HamOnWry

Fic: Angel Dust (Epilogue)

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 20:00:42 GMT

Title: Angel Dust
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG for mention of sex
Pairing: House/Cameron, House/Wilson friendship
Spoilers: Season 4 finale
Warnings: None
To satisfy the suits in legal: The characters belong to David Shore, NBC/Universal et al. I receive no compensation and intend no infringement for playing dress-up and pretend with them.

Saturday

Cameron is giving her apartment a long-overdue cleaning when the phone rings. She reads the Caller ID and hopes this isn't trouble.

"Hello, House."

"Hey. Did I wake you?"

"It's 10:30 in the morning. If anyone should still be asleep at this hour, it's you. Are you OK?"

"Last time I checked."

"Did you and Wilson have a nice evening?"

"Just got rid of him. He wasn't fit to drive, so he slept on the couch, then he made me pancakes."

Cameron grins. Her heart is doing its best impression of Macaulay Culkin in "Home Alone": Yesssss! But she simply says, "I'm glad."

"So am I." She can hear him smiling through the phone. "Did you ... uh ... give him a push?"

"Maybe a little one," she says. "So what's up? You never call me just to chat."

"Wondering if you were up for a road trip. Monster truck jam at the Spectrum in Philly tomorrow afternoon. Wilson wants to know if he should get two tickets or three."

"Your idea or his ... inviting me?"

"Both."

"Tell him two. Maybe I'll join you next time. But for now I think you and Wilson need some one-on-one time."

"You sure?" He sounds disappointed.

"I'm sure, House. Repairing a damaged relationship takes priority over cultivating a new one."

"Whoa, slow down, Cameron. I'm not sure what you and I have qualifies as a relationship."

She chuckles. "Loaded word, isn't it? Sorry. Let's just call it a relationship with a small R. We get along. We had sex. And we will again, if you're interested. I'd like to think we're friends, at least."

"With benefits?"

"With benefits."

"What about Chase?"

"We're ... on a break. His idea. He asked for it after your little neurosyphilis scam, when I refused to tell him whether I'd slept with you. And I was thinking about making it a permanent break even before ... well, before this week. He deserves someone who can commit to him. I can't."

House snorts.

"You think that's funny?"

"No," he says. "I was just thinking about something he said. You have a friend he doesn't get along with? Someone you hang out with on Thursdays?"

"Oh, Claudia. She's a sweetheart, but she turns Chase off because she's very outspoken and brutally honest. Tact-impaired. Like ... someone else I know. But why is that funny?"

"Because Chase called her 'Cameron's insufferable friend.' And now you have two of us."

She chuckles again. "Insufferable works for me.

"You and Wilson have a good time at the truck jam, House. I'll see you Monday. You know where to find me."

"Honest Al's Idiot Repair Shop. Order me something interesting ... to go."

"I'll try. 'Bye, House."

Fic: Angel Dust, Chapter 4/4

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 02:00:49 GMT

Title: Angel Dust
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: House/Wilson friendship; House/Cameron friendship and ... .
Spoilers: Season 4 finale
Summary: House is sprung from the hospital but must take Cameron home as his caregiver. He's not pleased.
Disclaimer: I was going to be named David if I'd been a boy, but I'm not. I'm definitely not David Shore or anyone else making money from "House."

Wilson doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, but the latter is winning. He manages to keep the tears from falling, but his voice cracks as he whispers, "He-he said 'Jimmy'?"

Cameron nods and takes his hand.

"He only calls me that ... when he's in one of his 'Let's yank Wilson's chain' moods," he says. "This is just ... I don't know what to say."

"I think there's a lot of affection behind that chain yanking," Cameron says gently. "Wilson, I can't force you to give House another chance. But I hope you will. He misses you so much. Will you think about it?"

"I ... " Wilson is interrupted by the sound of Cameron's pager. She pulls it out of her bag and reads the message: "RSLTS IN MEET DX CONF RM."

"The tests are done," she says. "Will you come with me?"

Wilson shakes his head. "I'm not his doctor. But will you let me know the results?"

She squeezes his hand. "Of course." She rises and exits his office.

--

House is at the end of the conference table, waiting, when Cameron enters. Foreman and Cuddy arrive seconds later. They're wearing those grins again.

"Did I pass, teach?"

"With flying colors," Foreman says. "If you're not a cat, you're an android. Or the Bionic Man."

He hands over the results. House smiles as he reads them, Cameron looking over his shoulder. "Cool."

"You're good to go, House," says Foreman. "Free to resume all normal activities. But do everyone a favor, would you? Learn the meaning of the word 'moderation.' Ride your motorcycle like a normal person, not an extreme motocross racer. Enjoy your nightly scotch, but don't overdo it. When you're tempted to drown your sorrows, keep in mind that they're good swimmers."

"How about sex?" House asks.

Foreman smiles again. "Sorry, I don't swing that way. I said 'all normal activities.' And 'moderation.' That includes sex. Have fun, but leave out the whips and the chains and the farm animals."

House chuckles. "Cameron, call the escort service and cancel my order for Mistress Delilah and the sheep."

"Call them yourself," she retorts, suppressing a giggle. She's not as successful at suppressing her blush.

"This means I expect you at work on Monday," Cuddy says. "But I'm feeling generous, so I'm going to forgive your backlog of clinic hours ... as long as you make your quota from here on out."

"Now, see, I like this better," says House. "A dominatrix who pays me."

"Cute," says Cuddy. She stands and squeezes his shoulder. "Welcome back, House. And Cameron, thanks for taking such good care of him."

When she and Foreman are gone, Cameron says, "Let's celebrate. Who makes the best Reubens in town?"

--

She lets House drive her car. He tells her he'd rather be on the bike, but she can tell he's happy to be in the driver's seat of anything, even a Prius.

He drives to Fitzie's, a little Irish pub that the students and the Princeton-Plainsboro staff haven't discovered. He orders his usual dry Reuben sans pickle. She tells the waitress not to waste the dressing and pickle; she'll take them on hers.

She raises her pint of Guinness. He does the same. "To your health," she says. They clink their glasses and drink.

House stares at the table, his lips trying to form words. At last, he looks up -- and into her eyes.

"Cameron ... I'm not very good at this ... being nice thing. But I want you to know I appreciate everything you've done for me these past few days.

"I have to tell you, I was dreading this arrangement. I figured you'd kill me with kindness ... or just kill me, period, out of exasperation. But this ... was good for me. I liked having you around, and I-I'm going to miss you."

"I did get a little exasperated," she confesses, smiling shyly. "But I'm glad it worked out. More than that, I'm glad you're going to be OK."

House takes a deep breath. "Remember the first night you were there? Remember what you said?"

"I said a lot of things that night. Some of them I'd rather forget."

"I asked you to come to bed with me, and you did, but you said, 'No funny business until you're better ... if you still want to.' Well ... I am. And I do. Except for the 'funny business' part."

"I don't get it."

"I don't want funny business. I want serious business ... if you get my drift."

The pub's dim ambience is in serious danger of being destroyed by the smile that lights up her face.

"I'd like that," she says softly.

--

Staying with House has come with its share of surprises. And the last one is the sweetest of all.

House in bed is the polar opposite of the man he is out of bed. He's tender and considerate and focused on pleasing her. She's not sure what's turning her on more -- the skilled touch of his hands and lips and tongue or the kindness that underlies that touch.

The passion builds slowly, sweetly, before erupting in an explosion that's part physical release, part pure joy. She cries when it's over -- happy tears -- and he doesn't mock them as he holds her close.

She remembers a night out with Foreman and Chase, years earlier. They were joking around about House and his working girls, and teased her when she didn't find it funny. "Of course," Chase had said. "He doesn't have sex. He makes loooove."

How did they know? When he was paying for it, he probably did "have sex." But right now, she feels totally and unequivocally made love to.

And sleepy.

"I should go," she says, stifling a yawn.

"What's the rush?" he says gently. "You've been working hard all week. Go ahead and rest."

She doesn't argue. She drifts off to sleep with her head on his chest and his arms around her.

--
It's dinnertime. House putters around the apartment, wondering whether to heat up one of the dishes she made or call out, when the doorbell rings. "Don't want any!" he calls.

"House ... it's me."

He'd know that voice anywhere, although it seems like forever since he heard it. He opens the door.

Wilson is standing there with a sheepish smile and a 12-pack of Yuengling.

"I-I had this craving for Guido's pizza," he says. "My neighborhood is out of their delivery area, but yours isn't. I thought ... if it's OK with you ... I'll buy."

House swallows back the lump in his throat and tries to keep from grinning like an idiot.

"OK. But I get to pick the toppings."

They get Guido's special -- with the works. Between mouthfuls of sausage and pepperoni and mushrooms, House tries to say, "I'm sorry." Wilson silences him. "House, stop. I can't forgive you because there' s nothing to forgive.

"I lost Amber. I don't want to lose you, too."

That's enough ... for now.

--

They're down to two slices and four beers when Cameron stumbles into the room, bleary-eyed.

"House, why'd you let me sleep so lo-" Her eyes shoot open and a smile explodes on her face. "Wilson!"

