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  Better Than That 
 by Treacle_A  

 "Hot hate is twin brother to hot love." Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

__________________________

On the worst days, his voice is like her father's. 

He never had too much to say for himself, but maybe that's why everything
he did say has always stayed with her so clearly. Why she still remembers
the exact phrasing, the expression on his face the day she told him she
was going into medicine.

 "You have any idea what kind of commitment a career in medicine takes?
What kind of dedication?"

A slow solemn shake of the head.

 "I'm just not sure you have what it takes Ally..."

For so long he had haunted her. During all her years in school, before
every final. Every time she aced a test it seemed as if his voice should
be fading, but it never did. Only after she'd gotten her license did
anything change, but by then it was too late. Allison Cameron graduated
third in her class, beat out fifty others for an internship at The Mayo
Clinic and the only support she ever received from her father was the
check his lawyer forwarded to her the week after he died.

She tries not to think about him anymore. Tries not to see his face, let
his words burrow under her skin like worms. But today. Today the staccato
tapping of House's cane has sychronised perfectly with the pounding pain
behind her right eye and, no matter how hard she tries, how much she wants
to, she cannot block him out.

He hisses at her: "Think goddammit! Use your brain! How much are we paying
you!!"

And something twists in her insides: bile and a tired, fierce sense of
injustice.

 "Not enough for this." 

His eyes burn into her, but she does not look away. Underneath the desk,
her fingernails press into her palms like blunt little knives, the tendons
in her wrists strained to snapping. House's movement has stilled, a snake
paused before striking, but her gaze does not waver.

 "Well then. Maybe it's time you thought about accepting that last offer
from Jefferson."

The air between them feels charged, hot and thick. If Foreman were here,
he would speak now. If Chase were here it would diffuse House's anger.

 "Maybe it is."

She's half way to the door when he catches her elbow.

 "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Every angle of his face is familiar to her, every twitch, every pit and
crease in his lined cheeks. His body is turned into her, his eyes narrow
with annoyance. She can feel the poison roiling inside her, burning the
back of her throat.

 "I'm going somewhere I don't have to listen to your bullshit." 

His lower lips thins, and the fingers on her upper arm tighten.

 "Any other day, this would be funny. But not today. Sit down."

He is beyond angry. Beyond exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes are the
colour of old leather, snapping the blue out, pulling her gaze back to
his. She swallows and feels the anger that was licking at the edges of her
fall away to ash, crumbling to the floor.

 "Look...I'm tired..." 

 "Sit down," he says again, but his hand slides. His thumb traces the
inside of her elbow.

His head drops on his neck. It's just an instant, but she sees it. A warm
breath leaves his body and she feels it on her throat. Through the open
collar of his rumpled blue cotton shirt and the hollow of his throat
pulses.

The file is still open on the desk and when she sits down in front of it,
it's like no time has passed. He steps back into position and they resume.
His question, her answer. His request, her aquiescence. When she stands
again everything that is between them has shifted: dark to light, poison
to wine. He clears his throat.

 "Jefferson's path lab is a joke," his eyes shift, to the coffee machine,
back again. "And Yule can't delegate for shit."

 "I'm not interested in Jefferson."

She opens the door and he says something, something she cannot hear, but
for the first time ever he repeats himself when she asks him too.

 "I said...you're better than that," he says.

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.