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Serendipity
by Treacle-A
Main Entry: serendipity
Pronunciation: -'di-p&-tE
Function: noun
:the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for
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House loathed weddings.
It wasn't the hope or the outpouring of sentimentality and sugar-frosted joy. It wasn't even the tiny bags of pastel-coloured almonds that seemed to serve no other purpose than to damage precious tooth enamel. No. It was the kissing. More specifically, it was the kissing by elderly aunts, and cousins, and second cousins. On any other type of occasion, he had no trouble extricating himself from their embraces, or just plain avoiding them completely, but weddings were another deal altogether. Maybe his balance was being thrown out by the mighty wave of estrogen.
"Oh my goodness, is it...Gregory House!?!"
Oh jesus christ, this one had a kind of wispy little beard. Forcing his lips into a smile, House let the brittle, twig-like hand imprison his own.
"Mrs. Harper. Long time no see."
"A quarter of a century at least. The last time I saw you, you had hair down to your shoulders."
Letting his eyes drift around the room, House nodded ruefully, "Yeah. Peter Frampton has a lot to answer for."
"Was he the young man who played bass guitar?"
"Thaaaaaat's right..."
He had to be more vigilant. Detaching himself from the old woman's surprisingly powerful grasp, House slid away sideways, affecting a warm, apologetic smile to smooth the transition.
"I'll tell Owen you're here!"
"You do that."
"And see if you can find Nancy...she'll be heartbroken if she misses you."
He couldn't remember exactly why he'd come. It had been almost seventeen years since he'd last seen Owen McCarthy - "Carthage". A decade more since they'd actually had anything to say to each other. Like so many of his college friendships, their association had been largely based on their similar taste in music, recreational drugs and a strong desire to bang his little sister. Once those veins had been tapped, there really hadn't been anything left to keep them together. Hence his complete and utter amazement when Owen had sent him an invite to his wedding.
Fingering the end of his tie, House let his eyes shift around the room. A bus boy passed by and, without stopping him, he lifted a glass from his tray and downed the contents in one. And grimaced ruefully. Crystale. Carthage always had cultivated more style than he could reasonably afford.
"G-man!!!!"
Surprisingly, the meaty hand that descended on his shoulder was no less powerful for the two decades of substance abuse. Turning into his grip, House toyed with the idea of throwing him a sucker punch to the bread basket just for old times sake, but instead settled on yet another ingratiating smile.
"Hey Carthage."
"Oh Jesus," another shoulder clamp, "You know no-one's called me that in years dude!! Jesus!! How long has it been?!!"
"About the same amount of time since anyone called me 'dude'."
"'88? Was it '88 that Kessler bought it?"
"'89."
"You still got the Stingray?"
"Totaled it at Mardi Gras."
"Brutal."
It was amazing how quickly they could drop into their respective roles. Gripping the handle of his cane, House tapped the end against his heel. It had become a reflex of late, not something he was even conscious of any more, but he saw the other man's eyes dart to the movement.
"Yeah - heard about your leg." A frown, "Major fuckin' bummer dude."
"Yeah."
Someone somewhere was making an announcement and, straightening suddenly, like a dog alerted by a silent whistle, Carthage peered out into the crowd. From the other side of the room, a tiny blonde dressed in white beckoned him frantically and, waving back, his friend grimaced.
"Fuck, I hope that means it's chow time. I haven't been able to keep anything down since the engagement party."
The hand that gripped his own was moist with sweat.
"Uh...and uh...I should warn you dude, Chloe's put you next to one of her...single chick friends. I said not to, but you're the only guy we knew wouldn't be bringing a date..." his sudden agonised look of contrition was almost pitiable, "I mean...not that you couldn't...but I guessed you wouldn't...what with being...single and with your leg and everything...I mean living on your own..."
House almost felt like letting him go on digging - the hole he was making for himself was actually kind of awe-inspiring - but his new spouse was starting to look genuinely agitated and there were few things less attractive at a wedding reception that a pissy bride.
Carthage lumbered away, and then the tide carried him forward. Legions of harried-looking men and square-shouldered floral-printed women surged towards the dining area, and, snagging another two glasses of Crystale from a drifting tray, House moved to the edge of the crowd. Most of the seating plan read like some kind of sprawling incestuous family tree, but there, in amongst four generations of McCarthys, drifted one lone island of non-Irish descendants: his name and five others he didn't recognise.
