Chapter 2: The Confrontation - Jealousy and Judgment
The lounge was empty except for the ghosts of exhausted conversations. Rosalie stood by the coffee machine, watching brown liquid drip into a stained pot. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the medical posters about rare fungal infections. She could still feel the weight of House’s stare, the challenge in his voice. Do something useful. Or something stupidly, brilliantly wrong.
“So, you’re the new mystery.”
Rosalie turned, nearly sloshing the too-full mug of coffee she hadn’t even realized she’d poured. Dr. Allison Cameron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. She offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Dr. Cameron. Hello.” Rosalie set the mug down, wiping a stray drop from her hand.
“Allison, please. We’re all colleagues here.” Cameron pushed off the frame and walked in, her movements smooth, deliberate. She picked up a discarded medical journal from the couch, thumbed through it without looking. “Gregory doesn’t usually take on… fellows. Especially not without the department’s approval. You must be exceptional.”
The word hung in the air, a barb wrapped in velvet.
“I’m just here to learn,” Rosalie said, the rehearsed line sounding hollow even to her.
“Of course.” Cameron finally looked at her, a slow, appraising scan from Rosalie’s curly hair to her sensible flats. “It’s just unusual. Most medical prodigies do their residencies at, say, Mass General. Not shadowing a diagnostician who considers hospital policy a personal insult. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
There it was. The question, polite and lethal.
“I’m old enough to have my medical degree,” Rosalie said, keeping her voice even. She felt her cheeks grow warm.
Cameron’s smile tightened. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just a very unconventional path. Chase seems quite taken with your potential.” She let the name sit, watching for a reaction. “He’s usually more cautious. But then, you presented that fascinating paper on paraneoplastic syndromes at Johns Hopkins, didn’t you? It’s impressive. For a student.”
The compliment was a scalpel, precise and cutting. Rosalie felt the structure of the room shift, the walls closing in. This wasn’t a welcome. It was a territorial marking.
“Chase is a good teacher,” Rosalie managed, grasping for neutral ground.
“He is. He’s also a bit of a soft touch. House… isn’t.” Cameron took a step closer. The scent of her perfume, something floral and expensive, clashed with the stale coffee. “He’ll eat you alive if you’re just here for the prestige. He can smell academic tourism a mile away. And he has a particular distaste for things that are… merely decorative.”
Rosalie’s spine straightened. The fear from House’s office was gone, burned away by a cold spike of anger. “Is that what you think I am?”
Before Cameron could answer, a voice cut through the hum of the lights.
“Decorative? No. She’s functional. Jury’s still out on how useful.”
House stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. He must have been there for a while. His expression was one of detached amusement, like he’d been watching a moderately interesting cell culture divide. He shuffled into the room, his gait a painful rhythm of thump and drag, and went straight for the Vicodin bottle he’d left on the cluttered countertop earlier.
Cameron took a subtle half-step back, her posture shifting. “Gregory. I was just welcoming Rosalie.”
“Looked more like you were sizing up the new prey.” He dry-swallowed two pills, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Relax, Cameron. She’s not after your spot on the gossip roster. She’s here for the puzzles. Right, Rosie?”
The nickname, sudden and intimate, landed in the silent room. Rosalie felt a jolt. Cameron’s eyes flickered.
“Right,” Rosalie said, the word barely a whisper.
“See?” House said, turning his gaze fully on Cameron. It was a cold, blue weight. “She’s not a threat to your delicate ecosystem of feelings and ethical hand-wringing. She’s a tool. A very sharp, very new tool. I intend to use her. If she breaks, I’ll throw her away.” He said it to Cameron, but he was watching Rosalie, testing her reaction. “No emotional investment. Clean. Simple.”
The air was brittle. Cameron’s cheeks flushed. “I was simply pointing out the unusual nature of her placement here. There are protocols.”
“And I piss on protocols. She solved the Anderson pica case in under three minutes. You spent two days chasing iron supplements.” House’s voice was conversational, but each word was a hammer tap. “Her diagnostic speed is approximately three times faster than yours was at her age. Probably faster than yours now, unless the case involves a tragically handsome patient with a sob story.”
Cameron flinched as if struck. “That’s unfair.”
“It’s data.” House limped over to the whiteboard, picked up a marker, and drew a lazy, meaningless circle. “You’re jealous. It’s boring. Be jealous on your own time. My new tool and I have work to do.”
He glanced at Rosalie. “Well? Come on. Unless you’d rather stay here and discuss the emotional ramifications of your CV.”
Rosalie moved, grabbing her abandoned mug. She didn’t look at Cameron as she passed, but she felt the heat of her stare. House held the door open for her, a mockery of chivalry. As she stepped through, he paused, looking back at Cameron.
“Oh, and Allison? Chase’s opinion on her potential is irrelevant. She’s mine now.”
He let the door swing shut behind them, leaving Cameron alone in the buzzing silence. The floral perfume suddenly smelled sour.
In the hallway, House moved quickly, his cane tapping a rapid staccato. Rosalie hurried to keep up, her heart pounding not from the pace, but from the residual shock of the encounter.
“That was… intense,” she finally said.
“That was Tuesday.” House didn’t slow down. “Cameron’s problem is she thinks medicine is a therapy session. She gets attached. It clouds her judgment. You’re not going to get attached, are you, Rosie?”
“To the patients?”
“To anything.” He stopped abruptly outside a patient room, his hand on the door handle. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Attachment requires a heart. I’m only interested in your brain. Keep the rest of it locked up. It’s messy. It gets in the way.”
He pushed the door open. The inside was a blur of monitors, a prone figure on the bed, and the frantic, electric energy of something going wrong. A nurse looked up, relief flooding her face.
“Dr. House, thank God. We’ve got unexplained tachyarrythmia, spiking fever—”
House was already moving in, his earlier lethargy gone. He was a shark in shallow water. “Rosie. Vitals. History. Now. Talk to me.”
The switch was absolute. The tension in the lounge, Cameron’s hostility, the possessive glint in House’s eye—it all evaporated, replaced by the raw, immediate language of crisis. This was the test. Blood on the floor, everyone yelling.
Rosalie took a breath, the sterile, antiseptic air filling her lungs. She stepped past House, towards the bedside, her eyes already scanning the monitors, her mind clicking into a cold, clear space where there was no jealousy, no fear, no confusing nicknames—only the problem.
For the first time since she’d arrived, she felt perfectly, utterly useful. And from the corner of her eye, she saw House watching her, not the patient, a faint, unreadable curve on his lips.