You Already Know How This Will End: Part 5

[fourteencandles]

Notes in Part 1.



41. Shapes

Wilson is very well organized. It's a strong suit, and it's not common among other doctors. Most of them are good at compartmentalizing - and Wilson is good at that, too - but they can't keep a desk neat or a drawer organized to save their lives. They need nurses trailing them on rounds just to remember where they put their pens, and Wilson thinks that most of the guys he knows had to have their kids program the VCR and their cell phones. It's mind blowing that they let these people perform surgeries, he thinks, and it's a thought that often comes up in House's voice in his head.

Because he is organized, because his paperwork is caught up and his morning meeting already rescheduled, because his desk surface is clean except for a lamp and a pen set and a multi-line phone that he knows every trick of, he has nothing to do when he gets back from coffee with Stacy. He had planned to spend some time out on the floor, that afternoon, talking to the nurses and going over equipment receipts and reports, making sure that they're up on their maintenance, but he knows - organized! - that he has a similar open block of time on Tuesday afternoon, and he can do it then. So he turns his chair toward the window and looks out at the gray sky and thinks maybe it's time he tried to organize his friendship with House into something manageable.

He pulls the pen out of the pen set and takes a notepad from his desk. A list will help, he thinks. He ends up staring at the pen. It was a gift from his father, when he graduated from medical school - two gold Parker pens, one a fountain pen, one a ball-point, mounted onto a dark wood base. He used to keep the set at home, but he doesn't have a home of his own anymore, and it matches the new furniture. There's a gold-rimmed barometer in the middle. Wilson has no actual idea of how to read a barometer, but he likes the look of it and the idea of it, that weather can be predicted, that there's a math behind everything.

He draws a line down the center of the notepad and writes H on one side, W on the other. A list of grievances. It's not hard to fill up either side, and his hand is smudged with black ink by the time he stops. It looks like a lot, and Wilson feels the weight of all these problems, all this bad stuff between them. It's never been a blank page - nothing with House is - but it used to be equal, tit-for-tat, every slight that Wilson endured made up for by something else, some random consideration on House's part, some flash of friendship.

Wilson strikes out "no apology" on both his side and House's. He crosses out "nearly got me fired" and "nearly sent H to jail." He marks through "nearly sent me to jail" and "agreed to rehab." What he is left with is the idea that they have both betrayed each other beyond even what Wilson would have imagined. House stole his prescription pad, expected - no, demanded - his lie, had no sympathy for him when his practice crumbled, when his life fell apart. And that's an old story, maybe, but the pain is new every time. And Wilson's betrayal, well, he understands this, too: he did exactly what House had been waiting for him to do. He gave up. Backed against a wall, past every point of rational behavior and loyalty that anyone else would expect, sure, but Wilson knows that in House's book, he still gave up too soon. He rolled on House. It doesn't even matter that he took it all back, that he wouldn't do it again, because House would do it all again, and in exactly the same way. Wilson believes that. The best rehab center in the world couldn't change who House is at the core.

And so, if he can't forgive House, and House can't forgive him, they can't just be even, this time. They can't just go on from here. This fight, these last few months, this is going to shape every conversation, every interaction, everything between them from now on. Wilson knows it. He's been here before, at the ends of his marriages. There's nowhere else to go but to the end.

He puts his pen back in its holder, feeds the list to the shredder behind his desk, and turns to look out the window. He is organized, but House is not. He wonders how long it will take for him to reach the same conclusion.

42. Triangle

In the elevator, he hits the button for his own floor instead of Westin's. On a whim, trying not to believe it's because of Stacy's voice in his head, he doesn't correct the mistake. He goes past the conference room - dark, because Cameron's patient really did turn out to be an MS unfortunate - and his own office and over to Wilson's. He pauses at the door, hears nothing, and knocks twice before he tries the knob.

Wilson is sitting behind his desk, turned toward the windows. He looks to the side as House walks in, but he doesn't face him. "Most people actually wait to be called in."

"I've never been big on most people."

House closes the door and looks around the office. New furniture, new art, even a new smell to the place. Just the sight of Wilson in a room like this is wrong. House is sure he's the only one who would see it this way. Wilson is lucky, and Wilson is smart, and to the rest of the world, Wilson is ambitious and formal and made for this, for ever-higher rungs on the ladder. But House knows Wilson, or he did, and this change makes him uncomfortable. "You upgraded," he says.

"Donors aren't impressed by a couch with vomit stains."

"You're going for the wrong kind of donor, then," House says. He limps into the center of the room and rests one hand on the back of the chair. "Is this actually a promotion, or does it just smell like it?"

"Same job," Wilson says.

"No extra bonus?" He shakes his head. "What about your kid's college fund? Who's going to send Jimmy Junior through Harvard?"

Wilson's mouth twitches. He still doesn't turn. "I make more than you."

"You have three ex-wives."

"Cuddy makes pretty good money."

"Shouldn't you two be on a first name basis?"

"She didn't make me call her doctor in bed," Wilson says.

House bites back a laugh, and what he thinks is, I missed you. There are parts of Wilson he doesn't get and doesn't like - this brooding posture is high on the list - but inside of formal Wilson there's an outrageous bastard just waiting to get out. "I was going to the cafeteria."

Wilson clears his throat and finally looks over. "You didn't eat with Stacy?"

"Four hours ago, yeah," he says. "But she had to run home to her husband. These modern love triangles, they're so disappointing." There are metal studs in the leather of Wilson's new chair, and House runs a finger around them in a figure eight pattern.

"Did you have a good talk?" he asks.

"She said she made you cry at Starbucks," House says, and Wilson snorts.

"Hardly."

House shrugs. "It's not hard to imagine. She's made me cry. She looks like a girl, but she plays like a man."

"Not sure what that says about your relationship," Wilson says. He picks a pen up from a gold-plated desk set, looks at it, then sets it back in its holder. "So you're here for - what?"

"I'm hungry," House says, but Wilson keeps staring at him. It is Stacy's voice in his head, now, and it's like they're all three in the room, like she's glaring at him, waiting for him to make this move. "I was thinking. Most guys, they - do things. They have hobbies, and stuff like that."

"You're not big on most guys."

House shrugs. "I'm in recovery."

Wilson nods, very slowly. He stands up. "You're saying we should get a hobby?"

"We used to do stuff. Watch TV, go out to bars, that kind of stuff. Only I'm not sure 'The L Word' is going to be nearly as cool if I can't drink, and the bars have a similar problem. So until I've jumped all the hoops that Cuddy's set up, it basically leaves us with food." House isn't sure why, but he feels a little flutter of nervousness as he says this. If Wilson doesn't understand what he's asking, he'll move on to Plan B, which involves yelling and maybe hitting Wilson a few times with his cane. And then maybe stealing his car and chasing after Stacy.