"Cameron? I, uh, wasn't expecting to see you here. You ... House ... I ... oh, God. Pizza?"

"I'd love some," she says. "Let me get dressed." She's wearing nothing but one of House's T-shirts, and she tugs self-consciously at the hem. She needn't worry; it covers her almost to her knees. She scurries off to the bedroom, and a grin spreads across Wilson's face.

"Don't say it," House warns.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Wilson says, but his eyes are dancing, and he's torn between "You dog" and "Congratulations" and "It's about damn time."

Cameron returns, dressed, suitcase in hand. She polishes off the last of the pizza and washes it down with one of the remaining beers. She smiles demurely at the two men and announces, "I'm out of here, guys. You have some catching up to do."

Wilson jumps up and kisses her on the cheek. "Thank you," he whispers in her ear.

"Thank you," she whispers back.

"Good night, House. Call me if you need anything. I expect I'll see you Monday, haunting the ER in search of a case."

"Good night, Cameron."

Fic: Angel Dust, Chapter 3/4

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 01:40:42 GMT

This was going to be the end, but I decided the last chapter needs to be two chapters. I'll try to have the next one up by tomorrow, if real life doesn't interfere.

Title: Angel Dust
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating:PG
Pairing: House/Cameron friendship or a reasonable facsimile thereof (for now)
Spoilers: Season 4 finale
Summary: House is sprung from the hospital but must take Cameron home as his caregiver. He's not pleased.
Disclaimer: I was going to be named David if I'd been a boy, but I'm not. I'm definitely not David Shore or anyone else making money from "House."

One tear. One fucking tear, and her resolve to cut House out of her life is gone as quickly as it came.

She's on this ride for the long haul. All she can do is be prepared for the lows and remember the highs never last.

She can't fix him. Truth is, she never wanted to, despite what he thinks. All she can do is patch up the new breaks ... if he asks.

When she told Foreman and Chase about their date, Foreman had made a crack about "Beauty and the Beast." As if she could transform this unpleasant man into Prince Charming through the power of her love. Foreman needs to reread the story. Beauty didn't love the Beast for the prince he could become; she loved him just as he was. The prince was a nice bonus.

Cameron knows there's no prince inside House just waiting to be set free. He's a beast through and through. If caring for him can make him a slightly less miserable beast, at least once in a while, that's all she can ask for.

She smiles sadly at the man snoring softly beside her and wishes him sweet dreams before drifting off to her own.

Wednesday

She makes pancakes for breakfast, and he devours them, but with a look of sadness in his eyes. He doesn't ask for seconds. She realizes, too late, that he's probably remembering the pancakes Wilson used to make. She curses herself for being so insensitive, but she doesn't apologize.

Afterward, she places the grocery order, checks in with Foreman and Cuddy, and goes online to check her e-mail. There's one from Amazon that catches her eye, and she almost squeals with delight when she sees what it's for. She jumps to the Web site and orders it overnighted. Then she calls the supermarket back to make a quick addition to the grocery order.

Later, the food arrives, and after fixing House's lunch, when he's parked on the couch watching his soap, she goes to work making an assortment of casseroles and other easily frozen dishes for him to microwave after she's gone. For dinner that night, she makes lemon-pepper chicken and spinach salad and sticks out her tongue at him when he calls it "chick food."

After dinner, he wants a shower.

"No way," she says. "You're taking a bath. You fell last night on dry wood. What makes you think you can handle standing up in a slippery tub?"

"I want a shower," he says petulantly.

"If you insist on showering, I'm going to sit in the room with you."

"You just want to see me naked."

"No comment."

He tells her he already has a mommy. "Fine," she says. "Let her come and pull you out of there after you've cracked your skull ... again."

He surrenders and takes a bath. She's relieved, but a little disappointed. She was sort of hoping to see him naked.

She's sitting on the end of the couch, watching the opening credits of "Criminal Minds," when he enters, freshly scrubbed and wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt that looks older than she is.

"Don't get up," he says. He lies down beside her and rolls over on his side, facing the TV, with his head in her lap. She smiles. "This show OK?" she asks.

"Uh-huh. But we're switching over to 'Law & Order' when it's over."

----

When "Law & Order" ends, she helps him to bed, and he asks her to stay with him again. He doesn't try anything; he just wants to hold her. He falls asleep with her in his arms.

I feel like a security blanket, she thinks. Or a teddy bear.

She remembers a long-ago conversation with him, when he called her "a stuffed animal made by Grandma." The memory makes her giggle, and he awakens.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep, House."

He pays her back later, but not with laughter. She awakens in the night to hear him crying softly in his sleep.

She puts an arm around him, and weeps a little herself when he murmurs a name that's not hers.

Thursday

She spends the morning doing his laundry while he sits down at the piano for the first time since coming home.

She's pleasantly surprised to discover he actually owns an iron. She sets up the board in the living room and presses his shirts while she listens to him play, singing along when he segues from Scott Joplin to "The Lady Is a Tramp."

He looks up, surprised. "You know that song?

"I grew up with the biggest Sinatra fan in the Midwest. My mom. She adored him. Owned every record he ever made. Play another."

He plays "Strangers in the Night," and when she sings, he joins in on harmony.

It must run in her family, this thing for blue eyes.

---

"TV's all yours," he tells her after dinner. "I'm going to hide out in the bedroom with the laptop."

"Why? Need some fresh porn?"

"I just don't want to be in the same ZIP code with a TV that's showing 'Grey's Anatomy.' But since I'm stuck in the apartment, I'll settle for the next room."

"Where'd you get the idea I watch 'Grey's Anatomy'?"

"All women watch it. That's all I hear when I walk past the nurses' stations on Friday morning. Endless yakking about Meredith and George and Cristina and Izzie and McSleazy and McSkeevy."

She laughs. "That's McDreamy and McSteamy."

"Aha! You do watch it!"

"Twice. I've seen it twice. I don't need to watch a melodrama about doctors. I live in one."

"Whatever. I just don't want anything to do with it. It's girly stuff."

"Oh, and watching 'General Hospital' and 'Prescription: Passion' is sooo much more manly," she teases. "I was thinking we could watch something else."

"Like what?"

"Like this." She reaches into her briefcase for the DVD that she'd shoved in there after it had arrived that morning. House's face lights up like a little boy's when she hands it to him.

"Grave Digger's Greatest Hits! Where ... how?"

"It just came out. Got an e-mail about it yesterday from Amazon. They seem to think I'm a monster truck fan because I was searching for Grave Digger DVDs for you last Christmas. Everything I saw was old, and I figured you had them all. But I know you don't have this."

House is still grinning. Cameron's heart soars. Nothing feels as good to her as making him smile like that.

"What are we waiting for?" he says. "Make some popcorn and let's watch this thing."

"I've got something better." She goes to the kitchen and returns with two big bowls of ice cream.

He looks at it suspiciously. It's pink, but it's not strawberry. "What the hell flavor is this?" he asks.

"Taste it and find out."

He takes a spoonful, and his eyes light up again when the flavor hits him.

"Cameron ... this is perfect."

"Can't watch monster trucks without cotton candy," she says, settling in beside him. "Where's the remote?"

----

Friday

Cabin fever has hit House hard this morning. He can't bear the thought of another day, much less a weekend, in the apartment, even with the pleasant company that Cameron has turned out to be.

She offers to take him for a drive, but the only place he wants to be driven to is the hospital. He wants Foreman to examine him today, not next week.

"I'll ask," she says.

Foreman agrees to see him at 11.

Cuddy is with Foreman when House and Cameron arrive. She does a double take when she sees him.

"House, I can't believe how good you look. Well-rested, your color's good ... you even look like you've put on some weight."

"Her fault," House says gruffly, cocking his head in Cameron's direction.

"Let's see if you look as good on the inside as you do on the outside," Cuddy says. "But House, I'm warning you, if Foreman doesn't give you a clean bill of health today, you're going back home to finish recuperating. Got that?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"OK, House, let's do this," says Foreman. "Cameron, want to watch?"

"I-I'll catch up with you," she says. "If I'm not there by the time you're done with him, page me."

---

Wilson's door is open, but Cameron knocks on it softly to get his attention, which is currently focused on a patient chart. There's a pile of them on the desk.

He looks up. "Cameron!" he says, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come in. Sit down. It's good to see you. I hear you've been ... House-sitting?"

She nods. "I brought him in to get checked out. He's anxious to get back to work ... and kick me out of his apartment. He's a little stir-crazy."

She glances at the pile of charts. "That looks like your whole department's patient load. Did everyone quit on you?"

"No. I'm just trying to stay busy. Work keeps me sane. Keeps me from thinking about ... ."

"I understand," Cameron says. "Been there, done that. But please don't overdo it. You're not doing your patients any favors if you're so tired you screw up their treatment. Have you been sleeping?"

"Not well. Look, Cameron, you don't need to worry about me. Your job right now is to take care of House. And that's a full-time job, with mandatory overtime. Speaking of 'been there, done that.' "

Cameron bites her lip to keep from crying. It doesn't work. Tears are spilling down her cheeks.

