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Small Steps
by OldHamster
Prologue
Here we go again, Wilson sighed under his breath as he saw who was at the door of the pub. He waved from the back corner booth to let her know where to find him.
The bar, almost deserted at this time of day, was called O'Brien's, but it had acquired the nickname O'Breakup's, because it was a popular place to do just that. Something about the room's natural acoustics, combined with the volume at which the jukebox was kept, made it easy to hear the conversation at one's own table and impossible to overhear anyone else's.
Wilson wondered if old man O'Brien knew about the reputation his place had developed and surmised that if he did, he probably didn't care. As long as the broken hearts came with full wallets.
And here he was again, about to break another heart that didn't deserve it. He had run out of ways to let them down easy. This time, he was going to be blunt.
There was no putting it off now. She was standing at the table, smiling shyly. He remembered his manners and stood to greet her.
"Hello, Allison."
Chapter 1: A Cool, Dark Place
Cameron's eyebrows rose at his use of her first name. "Forgive me for being presumptuous," he said as they sat down opposite each other. "It just feels wrong to me to call a beautiful woman I'm having a drink with by her last name."
"I can see why you have such a way with the ladies ... James."
The waitress came to take their drink orders. Wilson ordered a Bass ale, and Cameron ordered a pint of Guinness.
"I never figured you for a Guinness drinker," he said.
"When in an Irish pub, do as the Irish do," she replied, flashing that smile again. "Besides, I developed a taste for it when I roomed with an Irish girl in med school. We'd finish our marathon study sessions and realize we'd forgotten to eat, so we'd drink Guinness instead. A good chewy stout is almost a meal in itself."
"But I wouldn't recommend it as a meal replacement for anyone trying to lose weight." Wilson smiled back. "Not that you have to worry about that."
Their drinks came, and they toasted good Irish stout and English ale.
No more small talk; it was time.
"All right, Allison," Wilson said gently. "We both know why we're here. And I'm just going to come right out and give you the answer: Don't bother. It's not going to happen. And it's not you; it's him."
"Well, I suppose that's an excellent answer, Dr. Wilson." Her voice had the tiniest edge of sarcasm that reminded him of House. "If I had any idea what the question was."
Wilson fought the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. Was she dense, or just in denial?
"Look," he said, trying not to let his voice betray his exasperation, "I've played this scene so many times I can do it in my sleep. Sweet young woman, who has probably seen 'Beauty and the Beast' one too many times, is smitten with House and wants to know what she can say or do to heal his pain and help him become the wonderful, loving man she knows is locked inside. And because I'm his friend, she thinks I have the magic key.
"There's no key, Allison. There's no warm, fuzzy Prince Charming under that obnoxious exterior. There's just a man who's been so badly hurt, physically and psychically, that breaking through his defenses would be like trying to knock down the Great Wall of China while it's protected by the security system from the Tel Aviv airport. His pain isn't a boo-boo that you can kiss and make better. His defenses won't crumble under the love of a good woman. Especially since so much of the pain was inflicted by a woman in the first place."
He could feel his anger rising and looked away from her expressionless face to calm himself. Staring into his glass of ale, he said, "I'm sorry if I sound upset with you, Allison; I'm not. I'm upset with her."
He looked up expecting to see the usual disappointment in her eyes. Instinctively, he fumbled for a napkin to offer her for the inevitable tears. But what he saw startled him. She was smiling.
"Wilson -- James," she said, touching his hand lightly. "You know what House says about hoofbeats?"
"Of course. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."
"Well, you've had this conversation with a lot of horses, but today you've caught yourself a zebra.
"I do have feelings for House. I am ... smitten, I guess, to use your word. But I don't believe in Prince Charming. I know I can't fix House and I don't want to try."
She took her hand away to pick up her drink. "I didn't come here today to ask you how to break down House's walls and get to the gooey center that I know doesn't exist, or how to make him love me. I came to ask why."
"Why ... ?"
"Why you're his friend. Why you put up with him when he treats you the way he does. You said it yourself; he's obnoxious. I want to know why you care for him, and maybe that will help me understand why I do. He thinks it's because I'm attracted to 'damaged' men, because I married a man knowing he was dying. But I know that's not it.