"We used to have lunch together," Wilson says. House nods, and after a moment, Wilson nods back. "OK. Just let me -"

He opens his desk drawer and pulls out his wallet, slides it into his back pocket. "Excellent," House says. He feels a flicker of relief. He wants to grab his phone and call Stacy and tell her he's done, he's done it, he's fixing things with Wilson. "I was hoping you'd buy."

43. Square

Wilson follows House to the cafeteria and pays for both of them, and when House leads him to their usual table, Wilson sits down and closes his eyes and just for a minute, it's all fine.

"This silence, right now? This is me giving you the chance to tell me about Cuddy being pregnant, so that we can pretend like we're still people who tell each other things."

Wilson sighs and opens his eyes. "We've never been people who tell each other things."

House snorts. "You told me about your second wife's carrot fetish," he says, leering just enough that Wilson feels himself blush. "What kind of friend would tell me that but not that he's going to be a father?"

"The kind of friend who isn't sure he is a friend anymore."

House sticks out his bottom lip. "Oh, boo-hoo," he says. "Did I hurt your feelings?" He pulls his cell phone out and sets it on the table. "I'll call you right now, will that help?"

"What would you say?" Wilson asks. He's actually interested.

House flips his phone open. "Wilson, it's House. I want to apologize for hitting you with my cane."

"You didn't -" He feels and hears the crack of the cane at the same moment. "Son-of-a-bitch," he groans, leaning over. His calf throbs, and he clutches it with both hands. It was a hard hit, and tomorrow there will be a square, cane-shaped bruise to remind him not to try. "I miss the days when you used to travel with pain medication," Wilson grits out.

"Don't we all." House pushes his plate forward and crosses his arms on the table.

Wilson sits up. "You've always been a dick," he says. "I don't know why I thought rehab would make it any better."

"But you used to like that about me," House says. It's not his tone - which is dry, sarcastic as always - that makes Wilson flinch. It's the tiny speck of uncertainty in his eyes.

"No," Wilson says. "I didn't. I never have. House, it's not your worst qualities that draw me in. You're a standoffish know-it-all bastard, but that's part of the good, because it makes - it used to make - you loyal to a fault, and predictable. I used to be able to count on you," Wilson says, and he says it in such a rush that the words surprise him, and he has to sit back.

House picks up a French fry and looks it over, really studies it. This is usually the face he gets when he's figuring out a case, when he's making that final strike toward a solution. Wilson puts his hand on his leg, feels the already warm thrum of blood rushing to the injury. He grabs his tray and scoots back, but doesn't move any further. Things are so broken, between them. They can't even be alone together any more. Wilson knows this feeling, from three failed marriages, the tension that comes at the end, when he spends all of his time wishing for interference, for supervision, for someone else to take over and offer a solution. House looks up.

"I need my pain meds," he says, shaking his head. He gets up, and Wilson stays seated. His stomach is churning. This is it, he thinks. House picks up his own tray, then looks down. "I'm sorry I hit you," he says.

"I should've expected it," Wilson mutters.

House laughs. "Then we're square," he says. "And I'll get lunch tomorrow."

Tomorrow? Wilson thinks, and he's so surprised that he know he must flinch, but House is already gone. Tomorrow. He wonders how many times they'll have to do this. He waits until House is out of the cafeteria, then clears off the table and walks back to his office. He sits back down in the dark and stares at everything that's new. He's never fixed a marriage before. Maybe this is what it's like. He rubs the forming bruise on his leg. Maybe this is what House's forgiveness feels like.

44. Circle

Wednesday night, while:

House is in his NA meeting, sitting in a circle and listening to long, boring stories of addiction;

Wilson is sitting in the parking lot of the Wendy's by the highway, eating a baked potato and listening to a Neil Diamond CD because he's not ready to go back to Cuddy's yet for the evening;

Cuddy is taking a bath with the door locked, staring down at the already (impossibly) changing shape of her body;

Cameron is buying a three-pack of condoms from the drug store, because she's definitely not ready for any kind of change, not like that;

Chase is picking out a tie to wear to the conference that Cameron thinks they should go to that weekend in Philadelphia, and wondering how serious this is, whether it counts as a minibreak - major step - or if it's just a ride-share kind of thing, a conference with benefits;

Foreman is in the E.R., because he has a thing for one of the interns, and she's doing an emergency room rotation, and he's more than happy to consult on her latest patient, who has unexplained seizures and diurisis,

it starts to snow. And it doesn't stop for twenty-four hours.

45. Moon

Cameron goes into work even though the news says that only emergency personnel should be out on the roads. When she calls House to say she's on her way, he tells her she's an idiot. Her apartment is less than a mile from the Princeton-Plainsboro campus, and she has decent winter boots and a very sturdy coat. Chase has only the tennis shoes he wore when he came over the night before, and his coat is so pathetic that she makes him wear one of her own before she'll let him outside.

His car is covered in snow, as is the street and the sidewalk and even the stop sign at the end of her block. It rained for part of the day before it turned to snow, so everything now has a glassy layer of ice beneath, which she discovers when she sweeps one gloved hand over the windshield and reveals a thick sheet of glittery ice. Chase curses under his breath when he sees it, and she considers taking pity on him, following him back inside, making hot cocoa and watching television all day, but she's not that person. "Probably lots of accidents, with the roads like this," she says.

Chase nods. His nose is already red. It's somehow cute and annoying at the same time.

It takes them thirty minutes to walk to the hospital, and even Cameron is cold by the time they arrive. Chase stands in front of the coffee machine in the conference room and she can see he's considering putting his hands right onto the pot. She takes them into her own and rubs them. "You need decent gloves," she says.

"They're in my car," he mutters, and Cameron almost laughs. Instead, she leans forward and blows on his hands. They are pinking up in her grasp. He cups her face and smiles. "Thanks."

"If you're going to moon over each other, take it outside," House says, and Cameron turns around. "I don't have the stomach for it today."

"What are you doing here?" Cameron asks. She'd called his cell, but assumed he was at home.

"This is where they keep my pain medication," House says. He sits at the table very slowly and rests his cane beside him. Cameron has been watching him for a while - well. No. She's been watching him since the beginning, but she's been looking for pain, in particular, since he came back. Every time House winces, every time his steps are slower or it takes him a few seconds longer to get up out of his chair, she hates Wilson a little more.

