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T.G.I.F
by Treacle_A
X
Woah. Deja vu.
The hallway leading down to Cameron's apartment isn't long, but, as House looks down it for the second time in as many days, it telescopes out in front of him like a scene from 'The Shining'. Taking a firmer grip on the handle of his cane, he's irritated to find his palms are a little sweaty. Putting himself 'out there' isn't something he's ever enjoyed doing. Hell, these days, it's something he avoids at all costs, but Wilson is right and, as hard as it is for him to admit it, he needs Cameron back. Without her, the whole thing is thrown out of balance. Like his leg all over again, he keeps going to put weight on it, only to find it missing and the sense of loss is...disconcerting. For the others too. If nothing else, it'd be nice just to have Foreman back to normal again, not staring at him like he's planning to shiv him in the exercise yard.
When he reaches her door, his courage deserts him for a second. It's early evening already and a Friday. What if she's not alone? She has friends right? Angry-eyed, self-righteous girlfriends who'd be sure to be rallying round her in this her time of need. Maybe they were all inside right now; Kelis on the stereo, a bottle of Southern Comfort and a tube of Pringles:
"What the hell, girl? Why you want to go gettin' hung up on some crazy ol' cripple twice your age anyhow? When you know you could have any damn man your lil' heart desires?"
"Yeah! His loss honey! You hear me? His. Loss."
How come her supportive girlfriends were always black in these scenarios?
Lifting his cane to shoulder height, House leans on the door frame for a second, listening. No Kelis. That part he'd imagined at least. No sound of glasses or loud derisive laughter either and, mildly encouraged, he raps hard. Four times.
On the ninth rap, she opens the door.
She's pale. Paler than usual. Her skin is the colour of cream and her blue-grey eyes are shadowed and hugely luminous in her face. She hasn't been sleeping well, that much he can tell at a glance and, although she's lightly made-up, her hair is hanging loose and uncombed over her slender shoulders. Her expression is weary, a little guarded and his chest constricts a little as he realises that she's been waiting for him. She knew he would come.
"I dont want to interview anyone else."
She raises her eyebrows.
"Youre interviewing?"Her chin lifts, eyes connecting directly with his. "I thought youd just have them send a head-shot along with their CV."
The ice-cool, calculating gaze isn't terribly convincing. Especially teamed with the shadows and the virginal white peasant blouse she's wearing. Trying hard not to wonder if she's wearing anything underneath, House nods, gives a small, dry laugh, allows her to keep the moral high ground.
"Thats good. And why I need you around. To keep me in my place."
A soft noise from inside the apartment draws his interest and, leaning forward, he peers past her. It's something he does all the time, invading her personal space, but this time, Cameron's not playing. Closing the door up around her, she smiles at him thinly.
"I cant come back, I told you that."
There's something she hasn't told him yet. A card she's keeping face down. Calling her bluff, he shakes his head.
"Wasnt listening."
"Right."
There's a hardness in her eyes now that wasn't there before. A toughness. Two days has given her the chance to think up a strategy, plan her next move and, not for the first time that day, House feels a sudden stab of uncertainty. That he needs Cameron back has been a tough admission to make to himself, but, having made it, the idea that she might now simply reject his request seems unthinkable. Narrowing his eyes, he tries like hell to read her, to say what she wants to hear.
"You want me to listen to you more? I can do that."
"Right." She smiles and he knows she's guessed what he's doing. "I already accepted a position somewhere else."
It's a Royal Flush and she knows it. Their eyes lock and there's a tightness in his throat that he doesn't want to feel, a muscle in his jaw twitching that he knows she has to see. The seconds spin out between them and finally, unable to hold her gaze any longer, he looks down. Nods slowly.
"Ok."
Her whole body is tensed, waiting for him to show his hand, but for some reason, he suddenly realises he doesn't want to play any more. Lifting his head, House looks her straight in the eyes.
"What do you want from me, Cameron? You want me to say I need you? That I miss you? That you were right all along and that, deep down, I'm just a simmering cauldron of barely contained teenage-angst? That I lie awake at nights thinking about you, imagining what it would be like hold you? To smell your hair?"
The bitterness creeping into his voice surprises even him and, choking back a laugh, he rolls his eyes, looks up at the ceiling.
"You want to know what keeps me up at nights? Pain. Want to know what I miss? Running. Want to know what I need?"
Taking the bottle out of his inside pocket, he holds it in her face, pops off the top one-handed and palms the pill.
"I need this."
And he dry swallows it. Something he does every day. Twenty times a day. Sometimes twenty-five. But today is different. Today his throat is scratchy from weariness, he's tense and the muscles in his jaw are tight and constricted. The saliva that he'd normally produce to ease the tablet down, has all been used up in the lengthy pause between the moment he asked her to come back and the moment he realised that she wouldn't. There are any number of variables that cause freak accidents to happen, but these are the only four House has time to think of before he starts to choke to death on his own pain medication.
"House!"
The breath he struggling to take is jammed in his windpipe and, reaching a hand to his throat, he doubles over, claws at his adam's apple. Jesus, what a clich.
"House!!"
Cameron's face is as white as milk, and the rising tide of panic in her eyes is oh-so-sweetly-familiar that he almost smiles at the sight. Or at least he would were he not about to lose consciousness. He's falling backwards now, sliding down the wall of her hallway, his cane fumbling from his grip as his right leg collapses under him. Her hands at his waist feel ridiculous, feebly tugging at him, pulling him round against her, her insubstantial body driving in hard against his back.
Her balled fists drive into his lungs below the rib-cage, and he snaps double, his hands are flailing out in front of him, clutching at the carpet, at her fingers, anything. Weak and boneless. Again, and this time he feels as if she's going to break him in two. Her breath is desperate, rasping against his ear, hissing: "Come...on. Come...on."
Her hips snap back in time with her voice, once, twice. And then air explodes out of him like water. Like a dying man's gasp. And they both fall to the floor, her body collapsing over his as his face mashes down into the carpet, tangling like a shipwreck.
The air he draws in feels like razorblades, hot and ragged and he can't move. Not yet. Somewhere in the dim distant reaches of his memory, he recalls a fall from a tree-house. Ten feet onto hard-baked earth that left him hollowed out with pain and gasping like a landed fish; "Breathe slow, Greg. Slow. Small breaths." His Mom's voice speaking steady and calm, talking him through the pain.
"Small breaths. Slow."
Her hands are cupping his shoulders, levering him up from the ground like roadkill and he lurches, leans on her with all his weight, all his strength, and she doesn't falter. Doesn't shift.
"Can you walk?"
She works him like a marionette, making his feet move for him, one arm around his waist, her hip braced against his. His cane is gone, somewhere, and the realisation that she has suddenly become his cane, his one support, sinks into him like a fresh bloodstain and he tries to stand, tries to move away from her.
"I'm...ok...I can...I'm fine."
"What are you...?" Her voice is high-pitched with disbelief and the arm around his waist rachets tight. "You're not fine! Jesus...you almost died!! Are you insane?"
