It was the smell her mind registered, before anything else. Foreign and musty, and was that a hint of cigar? She wasn't in her apartment. Where was she? In a second it all came back to her and she stilled, trying to control her breathing. The unfamiliar pillow her head rested on felt surprisingly cool and soft. Wiggling in what she hoped as a nearly imperceptive way - though she truly wondered if there was imperceptive when it came to House - she realized she was wearing a t-shirt. She strained her ears to hear anything - his breathing, his blinking.

Now or never, she reasoned, unable to stop a wry smile from spreading across her face as she opened her eyes, expecting to see him across from her, fully awake and staring at her with a smirk. But the bed was vacant next to her, rumpled and abandoned. She shifted a little, turning toward the bedroom door. She couldn't hear the shower - but how the hell should she know what his shower sounded like?

She took a deep breath in through her nose, searching for the smell of food - any kind of food. Perhaps he'd gone out for something. Coffee, at least. Stop, her mind blared sharply. She draped her legs over the side of the bed, searching the floor for the pants she'd been wearing the night before. Pulling them on quickly, she soundlessly tiptoed out into the hall. Nothing.

She could feel her pulse quickening as she neared the kitchen, where it had begun and ended all at once. Gently she massaged the back of her neck as she searched the counters, the table, any and every surface for a sign. A note. Proof that he'd been here, that she hadn't imagined it all.

Glancing at the clock, she realized it was far too early for him to be at work - not that he'd even be expected in today. And then the reality of what was going on hit her like a cold-handed slap. She brought her hand to her lips for a moment, paralyzed. The next moment found her frantically discarding all that she was wearing - his - and furiously collecting her things.

She slammed the door behind her on her way out, not knowing or caring if it was locked. Her car was in the same place she'd left it, however it was now covered in a few inches of snow. She bit back a frustrated moan of despair. She would not throw a tantrum; she was not a child. She would just get something to brush the snow off and then be on her way.

As she stiffly swept the light snow off her windows, she felt a hot determination building inside of her. You finally got to decide, his voice rang out in her head. She pushed it back, but not too far.

Yes, she had decided. But she wasn't finished yet.

House's eyes followed the ball on its path up into the air, then back down again, safely into his hands. It was rhythmic, soothing. He needed to come up with some new challenge. What was it Wilson was always saying? A new "skill to master." He frowned, realizing that Wilson had entered his thoughts.

That was the problem with having friends. Or, in his case, a friend. When they finally did something stupid enough to make them completely undeserving of friendship - as all people inevitably did - odds are you would have to take them back if only because of the myriad ways their life had fused with your own.

He had always found pride in the fact that he knew he could live without Wilson. He didn't need people. It was a wonderful feeling - freeing, even. But he had also always been faced with the small but very real truth that a part of him (most likely, in the grand scheme of things, a very small part, he liked to think) would just as soon not live without Wilson. A part of him, in fact, was a little fond of the guy.

He'd accepted this (as he saw it) "human weakness" as another disappointing piece of evidence in his lack of deity status. He made himself feel better by promising to never look into it too deeply, to roll where the wind took their friendship without too much thought or effort. This attitude had thus served him well for years.

He gripped the ball lightly, holding it still for a moment, as he watched Wilson's unmistakable form pass his door. Was he holding his breath? God, one night with Cameron and he'd turned into some kind of freak. He watched as Wilson paused, dipping his head down in his trademark "wait just a minute" pose. Spinning on his heel, Wilson walked back to the door of House's office, pausing for another moment of thought before suddenly turning to face his friend.

There was a look of confusion on Wilson's face as he opened the door, letting himself inside. House sighed and resumed tossing his ball. This was already boring.

"You're here," Wilson said. House looked up at him in disdain. "Why are you here? Something must be wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong." Wilson's gaze scanned the room, as though he were looking for clues. "I know you don't have a patient," Wilson continued. "What did you do?"

House looked away from his ball long enough to shrug and say, "I work here."