"Your street's got to be closed, though," Chase says, and Cameron is almost startled to hear his voice. "And cabs aren't running. How did you get here?"

"Cuddy has one of those ginormous SUVs," House says, stretching his arms out to their full length. "And apparently, the hospital needs doctors right now."

"You made Dr. Cuddy pick you up?"

"Nah, she's too busy running the place," House says. "I made Wilson do it. By the way, Chase, you owe Foreman fifty bucks. I knew a loooong time ago."

Cameron sets her coffee cup down.

Chase shakes his head. "Foreman's here, then?"

"Think he's down in the E.R., doing doctor things." House waves his hand in the air as though he has no idea what those things could be.

Cameron steps forward, cutting off whatever Chase was about to say. "You know about Wilson and Cuddy?"

"That man is like a doctor magnet, recently," House says, and is grin is absolutely malicious.

Cameron rolls her eyes. "Chase knows," she says. He does, after all, and she's pretty sure he's a little bit jealous over the whole thing. It makes for better sex, sometimes, and certainly for more fun in the office.

House frowns. "What is it with you people and names? If you're sleeping with someone and still referring to him by his surname, I don't think that's a good sign."

"I don't care what you think," Cameron says, faster than she can even think about it. Her voice sounds angry and high and strange, and she feels Chase's hand on her elbow but brushes him off.

"Oh, now, that's just not true," House says. He leans forward. "You care deeply. Just like Chase does. It's probably part of what's making the two of you work, right now. You both need approval like most people need air. Chase comes by it naturally, and he doesn't really care where the approval comes from, so he seeks mine and instead he gets yours, somehow, and that's working for him. You need the approval that comes from being the person that everyone needs, the person who fixes damaged people, and so you're probably in heaven at the moment. But at the end of the day, you care, you absolutely care, and I think I'm well on record about why that's not such a good idea."

Cameron's throat feels tight, but she takes a step forward and talks anyway. "Maybe I'm over that," she says. "You said it yourself, this job - being around you - has changed me. Maybe I'm not that person anymore."

House shrugs. "You have some symptoms of change," he says, "but it's a little early to be diagnosing true cynicism. Particularly with so many obvious signs of relapse." He jerks his head toward where Chase is standing, against the counter just behind her, and Cameron looks at him. He's staring at her with wide eyes, as though House has just stripped away her clothing or told her darkest secret. She can't imagine what it is that's surprised him in this - it's just House being House, after all.

"You're a jerk," she says. She turns to Chase and puts her hand on his arm, leads him toward the door. He doesn't say anything, and she looks neither at him nor at House as they walk out.

In the hall, she lets Chase's arm go but doesn't stop walking. "Where are we going?" he asks, following her to the stairwell.

"The E.R.," she says, though she doesn't feel like dealing with patients right now. She doesn't feel like dealing with anyone at the moment. She wants to put her arms around someone - Chase, yes, of course - and hear nothing but a steady heartbeat, easy breathing, careful reassurance. They stop on the landing before the second floor and she turns to him. His eyes are still wide. "What?" she asks.

"You've still got a thing for him," Chase says. His voice is half high jealousy, half stunned curiosity. Cameron hates both parts. "For House," he says, as if she needs the clarification.

"That's ridiculous," she says. "I don't. I haven't had a thing for him for a long time."

Chase shakes his head. "That's what I thought, but - in there, you - he's right about us."

Cameron crosses her arms. "What?"

"Everything he said is true. You've said it. I'm hard-wired to seek approval. The idea that this, us, that House doesn't like it, it's not a thrill for me. It makes my stomach turn. And you get off on it, a little, which, that's been fine." His cheeks are flushed. "I don't mind. Only - only he's right about you, too, and it's just - it's weird." Chase takes a breath. "You want his approval, and the only way to get it is to be just like him, and not to care, so you're playing that part just fine. You slept with Wilson, you're with me -"

"I didn't sleep with anyone to get House's approval," Cameron hisses.

"No, something much more sinister," Chase says. "You're trying to become him. Jesus Christ, Cameron!" He rubs his hands over his face, and Cameron feels a shock, like she's falling back into herself, and she understands that she's done this, that she's what's making Chase look this confused and unhappy. Oh, no, she thinks, no no no.

The door swings open above them, and a nurse rushes by, between them. When she's past them, Cameron reaches out, puts her hands on Chase's biceps. "I'm sorry," she says. "I - I'm not with you because of him."

Chase snorts. "Everything you do is because of him," he says. Cameron starts to argue, but Chase shakes his head. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and it feels friendly but not affectionate. "It's all right," he says. "I'm the same."

She nods, slowly, even though she's not sure what's happened. "Are we OK?"

Chase shrugs. "We'll figure it out, I guess," he says. He squeezes her shoulder, then cups her neck. "Patients."

She nods again and follows him down to the E.R.

46. Star

Things aren't so busy. The highways were shut down early, and the schools cancelled the night before. People, for once, are staying where they're supposed to be, and those who haven't are getting routed over to County instead of to Princeton. So House is able to hide out in his office without incurring any of Cuddy's wrath. The Internet, thank God, operates rain, sleet, snow, or shine.

Around noon, a knock on the door pulls him up from an hour-long battle with a gigantic rock-and-roll themed crossword puzzle. Wilson stands in the doorway with two greasy paper sacks. Things are still weird between them, since their cafeteria talk, but they're getting better.

"Thought the cafeteria was closed," House says. He'd had to make his own coffee that morning.

"Feeding the patients is actually a critical duty," Wilson says, walking in and setting the bags on the end of House's desk.

The thick greasy smell of melted cheese, and maybe of potato, wafts over. He offers House a spoon and a fork and then a bag. House looks inside and sees a basket of French fries covered in chili and cheese settled in the bottom. "Wilson," he says, still staring at the fries, "you're my hero."

"I try."

They eat in what House thinks is probably companionable silence. Wilson flips through one of the magazines that House has lying around, and House asks the occasional crossword related question, typing with one hand and using the other for the greasy fry feasting. Wilson's eating something in pita bread.

"What is that?"

Wilson looks over. His eyes narrow, and House knows he's expecting the punch line. "It's got turkey and sprouts and sunflower seeds," he says.

House stares at the sandwich and then up at Wilson. He's still watching House, waiting for the little joke at his expense. "It's crunchy," House says.

"That's the seeds."

House nods and goes back to his game. Maybe they are friends again, or at least on the edge of it. House hasn't apologized for anything; neither has Wilson. It probably makes them even, for the moment, and so House can hold off on mocking Wilson for sport. At least until everything feels normal again.

Wilson gets up to throw his sandwich away, then walks over to House. "Check the weather," he says.