Her strength is surprising considering her size and, shifting him bodily, she manouevers him through the doorway of her apartment and then the few more steps over to the couch. The book she was reading is lying open, interrupted like her evening, and shoving it impatiently out of the way, she lowers him down onto the cushions.
"Stay here."
He's still having trouble focusing. It's a bit like being drunk, although without the pleasant accompanying warmth and bravado. Letting himself slump backwards, he's only half listening to her as she walks quickly away. The kitchen and the sound of running water, and then she's back again, her hand closing over his, pressing a glass into his palm. His head rolls loosely on his neck, but somehow he manages to co-ordinate the two actions; head forward and glass up to meet it. Her hand is still on his. Almost half a year's worth of shying away from any physical contact with her and now he wonders why. What the hell was all the fuss about.
He clears his throat, "I'm ok. Really. You can stop hyperventilating."
She shakes her head and takes the glass from him. Sets it on the coffee table. Faces him.
"Have you any idea how crazy you sound?" Her face is naked; wide-eyed and full tilt and there's nowhere for him to run. "You almost died! You almost choked to death. Just now. Right on my doorstep. And now you just want to forget it? Brush it off like nothing happened?"
She pulls back, turns her face away and he almost smiles again at the familiarity of it. All her mannerisms, her tells, all the things that make up Cameron. The raised eyebrow, the incredulous look of disbelief. Even the smug smile, the one she always gives him when she knows she's done well, surpassed even his high expectations, he realises he knows every one. Has secretly catalogued every one.
Her eyes move back to him, and they hold him in place. Her sadness is like a blanket she uses to comfort herself.
"What do you want from me?"
It's her lower lip that does it in the end. That and her white little hands, lying broken in her lap like lilies. She's all angles and bones, big eyes and soft pale mouth and he can't look at her any more without touching some part of her. So he reaches a hand out. Traces her lip with the pad of his thumb. She's origami, folding in on herself, but he catches her before she can.
Their foreheads touch; breath and softly tangling fingers, before he tilts his head to one side and gently takes her mouth. She's shaking. Great deep quakes that pass up through her arms, under his hand, as she leans into him, small gasping breath like she's afraid to pull away, afraid to break contact.
"Oh..."
The sound goes straight to his balls.
XX
They neck. On the couch. Like teenagers. He has no idea for how long.
It's a lot like drowning, or at least like staying afloat. He has to tell himself to keep breathing, to keep his head clear, but the wave keeps reaching in to engulf him; smacking him off his feet into the surf every time he half-opens his eyes and sees her mouth, her eyelashes, the expression on her face. He wants to do more than just touch her now. He wants to do more than just slide his hand above the waistband of her jeans, splay fingers wide over her ribcage. But her tongue is soft and warm in his mouth and he's having trouble shifting the focus.
"We need..." She breathes into his mouth, frowning. "House...we need to..."
"...uh...?"
He's been reduced to monosyllables. Glassy-eyed and ridiculously warm now, his hands are roaming the peach-soft skin of her back, tracing long silver patterns on her spine that are making her shiver. His brain is stuck in a low, humming, oily neutral; idling over, her name repeating endlessly, looping. Cameron. This is Cameron. He's kissing Cameron. He's touching Cameron. And Cameron. Cameron is touching him.
"Oh. God."
Another two syllables. He's making progress.
Her hands, still shaking, are moving on him now. Tiny, urgent tugs on the hem of his shirt and he has to take a second, pull back and help her, just because she isn't moving fast enough, and he needs to feel her hands on him. She's slides forward against him on the couch, pulling her legs up underneath her and he realises, only a second before she does it, exactly where she's going with this. Breaking contact with his mouth, Cameron sits up, breathing hard. She looks down at his leg.
"Are you going to be ok?"
"With...which part...exactly?
She rolls her eyes, a smile tugging her lips.
"I meant your leg."
Her knee slides over his lap and she settles onto him like a snowfall. Her groin pressed in tight against his own is unbelievably hot and, while he's still digesting that little fact, she throws petrol on all his fantasies and grinds slowly and deliberately against him. The groan that escapes his throat surprises even him.
She smiles into his lips, "Comfortable?"
"Uh."
This is getting ridiculous. He swallows, tilts back his head a little so he can look at her. Her face is glowing, glorious taffy-thick hair falling forward into her eyes and, unable to help himself he lifts a hand up and slides his fingers through it. Cups her jaw. A stillness settles over them both and, in the midst of it, he realises there's something he needs to ask her.
"Are you sure...?"
He doesn't get to finish. Sliding backwards off his lap, Cameron stands between his knees for a moment before reaching down and pulling her blouse up over her head. Underneath, the bra she's wearing is sheer and her almost painfully erect nipples are clearly visible through the fabric. House takes a shallow, ragged breath.
"Because if you're not, we could just..."
She reaches behind her back and unhooks. Lets it slide to the ground. Her breasts are cream and rose, perfect, and the soft, rounded curves are pulling at his fingertips, dragging them up from his sides.
"...uh..."
She moves forward again, settles into him. Her skin is buzzing, and he has to take another breath - inhale her - as his hands trail up over her hips. Her ribs. Her upper arms. Her eyes on him are unnaturally dark. Catching his wrists, she slides her fingers up, through his.
"Shut up, House."
She bring his hands to her breasts, covers them, and the oh-so-deliberate simple wantoness of the action, sends a rush of blood to his groin that very nearly kills him. She's too good. She's just too good to be true. And what's more he remembers telling her that in a very very different set of circumstances.
The initial rush over, he's starting to come back together now. Starting to enjoy himself. A beautiful, warm, half-naked girl in his lap and silken bare skin shivering under his hands. If anyone had told him this morning that this would be how his day was going to end, he would have laughed. Bitterly. And hot on the heels of that thought, comes another.
Oh God, Wilson. Wilson is going to be so. damned. jealous.
"Hey."
Sitting back in his lap, Cameron is suddenly eyeing him curiously. When he doesn't answer straight away, she frowns. Leans back further. Brings her arms in slightly, to cover herself. They breathe. They both breathe. Looking at each other.
"What are you thinking?"
It's such a typical Cameron question. The only thing untypical about it is the fact that he can see her nipples. He exhales slowly before answering.
"Mostly? Yay."
Her eyes widen dangerously, "'Yay'?"
Maybe the wrong thing to say. When he reaches for her again, she withdraws from his touch. He sighs.
"You know this may come as something of a shock to you, but I don't actually get naked girls sitting in my lap that often," he smirks, "At least not ones I don't have to tip heavily afterwards."
A ghost of a smile and she uncurls a little, rests her hands on his thighs.
"I have some five dollar bills in my purse. I mean...if it makes you feel more comfortable."
He scoffs, slides a hand up her back, draws her back in. She resists a little, but it's gone a second later when he kisses her. Deeper. Sweeter. Her mouth tastes like strawberries.
"Twenties," he mumbles against her lips. "Oh, you'd get twenties."
