Author's Note: Yeah. This may be out of character. So bite me. : P If you want me to add a third chapter, you'd better tell me! Hehe.

"Why did you become a doctor?"

"Chicks dig the stethoscope." House grabs a shot and downs it quickly, smacking his lips. She rolls her eyes. She should have been more specific when writing the rules. He leans back in his chair and furrows his brow. "Why are you here?"

"Guys with stethoscopes dig chicks." Cameron retorts quickly, although she takes no pride in her quip. This isn't going how she wanted it to. But she knew if she tried to push some sincerity from him, he would close up and become all rational and academic. Or worse. He'd become mean. House was sarcastic by nature -- one just had to accept it. His wit was often biting, but very rarely did he intentionally try to hurt someone. She thinks he can, though. She thinks that if he wants to, he can hurt anyone with words, because he's very good at observing people. So she plays it safe. She has already spent a few hours collecting herself, biting back bitter tears. Because even though she pretends his glacial behavior is contagious, she knows it's not. He rolls his eyes at her words, and she wonders what he was like as a teenager going through puberty. House was hellish enough. A moody House? She takes the shot to hide her smile. He repours the fiery liquid carefully, waiting for her question. "Did you ever sleep with Cuddy?" Her words are more hesitant than she'd wanted, shaking like the final leaf on a tree during winter. She bites her lip.

He is obviously thrown a little off-balance by the seemingly spontaneous question. He frowns ever so slightly. His fingers were already curling eagerly around his shot glass, but he lets go and waves his hand dismissively. "No answer no shot. Why do you want to know?"

"Everybody wants to know." She brazenly waves his hovering hand away and downs his shot, her silvery eyes mischevious. "Did you ever sleep with Cuddy?" She feels like a parrot. Worse. She feels like his parrot, trained to do his bidding.

"Yes." He pauses, pours himself a shot, downs it, shifts his leg. She wonders if the sporadic rather than continuous stream of alcohol has any effect on his former numbness. He knows it does. She thinks that the alcohol is like vicodine. She has always theorized that it was more of a psychological ordeal. He knows it is. "Did you ever sleep with Foreman?" She blinks, wide-eyed with surprise.

"What?"

"Good question," he says, patronizingly, grinning a coy, lop-sided smile as he pours another and lifts it to his lips. She sees his hand shaking ever so slightly. "Did you sleep with Foreman?" He drinks it. She rolls her eyes and scoffs, trying to hide the strange, tight feeling that has spread through her body when he admitted to sleeping with Cuddy from showing on her face.

"Never. He's a friend." She takes a shot, twirling the crystalline glass in her fingers and making a point not to look at him. Cameron likes Cuddy. She admires Cuddy. But for a split second, hot hatred boils in her stomach like spitting flames. She swallows it. "When?"

He knows what she's asking despite her vagueness. He is curious. Logically, there are only two reasons she would be asking. One: Cuddy was getting Cameron to do her dirty work and it was a Jane told John who told Beth who told Sam and Sally who told Autin who told Jane ordeal, where Jane -- or Cuddy -- just wanted to know what he thought without asking. But that wasn't likely. He tilted his head very slightly, a quarter of a degree. Two: Cameron was jealous. He liked that one. It gave him power. Gave him control over her; he could manipulate her anyway he wanted if logic held true. Perhaps, if House were one to believe in signs, he might see an etherael correlation between he encountering Cameron tonight and his current state of partial drunkeness and their current game. But he didn't, because signs implied belief in a god. So it was simply a mathmatical coincidence instead of a fated one. One interger and another.

"Dunno," he responds, shrugging. He is going to fake nonchalance. "A few times since I've been hired." He felt like he was trapped in a soap opera. He took a shot. "What about Wilson?"

"No," she responds shortly, and he momentarily wonders if he has struck a nerve. If something happened between them that would make this sore. He fingers his shot glass. He decides he doesn't care. "Why?"

"She digs my stethoscope," he responds after a very slight pause, and Cameron snorts, taking the shot she had forgotten. She wished she could get him to shut up so she could interrogate. Curiosity, and maybe something else, is gnawing viciously on her insides. "I'm running out of male co-workers. Did you sleep with Cuddy?"

"Who hasn't?" It is a seemingly harmless dig, playful, even. But her eyes flash and seem a shade darker as he looks at her. He smirks as she drops her gaze quickly, evasively, and tosses a shot down her throat, swallowing melodramatically. House is talented in several unique and limited aspects. He is a renowned and unparalleled diagnostician. He is brilliant in the art of persuasion and sarcasm. But his most natural, in-born talent is for observation. He subtly observes everybody -- he takes them apart and puts them together again until he knows their inner-workings better than they do. He loves puzzles. Every person is a puzzle. Some are just more difficult than others.