"Can you tell me, James? What is the appeal of this unpleasant man ... for both of us?"
Wilson took a couple of sips of his ale to collect his thoughts. He hadn't expected this. With the other women, at this point in the conversation he'd be awkwardly patting their hands and spouting platitudes about other fish in the sea. Finally he had it.
"Sun poisoning. Heat stroke. Melanoma."
"All right. Now I'm really confused."
He smiled. "I don't blame you. It's like this: When I was in college I spent a summer in Key West. I was a lifeguard. Dream job for a college guy, right? Sun, surf, sand, getting paid to yell at little kids not to go out too far while having bikini babes look up at me adoringly. I loved it ... for about two weeks.
"I got tired of the heat, the glare of the sun, the sweat pouring off me. It was too much. I quit and found a job tending bar, in a dark place a lot like this one, air-conditioned within an inch of its life. It was just what I needed, not to mention the money was better; lifeguards don't get tips.
"After a while, I was able to enjoy the beach again. It made me happy to see the sun and feel the heat after being in the chill and the darkness.
"That's what being House's friend is like for me. Like living in a cool, dark but comfortable place that gives me a deeper appreciation of the light and the warmth when I experience it. Of course, House's warm moments are hardly a bright, hot summer day in Florida. More like a 60-degree March day in Princeton after a long winter. The smile he gets when he pulls a prank on me. The times he's let me crash on his couch after my latest relationship goes south. The times when I know I've hit a nerve, and his voice says 'Damn you, Wilson,' but his eyes say, 'Thank you for understanding.'
"I guess that's why my friendship with him has outlasted all my marriages. They were too sunny and oppressively warm. I guess I was made to live in the dark and appreciate the light more when I see it."
He took another sip of his drink, and when he set it down, he saw the tears trickling down Cameron's cheeks. But her smile told him they weren't unhappy tears; they were the tears of a heart that had been touched.
She took his hand again and squeezed it. "That's it," she said softly, choking back a sob. "That's it exactly! I love the darkness, the chill. It makes those bright, warm moments so much sweeter. I only wish I knew how to bring them out of him the way you do."
"Don't try, Allison," he said. "Just be yourself, let House be House, and when he realizes that you're not afraid of the dark, he'll show you the light. But don't try to make it happen; just let it come. Do you understand?"
She nodded and dried her tears. "Thank you. You've given me a lot to think about."
"Another drink?"
"Better not. I have clinic duty in three hours."
"Covering for House?"
"You have to ask?"
Together, they walked out into the welcoming sunshine of a 60-degree March afternoon.
Chapter 2: Sickbed Confessions
"You're still here?" Wilson asked from the doorway.
House turned around in his chair at the sleeping patient's bedside and placed a finger to his lips. "Turn it down, will you?" he whispered hoarsely. "She needs her rest."
"So do you," said his friend. "And in case you've forgotten, this hospital is staffed 24/7 with doctors, nurses, aides, technicians and orderlies. You don't need to keep watch. What are you worried about -- her dying alone? Flu is rarely fatal in healthy young adults."
House struggled to stand -- the bad leg needed to stretch after all that time sitting -- and limped to the doorway, where he could talk to Wilson without disturbing the patient.
"I'm afraid that she's going to wake up and do something stupid like check herself out," he said. "Cuddy just about had to tie her down before she agreed to be admitted."
This was an exaggeration, of course, but Cameron had definitely resisted admission. She blamed herself for getting sick -- she'd refused a flu shot because of an unpleasant reaction to the previous year's vaccine -- and didn't want to be fussed over. But her fever was so high, and she was so badly dehydrated, that Cuddy insisted on admitting her, and she was too weak to keep fighting.
Wilson shook his head. "House," he sighed, "when are you going to admit it?"
"Fine. I admit it: I am D.B. Cooper, I was the Lindbergh baby, I killed Nicole Simpson, and I know where they buried Jimmy Hoffa."
"Cut the crap, House. You know what I'm talking about. It's as plain as the nose on your face. Hell, it's as plain as the nose on Barbra Streisand's face. Admit that you have feelings for Cameron."
House glanced at the pale figure in the bed, then at his shoes, before meeting Wilson's eyes again.