They go on like this for another half-hour. At least he thinks it's a half-hour. It's dark outside, but then it was when he arrived. At some point, she unbuttons his shirt and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Her nipples skating over his chest as she leans forward make him bite down hard on his lower lip. When he bends her backwards and grazes his teeth along the aureole as repayment, he thinks she's going scream.
"Shall we..."
She's all breathy, her cheeks pink and he thinks she's maybe the sexiest fucking thing he's ever seen. He bites her throat, soft-toothed.
"Shall we what?"
"Move. This. To the bedroom."
"'Move' meaning walk?"
His unshaven chin rasping against her collarbone elicits a delightful little gasp and he grins secretly. Does it again.
"I could carry you."
He pulls back and stares into her face. Narrows his eyes, "You think I couldn't carry you?"
"I just meant..."
Scowls, "I carried a pig once. Half a mile."
"You what?"
Laughter explodes out of her, turning to yelps of alarm as one of his arms sweeps up and under her knees, pulling her off her feet. Standing upright with all his weight on his left leg, House holds her easily. She can't weigh more than a hundred pounds, but her arms wind tight around his neck like she's afraid he'll drop her. He smirks down into her face.
"Oh please. You weigh a lot less than a pig."
"Thank you!"
He looks into her eyes, "A lot prettier too."
She wrinkles her nose at him, but the joke was over the second he called her pretty. "Thanks," she says softly. "Again."
He carries her to the bedroom. It hurts like hell, but it's worth every gruelling step. When they get there she leans backwards over his shoulder to flip on the light. It's not what he was expecting. Exactly. The decor, like the living room, is almost masculine. Restrained. Tasteful. There are a couple of stuffed animals, but even they look fashionably battered; a Steiff teddy-bear and a handmade rag-doll. Toting her like a roll of carpet, House throws Cameron unceremoniously onto the bed and then drops down to sit beside her. He looks around. Her night-stand has almost nothing on it. Her alarm clock, her watch. Water glass.
"No pictures."
It's not a question. But she knows what he's asking. She nods. Once.
"No."
He shivers, "No heating either."
"No."
Her twists back round to look at her. Hands back behind her head, she looks supremely comfortable, smug even. The bare tits only add to it.
"We could always get under the covers."
She raises an eyebrow suggestively, and he has to swallow the laugh that threatens to burst out of him. Doctor Allison Cameron and lechery are strange bedfellows. As are they.
He slides backwards, feigning nonchalance, and she moves aside a little, making room for him. They lie side by side, elbows propped and look at each other. He can't help touching her breasts though and the casual, almost unconscious way he caresses her, makes her breath catch in her throat.
"So what now?"
"My plan? I'm thinking...fifteen minutes of foreplay. Full penetration and then a nap," he frowns, "Or maybe pizza."
She laughs, soft low sound and he says the words even before he thinks them.
"You are incredibly sexy."
Her face is naked again, nothing but wonder and need, and he feels his stomach drop away. Stupid.
"So are you."
She leans forward, and brushes her lips over his. Beside his mouth. Along his jaw. It feels more like a benediction than a kiss. Their hands move in synchonization now. Hers unbuttoning the fly of his jeans, his unzipping. Her fingers sneak inside, fingernails scratching through hair, against his skin, just as his flattened palm slides under the waistband of her cotton panties. That they both find what they're looking for at the exact same moment, bodes pretty well. She swallows hard, shifts against the heel of his hand. Her palm is wrapped, warm and unbearably soft, around the shaft of his cock. For three long seconds, it's a Mexican stand-off.
And then he moves his hand.
He could watch her like this all day. And all night. Her face coated with bliss, lips trembling. As he watches Allison Cameron slowly lose control, House realises that he will never again be able to look at her the same way. Never again be able to hand her a case file, stare across a room at her, rip into her just because he feels like it, without seeing her this way. The pulse point in her throat is calling him and, watching it with strange fascination, House remembers something Wilson once told him in a moment of amusing candour. That, next to saving human lives, making women come is one of the most satisfying and rewarding things a man can chose to do with his life.
She's distracted, but even so the hand gripping his cock is still having an effect and, grinding against it, he closes his eyes when she dips down to cup his balls. When he opens his eyes again, she's smiling.
"I just realised. You're not my boss any more."
He grunts as she squeezes him, brings her thumb up in a smooth, firm stroke.
"We never did get to that part."
"You mean the part when you ask me what I want?"
She pulls him towards her, shimmying down her jeans. When she's done, she pulls down his as well. Throwing his Nikes at the doorframe. She doesn't look at his leg and neither does him. Slides in against him, hip to hip.
"You mean the part where I offer you your own parking space. More money." His hand slides over her ass, hooks in underneath and pushes her legs apart a little. "Car allowance."
"Fridays."
She has his cock in her hand. Slides it down and between her thighs and grips him. She's so wet it's everything he can do to stay in control.
"...Fridays?"
He pushes inside her and the look on her face almost makes him come right there and then.
"This. Every Friday."
Her eyes are alight. Her bottom lip trembling as she breathes out. In. Out. She lifts her hips and he gasps into her mouth.
"You'll come back to...work...if I..."
"If we..."
"If we fuck..."
"Every Friday. Yes. Those are my terms."
Her leg slides over his, hooking behind his ass, pulling him in deeper and House moans. A low desperate sound like a drowning man. Cameron. Allison Cameron. He's fucking Allison Cameron.
"O....Kay."
He looks down and knows immediately that it was a mistake. Because knowing that he's fucking Allison Cameron and actually seeing it? Are two very different things.
"It's a deal?"
"...deal."
She grins, deep, ragged breaths. "See you tomorrow morning then?"
"Yeah...don't be...late."
And his climax hits with the force of a freight train.
XXX
House wakes first.
Coming to slowly, in a warm fug of confusion, he squints at the morning light that's coming from entirely the wrong direction. His compass is fucked. And this is not his quilt. Or his room. And, he thinks, when he rolls his head to one side, this is patently not his reality either. Because fast asleep in the bed next to him, is a naked and fabulously gorgeous young woman.
Cameron.
Oh...
Christ.
He slept with Cameron. Last night. And what's more, he wasn't even drunk. He was stone-cold sober and, given time and a willing God, may even recall every last moment of it.
Reaching down with one hand, he feels around furtively under the sheets for his boxers. The erection he woke with just moments before is already dissipating and, when she shifts, pink and warm, in her sleep, he freezes. The idea of having to make conversation, of trying to think of just the right thing to say when she opens her eyes, fills him with a sudden deep and paralysing terror. They'd had plenty to say to each other last night of course, he remembers that much. Although, now he recollects, the phrase "Jesus...oh god...yes" had made up a disproportionately large part of the exchange.
He's standing, pulling on his jeans as quietly as the action allows, when her alarm goes.
Rolling sleepily onto her back, Cameron reaches over to her night stand and slaps the thing off. It's a second or two before she opens her eyes and, when she does, he knows that it's far too late to pretend that what he's doing is anything other than what he's doing. So he carries on.
"Good...morning?" Propping herself up on one elbow, she looks across the room at him. Her expression, although tinged with amusement, is wary. Fragile.