Some things, however, he can't pass up. House glares up at him, then turns and opens the balcony door. He looks outside. "Snow, with a chance of freaking cold," he says, and Wilson rolls his eyes. "You don't believe me? Fine." House pushes back from the desk and lets Wilson step in and call up the weather online. Wilson is courteous - always - and doesn't close House's crossword. House doesn't even have to ask. He never has to ask, with Wilson.

He pushes himself up and grabs his cane, walks out onto the balcony. Snow has piled onto the edge, but there's only a slick dusting on the floor. He places his feet carefully, uses his cane to clear a space on the balcony rim. It had been snowing when he'd left NA the night before, the same lazy flakes as now. It must have been much harder overnight, he thinks, because this half-assed sprinkling can't be what's put a foot of snow on the ground.

"At least it's not too windy," Wilson says, stepping out behind him.

It's the old Wilson, wearing his lab coat and pocket protector, looking up at the sky, standing a little too close to House, smelling like expensive aftershave. This man is his best friend, and not just because he's House's only friend. He's smart, he's almost unshockable, he's endlessly loyal. He's the guy who follows you out into the snow.

Wilson leans on the balcony railing next to him. "Just imagine," House says, looking out over the parking lot, "next year at this time, you'll have a little Jimmy running around down there."

"Or a little Lisa."

House shudders. "Perish the thought."

"The nice thing about her not being my wife is that I am in no way obligated to defend her."

"I don't remember you carrying through on that obligation even when you were married," House says, and Wilson snorts. House keeps staring at the snow. Someone has made a terrible snow angel, with points in too many places, right next to a pile of dirt-heavy snow cleared from the parking lot. "Why did you sleep with Cameron?"

"She's hot," Wilson says, shrugging.

"Usually, you require a little more reason than that," House says. "Chase is hot, but I didn't see you bedding him."

"He didn't come to my house."

House closes his eyes. He imagines how that conversation would have gone, Cameron with her wide, moist eyes, maybe saying how she's worried about Wilson, maybe saying how she's worried about House, and Wilson leaning in and comforting her, and things just - "I'm sorry," House says.

Wilson exhales in a burst of fog. "For what?" he asks.

"For whatever you want me to be sorry for," House says. He turns, just slightly, his biceps pressed to the cold concrete rail. "I didn't call you. I stole your prescription pad. I was mean to you when you were just trying to help. I chased Stacy off and made you -" and here he stops, because some things are still too hard, and he's not ready for this, for any of this, for real life without buffers, for the idea that he's never, ever, ever going to go running again, he's never going to be normal, he's never going to get everything he wants or even get close to most of it.

His head bows, and he doesn't realize it's happened until he feels Wilson's hand on the back of his neck, and he's in a clumsy, mannish hug, and Wilson's lab coat smells like fabric softener and cleaning fluid and the powder from inside their latex gloves. He laughs, just slightly, and pats Wilson on the side.

"I'm sorry, too," Wilson says. "Greg, I'm so sorry."

House nods. That could be for anything, for turning him in to Tritter, for giving him the Vicodin in the first place, for Cameron, for Cuddy. For keeping his hand on House's arm even when he pulls back.

"What kind of crippled moron made that, you think?" he asks, pointing out the snow angel with his elbow, hoping Wilson will look down instead of over. There's got to be some kind of man code, he thinks, that allows for the awkwardness of crying. "Does that look like an angel to you?"

Wilson leans forward and looks down, over the balcony, while House dries his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. His cheek brushes the skin of his arm, and it's cold, they've been outside to long.

"More like a star," Wilson says. "Or an angel with three arms?"

"Who knows how they make them in heaven," House says.

"You don't believe in heaven anyway," Wilson says, and he's shivering just a little. House opens his office door and limps inside, and Wilson follows him.

House sits at his desk, and Wilson stands just on the other side. "About Cameron," he says, and House looks up. Wilson is looking away. "She is hot," he says, "and she's young, and she - well. Believe it or not, that's not an opportunity I get so often anymore."

It's an honest answer, even if it's not exactly what House wants to hear. That's usually the way honesty works. He shakes his head. "I was never as young as Cameron."

"No one is," Wilson says. "Not even Cameron."

House clears his throat. He wonders if Wilson knows about his apology to Cameron. He wonders what he still owes her, what he really owes anyone. He looks away. "Thanks for lunch," House says, trying to be clear in his dismissal.

"Sure," Wilson says. He even picks up the bags and throws them away on his way out.

47. Heart

Lisa gets up on Saturday to an empty house and she tries not to be surprised. She also tries not to be relieved. It's been OK, having Wilson around - nice, sometimes, particularly when she comes home from work exhausted, her feet aching, and finds him making dinner - but she can use the time alone. She takes a shower to wake up, then makes decaf coffee and reads the front page of each section of the newspaper, standing in the kitchen. She leaves her cup in the sink for the housekeeper to find. When Wilson's around, she feels bad about things like that, about how used to services she's become. Today, she's pretty sure he's over at House's place, because she saw them walk out together on Thursday night, laughing, looking like trouble and exactly like they used to, so she doesn't worry about what Wilson will think.

She goes shopping. There's a Pea in the Pod shop in the new shopping center. She flicks through the different clothes and runs numbers in her head. The standard weight gain for a pregnancy is between 20 and 30 pounds. Her mother gained 16 with Lisa and 40 with her brother. Lisa is small and careful with her weight, so she figures she has a major gain to look forward to.

She finds two outfits that aren't insultingly cute and buys them both. She's not showing yet, not at all, not really even possible, but she already feels bloated to the point that it takes a small battle of will to get into her suits in the mornings. The blouse and sweater that she buys will be good for the spring, for April and May when she really starts to look pregnant.

She puts the bags in the trunk and drives straight to the hospital. The visitor parking lot is finally getting dug out from the snow, a day later than she would've liked. The front lobby has broad, rubber-bottomed mats spread by both doors but the tile is still dangerously wet. Lisa calls the custodial supervisor from her office to take care of it before she's even sat down.

The snow brought all kinds of new people in and through the hospital, and there weren't too many problems. Lisa sends out an across-the-board good work e-mail, then spends the rest of the morning catching up on things she should've been doing on Friday when she was, instead, dealing with the aftermath of snow. She eats one-and-a-half Lean Cuisine macaroni-and-cheese meals for a late lunch.