"What do you want me to say? That I love her more than all the stars in the sky and want to sweep her up on my white horse and ride away to happily-ever-after? I don't DO happily-ever-after.
"Yes, I have feelings for Cameron. Very complicated feelings. Very scary feelings. And she's better off never knowing that."
"Why?"
"Because I can never give her what she needs, what she deserves, damn it. I can't be the guy who remembers her birthday, brings her flowers for Valentine's Day, grows old with her in a cozy home with a white picket fence and two adorable children named Benjamin and Madison. And that's what I want for her -- a life I can never give her."
"Has anyone ever told you that sackcloth and ashes don't go with jeans and rock 'n' roll T-shirts?"
"Have I mentioned that I had a chance with her, and I blew it?"
"Something tells me she'd give you another."
House rolled his eyes. "Go home, Wilson. Don't you have alimony checks to write?"
"All right, I can see this is going nowhere. Good night, House. And get some sleep. Doctor's orders."
House stood in the doorway and watched his friend stride down the hall.
"Gregory."
He turned at the sound of his name. "Beg your pardon?"
"My favorite name for a boy, since I was in middle school -- it's Gregory. I can't stand the name Benjamin."
"And Madison?"
"That's not a girl's name; it's the capital of Wisconsin. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned names like Margaret and Elizabeth?"
House felt her forehead. The fever was down. "You're doing better. How long have you been awake and eavesdropping?"
"Didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just waking up when I heard you talking about flowers and children and picket fences. Did you know I hate picket fences? My parents had one, and guess who was stuck painting it every spring." She coughed. "Here, help me sit up."
House found the bed control and pressed the button to raise her to a sitting position. He was still holding it when she placed her hand over his.
"House, I don't know about the future. I don't know if I'll ever want that cozy home and two beautiful children and a husband out of a romance novel. What I do know is what I want today: the cranky, middle-aged doctor who has somehow wormed his way into my heart."
" 'Wormed'? So I'm a parasite? You really know how to hurt a guy." He tried to fake indignation, but his eyes gave him away.
"Sorry, my thesaurus is in the shop ... with my crystal ball.
"I care about you, House. And contrary to what you may think, I don't want to fix you. I care about you just the way you are -- the sarcasm, the bitterness, the atrocious people skills, everything. Down the road I may get my heart broken for that. But who's to say the mythical Prince Charming you think I belong with wouldn't eventually break it?
"I'm willing to take that risk. Are you?"
He looked down at the small hand that was still covering his. "May I get back to you on that?"
"OK. Here's an easier question: Will you go down to the cafeteria and bring me back a Reuben? I'm starving."
"You're sick. You should have some broth and Jell-O."
The "don't even think about it" look in her eyes reminded him of Cuddy.
"Two Reubens, coming up. Because a pretty lady shouldn't dine alone. Promise not to check yourself out while I'm gone?"
"Promise."
Cameron watched him leave and settled back into the pillows.
Chapter 3: Great Expectations
House returned with their sandwiches, a coffee for himself and a green tea for Cameron. They ate ravenously, with House complaining about the coffee between bites.
"You'd better make a full recovery by Monday," he said. "The only decent coffee in this place is the stuff you make."
"Would you like some cheese to go with that whine?" she snarked. "I could teach you to work the coffeemaker, you know. Oh, wait -- the great Doctor House making his own coffee? What was I thinking?"
They chatted about the weather, about their most recents case, about Charles Dickens -- House had noticed a copy of "Great Expectations" on her bedside table.
"I saw a Dickens display at the bookstore the other day," she explained. "It reminded me how much I enjoy his work -- and how many years it's been since I read any."
After a while, Cameron drifted off to sleep again, but not before exacting a promise from House to go home and rest. He assured her he would, but he kept putting it off: just one more minute, then another, then another. Something kept him there, watching her sleep as he mulled over their earlier conversation. He wondered what it would be like to lie beside her as she slept. To wake her with a soft kiss on her shoulder, or the back of her neck ...
He shook his head to derail that dangerous train of thought. Don't go there, Greg. You're all wrong for her. She'll just get hurt. And so will you.
Then came another thought, speaking in Cameron's voice. I may get my heart broken. But I'm willing to take that risk. Are you?