"Oh, Allison." Wilson comes out from behind the desk and sits beside her. "I'm sorry I got snippy. I'm just tired."

"No, it wasn't that," she chokes. "It's ... it's House."

"Something he said that hurt you? Something he did?"

"No. Wilson ... he misses you."

Wilson shakes his head. "No, he doesn't. He hates me."

"What makes you think that?"

"I asked him to risk his life for Amber! I asked a man who's been my best friend for years to put his life on the line for someone I knew for months. If that were you, wouldn't you hate me?"

"No. And House doesn't either. He thinks you hate him, for being the reason Amber's ... gone."

"That's ridiculous. Amber didn't have to go pick him up, or drink with him, or get on the bus with him. If there's any blame to be placed, it belongs with her ... and the truck that hit the bus."

"Then, Wilson, please, tell him that."

"I-I can't, Allison."

"Why? What are you afraid of?"

"That this thing is damaged beyond repair," he says, staring at his hands. "That it'll hurt us both too much to look at each other."

"Wilson, there's something you need to know. But first I have to explain about our sleeping arrangements."

She does, then she tells him about the night she caught House crying in his sleep.

"I put my arm around him to comfort him. He didn't wake up. But ... Wilson, look at me."

He obeys.

"He called me Jimmy."

Fic: Angel Dust, Chapter 2/3

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 04:26:28 GMT

Title: Angel Dust
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating:PG
Pairing: House/Cameron friendship or a reasonable facsimile thereof (for now)
Spoilers: Season 4 finale
Summary: House is sprung from the hospital but must take Cameron home as his caregiver. He's not pleased.
Disclaimer: I was going to be named David if I'd been a boy, but I'm not. I'm definitely not David Shore or anyone else making money from "House."

Tuesday, 11 a.m.

Cameron hangs back and lets House make his way out of her passenger seat. She'll step in if he asks, but not before.

She's armed with a supply of Ativan in case of more seizures, morphine in case the pain doesn't respond to Vicodin and keeps him from resting, and a list of orders from Cuddy: No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity. Keep him quiet as much as possible. Monitor his vitals and check in with Foreman and me every day. Page us if anything changes. Foreman wants him back here in a week for an EKG and an MRI.

He moves slowly, laboriously toward the door of his building and hands her the key. She opens the door and lets him go ahead of her.

When he's situated on the couch, she drops to one knee in front of him.

"All right, House. I know you don't want me here. I'm not going to get in the way. I'll fix your meals, take your vitals, administer your meds and help you get around if you need it. But if you want that, you have to ask. Otherwise, just pretend I'm not here. Deal?"

He nods and swings his left leg up onto the couch. He has to manually lift his right leg up to join it, and again, she resists the urge to help. "Vicodin," he says weakly.

She fishes in his jacket for the vial and shakes out one pill. He holds up two fingers. Reluctantly, she retrieves another and hands him the pair, which he swallows dry, ignoring her disapproving look.

She places a throw pillow under his head. "Get some rest, House. I'll make you some lunch."

Four hours later, he awakens to the sound of his name and a tempting collection of scents: hazelnut coffee and cheddar and ... is that homemade bread?

It is. On the coffee table are a bowl of tomato soup, a cup of black coffee and a grilled sandwich of extra-sharp cheddar between two thick slices of bread -- too thick to be anything but freshly baked.

"Tomato soup and grilled cheese? What am I, 6?"

"Sometimes," Cameron says. "But the 6-year-old version of this meal would have American cheese on Wonder bread."

House sits up, takes a bite of the sandwich and forces himself to suppress the near-orgasmic sound that threatens to escape his lips.

"This is wonder bread," he says. "As in, I wonder what the hell possessed you to make it."

"That penicillin factory on your counter needed replacing ... and I was bored. I snuck out to that little store at the end of the block, and when I saw that they had yeast and flour, I went for it. The fact that baking it made the place smell a little less like a cigar bar didn't hurt."

House makes short work of his lunch. He'd eaten only the bare minimum of the hospital food since coming out of his coma. Princeton-Plainsboro might have some of the best doctors on the East Coast, but the patient food still sucks.

"More?" Cameron asks.

"Maybe just ... did you pick up any peanut butter while you were out?"

She nods.

"I'm curious to see how it would go with your bread."

"Coming right up."

--

Tuesday, 9 p.m.

She makes good on her promise to stay out of his way. She cleans up the kitchen, inventories the fridge, freezer and cupboards, and starts a shopping list. She'll call in an order tomorrow from one of the supermarkets that delivers. House stays on the couch with a bowl of microwave popcorn in his lap, a bottle of water nearby, and catches up on his TiVo'ed soap episodes.

When he's caught up on the misadventures of Dr. Brock Sterling, he switches over to the Lifetime Movie Network, but he doesn't stay long. Watching "Seduced and Betrayed: The (Insert Victimized Woman's Name Here) Story" isn't the same without Wilson to listen to his snide patter. And Cameron probably likes this stuff.

After a while, the water and the two cups of decaf hazelnut he had with lunch are demanding to be recycled. And his body is demanding sleep.

His cane is lying next to the couch, where he'd dropped it. He eases himself into a sitting position, picks it up and makes his way to the bathroom.

Thud.

"FUCK!"

Cameron is scribbling more items on the shopping list when she hears the sound, followed by the curse. She grasps the edges of the counter, willing herself not to go to him until she hears her name.

Another thud. Another curse -- quieter this time.

She forgets her resolve to wait for him to ask for help. She darts out and finds House flat on his butt in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom.

"House! What happened?"

"I fell; what does it look like? Fucking leg gave out from under me."

She bends over, holds out her arms. "Here, let me help you up."

"No! I'm fine. Go away."

"You are not 'fine.' You have a skull fracture, you're recovering from a brain bleed and a heart attack, and you've barely eaten enough in the past few days to keep a hummingbird alive. You let me help you up, or you're going to spend the night there -- and you'll have an aching back to add to your aching head and leg."

"You're half my size. You can't lift me."

"Watch me." She places the cane in his left hand and her elbows under his arms, and hoists him upright. She learned a few things about lifting incapacitated patients in high school, when she worked as a nurse's aide. When he's vertical, she puts his right arm across her shoulders and helps him into the bedroom. He groans -- part agony, part relief -- as she swings his legs onto the bed and removes his sneakers.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" he says with a sneer. "Fussing over me like a goddamned invalid -- it's your wildest dream come true. I can just see you jumping up and down in front of Cuddy, waving your hand in the air like the know-it-all in fourth grade. 'Ooh, pick me! Pick me!' "

He studies her face, expecting shock, hurt or indignation. All he sees is an icy glare.

"If you weren't a 'goddamned invalid,' as you put it, I'd slap you for that," she says. "For the record, I didn't volunteer for this duty. Cuddy insisted.

"I'll be out of here in the morning. If Cuddy's so insistent you need baby-sitting, she can do it herself."

She grabs a vial of Vicodin from the nightstand and flings it at him. "Good night, House."

--

She thinks about leaving right then, but if something happens to House in the night, it'll be on her hands. And she's too blinded by rage to trust herself behind the wheel.

Damn you, House.

She drops down onto the couch, trembling with anger and a cocktail of other emotions she can't identify. She knows this: He still thinks she only cares about him because he's 'damaged,' and he's wrong.

From the minute she walked into his office all those years ago, she knew that she was in for the ride of her life. She looked into those blue eyes that were fixed on her like an owl fixed on a tiny rodent with the invisible label "DINNER," and knew instantly that her life was about to become entwined -- for better or worse -- with this force of nature that called itself Gregory House.

The fact that he was crippled hadn't even registered on her. He was sitting behind his desk, exuding arrogance, no cane in sight. And he had the nerve to insist it was all about the fucking damage?

She'd spent the next four years loving him, hating him, trying to feel nothing for him ... and failing. She'd given herself to Chase, all but the one part she couldn't give, because an irascible old cripple almost twice her age was sitting on it and refusing to move.

Enough.

She's getting off this roller coaster. The sooner, the better. She'll call in the Jaws of Life to pull her heart out from under him.

She punches the throw pillow at her side, silently screaming Go to hell, House! until she collapses in a flood of angry tears.

--

Curled up in a corner of the couch, sobbing into the pillow that his head had rested on hours earlier -- that still smelled like him -- she's unaware of the slow, quiet thump of the cane that accompanies his silent, barefooted approach ... until she feels his weight beside her and his hand on her back.

"Cameron," he says in a low, husky voice, just a few decibels above a whisper.

"Go away!" she cries into the pillow.

"Cameron ... Allison ... Ally ... please don't. You're tearing me apart here."

She turns around and looks at him through her tears. "Just returning the favor."

He takes his hand away, drops it to his side and stares at the floor. "I'm sorry I snapped. I'm tired, I'm in pain, I-I miss Wilson. I wasn't thinking."

She wants to say It's OK. But it isn't.

He steals a look at her. "Go ahead, say it. You know you want to."

"What?"

" 'That's the trouble with you, House. You don't think. If you thought of something besides yourself, then maybe your best friend's girl would still be alive. And you'd still have a best friend.' "

"I wasn't thinking that," she says.