She walks by House's and Wilson's offices on her way to the ICU. No lights on in either place, though there's a woman's coat - probably Cameron's - hanging in House's conference room. For a minute, she thinks about calling Wilson, finding where he is, if he'll be home for dinner. She's not his mother, though, just the mother of his child, and they don't have a relationship like this. Her call would look like desperation, like she is asking him to come home, which isn't what she wants and isn't what he signed up for. So she goes to the ICU and talks to (yells at) the nursing supervisor.

After that, she tidies up her office and goes home, where Wilson's car is absent. It's strange, she thinks, sitting in her turned-off car for a moment while the garage door closes. Compared to six months ago, even three months ago, her life is teeming with people, and yet she feels more alone than she ever has before.

Inside, she microwaves leftover pasta from two nights ago. Wilson made it with sauce from the jar, but he mixed in peppers and olives and chicken, which he made a point of telling her he cooked very well. He's either been reading about pregnancy or he remembers things from medical school, because he's on-the-ball about what she can and cannot eat. All of the sliced turkey that she's brought home from the deli has been pre-steamed in the microwave, and he threw out her (admittedly old) feta cheese and favorite bottled Caesar dressing.

As she's standing at the sink, getting a glass of water, she sees the calendar next to the phone. Her 12-week appointment is on Monday. She wonders if Wilson will be home before then, or if he even remembers. For the first time, she feels a flare of anger at him. She picks up her cell phone. "It's Lisa," she says to his voice mail. "I just - it's not that I'm worried, or that I need to know where you are, but there were a few things I wanted to talk to you about and so, if you could let me know, maybe, when you'll be home, or when we can talk, that would be helpful. And if you're with House, remind him he owes me the paperwork from his last patient."

She hangs up and feels a little better and a little foolish. She taps her stomach. "You have ears, I guess," she says, "but I hope you didn't hear that."

At the 12 week appointment, she'll hear the baby's heart for the first time. She's already looked into renting her own fetal heart monitor, and that will probably happen next week. In a month, they'll do the first ultrasound. She'll probably have several of those, and maybe even an amnioscintesis, since she is considered high-risk. Standing in her empty house, her hand still over her belly, it doesn't feel like enough attention. It doesn't feel like anyone is paying attention.

48. Diamond

The girl's name is Diamond.

She is young, and she is pretty, and when she walks into their hotel room, Wilson's eyes go wide and the irises almost disappear. "Young and hot," House says, taking a seat next to him on the couch. "The opportunity presents itself again."

"And without any of that sticky workplace conflict," Wilson says. House smiles. He knew Wilson would get this. It's not every man who appreciates the beauty of a high-class hooker, but House selects his best friends carefully.

They are in Atlantic City for the second night. On Friday, the day after their tearful balcony episode, House had walked into Wilson's office and kindly pointed out that he had roughly six months left in which to be an irresponsible cad before the judgment of the world - in the form of fatherhood - fell upon him. They'd left for Atlantic City in House's Corvette right after work, without even bothering to pick up clothes. The only baggage they'd brought had been a weekend's supply of House pain meds.

Friday night, they'd hung out in a bar that had some very decent piano and gotten drunk and a little maudlin before retiring to a double room at the Tropicana that overlooked the gray Atlantic. That morning, they'd woken up, walked the boardwalk, eaten ice cream and four different kinds of fried things, gambled a hundred dollars each on a single number in roulette (and lost), had dinner at Carmine's, and now it was time for another kind of AC fun.

Diamond pulls Wilson by the hand toward the bed, and House sits back and watches. He wants a bourbon in his hand, or a scotch, just something to hold and sip and occupy his attention beyond the smooth pretty flesh in front of him. Diamond strips off Wilson's jacket and sweatshirt - a Property of The Tropicana shirt they'd picked up in the hotel gift shop that morning - and runs her hands up under his shirt. Wilson grunts and his fists clench in the bedspread. Typical married man, House thinks, he doesn't even know it's OK to touch.

"You can put your hands on her," House says, and the girl nods her approval. "It's not 'Pretty Woman.'"

Wilson lurches forward and kisses Diamond, and House can't remember if he's ever actually seen Wilson kiss someone like this before, with want behind it. He's used to seeing tepid good-bye kisses, dashed off on the doorstep as Wilson's running out to House's car, or sentimental cheek pecks at charity balls and functions. This is different. This has tongue, and fingers tangled in hair, and Wilson angling his chin and head. It's not like watching kissing in the movies, because there's more sound, more wetness, less romance. It's somehow both better and worse.

Diamond pulls her hands back and starts fiddling with Wilson's pants - the same pants he wore yesterday, sturdy blue dress pants with a solid leather belt. New boxers, though, because Wilson is picky as hell about things like that and looked at House like he'd lost his mind when he'd suggested going without. Wilson's head tips back, though his hands stay on the girl's shoulders.

He doesn't look over at House, and House is glad that Wilson understands at least this part of hooker etiquette. It's supposed to be just him and her in the room. If House is there - if he's hard, which he is, though not desperately so - that's not for Wilson to worry about. All that should matter to him, at the moment, is the cool touch of her hand on his cock, the warm tickle of her breath on his stomach. House can't quite close his eyes, but he feels like he should, to complete the fantasy for himself and Wilson alike.

Diamond is good at what she does - she's highly recommended, though Wilson hadn't asked any questions about how exactly House had known this - but the groan that escapes from Wilson when she puts her mouth on his penis is one that speaks more of months of being alone than any particular skill. Other than Cuddy and Cameron, House doubts Wilson's had sex with someone in months. He doesn't count Cancer Chick because that couldn't have been any good, and he would lay good money that Julie wasn't the type to put out from guilt. House has always been good at making sure his own needs are met. Wilson, though he's the adulterer, though he's the ladies' man, is crappy at it. House thinks he should have maybe had a talk with him, in that awkward hour between when he placed the call and when Diamond showed up, about the beauty of a hired woman: she needs only your money, she wants only what you want. Wilson needs an education in selfishness.

Or maybe not, House thinks, as Wilson comes in Diamond's mouth, his hands in her hair. They both look surprised, though the girl covers better. She wipes a delicate hand over her mouth - manages to make it look sexy, somehow - and smirks over at House. It is a smile that says, oh baby, I am that good, when Wilson's flaming face seems to say, I can't believe it took only that.

Wilson scrubs his hands over his hair. He doesn't bother buttoning up; in fact, he pushes his pants off completely.

Diamond pushes Wilson up the bed, crawling up there herself, and she straddles him and kisses him deeply, lewdly. Wilson's hands settle on her ass, which is resting just over his crotch. House is on the verge of some kind of envious heart attack, thinking Wilson's preparing for round two, when Wilson turns and looks at him, and Diamond does the same.

"Your turn," he says, smile languid and lazy, eyes half closed.

