilson's face appeared around the door, and she found herself smiling. "Wilson." She liked the feel of his name on her lips. Old. Comforting. Friendly.

"Hey," he said in a strained, slightly hesitant voice. Her radar went up.

"Ready for tonight?" she asked tentatively.

"Ah...uh...that's actually kind of what I came to talk to you about," his smile remained in place, only serving to increase her nervousness. "I just got a call from a hospital in Maryland about a patient of mine. He collapsed while visiting relatives. They've asked that I fly down there for a quick check up."

"Oh my God," she said sympathetically. "Anything I can do?"

"Yes, actually," he said, and she immediately regretted her words. He hesitated for so long that she began to get anxious.

"Wilson," she prompted.

"Yes. Ah, um. I was supposed to pick up House for the gala," he began.

"No," she said firmly, standing up and walking to the opposite end of the room. Distance. She needed distance.

"Cameron-"

"Wilson, no," she pleaded. He paused for a moment, then nodded sorrowfully and turned to leave. She rolled her eyes, but focused guiltily on his retreating form. "Wilson, wait." He turned, a look of anticipation on his face. "Okay," she said softly.

"Thank you!" he exclaimed. "He's expecting me in about an hour. I don't have time to call, but it'll be okay. Thank you, Cameron. Thank you." She nodded her head distractedly.

"Wilson." He turned back reluctantly and she hesitated. There was never time for the questions they needed to ask. Patients and puzzles took up so much of their lives while fear and reluctance filled in the precious cracks of personal time in between. "Looks like it's going to storm," she said softly, managing a small smile. "Be careful." And then, "No, wait. Wilson. How...how did you know - I mean when you were married, all those times you were...married...how did you know that - that it was over?"

His eyes were wide with unsuspecting surprise as he planted his hands on his hips thoughtfully and pursed his lips. "Well, the divorce papers always kind of sealed the deal," he offered ruefully. Cameron looked down a little, not giving into his attempt at humor.

"But before all that. When did you know?"

He looked intently at her for a moment before saying, "Did House do something-"

"Oh God Wilson! I'm not talking about House. House and I aren't - we aren't - we," she sigh in frustration, pushing uselessly at papers on her desk. "Richard, Wilson. I'm talking about Richard."

"Oh." Wilson's eyes became even wider as he slumped against her wall. "I didn't know you two were having-"

"We called off the engagement."

"Ah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "And you're wondering if you should or if you only did because-"

"Because," she paused, "Because House is - House is-"

"Because House is an ass," Wilson finished quietly. He took a deep breath before saying, "Well, I guess I knew it was over when we...when we didn't want to fight anymore. At least not about anything that mattered. I didn't want to hurt them anymore...and nothing they said could really make me...care." He stood up straight, satisfied with his answer, and opened the door a little. "Without that passion," he shrugged. "Do you - I mean, are you still going to want to-"

"I'll get him. Don't worry," she said, grinning until she was sure Wilson was out of the office.

She gazed thoughtfully, once again, at the dress as she picked up her phone with a sigh. "Hello. I'm not going to be able to check into my room before six - can I hold it with a credit card?"

He couldn't tie the damn tie. Where the hell was Wilson?

He couldn't tie the damn tie and Wilson was late. Not that he cared about getting to the gala on time - quite the opposite. He did, however, care about being first in line for the open bar. He sighed in frustration, yanking the bowtie off impatiently.

Where were his pants? He wandered out of the bathroom like a dazed amnesiac, throwing back the covers on his bed, then kneeling down to scour the floor. Truth be told, he liked his tux. He was like Bond - Dr. Bond. He simply hated the functions to which he could wear it.

Tonight, he promised himself, tonight was gonna be good. He had a deck of cards in his jacket pocket, a wad of cash in his missing pants, and a celebratory cigar with his name on it in James Wilson's top-left desk drawer. He was considering having a glass of scotch as an appetizer when a knock at the door caused him to narrow his eyes and stand up.

