He used to answer the phone more. Not much more, but he did. He took calls from work; his co-workers and friends.

From Stacy.

Of course, that was the kicker, he had to answer his phone in case it was Stacy, because he wanted to talk to Stacy. Used to want to talk to her at least.

After the infarction, and after they split up, she called even more than when they had been together. She called to see how he was doing, how the pain was, how much Vicodin he was taking (he got addicted very quickly), she called just because she felt guilty for leaving. Because she missed him. Because she loved him.

He didn't want to talk to her anymore.

She loved him, he'd pushed her (and everyone else) away, she couldn't bear to be around him anymore, he couldn't bear to hear her voice anymore. Talk to her anymore. Talk to anyone.

So rather than selectively screen his calls, he just stopped answering his phone and listening to his messages. People would learn to would, would have to. They would have to accept it and him. As always.

Cameron never called.

He suspected she was the long conversation kind of girl, spending hours on the telephone to her mother, her sister, her friends. Lying on her sofa, her bed, like a school girl, chatting away about nothing and listening to problems. She did it at work, made sense she would be the same in her personal life. She was definitely a telephone kinda girl.

She never called him.

She sought him out instead.

Searched the hospital high and low, she knew all his hiding places, even some Wilson wasn't aware of, a lot of places he was sure no one knew about. She found him on the roof, in the sleep lab and anywhere in between. Wasn't afraid to walk into other people's offices (after a polite knock), come into the showers, the men's room, if it meant she found him.

She was persistent like that.

She didn't call.

Not often. On occasion, she gave him an obligatory ring, two seconds, because she had been asked to, because she hadn't been believed when telling people he wouldn't pick up. She knew him too well. Well enough not to call.

She went straight to the heart of the matter. Literally, surgically, metaphorically and figuratively. She went straight to him. Wasn't afraid to seek him out in bars, restaurants and once, even a strip joint. She was focused, able to spot him across a crowded room and weave confidently through the people to get to him. She didn't call out to him, didn't have to, she could be by his side instantly. She could say more with eye contact than she could with words.

In the strip joint, she had surprised him, walking through the darkened club, past the bar and stood by the stage, eyes scanning the room until she saw him. She walked up to him, hands on hips, next to the girl dancing for him.

He asked her if she was going to dance too, and she'd glared at him and ignored the comment. Telling him they needed him at the hospital now, the word punctuated by her pointing dramatically towards the door of the club. She hadn't batted an eye lid at the girl next to her, had given her a glance and nothing more. She'd only been embarrassed when he'd pointed out how the UV light meant he could see her bra through her white shirt.

She could've called. She didn't call.

She came to his home. A lot.

Morning, noon, night and any hour in between. A few knocks on the door, walk right in, let herself in. He was pretty sure she'd stopped breaking in a long, long time ago and had a key. Probably a copy of Wilson's. He'd woken up in the middle of the night, suddenly, wondering where she was, why he was awake and she wasn't the one shaking him gently. Soft voice, she always smiled when she woke him, until he was awake. Then it was all business, or accusations. He always thought that was a shame.

She'd come to his home and walked in on him playing guitar, watching TV, sleeping, once even cooking. She'd caught him in the shower once or twice, and almost caught him masturbating too. She'd realised once, face going bright red, his already red, breathing harder because she was too close for comfort.

She always was. Two feet, two inches.

Way too close when he was thinking about her when he was jerking off.

She didn't call and she couldn't read minds but she could tell what he was doing, and what he was thinking about, by the way his eyes, bore into hers. He always focused on her eyes when he was really thinking about her. The aesthetics, her breasts, her ass, her legs, he liked them, but what was going on in her head, that's what really got him going. Got him interested.

She didn't call.

He was glad she didn't call. He didn't want her to call, didn't have anything to say to her most of the time. Nothing he thought she wanted to hear. Very few people wanted to hear what he had to say.

Wilson and Cuddy knew him just as well as she did, but still called, left messages. It occurred to him, that maybe they knew him, and she understood him. Maybe.