House woke up with a groan of frustration that was only partially due to the pain in his leg. Shaking off the fog of sleep, he realized that today was Friday, the end of another long week without Cam...Allison. The longer she was gone, the worse he felt. He missed her, like he missed the chunk of thigh taken from him without his permission.

Sleep had eluded him since he'd returned from Ohio. He kept reaching for her in the middle of the night as if he'd lost a wife of many years instead of sharing a bed with her only once. They hadn't even cuddled. How could he miss that kind of intimacy when he'd never experienced it with her? He blamed himself for having sex with her. If he hadn't felt her body spread beneath him, tasted skin as smooth and sweet as taffy, he wouldn't be in this mess. Now he was like an Allison junkie, desperately in need of another fix.

This is your brain. This is your brain on Allison Cameron, he thought.

Allison. That was the other problem. He could no longer think of her as Cameron now that he knew that name belonged to another man. It was like a big neon sign screaming out that she'd belonged to someone else first. Someone she'd loved very much, at least according to her father, who seemed to be plagued with the same compulsion for honesty that she was, so he supposed it had to be true. It wasn't logical to feel this way about a simple name. A name that belonged to a dead man. That's what bothered him the most. He valued logic above all else, especially fickle emotions. But now he was feeling all these things that defied logic, and hating a name that he'd been calling her since the day they met.

Dragging his tired body out of bed, he got ready for work, dreading another day of wishing she was there to suggest a diagnosis of Lupus. He wanted to see her running off to get a patient history while he watched her hips sway beneath her lab coat, or hunching over the microscope in the lab, her glasses perched on her perfect little nose.

The worst part of the day were the inevitable questions from Wilson, Chase or Foreman asking if he'd heard from "Cameron."

That name again. It was like verbal Ipecac, making his stomach clench in unpleasant ways.

Wilson was especially annoying, frowning at him with disapproval and nagging him to call her and apologize. It had gotten so bad that House had taken to paying for his own lunch, just to spare himself another lecture. Still, he was considering Wilson's advice, because either way he was pretty sure he was going insane.

He sat at his desk, his cell phone in hand and his fingers poised over the button that would connect him to her when suddenly there she was, calling him.

MD MD MD MD MD

Another week had passed and Cameron was still in limbo. After her talk with her mom, they had gone to the cemetery together and laid flowers at both Sarah's and her mother's graves. Now things between them were sort of clumsy and awkward, but not altogether unpleasant. They were trying and that was all that mattered.

But she still had to decide what to do with herself. Go back to Princeton, pack up and find a job elsewhere, or try to go back to her old job? Maybe she should just go back, do her job and pretend like she was strong enough to face House everyday. Fake it 'til you make it or something like that. Although he may have already decided he didn't want her back. Not personally or professionally. Maybe he'd already filled her position.

She flipped open her cell phone and dialed his number. One way or the other she had to know.

"Hey," he answered. His voice was low and gravelly and touched her like a lover's caress, raising goosebumps on her skin and reminding her of things best left forgotten.

"House, it's Cameron," she said, feeling stupid as soon as the words came out of her mouth.

"Yeah, I got that from the caller ID."

"Right." She took a deep breath, pretending like it gave her confidence. "Is...I was just wondering if you'd filled my position yet? I mean...if the job is still open..."

"Job's still yours if you want it. Good lobby art is hard to come by these days." The lame joke tripped over his tongue and fell flat on its face. "When?" he asked.

"When?" she echoed, confused.

"When will you be back?" he drew out, like he was talking to a small child.

"Monday," she answered, fighting back tears and wondering if she was strong enough for this.

"Good. Don't be late," he responded, and promptly hung up.

"I won't," she said to the dial tone.

MD MD MD MD MD

She stepped out onto the concourse and followed the signs for baggage claim, dragging her feet like a death row inmate on his way to the chair and ignoring the scowls of the people rushing around her in their hurry to get wherever they were going. She was back and her feelings were as mixed up as one of Matt's famous homemade fruit smoothies.

Happy, scared, relieved, sad, nervous, eager? All of the above. Blend together. Serve chilled.

The remainder of the weekend would be spent practicing her professional face. The one that said, "I'm totally not affected by the fact that I'm working for the man I am completely in love with. The one who crushed my heart into dust. After we slept together."

That was gonna take some practice.

She stepped onto the escalator that led down to baggage claim and there he was standing at the bottom, leaning on his cane like he hadn't a care in the world and watching her, always watching her with those x-ray eyes.

She was frozen, unwilling to move, but the damn escalator kept going, bringing her closer to him. She had no choice but to step off when she reached the bottom.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, pleased when her voice didn't betray the rapid staccato of her tell-tale heart.