"Either you're lying, or you're the only one within a 50-mile radius who isn't thinking that." He looks at her again. "You're not lying."

"Because it's not true. You did it just now -- thought of something besides yourself. You came out here to check on me."

"I came out here to try and shut you up, so I could sleep."

She gives him a look he's seen before -- on her, on Cuddy, on Wilson, on Foreman. It says, I'm not buying that for a minute, but I don't feel like dying on this hill.

"House ... I'm sorry I'm not Wilson. If there was something I could do to make things right between you two, I would. But there isn't.

"You were wrong about me ... on our date. You said I live under the delusion that I can fix everything that isn't perfect. I know I can't. But I wish I could."

House manages a rueful half-smile. "Angel dust isn't a cure-all."

Cameron's eyes widen. "Angel dust? Oh, God, House, please don't tell me you've been doing P.C.-"

"No. It's ... an inside joke. Ask Foreman."

He sinks back onto the couch, and a tear trickles out of one eye. "I miss him so much," he says brokenly.

Cameron hesitates. She wants to take him in her arms but fears he'll push her away.

She takes the chance.

He doesn't push her away. He clings to her like a drowning man. They sit there, holding each other, for a few long minutes that feel like hours.

"Come to bed with me," he says at last.

"No, House."

"Allison, I need ... "

"You need to rest. Cuddy's orders. No strenuous activity."

"Doesn't have to be strenuous."

"It does if you're doing it right," she says with a mischievous little smile.

"I just want you there. I'll behave myself."

"OK," she says. "But no funny business until you're better ... if you still want to."

Fic: Angel Dust, Chapter 1/3

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:38:59 GMT

I've read lots of fics in which Cuddy is House's caregiver after the events of the Season 4 finale. Which got me to thinking: What if that duty fell to Cameron?

Title: Angel Dust
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Cameron friendship or a reasonable facsimile thereof (for now)
Spoilers: Season 4 finale
Summary: House is sprung from the hospital but must take Cameron home as his caregiver. He's not pleased.
Disclaimer: I was going to be named David if I'd been a boy, but I'm not. I'm definitely not David Shore or anyone else making money from "House."

Foreman's wearing a smile that could illuminate an OR during a power outage as he walks into House's room. Cuddy's right behind him, a smile of her own on her lips but a touch of worry in her eyes.

"The Cheshire Cat called," House says. "He wants his grin back."

"He called me, too," Foreman retorts. "He wants his lives back. You died and came back three times, so he's down to six."

"I didn't steal no stinkin' cat lives," House quips. "I got them fair and square playing video games. You lose a life, you get another.

"So what's up with the shit-eating grins, anyway? You have good news?"

"Very good news," Foreman says. "You're on your way to a full recovery. No permanent damage to the heart muscle, no brain damage -- well, except what you had before all this. You're almost good as new."

"I'll settle for 'good as old.' So, Madam Warden, does that mean you're letting me out of prison?"

"On one condition," Cuddy says. "You need someone to stay with you for the first week or so -- just to monitor your condition and make sure you rest."

"Oh, God, not Nurse Ratched's evil twin again."

"Dickerson threatened to quit if I assigned her to you again," Cuddy responds. "No nurses. You can manipulate them too easily. You need someone who knows you well enough to stay one step ahead of your games. I'm sending Cameron."

House winces. "Oh, please, no. I'd rather have Ratched's evil twin. What about Chase?"

"Can't spare him. I've got two surgeons out on maternity leave and another on short-term disability."

"Taub?"

"None of your new fellows have known you long enough. You go home with Cameron, or you stay here -- it's non-negotiable."

"You realize you're sending me home to hell. A week with Dr. Do-Gooder, hovering over me like some kind of demented fairy godmother, scattering her angel dust all over the place."

Foreman's grin is back. "I think you mean 'pixie dust,' House," he says, chuckling at the image of Cameron tossing handfuls of phencyclidine around House's living room.

"Whatever." He turns to Cuddy. "If I come back here babbling incoherently about puppies and rainbows, it's your fault."

"She worked with you for three years. You can put up with her for a week. And I'll tell her to leave the puppies and rainbows at home. Do we have a deal?"

House sighs. "Do I have a choice?"

If he did, he'd choose Wilson. But that isn't happening. "Get me the paperwork," he says resignedly.

Ficlet: Rockabye

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 18:04:15 GMT

Yes, the Hamster wrote a House/Wilson fic! Don't throw me off the House/Cameron ship for this, kids. I originally conceived this as a chapter of my H/C fic "Time It Was," but thought it worked better with this pairing. Much as I love my Ham, I do think the guys are cute together.

Title: Rockabye
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG for implied sex
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summary: Just a little postcoital exchange between the boys
Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't make any money off them, nor do I own the song quoted herein; it's James Taylor's baby.

"Damn it, Wilson, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, House. It's called insomnia -- something you have a little firsthand experience with, as I recall."

"Not since we got together, I haven't. You're supposed to roll over and go to sleep after sex. It's right there in the Guy Handbook we were all issued at birth. And it's in the Chick Handbook under 'annoying guy behaviors,' right after hogging the remote and leaving the seat up."

"I've got the revised edition with the chapter on guy oncologists. Says it's normal to toss and turn the night before breaking the news to the parents of a 5-year-old boy that there's no hope. I think you'll be keeping your 10 bucks this time." Wilson's voice breaks and he turns away from House.

House rolls over and slips an arm around Wilson's waist. "I'm sorry," he says gently.

Wilson sighs. "Comes with the territory. Sometimes I wish I'd chosen a specialty with a lower mortality rate, like dermatology."

"Melanoma kills."

"Not 5-year-olds. Obstetrics might have been fun."

"Not when the malpractice premiums come due. Have you seen what those guys pay? The kid's half a grade level behind in math, and some shyster is pushing the parents to claim that it suffered a brain injury at birth."

Wilson relaxes against House. "I remember you telling Vegetative State Guy how you decided you wanted to be a doctor. You were 14. What did you want to be before that?"

"You won't laugh?"

"Of course not."

It's dark, and Wilson's back is to House, but somehow he knows the man is blushing.

"A hippie."

Wilson snorts.

"Hey, you promised you wouldn't laugh," House says.

"I'm not laughing. OK, maybe just a little. A hippie? What kind of twisted Career Day did they have at your elementary school?"

"It wasn't a career choice, idiot. I just thought they had the right idea. 'Make love, not war,' and all that -- even if I didn't quite grasp what 'make love' meant."

"And I'm guessing this had something to do with your father?"

"He detested them. And I figured anything he hated that much had to be cool. But then Kent State happened when I was 11, and I decided being a hippie was too dangerous. By then I'd gotten pretty good on the piano, so I spent the next three years wanting to be a musician when I grew up."

Wilson grins. "Money for nothing and your chicks for free."

"I like this better. Money for doing almost nothing, and a dude for free. What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Not until high school. Let's see, when I was little I wanted to be a fireman. There were a few months, around the time of my Bar-Mitzvah, when I thought about becoming a rabbi. But most of my childhood I spent wanting to be a cowboy ... even though I never got the hang of horseback riding."

House chuckles.

"What's so funny?" Wilson demands.

"Nothing. I was just thinking how hot you'd look in chaps."

"Not half as hot as you'd look with long hair and love beads."

House smiles, pulls Wilson closer and begins to sing, softly:

There is a young cowboy who lives on the range

His horse and his cattle are his only companions

He works in the saddle and sleeps in the canyons

Waiting for summer, his pastures to change

And as the moon rises, he sits by his fire

Thinkin' 'bout women and glasses of beer

And closing his eyes as the dogies retire

He sings out a song which is soft but it's clear

As if maybe someone could hear:

Good night, moonlight ladies

Rockabye, sweet baby James

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose

Won't you let me go down in my dreams

And rockabye, sweet baby James.

By the time he gets to There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway, Wilson is snoring contentedly.

Time It Was, Chapter 7/?

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 04:19:33 GMT

A reworking of the Cuddy arc from the former Chapter 5.

Title: Time It Was, Chapter 7/?
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG
Summary: At the end of a long life, House and his loved ones remember, reflect, and reminisce. Set in 2038-39, with many flashbacks to the previous 30 years. Sequel to "When to Run."
Warnings: None for this chapter. Major character death at the end of the fic, but we're not there yet.
Betas: chezjake and strawberrytatoo, but this chapter is unbetaed.
Disclaimer: I am not Fox, NBC Universal, David Shore or Heel & Toe Productions. My name is not Harry, and I don't own any bad hats. In other words, I don't make any money or intend any copyright infringement by writing about "House" and its characters.

July 2039

"I like what you've done with the place."

The Dean of Medicine's office looks different now -- leather couches, chrome-and-glass accent tables, masculine earth tones and exotic prints on the wall that Cuddy guesses are African.

Foreman looks up from his spreadsheets, and his face lights up. He jumps up and takes his ex-boss's hand. "Dr. Cuddy! Good to see you! What brings you up this way?"

