A/N: The first few stories here were previously independent, but I decided to make them one big series that all fits together. Don't know when it'll be done. Enjoy. Amos Whirly

Broken
House, M.D.
Amos Whirly

Perspectives -- Part One: Dr. House

The roar of giant engines and the fragrance of hydraulic fluid and gasoline saturated the cool evening air in the New Jersey arena like the anesthetic and alcohol in the sterilized halls of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Cheering crowds, deafening engines, shattering fiberglass – it was all the destruction of a demolition derby, with all the thrill of a NASCAR race, and all the power of Vicodin.

She was beautiful.

He admitted it to himself. He hadn't allowed himself to do so at the hospital. Work was work. Anything else at work other than work itself was inappropriate, after all, and he had to retain a certain amount of profundity around his staff. Otherwise, they might start thinking he was some kind of nice guy.

And he just couldn't have that.

But tonight wasn't work. Tonight he was at a monster truck show with a beautiful woman, who just happened to be a brilliant doctor. Tonight, he could wear a ball cap and eat cotton candy. Tonight, he didn't have to fend off stupid people, hypochondriacs, or pestering hospital administrators.

No façades. No sneers. No cruel comments.

It didn't mean he was letting his guard down. That would never happen, but he would, however, allow himself to relax. He was in his element. Monster trucks. He'd loved them since he was a kid. And Cameron didn't know what they were? Ridiculous. Kids nowadays didn't know anything.

Gravedigger was crushing cars and jumping ramps, massive tires kicking up dust all over the arena floor.

Cameron's face was priceless. Why hadn't he brought a camera? That's right. He didn't own one. But the first time that giant truck flew—as if it had sprouted wings—he would have paid any price to capture the expression on the young doctor's face.

Part of him was thrilled to share the strange joy he derived from watching the enormous vehicles soaring through the air. Part of him was leery, not trusting the female species farther than he could hit with his cane. The other part of him was nervous. He'd never let anyone else other than Wilson into this part of his life, this boyish pleasure at big toys. Most adults, especially ones supposedly of his intellectual echelon, would have considered it preposterous.

Like he cared what anyone else thought.

At the end of the show, Cameron clapped excitedly, her big eyes bright and shining. They gathered their things and went down to the main floor, flashing their 500 dollar badges proudly to any security guard that tried to question them.

He'd told a particularly obese guard to leave them alone and go finish his donut. Cameron had laughed at that. They wandered around aimlessly, looking at all the trucks, talking about nothing, laughing at the colorful dregs of society all around them.

He felt like a teenager again.

Not an embittered, pill-popping, forty-something cripple with a medical degree and a penchant for making random nurses cry.

"That was amazing!" Cameron exclaimed, picking at her cotton candy. Her tone was sincere. She wasn't playing him. She was serious. She had really enjoyed it.

Interesting.

"I'm telling you, Gravedigger never disappoints," he returned with a tenor of pride evident in his deep voice.

He limped beside her, pulling the last of his cotton candy off of its paper cone holder. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her gaze switch to a motorcycle rider couple in black leather and chains, sharing a drink and laughing together about something.

He felt the question coming before she asked it and grimaced inside.

"Were you ever married?"

He answered, gruffly gentle and somewhat disappointed, "Let's not ruin a lovely night out by getting personal."

She looked away. He had managed to shut her out without being mean about it. Nice. But for some reason, it stung and made his chest constrict slightly.

His thoughts immediately turned to the person who should have been there with him.

Wilson.

His friend who'd dumped him for – for her. Stacey, the constitutional lawyer. Just hearing her name again sent a shock of pain through him that made him want to reach for the supply of Vicodin in his pocket.

Stop it, he told his mind and blinked. They were friends. It's perfectly natural for them to want to catch up. His gaze shifted to Cameron. Don't take it out on her, you old grouch.

"I lived with someone once," he said aloud before he could stop himself.

She didn't ask. She just nodded.

Good girl.

"You gonna' finish that?" he indicated her cotton candy, switching his empty paper cone to his other hand and limping awkwardly as he held out his hand.

She flashed a smirk at him that lit up her eyes and pulled another piece off before handing the rest of it to him. He took a big bite, and she grinned and pulled it out of his hands. He grumbled out loud, and she laughed, dashing through the exit gates.

"I'll race you to the car!" she giggled.

"You're on," he tossed the paper cone to the garbage can and limped after her as best he could. After three years with that cane, he was fairly proficient with it.

It was almost a tie.

She was faster, yeah, but he knew how to cut corners. Even so, she let him win, he was sure, but he didn't care. They stopped at the car, laughing for no real reason.

Laughing.

He was laughing.

When was the last time he had laughed? Really laughed? What was wrong with him?

Once their laughter faded, they just leaned on the car together, watching the lights on the arena lighting up the night sky.

"This was fun," she commented.

"Yeah."

"Thanks for asking me."

He looked down at her. She was looking up at him, a pleasant smile on her face. "Anytime."

"I don't suppose—" she started.

"—We could do it again sometime?"

She looked up at him with an arched eyebrow, and her smile brightened. "Anything's possible."

They fell into companionable silence, watching the moon peek out from behind the clouds before they climbed into the car. Cameron had driven, of course. They rode in silence, the radio playing softly.

"I can't believe you'd never heard of monster trucks," he commented finally.

"Me neither. I think I missed out big."

"I suppose you were into Barbie dolls like any other self-respecting girl."

"Actually—" she hesitated. Was that a blush creeping up her face?

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're blushing. That's not nothing. Unless you have some kind of skin condition I wasn't aware of, and in that case I can recommend a fungal cream that'll clear it right up."

Her blush had increased. She changed lanes and sighed. "I ran a clinic."

"Huh?"

"A clinic," her voice was embarrassed. "I fixed all my friend's dolls that had been broken. Stitched up stuffed animals, glued Transformers back together. Stupid stuff, like that."

He chuckled, for a moment envisioning Cameron as a child, playing doctor to a world of injured elephants, monkeys, and long-legged supermodels.

"Practice, huh?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head. "That's not stupid."

"It's not?"

"No."

She glanced at him with a smile. He pretended not to notice.

She pulled up in front of his apartment, and he climbed out, saying, "It wasn't a date, remember."

"I remember," she teased. "If it had been, you would have driven and paid for the cotton candy."

"I'll reimburse you. Promise."

"Don't mention it."

He paused, leaning on the car roof and peering into the interior. Cameron was still smiling.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he answered. "Tomorrow. And, Cameron?"

"Yeah?"

"You really liked it?" He was skeptical, highly skeptical. Maybe she was just acting after all.

She regarded him quietly and nodded. "Yeah," her voice was genuine. "I really did."

He nodded and pushed away from the car. "Good night."

"Good night, Dr. House."

He shut the door and watched her drive off.

"She liked it," he shrugged. "Hm. Who would've guessed?"

He limped up the stairs to his apartment and entered, locking the door behind him. He settled into his favorite chair and propped his leg up.

Strange. It hadn't seemed to bother him at all during the show.

He leaned back and turned on his radio, the sweet sound of a Mozart piano concerto flowing over the speakers fluidly and filling the dimly lit room.

He pulled his Vicodin out of his pocket and set it on the table beside the chair, his mind focused on something else other than the constant pain.

"Mozart," he muttered. "Hm. Wonder if she likes piano too?"