Cameron's puzzle is like a young child's with obscure pieces: easy in theory but harder in reality. He has been putting it together since the day she came into his office to interview for a position -- quite frankly, House had been ready to hire her when she walked through the door. He needed something to keep him focused on work. Cameron's appearence accomplished this easily. She was beautiful -- he had admitted it, admitted to noticing and staring occasionally. Physical attraction was something he had no qualms speaking of. It was what went deeper that scared him. Not that his draw to her was anything more than lust. Naturally.

He rubs his temples and prays she'd ask her question soon.
He needs that shot.

"Are you being intentionally dense?"

"Not intentionally. Naturally," he pauses, takes his shot. His mind calms. "I'm a man, remember?" The latter is thickly caustic, his tone mocking. She rolls her eyes again. He refills their shot glasses. "Why are you asking me about Cuddy?"

"I already told you. Everybody is curious." She takes the shot.

"So you're doing it for charity?" His question interrupts her own, breaking the cycle. She smiles softly, half-heartedly, bemusedly. She doesn't really know what to say. She could admit that the thought of him with Cuddy makes her want to throw herself off of the hospital roof. She could admit that she does has feelings for him. That she is awful at holding her drink and already feels like the room is spinning. She could tell him that there's a chance she might pass out soon and fall off of the chair. She could tell him that she feels utterly green -- and not just in a manifestation of her drunkeness, but with jealousy, too. But she doesn't. Because she has learned some things from him. She has learned to close off her emotions with patients. But her prior dellusion that she could treat him that way is faltering and temporary. She runs a hand across her features, shadowing them.

"No."

"Cheater," he responds quickly. Almost too quickly as he hands her the shot she didn't take after answering his question. That is her signal to stop. That he isn't going to go any further with personal interrogations unless they're followed by obligatory alcohol. He secretly thinks that she could be a fun drunk. She accepts the drink openly, pours it down her throat and savors the burning sensation even though it is beginning to lose its effect. She sees two Houses at once. It is a frightening prospect. She thinks her heart couldn't handle two of him. It has trouble keeping regular cadence with one.

"Uhm..." She begins, framing her forehead with splayed fingers as she leans forwards, her mind beginning to scramble.

"Promising prologue..."

"Uhm," she repeats, casting him a dark look. She suddenly finds him aggravating. But that's just the alcohol pumping through her system. "How the hell do you drink this much?"

"Practice." He takes a shot, his pale eyes glinting mischeviously, though the normally clear, contemplative colour is shaded slightly. With what she isn't sure. "How much does it take to get you drunk?" The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

"About three shots," comes her slurred response, and she grins, tossing another one back. "Why do you drink so much?"

"Numbs the pain." House intones, gesturing towards his leg with a long index finger. He eyes his shot glass. She quirks a brow. There cannot possibly be a way to out-drink him. He couldn't have given up already, she thinks. And of course he hasn't. He reaches for the bottle and presses it to his lips, downing a rather large amount before handing it to her. She eyes it distastefully. But his response isn't satisfying, so she continues, waits for his question. "You're drunk?"

"Significantly," she drawls with a roll of her eyes, leaning back as she dumps the chilled liquid down her throat. She doesn't feel anymore. She knows what he meant, now. Drinking doesn't numb the pain in his leg -- that's just a pretense. Drinking numbs his pain in general. She frowns as she places the bottle on the counter. "What causes you pain, then?"

"Dude, how rude are you? Rubbing a cripple's inabilities in his face." He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle. She watches him, watches the liquid. He doesn't swallow at all. Her eyes narrow very slightly. "What was the craziest thing you ever did when you were drunk?"

She pauses. He has struck a nerve. She bites her lip and looks away for a split second. He is intrigued.

"Slept with my husband's friend," she mumbles, shifting uncomfortably. He thinks she really needs to get over it. It obviously happened a significant time ago. House thinks of other relevancies, too -- he wishes he could take another shot. He had been pretending last time. "Are you just pretending to drink?"

"Not anymore." He lifts the bottle and takes a lengthy swig. "Before or after you were actually married?"

"...Before. But it's the general idea." He snorts with disgust, and she sticks out her tongue like a petulant child. She takes a drink, slowly, laborously, and stares at him pensively. She knows what she wants to ask. She takes a metaphorical back-step. "Do I ever cause you pain?" She gets the reaction she knew she would. He chuckles. It is a low, gravelly sound. More of a vibration than an actual auditory sense, and she rubs she back of her neck self-consciously. When he's done, he lurches to his feet and grabs his cane gracelessly from the ground. Now standing, he reaches for the bottle and takes one last, long drink. The bottle is empty.

He walks away and she is alone in the bar with two empty shot glasses and an empty bottle of who-cares-what.