"Call me Lisa; I'm not your boss anymore. I'm on my way to Albany for Isaac's second birthday. I missed my Passover visit this year; had the flu. I thought I'd check out the old stomping grounds and look in on House. How is he doing?"

"Very well, considering," Foreman says. "You can ask the other Dr. House; she's still here. How about you? Enjoying retirement?"

Cuddy nods. "Can you believe I've learned to play mah-jongg? Guess I'm turning into the stereotypical Jewish grandma."

Foreman grins. "I can say this now because I don't work for you anymore: You look way to hot to be a grandma."

Cuddy grins back. "Coming from House, that would be sexual harassment. Coming from you, it's a compliment. Listen, I'm here for a couple of days; we should grab lunch."

"I'd like that."

"So, is Immunology still on the fourth floor?"

"Right where you left it."

"I'm off to find Allison. I'll call you."

--

Fifteen minutes later, she’s sitting across from Allison in the cafeteria, peppering her with questions. About House: “He’s doing well,” his wife says. “Full of life, looking forward to ringing in 2040, if not making it all the way to his 81st birthday next June. He’ll be thrilled to see you.”

About Foreman: “He’s a great boss. Tough, fair … a lot like his predecessor.” Allison smiles. “You know he left the diagnostics fellowship because he was afraid of turning into Greg; instead, he’s turned into you.

"But enough about us. I want to hear about Mandy and Keith and Isaac."

Cuddy takes out her wallet, which is packed with pictures of the little girl she'd adopted from China as an infant. Amanda Mei-Ling Cuddy is in her mid-20s now, married to a man who works for the state of New York and the mother of a little boy. Allison coos over the pictures of baby Isaac and shares the latest pictures of little Cameron.

"Did you ever think" she says, "that when I first came to work here, we'd be sitting here years later looking at pictures of each other's grandchildren?"

"I certainly didn't expect to ever be looking at pictures of House's grandchild," Cuddy says with a chuckle. "House was wrong, you know. You can get what you want ... even if you didn't know you wanted it at the time."

"What I want is for you to have dinner with us tonight," Allison tells her. "Wilson, too."

---

After dinner, the four of them sit in the Houses' living room, the conversation about old times, old friends and colleagues, still going strong. Allison tells Cuddy about the messages they've received from Taub and Chase and Hadley's father. House assures her that Kutner is holding his own as head of Diagnostics and hasn't set any patients on fire lately.

An hour later, House takes his leave, muttering something about the sick old man needing his beauty sleep. Wilson hugs Allison and offers to escort Cuddy to her car. Allison smiles to herself, wondering if Wilson's generous streak will kick in and result in Cuddy taking a detour.

--

March 2017

“So you’ll take it?” Cuddy asks.

“Of course,” Allison says. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’d take anything that would get me out of the ER, even without the pay increase. I’ve been wanting something with more regular hours ever since I came back from maternity leave.”

Tom Lavigne, head of Immunology, nods in agreement. “I feel your pain, Dr. House; ER schedules are murder on parents. I can’t promise you a textbook 9-to-5 schedule in my department, but it will be more predictable than what you’re dealing with now.

“You could start today, but your deputy’s badge is still in the shop,” he jokes. “How about Monday?”

“Works for me.”

Cuddy’s phone rings. “Excuse me, folks; I have to take this. It’s Ana, Amanda’s nanny,” she says apologetically. “Hello, Ana … Oh, I’m sorry to hear that … hope he’s better soon … Of course; bring her here, no problem … OK, ’bye.”

She hangs up the phone and curses under her breath. “What’s wrong?” Allison asks.

“Ana was on her way to pick up Mandy when she got a call from her son’s school. He’s got an ear infection. His pediatrician can fit them in this afternoon, but she wants to drop Mandy off here. I’m not sure what to do with her, though; I’ve got a budget meeting in half an hour.”

“No problem,” Allison says. “My shift is over; I can watch her while you’re in your meeting.”

Cuddy smiles with relief. “I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. Just don’t renege on that raise just because I said I could live without it.”

--

“Hi, Dr. Greg!” Amanda is in the cafeteria with Allison, digging into a bowl of chocolate ice cream, when she spots House. He comes over to their table and ruffles the little girl’s hair.

“Hi, ’Manda Panda,” he says genially. Cuddy had bristled the first time he’d called her that, thinking it was a slur on the child’s Chinese heritage. House had reassured her that wasn’t the case: “If you’d named her Elizabeth, I’d be calling her Betty Spaghetti, and she obviously isn’t Italian.”

“Dr. Allison bought me an ice cream,” says Amanda. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what? You finally took my advice to call in a bomb scare and get the school closed down?”

“Greg! Stop putting ideas in her head! They arrest kids for that these days. What we’re celebrating is my promotion. You’re looking at the new deputy chief of Immunology.”

House smiles and squeezes his wife’s hand. “About time.”

Amanda puts down her spoon and waves at her mother, who’s just entered and is looking around for them. “Over here, Mommy!”

“Oh, there you are,” says Cuddy. “Ice cream? Great, you’re going to be bouncing off the walls all night.”

“That’s what grandparents, godparents, and honorary aunts and uncles do,” says House. “Load the kids up with sugar and give them back.”

“I know. Just teasing,” says Cuddy.

“What happened to your meeting?” Allison asks.

“Canceled. Gupta’s sick.”

“I was just about to ask Mandy what she learned in school today,” Allison says.

“I learned that Zach Meyer is stupid,” says the girl.

“Oh? Why’s that?” says her mother.

“He wanted to play hospital with me and Emily, but he said we had to be nurses, because girls can’t be doctors. I told him that’s dumb, because my mommy’s a doctor.”

“Did you tell him your mommy’s not just a doctor, but boss of a whole hospital?” Allison asks.

“Uh-huh. I told him she’s Queen of Medicine.”

Amanda looks a little hurt when the adults start laughing. Cuddy catches herself. “We’re laughing with you, dear, not at you. It’s dean of medicine, not queen, remember?”

“I like queen better.”

“I think we’ve just found your costume for the next Halloween benefit,” says Allison.

“Well, if I’m the queen, I’m going to exercise my royal powers,” says Cuddy. She turns to House. “You. Clinic. Now. Or it’s off with your head. And your other leg.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He rises, squeezes Allison’s shoulder and exits.

Cuddy grins. “It’s good to be the queen.”

--

July 2039

House is up with the sun, answering an early wake-up call from his bladder. On a whim, he crutches into the living room and peeks through the blinds, smiling broadly at the sight of a rented Chrysler in the driveway.

“G’mornin’,” Allison mumbles as he climbs back into bed.

“Hi,” he says, still smiling. “Want a juicy bit of gossip for breakfast?”

“Cuddy stayed over at Wilson's.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m psychic. Now don't go jumping to conclusions; for all we know, she slept on the couch.”

“Maybe,” House says. “But it would be nice if Little Jimmy got to come out and play last night. Which is more than I can say for Little Greg.”

“Hello! Who went to sleep early?”

“I’m not asleep now,” he says, slipping his hand up under her pajama top and nuzzling the spot on her neck where he knows the touch of his lips drives her mad.

“Mmm, no, you’re not,” she purrs and grabs his buttocks, feeling him hard against her as she pulls him close. “And neither is he.”

Fic: Feeling No Pain

Thu, 22 May 2008 02:39:18 GMT

Title: Feeling No Pain
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship
Spoilers: Season 4 finale, "Wilson's Heart"
Summary: House realizes what he has to do to mend his relationship with Wilson ... and himself.
Disclaimer: If I had a monetary interest in this show, I wouldn't be sitting in a smoke-filled room in upstate New York posting fanfic. I'd be on a beach somewhere with Hugh.

He doesn't go out drinking anymore.

He hasn't severed his ties with his old pals, Dr. Jack Daniel's and Maker's Marcus Welby, M.D. He just does his drinking at home. That way, he's spared the indignity of riding in a smelly cab driven by a man whose first language is one he never mastered -- never even learned to count to 10, ask for the bathroom and curse in. Or taking the bus. Or calling a friend.

He knows Wilson would come if he called from Sharrie's or Sam's or Vince's or the Tiger's Lair, a dreadful little dive near campus where the hip-hop plays at ear-splitting volume and the bartenders never card the college kids. He suspects someone on the Princeton P.D. -- not Tritter, who, last he heard, failed his last psych eval and is now a security guard at the Burlington Mall -- is putting his kids through college courtesy of the Lair's owner.

Wilson would come, but he doesn't want him to. Doesn't want to see the pain in his eyes as he remembers the night he didn't come to fetch him, and Amber wound up dead.

It's easier to drink at home. If he wants company, he's got accounts with the best escort services in town. He tried the Internet, but the chat rooms these days are populated by 13-year-olds who have grown savvy enough not to believe some guy claiming to be a 49-year-old doctor. Even if they believed him, what does he have to say to a 13-year-old, except "Does your mother know you're talking to a horny creep pushing 50?"

He and Wilson have reached an uneasy truce. They pretend nothing's changed. But it has. Amber, who couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds soaking wet when she was alive, has become, in death, the two-ton elephant in the living room. She's dead because of him. And something else is dead because when push came to shove, Wilson chose her over him -- chose to let him risk his life on the off-chance it would save hers.