"Good morning."
His Nikes, half in and half out of the living room, are still laced and, sitting down on the far edge of the bed, House pushes his feet into them, glances around at the floor. It's not that he can't look at her, only that, if he does, he knows what she'll see. He frowns.
"Do you see my socks anywhere?"
From the corner of his eye, he can see her stiffen slightly, the arm holding the bedsheet across her breasts hitching it a little tighter. There's a long pause - maybe while she tries to decide what best to throw at his head - and then she reaches down under the covers, towards the foot of the bed. Withdraws first one and then the other sock. Tosses them to him.
He clears his throat, "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
There are ice crystals in her voice but, before he has the chance to consider the best means of dealing with them, Cameron slides off the bed taking the sheet with her.
The bathroom door slams.
He finds his t-shirt jammed down the back of the couch cushions, balled up and turned inside out. Pulling it over his head, he locates his shirt too, picks up his jacket and limps over to the apartment door. Beside the frame, his cane is leaning companionably amongst a collection of umbrellas and, taking the handle, he draws it out. Wearily puts his weight on it. Stares at the floor at his feet.
Fuck.
He can hear the water running now. The faint sound of the shower-stall door opening and closing. And he sighs. Looks up at the ceiling, at the front door, the door-handle, at his feet again.
Fuck it.
He knocks.
Soft little tap the first time, and then again with his cane when he realises she isn't going to play. Inside, the water shuts off and there's a sound of wet feet on tiles. Then...nothing. He waits. Five seconds. Ten.
"I can hear you breathing."
There's a small sound inside; a muttered curse, and she opens the door. A towel wrapped tightly around her body, her hair is slicked; wet and black, against her skull. Her eyes lock fiercely with his own.
"If you want to pee there's a gas station down on the corner."
She's beautiful when she's angry. Even more beautiful, and his fingertips come up involuntarily, graze her hip. Her waist. Her eyes slide away to the floor and she draws a deep breath. Lifts her head again.
"If you regret this, it's not going to work."
Tiny diamond beads of water are standing out on her collar-bone and, as he watches, they roll down. Form little rivers that flow down the valley between her breasts.
"I don't regret it."
He looks at her. Once. It's the best he can do for now. And trails a finger down her upper arm, under her bicep, down to her wrist.
More quietly, "I don't regret it."
She nods, but her face is still serious. Big grey eyes. "Good."
They both breathe. And a strange kind of calm comes over him. Over her too, he thinks. He steps back, half-step, and she does as well. A tactical withdrawal. She lifts her chin.
"You should get going. You'll be late."
He nods. Small nod. He knows that she wants him to ask, to seal the deal, but he can't bring himself to be anything less than oblique. Not with her. Not yet anyway.
"Need a lift?"
Her mouth twitches, "I can get the bus. Besides, I have to finish my shower," she tilts her head, eyeing his t-shirt. "You should probably go home and change though."
He snorts, "Or what, people will talk? Believe me, at this stage clean clothes can only arouse suspicion."
"I bet Wilson will notice."
Her eyebrow arches and, in return, he gives her his most withering stare.
"I'll just tell him I spent the night in the drunk tank again."
"Again?"
He's already moving, his back to her so she can't see his face. But he can feel her watching him, eyes narrowed, all the way to the door. As he lets himself out, he hears the shower start up again.
He's on time for clinic duty, which has to be a first. Not that Cuddy notices, she's still trying to claw her way out of the maelstrom of paperwork Vogler's departure left her with, and he's still avoiding eye contact with her for fear of the burning sensation it always causes. It's 8am and there's already a crowd of wheezing, sweaty people in the waiting area, so it's with a overwhelming sense of relief that House opens the door on Exam 2 to find a thoroughly healthy-looking 35-year-old male.
"I'm not sick," he says.
De-pocketing his TV, House tosses him a bag of pork rinds and adjusts the aerial.
"Did I ask you if you were?"
Twenty minutes later, Wilson wanders in and joins them. House swears he can sense sports like a shark can smell blood; one ball-game in fifty-thousand cubic meters of hospital. Although this morning, for some reason, he seems more interested in discussing personal grooming.
"Have you showered today?"
Glaring at the tiny screen, House grinds a pork rind between his molars and ignores him.
"Because, I could be mistaken, but isn't that..." he sniffs at his collar, a curious frown on his face, "Isn't that Calvin Klein's 'Eternity'?"
"It came in the mail."
He mumbles the words through a mouthful of snacks, hoping it'll fly, but he's a crappy liar, at least he always has been where Wilson's concerned. The game is into the ninth, and suddenly his friend seems completely oblivious of the fact.
"Something happened last night didn't it?!"
He gets in front of the screen and it's everything House can do not to smack him upside the head. Wilson is bouncing on his heels like a fucking labrador pup, all bright eyes and excitement-by-proxy, and he knows from bitter experience that they'll be no peace at all until he gives him something.
"He got laid!!"
His 35-year-old male has a grin like a bong-smoking high-school student and, draping an arm around his shoulder, he takes another pork rind, breathes into his face.
"Who was she? A nurse?" his eyes widen, and he tugs at his lapel, "That cute little blonde out there with the atomic tits??"
The hunks of snack-food stuck between his teeth are making House feel nauseous and, swatting his hand away, he rolls his eyes, tries to look around Wilson's elbow.
"You don't even know her."
There's a pause. Batter up.
"Do I know her?"
House concentrates. Really concentrates. Takes his time. Because, trying to make it sound casual, that's his usual mistake. Wilson knows his off-hand lies, he knows how he operates. Wilson knows all his tells; the eyelid flicker, the glance down, the sideways look, just like he knows all of his. So, instead, he tries something entirely new. He tries looking him right in the eye and believing the lie.
"No. You don't know her."
His friend's mouth opens wide in stuttering, incredulous glee.
"Oh my God! You slept with Cameron??!!"
When he walks into diagnostics an hour later, she's there. And, aside from an unusually relaxed hair-style and a dark, pencil-straight skirt instead of her usual work-sombre pant suit, she looks just as she always does. A small nod and a faint, guileless smile and that's all he gets. But, when he takes his position at The Whiteboard of Doom, she doesn't take her usual place front and center, choosing instead to flank the others on a chair.
"21-year-old male, comes in with grinding of the teeth..."
And now he gets why. His voice tails off as Cameron slides one leg over the other in a gesture of perfect nonchalance. The skirt, which had seemed such a harmless item of clothing a moment before, rides up her thigh, exposing several inches of the soft creamy skin that he is now intimately acquainted with. Beside him, he notices, his best friend has also gone deathly quiet.
"Is that it?"
Foreman is staring at them both, Chase - arms folded.
"No, he...uh...he had a stroke."
Wilson sounds a million miles away. Helpfully, House presses the end of his cane into his shoe. Leans his weight on it.
"Ow!!!"
Later on, he seeks her out. Seated in front of her favourite centrifuge in the blue gloom of the lab, she's like a pulsar; her pale light glowing in the darkness, and he watches her through the glass as she works. Small precise movements, exacting, completely absorbed in her task, she's unaware of his presence at first, but then looks up from the 'scope when he closes the door behind him. Takes off her glasses.