House chuckled. He felt like a character in a sitcom with a little devil on one shoulder and a little angel on the other, one leading him into temptation while the other urged him to do the right thing. He closed his eyes and saw the little devil with his own face and voice, and the angel with Cameron's.
She'll get hurt. And so will you.
I'm willing ... are you?
He opened his eyes, sighed deeply and gazed at the sleeping woman. Now there was only one thought: Am I willing? Am I willing?
Chapter 4: Good Night, Nurse
"Dr. House. Doctor House."
"Wha-?" His eyes shot open. Hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He looked up and saw a gray-haired nurse eyeing him sternly. "What time is it?" he whispered.
"Past 11," said the nurse. "You shouldn't be here, Doctor. She's not your patient, and visiting hours are over. Besides, she'll be fine. It's just the flu."
House fumbled for the only cover story his sleepy brain could come up with. "She says she has the flu," he said sarcastically. "But everybody ..."
"... lies." The nurse finished his sentence with him. "Nice try, Doctor. And by the way, if you're trying to take her pulse, you're doing it all wrong."
He realized he was holding Cameron's hand. He felt like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. He withdrew his own as gently as he could, so as not to wake her.
"All right, I'm out of here," he said, wincing and rubbing his right thigh as he stood. "And, Nurse -- ?"
"Greene. Miriam Greene."
He fixed his steeliest stare on the older woman. "Nurse Greene, If you breathe one word of this to anyone, I'll make sure you work every Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for the rest of your life. The director of nursing owes me one."
"I'm Jewish, Dr. House," said the nurse. "I've volunteered to work every Christmas for the past 30 years." Her expression softened. "But don't worry; your secret is safe with me. Just be glad it was me doing bed checks tonight. Those youngs nurses are terrible gossips."
Relief passed over the doctor's face. "Thank you. I'll be out of here in one minute."
"I'll be back to make sure you did. Good night, Dr. House."
"Good night, Nurse Greene."
He had one more thing to do before leaving Cameron's room. He found a slip of paper, scrawled a note and tucked it into her hand.
"Good night, Allison," he whispered and limped out of the room.
Chapter 5: Message From Dickens
The next day was Saturday. Cameron woke early and felt something strange in her hand. The note.
"I am going to spend the weekend thinking.
"You are going to spend it resting.
"Get better, and I'll see you Monday. GH"
She smiled, tucked the note into "Great Expectations" and pressed the call button.
Nurse Greene answered. "Good morning, Dr. Cameron. Sleep well?"
"Yes," said Cameron. "I'm feeling 100 percent better. Any chance I can get out of here anytime soon?"
The nurse took her temperature, checked her pulse and respiration. "You look good to go as far as I'm concerned. I'll call the attending."
An hour later, Cameron was dressed and signing her discharge papers. Nurse Greene, who was also getting ready to leave, handed her a sheet of aftercare instructions.
"You know the drill," she said. "Rest. Fluids. Tylenol if the fever comes back. I expect to see you back in here on Monday in a lab coat, not a johnny."
"Me, too," said Cameron. "Thanks."
Cameron went home, fixed herself a sandwich and stretched out on the couch with her plate and a pot of tea. She spent the rest of Saturday dozing, grazing, reading Dickens and trying not to think about Gregory House.
Sunday she felt her strength returning but forced herself to keep taking it easy. She didn't want to relapse and miss work on Monday. Someone would be waiting for her famous coffee.
She was up at dawn on Monday and feeling like her old self. Except for those butterflies. Shortly she would see House again, and she wondered what conclusion his weekend of thinking had led him to.
She opened the door of her apartment, ready to face whatever the day held. Something fell onto her foot, and she jumped back, startled.
She picked the object up. A book. It had been leaning against the door. A handsome leather-bound copy of "David Copperfield," with a bookmark -- a cutout of a narrow Victorian row house -- between the pages and a Post-It on the front.
"Follow the bookmark," the note read in the same familiar scrawl as the note she'd found in her hand Saturday morning.
She opened the book to the page where the bookmark lay.
A single sentence was highlighted in yellow:
"BARKIS IS WILLING."
Tears of relief welled in her eyes as a smile of pure joy lit up her face. She set the book down on the coffee table and headed out, hoping that the drive to work would help her regain control of her emotions.
