#really!!

His father had, occasionally, delighted in bringing Robert to black tie fundraisers, dinners with donors and conferences with other giants in the field. And this is my son, he'd say proudly, presenting Robert to heads of hospitals, the Lord Mayor, to billionaire donors. Robert's role was to affirm his dream of becoming a doctor and to ask polite and flattering questions. When he was nine, Robert had liked these events. His father's hand on his shoulder, the way his father would praise him and his grades and his talents. By the time he was twelve, he'd realized his father had no idea what his grades or talents were. By the time he was fourteen, the only time he ever saw his father was at one of these events, but whenever he was asked he'd go anyway, certain that eventually he'd hit on the right formula, that one of these days, the praise would be genuine.

It was several more years before he learned. In the end, all that his years of playing the admiring son had gotten him was a comprehensive knowledge of cocktail party etiquette, and an acquaintanceship with nearly all of his future med school professors.

Both were surprisingly useful. The networking paid off once he was in med school, struggling to catch up to his peers after a year of seminary. The former was even more handy. Chase could manage a wine list, a formal dinner, and any manner of forks. Girls, he'd soon found, were often impressed by that sort of thing. He wasn't sure if Cameron would be, but he had his suspicions: he remembered her one date with House.

At first their thing had been about making House jealous. Sure. Chase knew that. But now House knew and didn't care, and Cameron kept coming over to Chase's apartment anyway. So it couldn't be that. She kept spending her nights with him. Looking at him, grinning dangerous and bright, tempting him into storage closets or on call rooms or the backseat of her car. Their boss knew, Cuddy knew, Foreman knew. Why shouldn't they make it official? Give up the pretense and just —

He'd take her on a real date, he thought. Not a sandwich shop or out grabbing takeaway. A place with waiters and wine lists. Cameron liked that sort of thing, and he thought he might be able to impress her. She'd tease him sometimes — they all did — about being a rich kid, being careless with his money. He imagined their first real date. How she'd roll her eyes and make fun of him, but be pleased all the same. Smiling the way she did: indulgent, embarrassed. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could make her happy. He wanted that. For her to be happy. To be the one to make her so.

He'd had his arguments ready: he knew Cameron well enough to suspect she'd demand them, that she wants to be convinced or wooed. One date, that's what he'd ask her. One real date. She'd let herself be convinced because she wanted it too. He'd buy her flowers. She'd tease him for trying too hard and it was strange how much he wanted that.

How do you want to celebrate? she asks, and he knows he's got her, that everything will be just as he'd planned. She likes him, he knows it. Maybe even more, maybe —

I want more, he says, and her face falls.

After her date with House, Cameron had come into work red-eyed and exhausted, and they had teased her for crying and her obvious denials and care.