He moves to stand beside her.
"Anything interesting?"
"I'm not done yet."
"Anything interesting so far?"
The smell of her skin has become synonymous with sex and, bending forward, he nudges her gently out of the way. She withdraws just a inch, half an inch, far less than usual anyway, and the proximity of her mouth to his neck does unexpected things to his cardiac rhythm. He clears his throat, speaks into the microscope without looking at her.
"Nice move with the skirt by the way. Very 'Basic Instinct'."
"Thank you."
"Wilson thought so too."
"I'm glad. Maybe you two can buy a six-pack later and discuss it over the game."
He half turns to her and sees the arched eyebrow. Rolls his eyes. Jesus. Wilson should start charging admission to his big, fat mouth.
"He guessed."
She picks up her glasses again, "I'm sure. After all, he knows you so well."
At lunch, she sits with Chase and Foreman. He can't hear what they're talking about, but they all look over at one point and Foreman says something that sends Chase into violent paroxysms of laughter, and puts a look on Cameron's face that could drop a rhino. When she gets up to walk away, they both call out to her;
"Cam!!!" "Cameron!!"
but she's already out the door, chin up and eyes bright with anger.
It's the way it goes for the rest of the week. They don't work at avoiding being left alone together, but somehow there's always someone else present when they could be. Usually Foreman. Glowering. On Wednesday morning, when the other two scurry out of the lab to do his bidding, he stays sitting in his seat, hands templed in front of him, ala Brando.
House gives him fifteen seconds grace, then; "Didn't you hear the bell?"
No reaction.
Foreman's eyes are half-closed, hooded and, idly, House wonders if he practices the look in front of mirrors. Feeling in his pocket, he withdraws a bag of cashew nuts he confiscated from a clinic patient earlier and tears them open. Eats two. Slowly. And then proffers the bag.
"Nuts?"
"If you hurt her, I'm going to break your other leg. You know that right?"
It's not an entirely unexpected outburst, but the depth of emotion behind it is. And the fact that House believes him. Taking another nut, he leans back against the wall and regards him steadily with a renewed sense of respect. And grudging camaraderie. What was it about Allison Cameron that brought out the latent male chivalry gene?
"Fine." He chews, watching him, "Consider me warned."
"Believe me. It's not a warning, it's..."
"Oh stop right there. Please. You're clichs are showing."
It's late Friday when she comes to his office. He's been typing up notes since six, and, when she lets herself in, quietly, he doesn't look up. Only slides the freshly poured coffee he hasn't touched six inches to his left. Picking it up, she wraps her hands around the cup and takes the seat opposite, leans her weight on the desk.
"Much more to do?"
He half nods, turning the next sheet. She's still. Silent. Her face a pale heart at the edge of his vision. He types on for three mores pages before he speaks.
"I can't do this."
She doesn't move, but he feels the fine connection that has been strung between them vibrate; the air vibrate. She bows her head and he looks back at the screen. His eyes feel hot. Maybe he should take a break soon. Because he's tired and cranky. And now his concentration must be going, because he's not even sure that that's how you spell 'embolism' any more.
An arm reaches in front of him and his monitor dies; the colours fading out to black. A diagram of the ventricles of the heart burned onto his retina.
"We had a deal."
Her voice is steady and after a second he looks at her. Her eyes reflecting the dim light from outside are midnight blue, ocean deep. The kind of ocean that drags you under and hides your body forever.
"There is no..."
She stands and he drops his gaze, frowning.
"We had a deal." A pause, a long pause, then; "Are you welching?"
The handle of his cane feels cool and smooth in his hand, like bone, and, fingering it, he bounces the tip off the ground. Two times. Three. Watching her feet in her stylish but affordable shoes.
"Are you welching?"
She says it again, softer this time, but it's the question mark at the end that moves him. That finally gets him to his feet. The top of her head is level with his lips, and he speaks into the space above her. Into the air above her head.
"I don't. Welch."
Her lips brushing along the length of his jaw cause a deep involuntary shiver.
"Yeah. That's what Wilson said too."
He looks down, and the devilish light dancing in her eyes makes his mouth drop open a little in amazement. And admiration.
"So..." She breathes out and he inhales. Her fingers curl around his hand. "Your place? Or yours?"
XXXX
House flips on the light and illuminates everything he is.
Standing behind him in the doorway, Cameron is a thin, blue shadow; looking around slowly, taking it all in. The last time she was here, and yes, he has to remind himself that she has been here before, the last time there was no opportunity for this. No introductions or niceties, or even an acknowledgment of the line that was being crossed. Last time he had opened the door and she, without preamble, had set about ruining his evening.
[One of them is within my control]
Crossing the room, House shrugs his jacket and shirt off onto the couch, picks up the remainder of a pint of Glenfiddich and makes straight for the kitchen to find a glass. He's downing the first blood-warm dram when she wanders slowly into his peripheral vision.
"You play piano?"
Her back is to him and he flinches as he sees her hand go out, reaching for the keyboard.
"Please don't..."
Deep within his dark, scarred Grand, a felted hammer hits a string. A-sharp. It could have been a lot worse.
"Do you want a drink?"
Half-turning her body towards him, she nods without smiling. Her hands are curious, turning the pages of the sheet music on the stand, she's simultaneously scanning the piles of papers that cover the surfaces, tilting her head. Looking for clues.
"Have you always lived here?"
Opening the freezer compartment, House contemplates the empty ice-tray inside before shutting it again.
"Define always."
"Since you've been at PPTH?"
"Since I've had tenure, yes."
"And before?"
"Strictly speaking, there is no life before tenure."
Her lips curve in acknowledgment of the joke, but she doesn't laugh. Setting the second glass down on the coffee table, House lowers himself in the waiting bosom of his leather couch and, after a moment's pause, lifts his leg up to rest beside it. She's got as far as the bookcases now, and has adopted the idiosyncratic stance of a person judging another by what they read. Half-smiling to himself, he stares at the bottom of his glass through amber. Wonders what she'll make of the dog-eared copy of 'Ullysses' that he's never yet managed to finish.
"Did you live here with her?"
The book she's slid out of the shelf is 'Sons & Lovers' and turning it over in her hand, she scans the back. Thoughtfully, as if she's considering reading it. And she's smart. Because she knows better than to look at him when she asks that question. House lets a mouthful of body temperature whiskey leak slowly down the back of his throat, and then sets his glass down gently.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Five years."
"Did you buy this place together?"
"No."
"But she moved in?"
"That usually precedes the whole 'living together' experience."
Cameron slides the book back onto the shelf. Fingers the spine of the next one. She's a study of relaxed calm and, watching her, he can't help but marvel at her skill, her ability to mask completely what she's thinking. Reaching for the bottle of Glenfiddich, he pours himself another, cradles it.
"What about you."
"Me?"
Her tiny start of surprise warms his belly. That he can still throw her a curve makes him feel surer of himself, less like a clam being slowly pried open by small, persuasive fingers.