She was in the diagnostics conference room, pouring coffee into House's favorite red mug, when from the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar figure leaning on a cane. Suppressing a grin, she walked over and presented him with the steaming mug.
"Dr. Barkis, I presume?"
Chapter 6: Small Steps
House took the mug and sipped the hot liquid. "About time," he said. "If I had to choke down one more cup of that cafeteria sludge, I'd be in the ER getting my stomach pumped."
He limped over to the conference table, set the mug down and turned to face Cameron.
"Glad you're feeling better," he said gruffly. "Dinner. Tonight. Pick you up at 7. Now, let's get to work. New case." He threw a file, Frisbee-fashion, at the table.
Cameron nodded and picked up the file. Chase and Foreman arrived, and House began scribbling the patient's symptoms on the whiteboard.
"Thirty-nine-year-old female. Grand mal seizures, headaches, rash on neck and chest, BP 170 over 90 ..."
That night, Cameron felt like a schoolgirl waiting for her prom date. She took forever choosing an outfit before deciding on a full black skirt and an off-white peasant blouse with a neckline that she hoped wasn't too revealing. For color, she added a red enameled necklace and matching earrings, and red ballerina flats.
House arrived five minutes early. He wore the same sport jacket he'd worn all day, but had swapped his jeans for khakis and his T-shirt for a blue button-down that set off his eyes. Calming his own nerves, he knocked on her door.
"Allison."
"Greg."
Damn, she was gorgeous. He wanted to fold her into his arms, crush her to him, kiss her until they were both gasping for breath. Not yet, he told himself. Soon, I hope. But not yet.
"You been raiding Cuddy's closet? I didn't think you owned any blouses that daring."
"There's a lot about me you don't know, Dr. House. Now, quit staring at my chest and let's go to dinner. I haven't had a chance to eat all day, thanks to my slave driver boss."
At the restaurant, he was silent except when ordering. Finally, Cameron could take it no longer.
"What are you thinking?"
"How beautiful you are. And how terrified I am."
"Me, too. That will pass. We just have to take this very, very slowly."
"Yes," he said. "And we need to lay down some ground rules.
"No matter what happens between us outside the hospital, inside I'm still your boss, you still work for me, and the cases come first. My name is Dr. House. Yours is Dr. Cameron. No 'Greg,' no 'Allison,' no making goo-goo eyes across the conference room."
Cameron giggled. "I don't do goo-goo eyes. Ever."
"I meant me." He waggled his eyebrows playfully. "And no making out in the janitor's closet. Or the sleep lab."
Cameron's face turned the color of her jewelry. "You know about the sleep lab?"
"Those young nurses are terrible gossips. Ah, the food's here."
They ate and made small talk. He brought her up to speed on "General Hospital," which she used to watch with her mother as a teenager but hadn't seen in years. She told him about her own guilty pleasures: the "Police Academy" movies and cheesy 1950s horror films. They confessed their cinema crushes -- his on Ingrid Bergman, hers on Harrison Ford.
"Isn't he too old for you?"
"I like older men, in case you hadn't noticed. Besides, isn't she too dead for you?"
What happened next almost made her choke on her wine.
House was laughing. A hearty, raucous laugh that she had never heard before, that made her join in out of sheer delight. She knew then that even if she got her heart broken by this man, it would be worth it for this moment -- to hear him laugh like that.
Later, they stood by her door, nervously wondering what should happen next.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked.
"You think I'm easy?"
"I was counting on it." He winked.
"Remember, we agreed to take it slowly. Small steps. Good night, Greg, and thank you for a lovely dinner."
She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. He slipped his around her waist, and their lips met in a chaste kiss.
Oh, who am I kidding? he thought. He clutched her tighter and kissed her harder, deeper. She didn't object. She gave it right back.
After what seemed like hours, they broke the kiss. Still holding her, he gasped, "Allison..."
"I know, Greg. Small steps." She backed gently out of the embrace, kissed the tips of her fingers and placed them on his lips. "See you in the morning, Dr. House."
House stood there for a long time after she'd gone inside.
"Small steps," he whispered to nobody in particular.
Then he picked up his cane, turned and walked down the hall, smiling.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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