"That," Wilson said slowly, "is debatable." The silence carried on as Wilson's less-developed sense of mystery-solving worked overtime. "Okay," Wilson slowly drew out the two syllables, his focused yet uncertain gaze never leaving House. Reluctantly, he headed back towards the door.

"Sleep well last night?" House's anger mixed with an unwonted pang of bitterness. He didn't care. He didn't care.

"I - yes." Wilson's stilted reply, non-evidence though it was, only served to heighten House's irritability.

"I bet," House said contemplatively, continuing his sharp scrutiny of Wilson. Wilson always seemed to be so attuned to House. The freak could discern House's motives, predict his actions - hell, Jimmy could even stop him from acting, on occasion. The man had power - more than he realized.

So why the hell, House wondered, had Wilson and Cuddy not anticipated being discovered? How could he not see now that House knew? It was too much - this was too much. All this thinking, thinking about "feelings." It tired him. It agitated him. The puzzle was solved, the question answered. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.

"Well. I'm going to go actually do my job," Wilson said, finally filling in the silence. He shuffled toward the door, a perplexed look on his face. Right before leaving, he turned back saying, "You're sure nothing's wrong?"

House gazed at a point somewhere just past Wilson's head for a long, drawn out moment before tipping his head upward in the slightest of nods. He hoped it would be enough. Looking less than convinced, Wilson finally retreated. A feeling of liberation coursed through House for the briefest of moments. Finally! Now he could go back to -

He looked down at the ball in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. He watched as his arm suddenly flung it across the office, satisfied at the thump it made against the glass, disappointed when the window failed to shatter. (Shattering glass - that could be a new skill.) Wilson, Cuddy - he didn't want any of them, when he really thought about it. So why did he keep them? Why did he follow her?

He had wanted her in that moment the previous night. He'd wanted her and he'd acted on it and look at the mess he was going to be cleaning up now. He had to solve this puzzle, had to figure out what to do. But he couldn't think about it anymore, not when the thinking was so close to feeling. Sighing, he picked up a glass paperweight from his desk, shifting it from palm to palm. He eyed the door to his office thoughtfully.

She sat in her scrubs - pink, what a stupid color - knees drawn up to her chest, forehead pressed against the cool window as she looked out at the snow from her fourth floor office. The sun was already out in that way it always comes after a freak snowstorm: blindingly bright and insistent against a striking blue sky. Snow? What snow?, it seems to say.

For all its happy glaring, though, it wouldn't melt the perfect, velvet blanket of snow before her - this she knew from experience. Such heat, such intensity, powerless against the frigid winter temperature. A paradox, she thought wryly, shifting her head to a cooler spot on the window.

She had allowed herself 15 minutes of crying as she showered in the locker room, but that was all. She hadn't even been sure what or whom the tears were for. Perhaps, she thought, she was trying to wash away the night before, to erase its memory; but it wasn't erasure that she wanted. She wanted to cleanse herself of all the powerful, passionate feelings where he was concerned.

If she was going to do what she was going to do, she needed to know that she'd be okay, no matter what the outcome. She needed to know that she would be able to survive without him - a fact her head understood, but one that her heart, fresh from a night with House, was having trouble comprehending let alone believing.

"Cameron?" The voice, so full of concern, jarred her out of her reverie. When she turned, revealing her bare face (still red around the eyes) to Wilson, she noted his widening eyes, his sharp intake of breath. God, she hadn't thought she'd looked that bad. "Oh my God," he breathed softly, and she knew that he'd figured it out. Somehow, some way, he knew.

"Did House...?"

"Oh my God," he repeated again, sinking into a chair. His head was turned down, his eyes focused on the floor in disbelief.

"Oh please Wilson," Cameron attempted to shrug off his melodrama. "It was bound to happen sooner or later, you knew that. I'm-"

"You're what?" She hesitated in her answer.

"Not okay," she reluctantly relented after a time, resting her head on her knees.