"It's open you idiot!" He heard the hesitant opening and closing of the door as he continued to search for his pants. "Could you be any later? I can't get this damn tie thing and the bar opens in less than an hour. You know Cuddy's going to have my picture out to them by the time we get there and I'll have to don my Russian spy getup again." There was no response from the other room. "That is, if you're done with it from the other night." Silence. What the hell was his problem?

"God Wilson, are you-," he stopped dead in the doorway to his living room. His mouth opened a little, then closed in a thoughtful line. He cocked his head to the side. "You're...not...Wilson."

"No," Cameron's voice was calm, but he noticed the slight flush that skated across her cheeks as she took in his appearance.

He held up a finger. "Pants." Then he walked back to the bedroom swiftly. As soon as he entered he saw his pants draped over a chair. "Thanks a lot guys," he muttered, grabbing them roughly and putting them on hastily. "Where the hell is Wilson?" he yelled out.

"He had a patient," she called back. He could tell she was distracted. Probably looking through his things, feeding her obsessive need to stalk him. No wait - that was him. He smirked a little.

"And he sent you to pick up his prom date? How utterly thoughtless." He decided to give the tie one more go. There was no way he was going to ask her. As he fumbled with the ends, he waited anxiously for some kind of sound from the other room. "Stand by the door," he barked, "And whatever you do, don't touch-" The delicate sound of his piano dipped into his words, taking his power of speech away and instead creating its own light and melancholic melody. Scratch that. Her melody.

He sucked in a breath and held it. Chopin. No - Schuman. Lieder. Traumerei? He let out the breath. Yes. That was it. Slowly, anticipatorily, he was drawn to the instrument, to the picture of her in that dress sitting on the bench that he polished with such care (the only thing he ever cleaned).

Her fingers, he noticed for the first time, were long. Long and slender, they hesitantly but knowingly caressed the keys - his keys. She'd taken off her strappy shoe and her bare foot was intuitively working the rightmost pedal. She leaned her head over her hands, cocked to one side as though she could hear some strange language (beyond the music) coming from her fingers.

He was at her side, hands on his piano. Possessively. But through them he could feel the vibrations of her melody, her touch transmitted to him through his beloved instrument. He half expected her to stop, to look up at him, doe-eyed and full of apology. But she didn't. She gave the piece its dignity and finished it until the last note hung in the air sweetly, sorrowfully. The lack of its presence as it died away seemed to press on House from all sides. He looked at her, trying to keep his face free of expression.

"Thirteen years," she shrugged, "Mr. Harrison's living room." She wrinkled her nose. "Always smelled like mothballs." She reached out and delicately traced the E-flat key. "And the keys always stuck." Her gaze was committed to the keyboard now as she waited for something from him - what, he wasn't sure.

"You know," he said slowly, feeling strange. "That piece is a duet."

"Oh, I know," she rolled her eyes. "Mr. Harrison always made me play the lower part. Said I didn't have enough legato and phrasing in me for the melody."

House paused, trying very hard to mentally peer down two very different paths into his future that were about to diverge from the moment they were having. "He...was an idiot," he said evenly. His eyes wandered around the room, slightly apprehensive, catching her's every once in a while. He took a deep breath and walked around the bench to the left side. Nudging her over a little with his foot, he sat beside her on the bench.

Turning his head toward her, but keeping his gaze on something far off and not yet existent, he silently asked her a question. She placed her hands on the keys in response. Low and hollow, House landed on the first, solidifying notes of the piece. Cameron answered with her higher, lighter chord, and their conversation continued on through minor chord changes, crescendos, accelerandos, and, finally, a ritardando.

The music ended much as it had before, bleeding into the silence. He turned his head, examining her profile. She seemed to still be absorbed in the music. In that moment. As she finally turned her head toward him, questioning eyes capturing his own, he wondered if she had any inkling of the moment they were about to have. The moment he would force them, finally, to have.

He wondered if she, given the choice...

And then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against her own.