He goes to work, goes through the motions, manages to save some lives. Except the one that matters. He remembers the blond clinic patient who looked like a young Melanie Griffith and wore a St. Nicholas medal. Patron saint of children and prostitutes. She's been appearing in his dreams lately, handing him a St. Jude medal. Patron saint of lost causes.

Amber has been showing up in his dreams, too, on that bus bathed in white light. That bus where he feels no pain ... and not the "feeling no pain" induced by too many drinks and too many pills. Because, truth be told, the cliche is a lie. The very word "painkiller" is a lie. "Pain punisher" is more like it. The pain is like a screaming toddler whom Drs. Jack and Mark and Nurse Vicodin can occasionally force into timeout, where the screams turn to whines. But it never completely shuts up.

He could get back on the bus. Stay on it this time. No. There has to be an alternative.

Finally he has it.

He's not getting back on the bus to oblivion. He's getting off the Pain Train to Hell.

------

"I need some time off," he tells Cuddy. "Two months."

"Why?"

"Personal business I need to take care of."

"As your boss, the nature of that 'personal business' is none of mine," she says. "But as your friend, I'd like to know, House."

"I-I'm checking into rehab."

"For two months? Most inpatient rehab programs are 28 days."

"Yeah, well, I'm a tough case. In case you hadn't noticed. I found a program out of state. Six weeks inpatient, two in a halfway house. Lots of 'carrying the message' to other addicts. Very therapeutic."

"You did rehab before. It didn't work. What makes you think it will this time?"

"Because it's my decision. It's not coming from some judge, or some asshole cop with a grudge." He looks down at the floor. "I want this ... Lisa," he says softly.

Cuddy's eyes soften at his use of her first name. She flashes back to a sweaty May night in a dingy student apartment, half of its contents packed into liquor-store boxes in the hallway in anticipation of summer. She tries to remember the sound of his first name on her lips. It's not there. That's a memory for another day.

"All right, House," she says. "Do you trust Foreman to run the department while you're gone?"

He nods. "As long as there's a light-to-normal caseload. And Cameron's available to consult on those pesky autoimmune cases ... until they turn out not to be autoimmune."

"I'll go easy on the team," she says. "I'll only bring them the most difficult cases. In the meantime, they can work off some of your clinic hours."

-----

He tells his team the next morning. Foreman attempts a poker face that makes House wonder why he never played poker with him. It's a combination of pleasure at the idea of running the show and dread of screwing up.

He tells Wilson at lunch. He buys, and he refrains from stealing Wilson's chips.

"Why?" Wilson asks. "Why now?"

"Infirmus quod defessus."

"Huh? I know my Latin medical terminology, but that doesn't sound like a disease."

"It's the disease. Means 'sick and tired.' As in 'sick and tired of being sick and tired.' Little cliche I picked up in those annoying meetings during my first trip to rehab."

"And ... you mean it this time."

"I do."

Wilson tries to keep the skepticism -- and the hope -- out of his eyes.

"Well ... what can I say, except ... good luck?"

"How about, 'I'll miss you'?"

Wilson takes a little too long to answer, "That, too."

House understands.

------

Withdrawal is a bitch. The old friend he's depended on for so many years is gone, and the moment he realizes it's gone for good, he cries. He knows it's for the best. The old friend has turned traitor. But damn, he misses it.

The next weeks are spent learning to live without that old friend. Learning new coping mechanisms, new ways of getting through the day.

He doesn't really need two months. But he wants to go back to Princeton standing tall.

"Mr. House ..." the nurse says sternly.

"Doctor House," he corrects her. "I didn't spend all those years in medical school for you to call me 'Mister.' If you can't bring yourself to call me 'Doctor,' call me 'Greg.' "

"Dr. House, I'm not calling you a cab to the train station. You know I can't discharge you alone. You need to have a relative or friend pick you up."

"My friends and relatives don't know I'm here," he says. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Rules are rules, Dr. House."

"Fine," he says and begins to rifle through his mental Rolodex in search of someone who'll give him a lift back home and keep his or her mouth shut.

Cameron would come, but she'd be so excited she'd want to tell everyone. Chase would come, and he wouldn't blab to the whole hospital, but he'd tell Cameron, and she would.

Taub. Thirteen -- Hadley. They both have experience keeping secrets. But he hasn't known them long enough to trust them with this one.

"Gimme," he says, waving his hand at the nurses' station phone. The nurse hands it over, and he punches in the main number for Princeton-Plainsboro. At the prompt, he punches in his own extension. Foreman picks up. Yes.

"Diagnostic Medicine, Dr. Foreman speaking."

"House here. You kids got a case?"

"Not at the moment."

"Good. How do you feel about a road trip to Massachusetts?"

---------

Satisfied that Foreman won't breathe a word, he exits the car outside his building.

"House, aren't you forgetting something?"

"A tip? A goodbye kiss?"

Foreman rolls his eyes. "This," he says, proffering the blond wood cane that had been leaning against the edge of the passenger seat.

"Oh, that." He takes the cane and winks at Foreman. "Thanks. See you Monday. Try not to kill anyone before then."

------

Monday. Wilson is at his desk, nursing his second cup of putrid cafeteria coffee and studying a patient chart, when he hears a sound that's familiar, but somehow off.

House is approaching his desk. He realizes why the sound isn't right. The cane is hitting the floor with a lighter touch than he's used to. It's a subtle difference, but years of knowing House have tuned his ears to those differences.

He looks up. "House. You're back. How are you feeling? You look like you've lost a little weight, but your color is good."

"I did lose some," House says. "Want to come over and watch a movie tonight?"

"Seriously?"

"I'm supposed to watch these annoying inspirational videos. Part of my rehab," House says. He's holding a small brown paper bag. "I'm tired of watching them alone." He flings the bag onto Wilson's desk.

Wilson withdraws the DVD from the bag, expecting a copy of "The Secret" or something equally cloying. He cringes at the lurid images on the case ... and the title.

"House ... this is ... amputee porn."

"Like I said, inspirational."

Wilson stares at House for a long moment.

"Drop your pants," he says at last.

"Not until you buy me dinner," House says with mock indignation.

"Drop them."

He obliges. His khakis fall from his legs -- one of which is flesh and bone, the other man-made, and adorned with flame decals, like the cane he lost in the bus crash.

"Say hello to my little friend," he says, withdrawing an empty Vicodin vial from his shirt pocket and tossing it at Wilson.

"I won't be needing those anymore. But I will be needing you."

Fic: Bruises, 2/2

Wed, 21 May 2008 00:41:22 GMT

Title: Bruises
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG
Pairings: Friendship: Cameron/Wilson, House/Wilson, House/Cuddy, Cameron/Cuddy. Memories of Wilson/Amber
Spoilers: "Wilson's Heart"
Warning: Character death (aftermath)
Summary: Wilson takes comfort from Cameron and pays it forward.
Disclaimer: I'm not Fox, NBC/Universal, David Shore, the guy with the bad hats or anyone else who's making money from "House."

House is sitting up. So is Cuddy, who's grimacing and rubbing her neck. Having fallen asleep in more than one bedside chair himself, Wilson feels her pain.

"What's she doing here?" House demands with the closest he can muster to a scathing look at Cameron, who hangs back as Wilson steps into House's room. He cocks his head, motioning for her to come in, and she follows.

"She drove me. My eyes hurt, and my night vision is in the toilet." He's about to add, Would you rather I'd taken the bus? but decides to wait and see if the sarcasm center of House's brain is intact.

"But what was she doing with you?" A look of horror crosses House's face. "Please don't tell me you ..."

"... slept together?" Wilson finishes. "Well, if you define sleeping together as what you and Cuddy have been doing in here, then yes. She stopped by with food and a crying shoulder. We talked, then we crashed on opposite ends of the room."

House breathes a sigh of relief. "I just wasn't expecting you to show up with a Seeing-Eye Immunologist."

"I'll be going," Cameron tells him.

"We both will," says Cuddy, easing her sleep-stiff body out of the uncomfortable chair.

"Cameron, wait," says House. He raises an arm weakly and motions for her to come closer. She bends down so their faces are almost touching.

"Thanks for bringing him. And thanks for looking out for him," he whispers.

"You're welcome." She plants a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek. "Take care, House." She stands up straight and takes Cuddy's arm. "Let's go. I'll see if I can work those kinks out of your neck."

House smirks. "When I said I wanted to see Cuddy get kinky, this wasn't what I had in mind."

Cuddy shoots him the withering look that's her habitual response to his lewd comments, but just beneath it is pure relief. "See you in the morning, House."

"Page me when you're ready to go," Cameron tells Wilson.

When the women are gone, Wilson studies his friend. House looks as if he's aged 10 years in the past 48 hours. Has his hair gone grayer, or is it just the lighting?

The silence lasts only a few seconds, but to Wilson it feels like forever. It feels like a childhood game of Quaker Meeting. But he and House aren't Quakers, and they aren't children. He bites his lip and wonders what to say, where to begin.