It's a dangerous, dirty thing to say, and House absolutely loves him for it. They didn't pay for this, but House looks at Diamond and nods toward his wallet on the table. She really must be good, because she doesn't break his gaze, just smiles and inclines her head, a thank you, an acknowledgement.

His cane is resting on the side of the couch, and House decides it can stay there. He pulls his T-shirt up, and Diamond just watches. Wilson's hands are pulling her vest open - just a vest, no bra, nothing so complicated as all that - and she lets him slide it from her shoulders. House stares at her nipples, which are a dark, chocolaty brown, three shades darker than her cocoa skin. Wilson is staring at them, too, and when House glances down at him, Wilson looks up and they both share a twelve-year-old boy kind of gleeful look, though the leers they share are much more adult.

House starts to fumble with his belt. "No," Wilson says, his hands resting on the small of Diamond's back, "let her."

He takes two halting, uneven steps over. Diamond doesn't blink at this. She must be used to men walking funny around her. She puts her right palm against his navel, her fingers pointing down, and looks up at him with that same smirk. House's belly flutters, and she smiles and slides her hand down. His fly unfastens as if by magic, but it's her fingers, her clever fingers. He hears a noise like a kiss and looks over, sees the fingers of her left hand sliding from Wilson's mouth, slick with his saliva. She takes House's cock in that hand, slides her hand up and down, and House hisses and almost doesn't hear Wilson say, "Fuck, that's hot."

It feels good, her fingers on him, but when he puts his hand in her hair, she grins up at him. "We can do that, if you want," she says, "but I thought I was gonna get fucked."

Wilson groans, and his hand juts out and grabs the fabric of House's jeans. "Yes," he says, and House nods. His mouth is a little dry, and he can't imagine why. He's done this before - many times, in fact - though never with an audience. It's not that the voyeuristic part worries him, because it's Wilson, after all. It's not even performance anxiety, because he's had more successful erections since his return from rehab than he had in the three months beforehand. It's more a vague idea of lines being crossed, of some physical boundary being betrayed. But when Diamond crawls up off of Wilson and Wilson slides over, and she draws House onto the bed, he goes without voicing anything approaching a concern.

House mentally upgrades Diamond from good to very good as she pulls his pants the rest of the way off, because she has no reaction to the scar on his leg. She doesn't shy from it and she doesn't touch it too much. Her hands slide evenly down both legs, and then she stands at the end of the bed. She strips off her tiny black skirt and the even tinier lace panties from beneath it as both House and Wilson sit up slightly to watch. House can hear Wilson licking his lips, and he glances down, just to see if Wilson's recovered enough to go again. He's relieved to see that he isn't, because he's not quite that magnanimous a friend.

Diamond crawls back up and straddles him. House is hard, and rubbing just barely against the smooth inside of her thigh. "How do you want it?" she asks. "Like this?" Her hands are square in the center of his chest, and she lifts herself just slightly. He nods. There is nothing else he can do.

She twirls almost in place, her perfect, smooth back facing him, her tight little ass right there, and he cups one cheek and grunts as she slides the condom onto him. Wilson reaches over and puts his hand on her other cheek, and she looks back over her shoulder and smiles a very nasty little smile at them. "You boys share so nicely," she says, and House hears Wilson turn to look at him but he doesn't look back. Diamond shakes her pretty ass and then turns around. She leans down and kisses House, and her tongue is demanding and too quick for him, and then she pulls back and leans just a little to the side and kisses Wilson. House barely has to turn his head to see it, because Wilson is close, now, even though the beds are large, even though there's another bed in the room. This time, when she kisses House, he makes it linger, and there's something much better about the kiss. It must be knowing that Wilson can see everything.

She sits back and puts one hand on House's chest, uses the other to guide him into her. He closes his eyes, just for a second. Nothing fucking better than this, he thinks, and he maybe said it aloud, because Wilson says, "Oh, god, yeah." House opens his eyes and sees that Diamond has her other hand resting on Wilson's rib cage, like she's balancing between the two of them. She doesn't move up or down yet, just sort of squeezes him from within, and House groans and puts his hands at her waist. She smiles and starts to move. It's good, fuck, so good, his hips buck up to meet her and his hands fly from her waist to her thighs to the bedspread, where one collides with Wilson's leg. Wilson is turned on his side, and he's watching them and House can feel his heavy breathing against his shoulder. He looks over and sees Wilson's mouth formed into a perfect O. Diamond bends down, still moving over him, and kisses Wilson and then House and then Wilson and somehow they're all kissing. She moves House's hand to Wilson's side, moves Wilson's hand to House's chest, and it's a little weird but it's all just about bodies, at this point, bodies and pleasure and House has no rules about this stuff. Wilson's hand is on Diamond's ass, and then it's on House's thigh, a gentle touch, a touch with memory, and House doesn't know how it starts but he is actually kissing Wilson, and his hand is in Wilson's hair when he comes.

Diamond moves just slightly so he slips out. She hovers over him - he can feel this even though his eyes are closed, and his mind is somewhere very far away - and her breath is rushed. She kisses the curve of his eye socket, and he hears a wetter kiss being shared with Wilson. Wilson's hand is on House's biceps.

It stays there even as Diamond gets up and slides away. House doesn't watch her dress again, doesn't watch her take the money she needs from his wallet, doesn't even open his eyes when the door closes. When Wilson's hand moves, though, he blinks.

"I'll get your pain meds," Wilson says, sitting up.

House nods and shifts up a little in bed. He takes the condom off and ties it off. His head has the floaty after-sex feeling that he likes so much, a feeling similar to the high he used to get from running, from Vicodin. Similar, but not the same, he thinks, watching Wilson walk, naked, across the room, holding a plastic cup of water and a pill bottle. House takes the water, drinks a swallow and holds it, then takes his pills. Wilson holds out a couple of Kleenexes, and House wads the condom into them and hands it back, and Wilson clears it all away. House pushes the comforter off the bed completely and slides in under the sheets.

Wilson gets into the other bed. He turns out the lights. "Thank you," he says after a minute, and House snorts.

"No crisis of sexuality?" he asks. His voice is all throat and post-sex gravel.

"Maybe tomorrow," Wilson says. Sex has made his voice warmer, richer, softer. House likes it.

"Diamond," he murmurs.

"Save that number," Wilson agrees.

49. Club

Wilson wakes up into the blue glare of the television. He rolls over and glances at the clock - 8:04 - and then over at the other bed. House is propped against the headboard, the comforter thrown over his right leg. He has the remote control in one hand. Wilson blinks and turns slightly so he can see the TV.