"What? No hug?" he joked, and she just stood there and stared at him. "Thought you might need a ride," he answered, his gaze traveling over her face and settling on her collar bone.

"I was planning on taking a cab," she shrugged, moving past him toward the baggage carousel.

As she stood waiting for the great beast to start regurgitating luggage, he came to stand beside her. Her body reacted before she even looked at him, her scalp tingling and warmth crackling through her in every direction like sheet lightning.

"What are you really doing here?" She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him her best, don't bullshit me face.

He sighed and watched the rotating metal slabs in front of them, briefly considering jumping on and allowing them to take him away. But then again, they'd just bring him right back to her. One way or another, it always came back to her and he'd already decided he was going to stop running from it. Her. Whatever.

"You're not gonna make this easy, are you?" he asked, still staring straight ahead.

She scoffed at that. "You've never made it easy for me. Besides, you don't like things that are easy. They bore you."

"Good point." He paused, fiddled with his cane, looked at her, looked away again, then brought his gaze to rest on her slender feet encased in white sandals, her toenails painted bright pink. "I thought we could try that thing... with the feelings and the kissing and the sleeping together. Especially those last two. What's that called again?"

"A relationship?" she asked, her jaw hanging open. "You want a relationship with me?"

He nodded, looking into her face again. "You change your mind?" he asked, his eyes telling her that her answer might break him completely.

"No," she said softly, laying her hand against his stubbled cheek. "I just want to know what made you change your mind."

He nodded, his vivid blues dancing away from her intense stare. "The long distance thing really doesn't work for me."

Rubbing her brow, her mind made the House-to-English translation. "Are you saying you missed me?"

"Yeah," he murmured, and lifted a hand and gently pushed her hair off her shoulder, tucking it behind her ear. "Can we go home now?"

Home.

She felt like she was already there, standing before him, his hand sweeping across her neck in a gentle caress. She moved into him and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest and listening to the rapid beat of his heart telling her more than he had said with words.

They stayed that way until suitcases started rolling past. She spotted hers wending its way toward them and House hefted it down for her.

He led her to his car and drove straight to his place, getting out and limping around to her side. When she just sat there with her brow furrowed in confusion, he reached for her, speaking to her like she was suffering from brain damage.

"This is the part where you get out," he said.

"I... thought you were taking me back to my place," she answered on a sigh.

"Why? You haven't been there in three months. What's another night or two?" He yanked her suitcase out of the trunk and started toward his apartment. "You've got clothes and all those woman-y products you use. What more could you need? Besides, your place is a mess."

"My place is not a mess," she countered, following him through the door. Then she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously as he continued to the bedroom. "At least it wasn't when I left. What'd you do?"

"I may have forgotten to throw out some take out containers and stuff when I was there," he confessed, kicking his shoes off.

"House, you were only supposed to bring in my mail." Sighing, she rubbed her forehead in frustration, sitting on the edge of his bed with her carry on bag still hanging from her shoulder.

"Did you really think that's all I'd do when you gave me your key?" he threw back.

"Just...please tell me you didn't have... hookers there."

"No hookers," he reassured. "I wouldn't do that." Drawing her into his arms again, he rested his chin on the top of her head, strands of her hair sticking to his whiskers. "You don't need that place anyway. Lots of room here."

"You want me to move in with you?" She was stunned, her wide blue eyes staring into his, searching for answers, for truth.

"I told you, the long distance thing doesn't work for me."

"Long distance? My apartment is only a few miles away."

"And mine's right here." He sat down on the bed, stretching his arms out. "I'm not big on separation," he muttered. "So do you still want this or not?"

"I do," she answered. "It's just... what if you get sick of me in a month or two? Or what if you don't like my stuff encroaching on your turf?"

"Turf?" he mocked, with a roll of his eyes. "It's not gang warfare. You wanted me, you're stuck with me. I'm still gonna be a bastard, but I'm your bastard. So what's it gonna be?" While he spoke, he pulled her down beside him and began running his fingers up under the back of her shirt, sending seismic waves of pleasure through her.

She looked into his eyes, because that's where the truth lived, no matter what his lips were saying. And his eyes were telling her that he was done pushing her away.

"Okay," she nodded.

"Good. Let's go to bed then," he suggested, tugging her down beside him and dropping kisses on her face like raindrops before she had a chance to respond.

She couldn't answer anyway, because she was already lost in him. If she had been capable of rational thought, she'd be thinking of how glad she was to have found the courage to come back.

She'd be thinking that she was finally happy to be home.

The End