"You want me to-"

"No," she said softly. The silence hung on them like a foretold and accepted burden. Cameron allowed herself to gaze at Wilson, noting with wry irony that while he would always empathize with her, he would forever be bound to him. "Wilson." He looked over at her expectantly. "Wilson, I think he knows about you - and Cuddy." She paused as his facial expression ran the gamut from shocked to defensive. "And mind you, I'm not claiming to know any better. But really, at this point I think you'd have to be blind not to see it."

Wilson's face melted into a bittersweet mixture of happiness and earnest apprehension. "You just...it's just...you never stop wanting to save him, you know? From himself. From the pain, the past. It seems so easy, in your mind."

"I don't want to save him," she replied. "I just...can't leave him." Across the darkened office sympathy and empathy mingled in their gazes. She marveled that one man could hold such a power over otherwise strong, capable people while at the same time continually and consistently pushing them away.

She was friends with Wilson because of House. He had been the one she'd kept in touch with, but House was the one to whom she had returned. If Wilson ultimately failed in his goal of saving House, he would recover, she felt. He would have Cuddy, his patients, the passion for medicine with which he had begun. He would forever bemoan his disappointment, his failure, but he would recover.

She would not.

"I'm going to go talk to him."

"Wilson, you don't have to-"

"I should. Someone should. He thinks - he's always thought - he can go around doing whatever he wants, no consequences. But I don't believe, I won't believe, that's what he wants. I think he pushes and pushes to see how far he can go before-"

"He didn't push Wilson." Her words stopped him mid-tirade. "He didn't push. I came back and I decided to take this step and..." She kicked her feet down from the windowsill, facing Wilson squarely. "He can't figure out why I'm here and it's pissing him off. It's terrifying him. You always warned me not to break him, and I've been faithful to you. But...I never thought...I honestly never thought he would have the power to break me. And isn't that ridiculous? All those years. Everything I saw. I'm a fool, Wilson. But I can't help it. It's him."

He listened with wide eyes and a serious expression. When she finished, he nodded slowly. She was unsure whether he was agreeing with her or merely acknowledging that she had spoken her peace, but it was no matter. He rose wearily, pausing at the door on his way out.

"When you left...he was...I'd never seen him quite like that. It was all under the surface, nothing big. But I thought, if there is ever to be a time...I thought he would go after you. I thought something, anything, might change. And then it didn't. Life turned into something else, something vaguely new but similar to the old."

"Before," she countered, "I didn't give him a choice. He pretty much didn't give me one either. And this, now...I'm not sure it could have been a choice, on either of our parts. But what comes next - I'm going to make it a choice. His choice." She paused, running a hand through her still damp hair, fatigued. "You kept him alive all this time, you know. He'll never say thank you, but I will." She gave a small smile, the corners of her mouth mildly turning up.

He bowed his head forward as though both acknowledging and absorbing her words before continuing on his path out of her office. Wilson would fight for his friend, she knew. She just hoped that House would fight for himself as well.

It had been a long day. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum hadn't shown up despite repeated threatening phone calls. The hospital was nearly empty of interesting patients and House was nearly empty of potential distractions from his mess of a life. He'd finally resorted to playing an old video game when Wilson stormed into the office, glass door banging with a dangerous pang and him looking more perplexed than usual.

"How could you do that to her?" he blurted out. House was still except for his eyes which darted up to Wilson in sharp annoyance.

"So she's been talking, huh? Telling big bad daddy what a horrible date she had."

"Of course not," Wilson spat back, "But you can see it just by looking at her. You bestow a certain kind of look, House, on people you break." House narrowed his eyes, trying to refocus on the game. Had she sent Wilson to berate him? Was she hoping that he would fold and come coo and coddle her? Fat chance.

"It's time you tell me what the hell is going on here," Wilson continued. The cheerful video game music of loss chimed in response, causing House to toss the game haphazardly across his desk.

"'Feelings time' already? Darn it, I'm going to have to sit this one out today. I brought a note from my mom though."