He knows as soon as House opens his mouth. "Wilson, I-"

"Shut up, House," he interrupts. He crosses what's left of the distance between him and the bed and sits down on the side. "For once in your life, just shut. The hell. Up." His voice cracks as he gathers House into his arms. House stiffens, then returns the embrace, letting his arms go around Wilson's torso and burying his face in Wilson's neck.

A few more seconds that feel like an eternity, and Wilson feels House's body shaking with silent sobs, feels the shoulder of his T-shirt growing wet with his friend's tears and his cheeks growing damp with his own, which have decided to make a return appearance.

House's words are broken and barely audible, but he hears them. "I'm sorry."

"I know. I know. So am I."

"I was afraid I'd done it this time," House says. "Pushed this thing till it broke."

Wilson releases his grip on House and looks into his eyes. Exhaustion has dulled their piercing blueness.

"It'd take a team of Clydesdales to push that hard," he says.

"Idiot," House says with a snort. "Clydesdales don't push; they pull."

Wilson bursts out laughing through his tears and takes House in his arms again, wondering how the I word could sound so sweet.

-fin-

Fic: Bruises, 1/2

Tue, 20 May 2008 19:47:46 GMT

Here I go again, filling in the missing pieces of Cameron from the most recent episode. The only ships sailing in this fic are friendships. Hope you like it.

Title: Bruises
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG
Pairings: Friendships only: Cameron/Wilson, Wilson/House, House/Cuddy, Cameron/Cuddy
Spoilers: Season 4 finale
Warning: Character death (already occurred; see Spoilers)
Summary: Follow-up to "Wilson's Heart." Cameron offers comfort.

She doesn't know if he wants company. All she knows is that she has to do something.

She rings the bell and waits.

"Who is it?" His voice is raw, ragged.

"It's me, Cameron."

He opens the door, and her heart sinks at the look of him. The redness in his eyes is competing with the brown of his irises for dominance, and the lids are swollen to twice their normal size. She knows those eyes. She knows what it is to look out of those eyes.

She holds up the brown bag in her right hand. It smells of chicken and cheddar. "You need to eat," she says softly. "You probably don't feel like it, but you do.

"And I thought you might need a friend. But if you'd rather be alone, I'll just leave the bag and go."

"No," he says. "Come in."

She steps inside and looks around as she sets the bag on a small table. "Nice place," she says. "She had lovely taste."

"Yes, she did," he replies brokenly, and the first of a fresh torrent of tears trickles from his eyes.

"Oh, Wilson." She takes him in her arms and strokes his hair as he sobs on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"It-it hurts so much," he chokes.

"I know, honey, I know," she murmurs, hoping he doesn't find the term of endearment too forward. It just slipped out; it felt right.

"Feels like it'll never go away."

She pulls back so she can look at him. "It does. Not completely, but after a while it stops feeling like a fresh bone break and becomes more like the knee that aches when it's going to rain."

He smiles weakly. "Good. I don't want to forget her ... but I don't want to hurt like this forever."

"You won't. I promise."

He releases her and picks up the bag of food, carrying it to the couch and sitting down. "You were right about me needing to eat," he says. "Thank you. Will you join me?"

"I already ate."

"My mother taught me it's rude to eat in front of people who aren't." He surveys the bag's contents: a chicken panini and a bag of pretzels, which he opens and holds out to her. "Have a couple of these, at least?"

She smiles. "My father taught me it's unacceptable to eat pretzels without beer."

"Fridge. Bring me one, too."

She returns with two beers, and he polishes off the sandwich quickly. "God, I needed that. I didn't realize how hungry I was," he says after washing down the last bite with a swig of Yuengling.

"That ache in the chest tends to overpower everything else," Cameron says. She remembers that ache, remembers, after the funeral, being coaxed repeatedly to "eat something, dear" until she wanted to scream. She finally ate, to get them off her back, and almost couldn't stop.

Wilson nods and takes her hand. "I'm glad you're here, Allison. But why did you come? I thought you were going out to unwind with Foreman and Chase."

"I did, but I didn't want to unwind," she answers. "I wanted to do something."

Wilson's wearing what House calls his "dawn breaks on Marblehead" expression. "And ... there was nothing you could do ... for House."

"He's out of the coma. Cuddy's with him." Cameron hopes he doesn't detect the lump that forms in her throat when she utters the latter sentence.

"You still have feelings for him," Wilson says gently.

She sighs. "Guilty. I also have a nice assortment of bruises on my head from banging it against that particular wall."

"I'm glad for his sake that you care for him, Allison. And I'm sorry for your sake that he doesn't appreciate that. It's just been so long since he's loved anyone that I think he's forgotten how. And he's afraid to try."

"Not true. He loves you."

"He won't after this."

"Of course he will."

"Paging Dr. Poppins, Dr. Mary Poppins," he snaps, sounding like House. "Forgive me for not sharing your faith that everything will work out for the best. If that was the way the world worked, I wouldn't be sitting here consumed with grief for my dead girlfriend and guilt because my best friend almost died trying to save her."

"I apologize," Cameron says. "Do you want me to take my spoonful of sugar and go home?"

"No, no. I'm sorry, Allison. I shouldn't be taking this out on you."

"It's all right. Wilson ..."

"James."

"James ... House chose to risk his life for Amber, because you love her, and he loves you. He probably feels as guilty for failing to save her as you do for asking him to try.

"Do you hate him for not saving her? Do you hate him for being the reason she was on that bus?"

Wilson drops his head into his hands. "Of course not."

"Then what makes you think he's upset with you? It was his choice."

"I-I don't know," Wilson says, shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs. "I don't know anything anymore. I can't think."

"I understand. Listen, I just thought of something that might make you feel better."

"What's that?"

"Tell me all about Amber."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Did she have a middle name? What kind of movies did she like? What was her favorite ice cream? Did she sing in the shower?"

"Dawn, anything by Oliver Stone or Mel Brooks, rocky road, and yes. Off-key. I used to jump in there with her just to get her to stop." Wilson is smiling now. Cameron smiles back.

"Tell me more."

An hour of reminiscences, some laughter, more tears, and Wilson slumps against Cameron's shoulder. She rises slowly and helps him stretch out on the couch, placing a throw pillow under his head and covering his body with a blue and green afghan. "Good night, James," she whispers. "I'll show myself out."

"Don't go," he says. "I don't want to be alone. That chair over there is comfortable, or you can have our bed. I'll make you breakfast."

"OK," she says. "Now get some rest." She kicks off her shoes and settles in the easy chair he indicated. It is comfortable. She closes her eyes and is just drifting off when she hears Wilson's phone vibrating insistently on the coffee table.

She lunges for it before it can awaken him, checking the caller ID and answering with "This is Cameron, Dr. Cuddy; Wilson is asleep. What's up? Is House all right?"

"Cameron? Why are you answering Wilson's phone? Oh, God, don't tell me you two ..."

"No. I'm here as a friend. What's going on?"

"House is asking for him."

"We'll be right over."

Part 2

Ficlet: Pain Reliever

Mon, 12 May 2008 01:41:49 GMT

Title: Pain Reliever
Author: NiiceLaady
Summary: A glimpse inside John House's head after the events of "Daddy's Boy." The fic is inspired by the John Prine song "Sam Stone."
Rating: PG-13 for war, death, one F-bomb.
Pairings: John and Blythe House, John/original character friendship.
Warning: OC death.
Disclaimer: I'm not Fox, NBC/Universal, David Shore or any of those persons/corporations who are making money off the show and not giving me any.

John shakes his head as they pass the handicapped parking area on their way to the visitors lot, snorts at the preposterousness of a motorcycle occupying a handicapped spot. If he's able-bodied enough to ride that thing, he doesn't need special parking.

"You drive," he says, tossing Blythe the keys to the rented Buick. "I want to rest."

Blythe nods. She doesn't like driving unfamiliar cars, but John is obviously irritable -- par for the course after a visit with Greg, no matter how short. And driving in New Jersey would make the Angel Gabriel himself irritable. No need to add fuel to the fire.

"Greg looks good," she says after they've pulled out of the parking lot and are headed for the interstate.

"He'd look better if he picked up a razor once in a while," says John. "I know he knows how to use one; I taught him."

"Oh, but that look is in now," Blythe says. "Don't you remember watching the Oscars last winter? Half the young actors had stubble. I think that fellow on 'Miami Vice' started it 20 years ago."

"My son isn't a movie star, or a Miami vice detective," he replies. "He's a doctor. How are people going to take him seriously if he looks like a bum?"

"Obviously they do. You know his reputation. People come from all over to have him treat them. Looks aren't everything, John."

"Says the girl who cried for three days when P.F.C. House was denied a weekend pass because the Sarge didn't like the way he'd shined his shoes."

"Not only isn't your son a movie star or a vice cop, he isn't a Marine either. And times have changed."

This isn't a hill John wants to die on. He drops it. After a few minutes, he digs out his wallet.

"What are you doing, dear?" Blythe asks. "There won't be a tollbooth for miles."

"Just looking for something," he says curtly. "Eyes on the road."