"What are you watching?" he asks, his voice thick with sleep.

"'My Super Sweet Sixteen,'" House says. "It's a marathon."

Wilson closes his eyes. "Only you," he mutters. "Did you sleep?"

"Yeah." It sounds believable.

The volume on the TV comes up a little more, and Wilson hears a high-pitched, snotty teenaged voice talking about bands and her father's influence on the world. He wonders for a moment if he has a hangover, then remembers he didn't drink the night before. Did everything but drinking, he thinks, and rubs his face against the pillow. "I need a shower."

He gets out of bed and grabs his clothes, pulls them into the bathroom. There are tiny, sharp-smelling soaps lined up by the bathroom sink, none of them opened, and Wilson takes a couple of them into the shower. It's a very nice bathroom, large, with a generous tub and a showerhead the size of a dinner plate. He stands under the stream and follows the same efficient order he does every morning: shampoo, rinse, then conditioner, and soap while he's waiting for the conditioner to soak in. But after that's all done, he stands still and ducks his head under the stream and closes his eyes and replays the night before. He's not really hard, but he could be with a little attention. House is awake, already, which probably means things aren't as cool and kosher as he'd like to believe. He jerks off anyway, thinking of Diamond, thinking of House's eyes on them in the dark, thinking of the way their breathing had matched at the end.

He towels off and stares at his clothes, then grits his teeth and puts the Tropicana T-shirt and sweatshirt back on over his slacks and yesterday's shorts. There are nice enough stores downstairs. He can buy something better to wear, or he can be a man about it and wear the stuff and not complain. They'll be home tonight.

When he opens the door, he feels a blast of cold air and realizes his hair is going to poof into a big frizzy mess, but he decides he can just not care, for today. He sits on the end of his bed and stares at the TV. Maybe he'll buy a hat.

The girl on screen is showing the camera crew around one of her father's clubs in Florida, and Wilson feels old just looking at the place. "Do people really live like that?" he asks, as the girl climbs into a limo with $3,000 in cash to go dress shopping in Miami.

"Not my people," House says.

"They could donate that money," Wilson murmurs, watching the girl reject dress after dress. He expects House to comment on her final choice, which is pink and too tight and probably the state-mandated uniform for jailbait, but he stays silent.

When the commercials come on, House clears his throat and mutes the television. "Is this going to be a thing?" he asks.

Wilson looks back at him, and House isn't quite meeting his eyes. "Watching 'My Super Sweet Sixteen' together?"

"That's already a thing."

"Ah, so you mean, driving to Atlantic City and hiring a thousand-dollar hooker? I hope not," Wilson says. "There are certainly cheaper hobbies."

"Five hundred dollars," House corrects.

"Well, now I'm reconsidering." House snorts. He's wearing a T-shirt and shorts, so he's been up, but he looks very messy. "How long have you been awake?"

"Dawn."

"And you didn't make any coffee?"

"Did we get married last night?"

Wilson laughs and stands up. He finds his wallet on the table and puts it into his pocket. "I'm going to go down and get some coffee. And a hat. You want a Danish or something?"

"Wait," House says, and Wilson turns because his tone is not regular House: it's desperate, almost, and Wilson's stomach twists. "I'll come with," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He puts his clothes back on while Wilson pretends to look over his hair in the mirror. Surely, he thinks, surely House, who is a doctor, who is the smartest man Wilson knows, can't have a problem with this, with a helping hand between friends, an overheated kiss, a shared bed and woman. It seems impossible, but there's something tense and wrong here.

In the elevator, House pushes the button for the lobby and Wilson notices his hand is shaking. "House," he says, his voice unsteady. He's not sure what to say or ask beyond that.

"I wanted to score," he says, and at first Wilson's mind goes blank-white, alarmed, thinking, with me? and so soon? but then he understands. House is talking to the elevator panel. "I got up, and I went to the vending machine, and I - I could've just walked out."

"But you didn't." The elevator doors slide open, and House steps into the marble-floored lobby and stops. He looks at Wilson and it's more than sleeplessness in his eyes: it's helplessness, it's surprise and anger. "Oh God," Wilson says, his voice barely a gasp. "Did you?"

House shakes his head and looks down. Wilson doesn't know whether to believe him, or what to believe about him. He knows the psychology of addiction as well as the next enabler, but he still thinks, did I push him to this? "House," he says. He steps forward but doesn't touch him; he's not that stupid, not yet. "Are you OK?"

"We should probably go home," House says. His voice is rough but normal, and when he looks up it's an old face, an old House.

Wilson nods. "Sure," he says. "Anything," he says.

50. Spade

What Foreman has learned from House is that good doctors are either excellent observers or excellent actors. Great doctors are both. House is a great doctor. He watches people, he picks up every bit of evidence, analyzes it, believes it, understands what it means, and then sometimes - maybe too much of the time - he acts in spite of it. It's a kind of luck that Foreman can't aspire to, but he can admire it.

He is, himself, an observer. He comes in to work on Monday morning and gets that things are off immediately. It's not a tension in the air - he doesn't, can't believe in such things, not after so much time with House and his literalness - but it's close to that. It's, well, it's a feeling. It's a prickle at the back of his neck when he sees Cameron getting her own coffee at the kiosk as he walks in, Chase nowhere to be seen.

"Good weekend?" he asks.

"It was fine," she says, shrugging. "You?" She's dressed up, a little - a severely collared shirt, a darker sweater, a bit more make-up. Her black, sharp boots match the purse that's hanging from her arm. Purse, Foreman thinks, not bag, not backpack, not briefcase.

"Restful," he says, which is honest. "You look nice."

"Thank you." Her startled expression tells him it's meant to be a personal effort, not something done for a conference or a meeting. Chase, he thinks. They must be fighting, or having some kind of trouble. There's no good way for him to ask, and he's more likely to get confirmation out of Chase, anyway, so he's happy to keep the conversation light as they ride up in the elevator.

Chase is already in the conference room, and the slight widening of his eyes as they walk in isn't for Foreman. Cameron sets her purse down and hangs up her purse, and Foreman watches Chase watching her over the lip of his mug. He's overstirring whatever is within. Foreman shakes his head and gets his own coffee, sits at the table, and skims the business section of the newspaper. Cameron pauses behind him for a moment before taking her usual seat next to Chase, and Foreman amends his guess from fighting to broken up.

House shows up at exactly 8:15, which is also a sign of the abnormal. Foreman sees him coming down the hall, walking next to Wilson, and the two of them aren't talking. Wilson looks over at House for almost the whole time. Something's up there, too, because Wilson is looking at House like House has maybe lost his best friend. Bad analogy, Foreman thinks.