"Your vacation," Wilson was like a scrappy dog guarding a rare bone. House dreaded what was to come; these inane cycles of human interaction were why he tried to avoid it at all costs. "Where did you go?"

"You know where I went," House said darkly.

"I want to hear you say it." Wilson was jutting his chin out in that self-righteous way of his, hands planted on his hips as though he was hunkering down for a battle. House decided to see how far inaction would carry him this time. "How could you not tell me? Why wouldn't you- I mean, my god, we're not talking about your hookers or the drugs or even Stacy. We're talking about your leg. How could you not tell me that?"

"The same way you failed to mention that you're banging my boss." House jutted his chin forward mockingly, wincing his eyes in a sarcastic mimicry of deep thought. Though Wilson didn't seem stunned at House's knowledge - he probably had Cameron to thank for that - he did seem all at once lost in their argument. Seeing the slight opportunity, House pounced. "Did you think I wasn't going to find out? Or were you going to screw her, marry her, divorce her, and then tell me all about it?" He paused, searching deep for more ammunition. Finding it, he rose from his chair and walked toward Wilson - notably, without his cane.

"What must you have on her? Or am I getting it wrong and it's the other way around? Have you been a very naughty doctor? Maybe you've become morally awakened and sworn yourself off admitted whores. Or maybe you're just running a little low on cash and needed a place to get it for free."

"House," Wilson's voice was uncharacteristically sharp and pleading at the same time. Bulls-eye.

"Because if it is that, I'll tell you, there are a hell of a lot of women in this hospital alone who require half the effort and are more compliant without all that incessant whining."

"House, shut the hell up!" Wilson boomed, lunging at him a little. They stood toe to toe for a moment, House calmly deflecting Wilson's penetrating gaze. Taking a step to the side, House maneuvered around him in pitying triumph. "You're going to lose her," Wilson intoned quietly, his head bowed now. He'd reverted back to his original reason for coming, back to his words of Truth that he was so fond of spurting haphazardly.

"Though I don't even know if you care. You must care something. You went all that way to get her. I've no idea why. This must seem like a game to you, all these years." He walked toward the door, glancing up at House's self-standing form with a look of simple happiness for his friend buried under his anger and their many current realities.

"If it is," he said softly, "it's ending, House. You know, change can come from inaction as well as action."

She took a deep, calming breath and peeked around the corner, through a slit in the blinds, into his glass domain. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes lightly closed, hands tapping unconsciously against the arm rests as he listened to his iPod. It was a strangely comforting sight to her in that moment.

The door was unusually propped open in an inviting fashion, and she moved to its threshold, leaning against the frame as she continued her observation of him. A minute ticked by, and then, in that languidly naturalistic way of his that always screamed so annoyingly of awareness, House opened his eyes which looked as though they'd been focused on her the entire time. Wordlessly, he switched off his music, removing the ear buds. The thought that he'd been waiting for her, for this, flitted in her mind for the briefest of moments.

"Why did you come for me?" Her voice sounded stronger than she thought it would as it carried across the sparse office into his conscious. He remained motionless - perhaps he thought her words would bounce off him. She slowly made her way to the chair at the side of his desk, gingerly placing herself in it as she'd done a million times before. Though his body remained unmoving, she noted the discomfort in his darting gaze the nearer she came.

"Why did you come back?" he countered, shifting finally in his chair, edging it away from her slightly. He was studying her now, a hint of confusion bending the corners of his eyes. She would bet anything that he had expected her to come in hysterical, or at least sniffling and desperate. How she relished being his unexpected. A corner of her lips quirked up.

"You asked me," she replied levelly, "And, hard as I try, I can't say no." His eyes were blazing away once again, betraying his pleasure at being entangled in a puzzle once again. Was it possible that, over the years, she'd won some kind of respect for herself by never quite conforming to the neat boxes he was forever putting her in?