"You were married. Did you live together long?"
Her face has gone stiff, the emotions frozen under the surface and House lets his eyes crawl over her, studying her lines, the curve of her back. Standing there in plain sight, she's trying to hide from him.
"We got an apartment after we got married. Before...we just..." her eyes meet his briefly, and the expression in them is guarded, shuttered. "I was still living with my Mom."
She's moved away from the books now. Running her hands over the layers of clutter on the top of the bookcase, she slides out a photograph, flips it over and studies it.
"He was your first love."
He doesn't mean the words to sound mocking, or bitter, but somehow the thing inside him, the thing that's always lurking there below the surface, taints everything he says. Lifting her head, Cameron regards him with a long searching gaze, and, for a moment, he thinks that she can see it.
"Michael" she says and the one word conveys everything; drops into him like a stone into a well. "His name was Michael. And yes. He was the first man I ever loved."
What she knows of life and what he understands are two mismatched halves, but he can't help but be fascinated by the disparity, by all of the words left unsaid. The air between them seems permanently charged, always waiting for the shift that will allow one or the other to move closer, and now, it is this. His question, her answer. His small sideways movement on the couch, her eyes settling on the whiskey in front of him. Crossing the room, she moves to his left side and picks up her drink, before folding downwards into the space beside him. With her back to the arm, she manages to make the twelve inches or so between them, seem like a chasm. Lifting the glass to her lips, she swirls the contents once, looking down into the liquid, before downing it in one.
"You know in Scotland, that'd pretty much be considered sacrilege."
House's own glass is still couched between his fingers, and, looking at her empty one, he reaches down to the floor for the bottle. Unscrews the top and pours her another. Slow soft gurgle. As she dips her head to it almost immediately, he frowns, pushes her hand back down to her lap.
"It's not Gatorade, Cameron, it's a single malt. Show it some respect."
His clock winds itself up and strikes nine. It's a sound he's gotten so used to that he barely notices it any more, it's become like his own breathing, but she notices and looks over at it. And then, more specifically, at the picture frame that sits next to it. It's incongruous enough in it's cheap Hallmark-gilt frame, but the fact that Greg House has a picture of freckle-faced eight year old girl on display seems bound to arouse her curiosity, so he answers the question before she can even ask it.
"My room-mate in college. He seemed to think that asking me to be his kid's godfather was some major honor. I wouldn't have humoured him, but his ex-wife hated my guts and I wanted to see her face when she opened up my christening gift."
"What was it?"
"Nipple rings."
"Oh...my...God!"
She's laughing, and he tries not to show how much he enjoys seeing it.
"In my defence, they were actually silver."
Her smile is a magical thing to behold. Pulling her legs up under her, she pries first one shoe and then the other off with her toes, settles back into his couch like she was meant to be there.
"But that's not the whole story though is it? It's just a symptom."
Her eyes have darkened, her tone becoming more intimate, and it takes him a moment to realise what she's doing. Who she's doing.
"You have her picture up. Room-mate isn't going to know about that, right? He never visits, why should he. So why the picture?"
House regards her steadily. Wryly. Curling his fingers around his glass. She's pretending to be something she isn't. Making light of something she knows she really shouldn't. And now he has a choice: to play safe, play along, or answer the question he knows she's really asking him.
"You want to know if I've ever wanted kids. If I feel like I missed out."
He likes that he's shocked her again. He should remember that. That candour is always the best way to wipe the smile off Cameron's face. She recovers quickly though. He should try and remember that too.
"Do you?"
"No." He shrugs, lays his arm along the back of the couch. "No. I'd make someone a lousy father."
His fingertips touch her forearm; slight brush against the fine hairs, but he feels the muscle underneath the skin tense. Her drink, held in the same hand, tilts and almost spills and, without a word, he takes it from her, sets it on the table. Her face, so open and raw one moment, is dark and closed in in the next and, when he moves in towards her, she drops her gaze. Moves back a fraction.
"...wait, this is..."
"Oh what? I'm moving too fast for you?"
Cupping a hand behind her jaw, House catches her lower lip between his teeth, but her resistance is real and, after a moment, he lets her go. Moves back into his corner. Her shoulders seem frozen and it's a good twenty seconds before he realises that she's crying.
His first instinct is to run. Her pale, rigid face with it's silent coating of tears seems all too familiar; because same couch, same room, same ice-sharp, brittle silence that he has no idea how to resolve, and the memory is suddenly a fresh wound again, reminding him of everything he lost once before through inaction. But this is Cameron, and Cameron is no Stacy, and this thing that exists between them is still new and mysterious and maleable. And he hasn't spoiled it yet. Not yet. And she, she hasn't lied to him and ruined him and ripped him open and left him to bleed. He tries again.
Her hand is warm and soft in his; the fingers splayed open, loose and hopeless, but, stroking the back of her wrist, her pulse point, he traces the faint blue of her veins under the skin. Slides his thumb up the inside of her forearm, feeling the width. She had ivory-pale skin, silken, like milk, but the crook of her elbow, the inside, is a translucent pink and the thrum of her blood under the surface is so string he can feel it through his fingertips. Pressing down gently, his knuckles accidentally brush the side of her breast and he feels her feels her pulse-rate rise slightly. She's watching him now. Her eyelashes are thick and heavy with unshed tears, but she's breathing deeply, watching his hands as he moves them on her.
Her bicep, the sweetly, defined line of the muscles, is next. She's wearing shirtsleeves, rolled, and he has to push them further up to gain access, his hand moving underneath, sliding his fingers under the cotton material to trail down the underside. The hollow under her arm curves into her breast and, when his fingertips find it, he feels her shudder, her eyes flicker closed again.
Last time. Last time this part went fast. Too fast he's starting to realise. Moving his hand to the buttons of her shirt, he undoes only the top two, just enough to allow his hand inside. She rolls her head back and, with lazy fascination, he skates her collarbone, smoothes his palm around the ball of her shoulder and then her neck. There's a point just at the base, on the left, that he's fairly sure he remembers, and, when he finds it, she makes a tiny, involuntary sound that brings a rush of heat to his groin. Makes him smile and moisten his lips in anticipation.
She sees him, and her eyes narrow. "I can't believe how much you get off on this."
"On what?"
He feigns innocence, but his left hand? His left hand refuses to collude.
"On making me...squirm. Any way, any how. If you can't do it with words, you do it with your hands."
Her head lolls to one side as another button goes south. Pushing under the strap of her bra, he slides down, skimming the outline of her breast with calloused fingertips. She hums softly in the back of her throat, frowning, but he can't help but notice how the pulse in her throat is jumping now. Her back arching softly towards him. His other hand moves up to tangle in her hair and she mumbles something, soft and low, that he has to move towards her to hear it.
"How do you do it?"
"Do...what?"
His lips trace the same path as his hand did; along the line of her throat, down in the magic hollow at the left. His left hand is jammed down between them both now, supporting all his weight, as he leans into her. His leg hurts like hell, but inhaling her skin is like mainlining pure sunshine.