He assures himself she's studying the traffic, not him, before paging through the photo pockets. In the very last one is a young man in dress blues. Dirty-blond hair, barely visible under his cap, green eyes, mischievous smile.

Captain Mike O'Grady. His best buddy in Nam. Hell of a Marine, hell of a pilot, hell of a nice guy. The kind who would bum a couple of smokes from you during a night of drinking at the officers club, then pay you back the next day with a whole carton. He was from Buffalo, had a wife and a couple of kids. Twin boys.

Mike hated the war. He'd enlisted because his father and older brother had been Marines, and it was better than being drafted into the Army. He'd become an officer and a pilot because an O'Grady with a college education was expected to do something more with his service than slog through as a grunt. But he hated war, hated killing, hated the thought that the bombs he was dropping were destroying women, children and old men -- simple folk who didn't care who was running their country as long as they had their farms and their families.

He'd found a pain reliever. Heroin. It was some Army guys who turned him on to it. John House respected all branches of the Armed Forces and all those who served, but a small part of him would always resent the Army for turning Mike into a junkie.

Lots of guys shot smack in Nam and kicked it when they got home. Mike wasn't one of them. For that, John doesn't blame the Army, but the land mine that blew off Mike's left leg on that Easter Sunday when he was headed for Saigon with a couple of buddies. The jeep started sputtering, Mike got out to look under the hood and stepped right on the fucking mine.

They'd patched him up and sent him home. Home to two little boys he could no longer run and play with, and a wife who tried to reassure him that she didn't find him any less of a man with one leg gone. But her love was no match for the tidal wave of self-loathing he'd come home with. The drug was the only thing that could send it back out to sea.

It sent her and the boys away, too.

The end had come courtesy of a single bullet to the head, in a flophouse in the worst part of Buffalo. He was 28. It was Easter Sunday.

John had gone to the funeral. He had told Blythe and little Greg he was going to pay his respects to a war buddy; he didn't tell them the details of Mike's death.

He closes his wallet, puts it back in his hip pocket, and wonders if he should tell Greg, no longer so little, about Mike. Maybe then his son will understand why his father insists he doesn't know how lucky he is.

Ficlet: Liar, Liar

Wed, 07 May 2008 01:40:04 GMT

Of course I couldn't leave that scene alone.

Title: Liar, Liar
Author: NiiceLaady
Rating: PG-13 for mild swearing and sexual innuendo
Summary: Follow-up to the "You miss me" scene in "Living the Dream."
Pairings: Cameron/Chase, Cameron/House
Spoilers: "Living the Dream"
Disclaimer: These are David Shore's babies. Just having a playdate with them, with no money changing hands.

"I don't miss you."

For a split-second, she almost believes it. And she'll keep telling herself it's true until she does.

Her phone rings as she strides down the hall. Chase.

"Hi."

"How goes Operation Housekeeping?"

"Done. Finally," she says, feigning relief to cover up the regret. She has a feeling Chase detects it anyway. If he does, he doesn't call her on it. Children of alcoholics are practiced at ignoring elephants in the room -- even scruffy, smart-mouthed, blue-eyed ones.

"Listen, I've got bad news. I'm on call tonight; Chang called in sick. I figure it's just easier to stay here than go home and have to drag myself away from the TV -- and you -- when I get paged. But I've got some time. Want to grab a bite downstairs?"

"Sounds good." Now the relief is genuine; she wants some time alone.

She reaches the cafeteria first and has already gotten her food and found a table when he arrives, tray in hand. He sets it down and kisses her on the cheek. "It's strange ... seeing you here in something besides scrubs," he says. "Of course, I was hoping to see you tonight in a lot less."

"We can catch up later," she says, picking up her sandwich.

"So what was it like ... being back in the lion's den?" he asks.

"Almost like I'd never left," she answers. She takes a bite of her turkey wrap, chews, swallows, then swallows again for good measure. "He ... asked me to come back."

Chase almost chokes on his mouthful of ham on rye. His eyes are wide as he washes it down with a swig of iced tea. "Was he serious?"

"He said he was. He even offered to fire one of the new fellows if I said yes. But who can tell with House?

"He thinks I miss him. I think he misses me more -- but only because he hasn't suckered any of the new kids into doing his paperwork."

"And do you?"

"I told him I miss the job ... but I don't miss him."

"Was that the truth?" Chase looks worried, as if he doesn't want to know the answer.

"Y-yes. No. I mean, I think so." She blushes. House once told her she had an "insane moral compass that won't let you lie to anybody about anything." He was right.

"You do miss him."

"I miss working with him. It was a hell of a lot more challenging than patching up trauma cases in the ER for hours on end."

"But you'd rather do that than do something real with your training ... or come to Arizona with me. You don't want to leave House."

"Shut up, Robert!" she hisses, then looks around guiltily, hoping nobody heard. She hangs her head.

"I'm sorry," she says meekly. "I'm just tired of everyone assuming they know what I think ... or feel ... or want."

"What do you want, Ally?" he says, not unkindly.

"I-I don't know," she admits. She closes her eyes and flashes back to a festival of '80s and early '90s movies she attended during college. There was a movie with Winona Ryder, playing one of those quirky, misfit teens she played so well. A boy was telling her he wanted to kiss her. She'd rebuffed him, deadpanning, "It's good to want things."

If she hadn't been sitting in a crowded auditorium, she would have screamed at the screen: "No, it isn't! You want, you don't get, you get hurt. You don't want, then you don't get disappointed."

"I suggest you figure it out, then," Chase says. "I don't want to lose you. But I don't want you to settle. And I don't want to cut you loose to pursue something ... someone ... that isn't going to be there. I don't trust House not to hurt you. And you shouldn't either."

She rubs her temples with her fingers, as if she's trying to banish a headache. "I need to think."

"I know. Take your time. Maybe it's a good thing I have to work tonight."

They finish their meal in silence. She gathers up the trash, and he reaches into the pocket of his scrub pants for the car keys and presses them into her hand. "Here. I'll get a cab after my shift."

She gives them back. "No, I'll walk. It's a nice night."

"OK. Be careful. It's Friday night. Lots of drunken college guys wandering around."

--

It is a beautiful night. Mild, no wind, the setting sun turning the sky into a Maxfield Parrish painting. She barely notices as she approaches the park near the hospital, wishing the daylight would linger so she could go for a run.

She also doesn't notice the sound of a motorcycle pulling into a parking spot a few feet behind her.

"Cameron!"

She turns around. "Following me home, House?"

"No. Taking the long way to my place. It's a nice night for a ride. Want a lift?" He takes off his helmet and offers it to her.

"No, thanks."

He unclips his cane from its holder, dismounts the bike and walks over to her. "You're a good doctor, you know. And a good secretary. But you're still a lousy liar."

"I'm not lying. I'd rather walk."

"You were. When you said you didn't miss me."

"I wasn't lying then either."

Before he can answer, a series of high-pitched beeps makes her jump. She reaches into her pocket for her pager.

"That's not you," he says. "It's my bullshit alarm." His hand is in the pocket of his jeans; he must have set off his own pager. He turns it off.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," he singsongs. "I thought about doing a hands-on inspection ... to see if they actually were," he says. "But Cuddy probably would have swooped in and written me up for sexual harassment."

Cameron snickers. "Doubtful. She hasn't written you up for all the times you've sexually harassed her. You could use another hobby -- like needlepoint, or woodworking."

"Sexually harassing Cuddy gets my wood working," he says, smirking.

She makes a face. "That's disgusting, even for you."

"You miss me."

"Fine. I miss you. I'm a big, fat pathetic liar. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Does that mean you'll come back?"

She stares at him. "You are serious."

He nods. "You're not the only lousy liar around here."

"Oh, I think you're a pretty good liar when you want to be. Were you lying three years ago when you said you didn't like me? Were you lying on our date when you said you thought I only cared about you because you're damaged?"

"Those weren't lies. Those were ... defense mechanisms. Will you come back?"

"I-I can't, House."

"Why not?"

"In the first place, I don't want you to fire Thirteen, or Kutner, to make room for me. And in the second place, jumping back onto your team, after I've moved on, will feel like ... going back to square one. Starting over."

He takes a step closer, so they're separated by mere inches, and she can feel the warmth of his body, although they're not touching.

"You say 'starting over' like it's a bad thing," he says softly. "And maybe it is, for your career. But it might just be the best thing ... for us."

She shakes her head, like a cat trying to readjust its senses after an unexpected touch. "House ... there's no 'us.' I love Chase."

"You love me more."

Those four syllables hit her with a strange feeling of deja vu -- as if she's heard him say them before. She hasn't, but somehow she knows this isn't the first time he's uttered them.

"I miss you," he says, and then his arms are around her waist, his lips are on hers, and she's lost in another memory. Another kiss. But with no secret agenda this time.

She's the first to break the kiss. "House ..."

"Just think about it."

"I will. I have to go. It's getting late."

"OK. Good night." Before releasing her, he squeezes her buttocks and gives her a mischievous little smile. "Well, I'll be."

"What?"

"They are on fire."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she says with a smirk of her own.

"Have a good weekend," he says as he mounts his bike, dons his helmet and rides off.