"House?"

He lifts his hand, but does nothing else to acknowledge the intrusion. His other hand twirls his cane skillfully, threading through his fingers like a magician. He can feel her move up behind him, still on the opposite side of his desk, but too close for comfort.

"I have those test results that you wanted."

"Just set them on the desk." He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his fingers, massaging away the day and the headache that hasn't left him since the morning when the sun was too bright and the coffee not strong enough.

"Are you all right?"

"You mean besides the being a cantankerous, sarcastic, misanthropic son of a bitch?" He nods vaguely. "Peachy keen."

"You just…"

"Don't worry. I'll take two aspirin and see me in the morning." He sighs as she moves, coming around the desk and sitting on the edge of the low cabinet by the window. "Or you could give me a lecture."

"I'm not going to lecture you."

She's wearing a patentedly ridiculous outfit - a shirt that they wore on the prairie and grey pinstripe pants and a vest. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. "Then why aren't you going home?"

"Maybe I'm a masochist."

"I made sure of it on your application. Do you think I'd hire someone who couldn't put up with me? Breaking in newbies is such a pain." He rubs his forehead again and leans back in his chair, his cane still at his side. "You want a drink?"

"Do you think you should have one?"

"No one should have a drink, Cameron. It leads to impaired judgment, impaired sexual function and erosion of the liver. That's why I asked you if you wanted one."

"I'm good."

He snorts out a quick laugh as he turns and pours himself a drink. "You're not good, Cameron. You're saintly. Saint Cameron of the Wounded Spirit. You think there's a church named after you?"

She waits until he lifts the glass to his lips. "In Guatemala."

She fights her smile as he coughs, his face flushed red in the soft, gold light of the room. "Nice." He takes another sip, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. "There might be hope for you yet."

"I can hold my own, Dr. House." She walks toward the door, close enough to brush his shoulder with her hand. "You shouldn't drink that and drive home in this."

He reaches up and catches her hand in his, rubbing the back of it absently with his thumb. "And then you turn into a mother hen." He lifts his glass with his free hand then sets it on his desk, grabbing his cane instead. "Come on. I'll walk you out."