"Make me...want you..."
Her lips, when they finally find his, are still salty from her tears and he tastes them greedily. Her pain tastes different to his; sharper, sweeter, intoxicating and he has to remind himself not to drink to deeply. She's still pale and shaking, still full of whatever it is that she carries with her, whatever it is that is always lapping just below the surface, but for once, just once, the naked, all-consuming need in her eyes doesn't scare him at all.
XXXXX
This time is different.
If the first time in her apartment was Ravel's Bolero, then this, this is more like Claire de Lune. There's a lot of kissing, that much is similar, but the tone, the flavour of them has changed. Now when he kisses her, House feels something down low in his gut; a odd, frantic kind of ache, like something powerful and caged is going silently nutzoid. His hands on her are a little clumsier, his breathing a little more ragged and irregular, and when he drags her in deeper and harder against him, her mouth tastes of whiskey and raspberries.
"Bedroom. Now."
He's on his feet, pulling her behind him by her hand, but it feels like he's trying to lead a sleepwalker. Her shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist and eyes glassy, Cameron stares up at him, her lips slightly parted, and it takes him a second or two to realise that she isn't budging. Letting her hand drop, he takes a step back and waits - two seconds, three - before he can bring himself to ask the question.
"What's changed?"
She's still and silent, although the flush of pink that he raised is still there, still colouring her throat and collarbone. A strand of her hair falls forward and, with an absent-minded gesture, she pushes it back behind her ear. Frowns.
"Something," the frown deepens and she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. "Something. And nothing. I don't know."
"Yes you do."
He can't help himself. Even though he knows this is one truth he really isn't ready to hear, he can't help contradicting her. Force of habit. Comfortingly, her reaction is similarly familiar; she rolls her eyes.
"No. I really don't. This was supposed to be simple. I mean, it sounded pretty simple. In my head. But now..."
"Now you're not sure you can go through with it."
Her mouth twitches, but she doesn't look up. Won't look at him.
"So what's changed?"
She doesn't answer.
"What's changed?"
"Jesus!!!"
From hunched and passive, she's on her feet and in his face in a second, her eyes flashing that special steel-grey that he knows she reserves especially for him, her feet planted toe to toe with his.
"What do you want from me?!! You want me to tell you I made a mistake? That I thought I could handle it but now I can't? Fine. You're right. I can't. I thought I could, but I can't. I can't just turn off my emotions like you can, ok? It isn't just a physical thing for me. It has to involve me as well as my body."
"...Are we still talking about sex?"
It's maybe the wrong time to make a joke. Reeling away with a look of disbelief, Cameron starts to button her shirt, bends down to retrieve her shoes. Even her ass looks angry.
"I should have known you couldn't talk about this."
"If I knew what we were talking about I might surprise you."
Her mouth is a hard-line. Shoving one of her feet brutally into a shoe, she stands on one leg as she pulls on the other.
"Feelings. I'm talking about feelings."
"Oh...feelings!!"
She's looking for her purse now, but he's already seen it. Taking a step over to the armchair, he gets there a second before she does, and when she holds out her hand for it, tucks it securely under one arm.
"You want to talk about feelings? Fine..."
"Can I have my purse?"
"After we've talked about our 'feelings'."
Her expression darkens and it feels like the temperature drops a degree. Folding her arms, Cameron stares him down.
"This is funny to you?"
Her voice is small and strained and she lifts her chin a little higher as she speaks, takes a breath.
"You want to pretend this is still just another casual fuck? No strings attached. That's fine. But that isn't me. It's not what I am. I can't...not care, all right. So maybe..." she sighs, looks down, "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."
The tension goes out of her body, her shoulders slumping a little. The silence between them stretches out into seconds and, when he doesn't make a move, doesn't reply, she clears her throat softly. Extends a hand again. Her fingers are pale and slender.
"Can I have my purse now. Please."
Wordlessly, he hands it to her, but, even as he does so, he knows with perfect clarity what it means. That this is it. This is the moment, the switchover, this is the second that he'll relive over and over, against his will. And just like before, he can see it coming, he can see the door open and, once again, he's letting her walk through it; 'She asked me for her purse...and then she left'. Her fingers closing over the leather, Cameron takes a small step back from him, looks to the side.
"I should go..."
Ten seconds. Nine. Eight.
"I'll see you Monday morning."
Seven. She's getting her coat from the hook by the door, two more steps and she'll be gone.
"Goodbye House."
"Cameron..."
In the end, he likes to think it's involuntary. The larger part of his brain that deals with rationality and sense and reasoning throwing itself to the fore, beating the other part - the very sizeable portion that deals with fear and mistrust - into bloody submission. Because the larger part know it makes sense. The larger part still remembers how it feels to wake up with someone warm and soft beside him, remembers the smell of pancakes in the morning and the sound of the shower running in the next room. So he takes a step. Two. Puts his hand on the door in front of her.
"Stay."
"Why?"
Why? Why do they always need to hear a why? He grimaces. Looks at her.
"Because I want you to."
Her eyes are dark blue, almost navy. The space between them is less than a the span of his hand, less than six inches.
"Why?"
She needs an answer, but right now, right now he can't give her one. So instead he gives her honesty. The next best thing. And that's hard enough. He almost has to wrench the words out of himself, hates them as he says them aloud.
"Just...give me some time. OK? This..." he frowns again, looks at his hand on the door, down at the floor. "This isn't...easy for me."
A pause and she sighs; small, soft.
"I don't think it's supposed to be."
He shakes his head, at so many things; in disbelief at what he's just done and said, at her ridiculous optimism, at the clich of it all. He's still shaking his head when she takes his hand again. When she drops her coat and her purse back on the chair and loosens her shoes, kicks them off.
"Put some music on," she says quietly.
His bedroom seems different with her in it. He's glad he got Wilson to help him move the furniture around last spring. His bed is underneath the window now instead of parallel to it, the wardrobe beside the door instead of opposite it and he's thankful that, along with all the other ghosts he's being forced to re-encounter this week, the site of a slim, dark-haired woman undressing in front of him doesn't seem like another.
Unbuttoning her shirt, Cameron takes it off and folds it carefully onto a chair. Her movements are small, self-conscious, and, watching her, House can still sense her uncertainty.
"Do you want a hanger?"
She darts a glance at him, trying to see if he's making fun of her, but when he actually produces one, she raises her eyebrows. Unbuttons her pants.
"Do you provide a wake-up call as well?"
"After a fashion."
She smiles and shakes her head as she steps out of her clothes.
The music from the next room drifts in and there's a moment of awkwardness when she hears his choice. Maybe Ben Folds smacks a little too much of angst and idealism, but House contents himself with the fact that he is also a kickass pianist.
"Let me guess, 'Song For The Dumped' saw you through some hard times?"
Now it's his turn to smile, "It was either this or Bartok," he shrugs, "I didn't figure you for a classical fan."
Her eyebrows lift again sardonically and, reaching behind her back to unhook her bra, she hands him the hanger. As he turns away to open the wardrobe, he sees the movement out of the corner of his eye; familiar and yet always alluring, always mysterious. When he turns back to her, she's naked, her head cocked slightly to one side.