Downing his second glass, House moved artfully among the decorated tables, using his cane to clear a path through the clusters of fat, tow-headed kids. Pretty much everyone was seated now, which made it that much easier to pinpoint his own seat. Moving towards it, he rolled his eyes when he saw that his 'significant other' was already in place: her sleek, dark hair perfectly coiffed, small slight shoulders hunched forward in lonely anticipation. Of course it wasn't the first time he'd been paired up in this kind of bloodless matchmaking exercise, in fact it was one of the reasons he always avoided things like this in the past, but knowledge of what was to come didn't make it any easier. Sliding into his seat sideways, House fixed his gaze firmly on the place setting, whilst simultaneously hailing one of the bus boys.
"Hey you. Get me a double scotch." A sharp movement at the edge of his vision increased his sense of urgency, "Actually make that three double scotches. No ice. I have a resistant frontal lobe."
"Uh huh. Now that would explain a lot."
There was an edge of amusement to her tone that he rarely heard these days, but the voice, her voice was unmistakable. Turning slowly in his seat, House fought to hide his surprise and disbelief, and failed utterly.
It didn't help of course that she was wearing that dress, and that her hair fell down in long, sleek, chocolate brown waves over her bare shoulders. Or that her soft, rose-coloured lips were ever so slightly moistened by red wine, and her cheeks glowing with that otherworldly incandescence that only incredibly beautiful women seemed to emit. It didn't help, because, no matter how often he prepared himself for the sight of her like this, Allison Cameron always rendered him momentarily speechless.
She laughed at him then. Her eyes wide, shaking her head.
"This is unbelievable," a shake, again, "I can't believe you did this!!"
Some feeling was coming back to his fingers. Luckily, so was his scotch. Letting the warm liquor slide over his tongue, he closed his eyes. Tried to figure out just what the hell was going on here.
"How did you do it?" Cameron's voice was a little louder now, more imperious. She shifted her body round to face him. "Did you pay someone?"
"Did I pay someone to what?"
The eye-roll suddenly made her seem much more familiar, "To get you in here!! This is a private party you know. You can't just wander in and sit down wherever you want."
The older couple on their left were starting to look a little alarmed and, raising one eyebrow, House gave them what he hoped was his most convincingly sociopathic stare.
"Did you even look at the seating plan?"
A deep frown creased her brow, "No...I...Chloe just told me to sit here. She said she'd put me next to an old stoner buddy of..." and then a dawning realisation, "Oh crap. You went to Michigan. With Owen."
"And you know the blushing bride...?"
The color rising in her cheeks was almost the same shade as her dress, "We went to high school together. Chloe was a bridesmaid at my..."
"Ah. Which answers my next question."
"Which was?"
"Why she has you down on the seating plan as A. Jacobson."
House wasn't sure if he has ever seen Cameron look more uncomfortable. Her eyes down-turned, she twisted the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, staring fixedly at it. When she spoke, her voice was a low mumble.
"I'm never going to hear the end of this am I?"
"That depends."
Her eyes flicked to him, cool ice blue, "On what?" her lips thinned, "I'm not doing your clinic hours next week, if that's what you're going to say."
A snort of laughter burst out of him and he saw her frown, confused.
"What then?"
House took a long deep swallow from his scotch and did his best to make it sound casual. Which was hard, because it felt anything but. It felt like something he'd promised himself he'd never do again.
"I was going to suggest that if you'd be willing to act as my official spinster-deterrent for the rest of the evening, that this...incident...will never be spoken of again."
The sea-change in her eyes was mesmerising to watch. Wary suspicion to disbelief shading to warm, glowing softness. She looked down at the floor. Then back at him.
"You want me to..."
"Just make them think I'm spoken for. That's all I ask."
"...You want me to be your date?"
House grimaced, covering, "It's not a date if no-one made it."
"It's dinner. It's talking. It's formal wear..." reaching out, she flipped the end of his necktie. "It's dancing..."
"No dancing."
She grinned, slow, wide smile, "OK, so no dancing. But they'll be music. Sounds a lot like a date to me."
"It isn't a date."
"What is it then?"
House pulled in his chair. Beside him, to his right, Cameron did the same. Shuffled in closer. Under the edge of the tablecloth the long, cream length of her thigh lay alongside his own leg, a gentle warm pressure that he could feel through the fabric. Sliding a hand down to rest on it, he met her eyes.
"Feels a lot like serendipity," he said.
FIN
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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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