"I knew," she began, wanting to give him something, "I knew that Richard and I weren't going to last. I knew that when you showed up, even if I hadn't admitted it to myself yet. But then, I don't know that I would have admitted it if you hadn't shown up. Richard loves me, in his way - he does. And it was so...refreshing - freeing - to just be wanted. To not be needed."

He had turned his head away from her somewhat and seemed to be gazing off into another world, but at this he snorted a little and eyed her sideways. She quirked an eyebrow, as interested in his curiosity as he was indeed curious.

"I know, I know. I'm supposed to need damaged people to fix in order to feed my own damaged persona and all that," she said tiredly. "I know that's what you think, what you've always thought. But I had that need in my life once. David needed me. And it was exhausting, somehow almost binding. I don't want that. And maybe you were a little right all those years ago, maybe I used to be a little attracted to the damaged. But if I was, it was only to find a solution to my own query."

"Richard loves me, yes, but more than that, he wants me. He doesn't need me. He has his work, his precious, prosperous work; he has his big-shot friends. I always knew I could leave him at any time and he would be okay."

"Oh, please," House muttered, rolling his eyes as he finally broke his silence.

"What?" she protested. "You don't think so? I've done it. I've left him. And he hasn't even called."

"All that crap you just said? You can't have that without need. He can't want you - can't know what it's like to have you - and then not need you." House's gaze turned down once again, avoiding her own self-consciously. "Fifty bucks says the minute he figures that out, he's on a plane, at your door-"

"-coming to get me?" she finished softly. His narrowed eyes darted up toward her own as he clenched his jaw. Abruptly she rose and paced slowly in front of his desk. She wasn't nervous about what she was going to say, but she did need a little distance between them in order to say it.

Since she had walked into the room, she'd felt the pull from last night, though it seemed a little far off and in the background. She'd gotten good at repression over the years, she realized with a dull sting. Still, seeing his hands and his lips, knowing that just beneath the collar of his shirt lay a mark of her making - it was coming at her in waves now, sweeping her toward an edge over which lie some form of the hysteria that House had been expecting. But there she would not go.

"I'm going to leave, House." His face was filled not with the disappointment of losing her, but instead with the disappointment of her tediously fulfilling his predictions. "I'm going to leave and this time I'm not going to come back. Even if you come. Even when you come." The smirk was wiped off his face almost, it seemed, before it appeared. He didn't believe her. "I won't come back because this time it's going to be your choice if I leave."

He looked up at her warily now, and she wondered if he was really so tired of them, of all this, as he always made himself out to be. He could have stopped it - truly stopped it - years ago. But he had instead hung on, at times almost imperceptively. Perhaps in his twisted, logical world it was the equivalent of hope.

"Either ask me to stay or tell me to leave House. At this point I can still take either, but I won't dance between them anymore. This has to end, one way or another, and it has to be done by you so that I'll have the power to not look back." Satisfied that she'd accomplished her small goal, she walked back to where he sat still, on the opposite side of the desk.

Tentatively, unsure of so much but hopeful of this one thing, she reached out her hand to the side of his face. He pursed his lips, just short of wincing at her touch, but he didn't stop her. Gently she bent forward, her hair brushing his shoulder, and she pressed her lips against his head. "I leave in two days," she muttered. "If I don't hear from you by then, it means you want me to leave."

The pull of the previous night was now dizzying her a little, and she fought against the tide in order to draw her hand away from his face. She walked a straight path to the door, counting the steps until her release, when his voice called her back.

"Cameron." It was reluctant, forced. He was going to hate this, she knew, but at the same time she felt that it was the only way. "Don't go," he said grudgingly. He looked as though he were pulling his appendix out through his throat, saying the words was that difficult and distasteful. She tried to give him a bittersweet smile, but fell just short.

"Not good enough," she breathed softly, the words of the past grounding them more fully in their seemingly endless cycle. "You've never wanted me to go," she shrugged. "But then, you've never wanted me to stay either." She shook her head a little, before turning and escaping quickly into the cool emptiness of the hallway.

Endings were difficult; beginnings more so.