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"It's not cancer!" House insists to every doctor within earshot from his uncomfortable hospital bed. He doesn't have cancer. He knows he doesn't have cancer.
"Could be auto-immune," Cameron suggests.
"Right. Then he'll tell me it's a brain problem and she'll tell me it's a hormone issue." He points to Foreman and Cuddy respectively. "You people are idiots."
"We know," Cameron says calmly. "Your liver is shutting down."
He frowns at her. "Any other poignant tidbits you'd liked to add?"
"You're dying?" she snarls.
"Thank you," he snaps back and receives her return smirk easily. "That it? Nothing else?"
A collection of four solemn looks stares back at him. He waits. He sips his water. He waits some more.
"Get out," he grunts. "I'll do it myself."
Everyone but Cameron files out of the room. Stern, almost bitchy, she steps up to his bed and speaks in a firm voice, "Cancer was the last idea we had. We've exhausted everything else. Cuddy put you on the transplant list, but if there is anything else wrong beyond the Vicodin tanking your liver, they won't approve the transplant."
He arches an eyebrow at her. "I know this. I'm a doctor. Have a medical degree and everything."
"I know," she sighs. "It makes me feel better to talk through it." She slides her clipboard onto his bedtray. "What kind of service do you want?"
"I'm not dead yet," he says with a sneer.
Cameron swallows, and says, "No, but Wilson said you haven't made any arrangements for anything. You need to have these things taken care of."
"I'm not your husband."
"I know, but I care."
"That's annoying, stop it." He sighs and sinks down into his bed. "My mom will take care of it."
She takes a breath and feels tears prick her eyes. "Don't leave all of his for her, House."
"I don't want anyone to do anything."
"That makes it harder, you know." She brushes a hand over his hair. "I know you don't care, but we do and we're the ones who have to deal with it all when you're gone."
He blinks and turns his head to look at her. "I don't want to die," he says. He'd never admit that to anyone else – not even Stacy. Not even Wilson. He watches the tears spill from her eyes and feels his shoulders tense.
"I don't want you to die, but unless we can figure this out," she sniffs to clear her nose, "you probably will."
"Then don't."
She shakes her head, confused. "Don't what?"
He looks down at his lap. "Don't figure it out." 'Turns his head back to her. "Let me go."
Her headshake is more firm this time. "I can't."
"The papers I'm gonna sign say you can," he tells her.
More tears. He's thinking her bedside manner sucks, but only so he doesn't cry.
"Don't, House, please? Give me time to figure this out. To help you."
He arches an eyebrow at her. "I can't figure this out. Suddenly you're smarter than me?"
She smirks. "I was always smarter than you. You're just lucky."
"Not today, I'm not."
She can't help but laugh at him. "I'm not giving up."
"You should. I have."
"No you haven't," she says, glaring at him. "You just want me to go away. Screw you, House. I'm saving your sorry ass."
He shakes his head, relenting to her persistent need to save the world. "I'll give you a tip – it's not cancer."