House walks through the conference room and looks them over, then heads for the coffee. "I've got nothing for you, today," he says. "Go to the movies."

Foreman leans back and considers it. Chase stands up, closes his crossword book, and walks out with a brief, "I'll be in the clinic," that makes House look up. He looks at Cameron, who is failing to look nonchalant about her study of the arts section. "Did you kids break up, or did you just cut him off?"

Cameron puts both hands down on the table and looks up, her gaze very even. "None of the above," she says. She stands up and leaves, too, and Foreman watches her go. He'll get something out of Chase at lunch.

House blinks and looks at Foreman. "What are you still doing here?"

"Observation."

He stares, for a moment, and actually looks perplexed, speechless. Foreman pushes his paper away. This is unusual, even for the new, improved, returned House. "Are you OK?"

House shakes his head, like he's waking up. His glare is pure House. "Go observe the E.R."

Foreman gets up. It sounds more entertaining than sitting around trying to avoid House's bad mood, so he says OK and goes downstairs. The E.R. isn't busy, so he follows a lead from one of the nurses up to the ICU. That patient quite clearly has acute renal failure brought on by Goodpasture's Syndrome, though, so Foreman kills an hour sucking up to the guys in nuclear medicine before he pages Chase. Lunch?

10 min.

They eat in the coffee shop instead of the main cafeteria, which isn't unheard of but is a little out of the norm. Foreman gets a coffee along with his sandwich and sits across from Chase. He feels, for a moment, like a detective, like good old Sam Spade, getting ready to casually interview a witness. "We're avoiding Cameron?" he asks, his chicken sandwich in one hand.

Chase shrugs. "Not avoiding, exactly." He's toying with a bag of chips. "We haven't broken up."

"You say that with such confidence," Foreman says, "that I almost believe you."

"Fuck you," Chase mutters, but there's no heat. After a moment, he says, "It should be better by now, right?"

Foreman chews his chicken sandwich and takes a drink before he responds. "What? You and Cameron?"

"Everything," Chase says. He looks absolutely lost, and Foreman sets down his sandwich. He's spent two years quietly celebrating every time Chase has had a major reality check and even more quietly grousing when things work out for him anyway. This time, though, he looks at Chase's wide eyes and spread hands and genuinely feels bad for him. "House's been back for a month. Things should be getting better by now."

"You mean back to normal? Or better than they were?"

"Both," Chase says desperately. "Either. I don't really care, only it seems like things are just harder, now, than ever."

Foreman nods, though he hasn't thought much about it. Work has been dull since House returned - only the one case so far, and no interdepartmental wars stirred up. The only drama has been that created between the people. "Things are messy," Foreman agrees. "But it hasn't been that long. He was an addict for, what, five, six years? You know this. Recovery takes time."

Chase nods and goes back to eating, and they talk about other things - not Cameron, though. After they finish and carry their food to the trash, Chase says he might knock off early for the day. "You could just go find her and apologize," Foreman says.

Chase rubs his neck and ducks his head. "Actually," he says, "it's not - it's nothing I've done." He won't meet Foreman's eyes when he looks back up, and his cheeks have spots of color.

"Cameron cheated on you?" Foreman asks plainly because he's so absolutely surprised.

Chase shakes his head. "No, nothing quite like that. Only - I dunno." He shrugs and glances toward the elevator. "Look, I'll see you tomorrow."

Foreman nods and watches him go. He can imagine a few possible problems between Chase and Cameron, and the biggest of them is, certainly, House.

He goes upstairs with the idea of further observation. Neither Cameron nor House is in the conference room or the office, so Foreman settles into the comfortable chair in House's office to wait. He picks up a journal from the end table and starts to flip through, looking for names he recognizes - either authors or illnesses. It doesn't matter. Working for House is like being back in school again - he never knows when there will be a quiz, and everything is on the test.

After a few minutes, he sees Dr. Cuddy coming down the hallway. She walks past House's office, which is remarkable enough, and over to Wilson's. Foreman can hear their raised voices through the wall, and he makes out enough to understand that Wilson has missed some kind of important appointment because of House. Well, that makes sense, at least; from the morning, Foreman is pretty sure that Wilson's worried about House. Wilson's a good doctor, but he's probably a better friend, so Foreman has little doubt that he would have put House before some fundraising meeting, hospital coffers be damned.

When the door slams on the other side, Foreman makes sure he's looking down at the journal, and he tries to look surprised when Cuddy pushes the office door open.

"Where's House?"

Foreman shrugs. Cuddy's face is actually red, and her eyes are a little red, too. Not at all a good sign. "I haven't seen him since this morning."

She stares at him for a moment, and Foreman keeps his face as blank as possible. He's heard nothing. "If you see him, tell him I'd like a word," she says.

"I could page him," Foreman offers as she steps back.

She raises her hand as if to stop him, to wave him off, and the door swings into her side. She drops the papers she's holding. Foreman reaches out for them while Cuddy holds the door and grumbles - to herself, it seems - about her clumsiness. He hands everything back, with a sheet of digital ultrasound images on top. The appointment, he thinks, and when he looks up, Cuddy is blushing.

"Congratulations," he says.

She swallows. "Thank you," she manages after a moment. She glances up and down the hallway, and Foreman looks out, too.

"I won't -" he starts, just as she says, "Please don't - " and they both stop. Cuddy smiles awkwardly. "Twelve weeks," she says. "I haven't told anyone, yet, so if you wouldn't mind -"

"It's fine, of course," Foreman says. "Secret's safe with me. Only - does House know?"

Cuddy snorts. "Of course he knows. He knows everything." She smiles again, a meaner, leaner, regular Cuddy smile. "Don't tell anyone that, either."

She walks away, and Foreman watches her go, wonders how exactly things have become this complicated.

It's not House but Cameron who comes in next, when Foreman is sitting at the table, not doing anything, just staring straight ahead. He almost can't take anymore up close observation, but he turns to look at Cameron just the same.

"You all right?" he asks after a moment, because she looks tired and jarred.

She shrugs. "I just heard Wilson asking House if he'd tried to score today."

Foreman clenches his hands together. Of course, he thinks, and also, no way. "What did he say?"

"He said no." She speaks so softly he can barely hear. "Do you think he's already -"

"No," Foreman says, his voice more confident than he feels. "He's been trying."

Cameron nods. She drops her head into both hands. "God, everything is so complicated," she mutters. "I feel like I can't keep up with anything, with any of the stuff going on around here."

"I know," Foreman says. "I've been watching."

-- The End --

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5