Authors Note: First House fanfic, mostly just for fun and to challenge my writing style a little. Where this ends, I am unsure, though I aim to build it up to an M rating. It will be a journey we will take together. Constructive criticism much appreciated. Enjoy.

Everything was a game to him. Sweaty and just a little irritated she pushed through the door at the top of the stairwell, coming face to face with a distinctly House-free rooftop. It made her want to scream, she'd been through all his usual haunts and had nothing to show for it except an empty bag of potato chips, Clinic, a most suspicious Wilson, Wilson's office, and an empty coffee cup by the coffee machine that she had a strange feeling he expected her to fill for him. Resisting the urge to let out her frustration she takes a slow breath, holding it a moment as she corrals her thoughts, before turning and walking face-first into the metal edge of the lazily closing door.

Consciousness was seeping back into her world. First, a dull ache of waking on the gritty roof, followed by the cool sensation of wind rolling and sweeping across her arms. Somebody spoke, but it was a fuzzy indistinct voice. Then there was a hand on her arm, a big worn hand and she smiled. Even with her brain acting as the part-time puppeteer to a particularly unruly puppet, she recognised that hand. Eyes opening, she looked about, her efforts to sit crushed by gravity and vertigo. For now the roof was her friend and lying very still seemed like it would be best.

"House?" Her voice was scratchy, thirsty, she swallowed a little before trying again, "Hou-"


He watched from the edge, leaning against it with his cane propped up against his good leg. He thoughtfully chewed his sandwich as his eyes roved down her. What she must look like to him, so foolish.

"Do you want to get up?"

"I don't... think I can." Why did she need to clarify herself, she didn't work for him. She felt guilty, even lying injured.

"Well, I'm not sure I can help you. I'll call Wilson." Dropping the crust of his snack from the roof, his hand goes into his pocket and retrieves his phone. He's dialing melodramatically before she calls his bluff.

"No, stop." He lets the phone ring, Wilson's voice complaining electronically for a minute before he hangs up on House.

Gripping his cane, he moves closer, flipping a leg over her stomach and bending at the waist so he's looking down at her from what seems a great height, a monolithic A frame scaffold in a well-worn suit.

"How many heads do I have?" She smiles brilliantly, he almost smiles back, even like this her radiance infects him with something, "Close enough." Reaching down he grasps her offered hand, helping her to sit up. His knee hurts, but he ignores its complaints, kneeling beside her and examining her dark, deep eyes with his miniature keychain flashlight. Mild concussion, he already knew that, but the excuse was good enough should anybody see them. She tips, leaning against his leg, her pupils focusing slightly, exposing rich blue irises, ringed with colour and light. He wants to lean in and kiss her. Instead he runs.

"You're concussed. Can you stand?" A slow nod, before a push and her legs are under her. She helps him up and he gives her his arm, which she dutifully clings to. Walking is not as hard as either of them thought, though on the landing above diagnostics she missteps, stumbling and sandwiching him comfortably between herself and the cold stone. Her eyes catch his before he can look away and she lets herself lean against him for a moment before mumbling insincere apologies.

Cameron sits on the couch, eyes closing, just listening to him moving around his office. The clattering swish of blinds descending and closing, bright light reverting to warm shadow. He leaves, coming back with several paper towels and a cup of water, which he places on the corner of his desk. Pulling his chair close to the edge of the couch, the inside of his knees almost touching the outside of hers he hands her the cup.

"Hold this." She does, feeling a slight pressure against the cup, and then again on her forehead, eyes opening to look at him. His eyes roll.

"Oh relax, it's my job." That earns him a smile which he carefully tucks away for safe-keeping. The wound, barely a scratch, runs vertically from the inside of her right eyebrow towards her hairline. Meticulous fingers clean the slightly dried remnants away, before he pats a line of disinfectant on, covering the entire length with thin adhesive bandage.

Smiling at him again earns another faux-rebuke, along with a painkiller and some water. She takes both, without complaint, trusting. He watches her slip sideways into a comfortable sleep, flicking a blanket over her before stepping out. Appearances must be maintained and if people are going to be talking, he wants to catch them doing it.