"Now you."
House isn't normally self-conscious, but the act of undressing under Cameron's direct scrutiny doesn't rank high on his list of turn-ons. Tugging off his t-shirt, he drops it to the floor, before walking to the side of the bed to sit down.
"No pictures."
She moves to stand in front of him. Looking at the empty night-stand beside his pillow House nods wryly, takes off his watch and lays it down beside the clock.
"No pictures," he repeats quietly.
He feels the warmth of her hands through the fabric as she lays her palms against his thighs. Her face is alight, impossible glowing blue-grey eyes that he knows will swallow him alive if he lets them. She is a ridiculous angel, an insane pale drift of loveliness that shouldn't be here, that is changing the whole shape of his world by simply being here and suddenly he's afraid. Her hands pull at the waistband of his jeans and he only half helps her, turning his head away at the last minute as she pulls them off him.
Her sharp intake of breath feels like a knife sliding between his ribs.
Over the years, his scar has become a blind spot for him, somewhere he never looks even when he has to. When he showers, he avoids soaping it, letting the water run down over instead. When he dresses he never looks in a full length mirror until he has his pants on. His right side is a dead zone, everything below the iliacus officially designated a wasteland, so when she touches him there; runs a single sly finger down the length of his ruined femoral muscle, the shock of sensation nearly jolts him off the bed.
"Don't..."
He catches her hand, but she pushes it away. Her hips, moving in between his knees, push his legs further apart and, momentarily distracted, he brushes his thumb over her pelvis, bringing his hand round to cup her perfect little ass. Her fingernails trial down, raking his inner thighs and he shivers, tugs her close enough so he can at least reach her nipple. Her breast is cool against his lips and the skin slightly salty.
"Does it hurt?"
Her mouth is next to his ear, breathing against his neck, and he tugs her closer, bends her against him like a bow.
"Right now? No."
"The vicodin helps?"
He sighs against her skin. Her hand on his right leg slides up and down; soothing, stroking, either side of the scar-tissue. If it didn't feel so damn weird it might almost be sensual.
"It helps," he says, and his hand finds the hollow in the small of her back. Molds to it. "It stops it from reminding me."
"And the whiskey?"
"Ah...now the whiskey," he bites her softly, the soft peach-skin under her ribcage, "The whiskey is more pro-active. The whiskey actually helps me forget."
Her breath is hitching now, little gulps of air as his fingers slide down over her belly, tracing the line of her groin before dipping down to press between her thighs. As his fingertips enter her, he feels her jerk, muscles contracting around them as she arches back involuntarily. Undeterred, he pushes in further, enjoying her sudden loss of control.
"What else...helps...."
Her legs are shaking. Moving back a little on the bed, he makes room for her to move in closer. Her hand on his thigh is still, but the other one is tugging at the waistband of his boxers. Freeing his cock, her fingers wrap around it with a clumsy impatient hunger, pushing it down to meet her and suddenly everything is blurred and urgent. Pulling her forward into his lap, House groans as he feels himself slide inside her, her pelvic bone meeting his in a sudden frantic clash. Cradled, Cameron rocks against him, her breath ragged and uneven, holding his gaze, and he can't look away.
"You..." he finds her mouth and her kiss is breathless, warm and breathless against his lips. "You help."
oooooooooooooooo
For once his clock doesn't wake him. But the smell of bacon does. Rolling to one side, House stares at the display, trying to focus in the semi darkness before giving up and reaching out for it. 8.30am. Since when did he sleep through till 8.30am? Tossing it back, he rolls onto his side and stares at the ceiling, listens to the sounds coming from his kitchen. Familiar and strange at the same time, the noise is oddly comforting; ambient sound that wants to lull him back into sleep, but after a second or two, he rolls up and sits. Looks around for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.
She doesn't see him at first. A clich straight out of the movies, she's dressed in one of his shirts - the blue one, only half-buttoned - bare-assed and a pair of thick wool socks, her back is turned to him as she searches through a cupboard. On the stove, a griddle pan that he didn't even know he possessed is happily crisping bacon, whilst alongside, another that looks suspiciously like a waffle-iron is standing empty, spattered with batter.
"Oh my god, tell me you didn't make waffles."
She looks up, surprised and a little guilty, and then a slow smile lights up her face. Standing up, she pushes a strand off hair out of her eyes. Her legs, pale and skinny under his shirt, are made all the more ridiculous by the socks.
"I did." Her nose scrunches. She's adorable. "Is that ok? I mean, I'll wash up afterwards and..."
"Wilson left that Bisquick here when Karen threw him out."
"I thought his wife's name was Julie?"
"His current wife..."
"Oh."
She bites her lip and frowns. Patters over to the plate by the stove and regards the waffles with a serious expression. After a moment, he joins her.
"How long have they been married?"
"I don't remember. I didn't go to the last one."
"You weren't his best man?"
"Once was enough. My speech the first time round was rather...shall we say...pithy?"
"Ah."
She looks at him sideways as he picks up a waffle and sniffs it. She's still smiling, but something about her has changed. Meeting her gaze, he arches an eyebrow.
"I'm willing to risk it if you are."
Her smile widens, but she doesn't reply. Picking up a piece of bacon, she nibbles the end, watching him.
"What?"
"This is...nice."
"It's oak-smoked."
She narrows her eyes, "I meant this. You and me. Having breakfast."
"Ah."
Plucking the bacon from her hand, House crunches it with his back teeth, looking at her. Below her shirt-tails, the dark curls of her pubic hair are just visible and, unable to help himself, he reaches down, twists one around his finger.
"Hey!!!"
Swatting at his hand, Cameron takes a step back, but she's not quick enough. House's arm snakes around her waist and he pulls her back hard against him, pinning her arms to her side. She puts her head down, but her struggles only tighten his grip, only make her louder. Snagging another strip of bacon from the pan, House crunches it next to her ear as she laughs, pulls and fakes bites on his arm. He holds on for two more strips, until she's worn out. Until she's leant back warm and pliant against him again, her head tucked tight under his chin.
"You doing anything today?"
His voice vibrates against her back, breath in her hair and he feels her stiffen. Turning her head to one side, she looks at him out of the corner of one blue-grey eye.
"Today?"
His chin rubs against her hair, "Today. Tonight." Pushing a hand up underneath her shirt, he runs a hand over her belly, splays his fingers. "There's a Godzilla triple bill at The Garden this afternoon. I thought we could..."
"Today is Saturday."
"So it is."
Her neck tastes of bacon and, when he nuzzles closer, soap and sunshine. Turning her round, he moves her back against the kitchen cupboard, lifts her up so she's sitting bare-assed on the countertop, one leg on either side of his hips. Her face is glowing, radiant cream and rose, as she smiles at him, tugs him closer.
"Doesn't matter," she says softly, and her finger traces his jawbone, before she leans in to press a kiss against the side of his mouth. "It has to be Friday somewhere in the world."
FIN
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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