Shameless bit of smut with some plot tucked into the corners at the last second. Enjoy. May be extended into a multichapter. Let me know what you think.
A Little Dead
"I'm proud of you."
The words echo in her head, are beaten into her memory by the rain that is plastering her sweater to her chest, her hair to her face.
"I'm proud of you."
She wants to be sick. It took her murdering a man to get him to say that?
"I'm proud of you."
She rings the doorbell.
The door opens and he watches her.
"I figured you'd show up here sooner or later."
"Can I come in?" Her voice is weak.
He steps back, inhaling as she passes.
"You've been drinking." His voice is carefully neutral, no hint of accusation.
"Just a bit. I need to talk to you."
He sighs, closing the door with his cane.
"Let me guess. You're feeling guilty about killing Ezra Powell. Well, stop it. It's what he wanted."
She blinks back tears.
"That doesn't make it right. I murdered him, House. I did the one thing I swore never to do."
Damn, she promised herself she wasn't going to cry in front of him.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Say I didn't have to do it!" she exclaims. "Say that it was a stupid decision. Say something!"
His gaze seems to cut right through her and she has to sit down for the force of it.
"No," he says finally.
"What?"
"No. You had to do it and it wasn't a stupid decision."
"House..."
"It's called growing up, Cameron. Yes it sucks and yes it hurts, but that's part of being a better doctor."
"I killed him! How in the hell does that make me a better doctor?"
He doesn't answer her. Instead, he limps forward.
She swallows and his eyes follow the movement of her throat before returning to her face.
"Why are you really here?"
"What-"
"You had to know what my answer would be," he says, almost to himself. "So why are you really here?"
She wavers and he pushes her final button.
He leans in, letting his voice drop into the shadowy growls of an aroused man.
"Cameron..."
"You said you were proud of me. Why...why now?" she stammers.
He tilts his head to one side, studying her with dark eyes.
"Because you're finally growing up."
"You mean, because I'm finally turning into you. That's what you want, isn't it? Foreman's already halfway there, so why not try to change the rest of us?" she challenges.
"I don't want you to be like me. I just want you to be less like you," he replies.
At her confused look, he speaks.
"You're soft. You're pretty. You're weak, at least you were. Why did you kill him, Cameron?"
"What? No," she shakes her head. "That doesn't matter."
"Are you kidding?" He almost wants to laugh.
"I killed him...because he was dead anyway. He was miserable." Her voice is soft, but no longer weak.
"You eased his pain. By killing him, you made him happy. Can you sleep easier now?"
"I guess we're all a little dead, aren't we?"
"Don't start that again," he says, raising his eyebrows in mock suspicion. "You'll kill me next just to help me get over my pain."
She laughs, a throaty, short sound. "There are other ways to relieve pain, House," she says, closing the distance between them and tracing her lips up his neck.
"Cameron," he sighs. "As much as I will probably kick myself for doing this, stop."
She doesn't stop. "Why?"
"You're drunk."
"And you're high."
"I'm always high. You're never drunk. It's not a fair comparison," he says, trying to keep his voice even.
"House, just this once, stop thinking."
She kisses him.
"I'm not expecting a relationship. I just want one night, one fuck. After that, we can drop it or keep it. Your choice."
He pulls back enough to look at her. "You're drunker than I thought."
She laughs again. His willpower is fading.
"You're thinking," she says in a sing-song voice.
"Right. I'll stop that," he says, leaning in and claiming her lips with his own.
The short walk to his bedroom is punctuated with fallen clothes. Though he doesn't need it now, he pops another Vicodin before discarding his jeans.
He wants this to last.
She pulls back the comforter and falls into his bed. Gone is the teary doctor, replaced with a seductive, slightly tipsy woman who is very naked.
Cameron. Naked. In his bed.
He smiles as he climbs in after her.
"Your socks," she says, nudging the offending item of clothing with her toes.
Grumbling under his breath, he slides them off and resumes his position over her.
"I believe the next part goes something like this," he says, sliding down her body to kiss her hips.
"Right, like you've forgotten how-" Her voice catches as his tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot by her belly button.
He teases her, blowing on her navel, grazing her breasts with his fingers, until she is writhing beneath him as she seeks real contact.
He slips one finger inside of her, causing her to convulse.
"This what you were looking for?" he asks, slowly twirling the digit within her.
"House...God, yes. Right there," she arches as his thumb brushes her clit.
"I told you, Allison," he says, resting his forehead against hers as he increases the speed of his motion. "I'm not God."
Her body tenses as she comes. Slowly, he lets her back down, gently biting the inside of her neck.
"Could've fooled me," she whispers, rolling him onto his back.
She pins his hands above his head, one look enough to indicate that they were to stay there.
He groans slightly as she toys with his nipples, alternating between light bites and teasing fingers before working her way down to his stomach. She runs her palms over his abs, pressing against taut, lean muscle before slipping down to his thigh.
Here she pauses, kissing the scarred skin almost reverently, tongue occasionally darting out to trace the crevices of his wound.
He shifts uncomfortably. He would prefer her to avoid it, to pretend that his thigh was whole.
"When I said I wanted you, I didn't mean everything except your thigh," she says.
"Technically, you never said you wanted me," he observes.
She smiles and shifts her attention elsewhere.
"Greg," she whispers, gently kissing the head of his cock. "I want you."
He fumbles for something to hold on to, finally settling for gripping his pillow.
Her mouth is warm around him and any blood that was left in his brain has quickly surged elsewhere.
He shudders as her tongue traces the head. He moves to raise his hips, but is stopped by the pressure of her hand on his stomach.
It's been a while for him and he can feel the shimmering edge of orgasm racing towards him. She feels it to, because she slows down, caressing his balls and slowly drawing the organ out of her mouth.
"Condoms," she says and he fumbles for one in his bedside cabinet. She takes it from him and rolls it on.
She eases onto him, whimpering slightly as he fills her, shivering as his hands slide up her torso to toy with her nipples.
"No," she says, pinning his hands above his head again. Finally, she moves, raising her hips just enough to feel him slide almost completely out of her. She lowers her head, kissing him firmly. His tongue against hers is bitter, filling her mouth with the tang of Vicodin and alcohol.
She sucks at it hungrily before pulling back to moan as he drives his hips upward into hers.
Her grip on his wrists slips and he frees himself with little effort, twining one arm around her waist while using the other to turn them over.
He hovers over her, barely inside of her as he traces the curve of her jaw. She is surprised at his tenderness.
"House, stop," she says as he finds a slow, teasing rhythm.
She wants to please him, to take away his pain, this anguish that draws her to him. She has to heal him, has to save him.
"Allison," he pants, "now you can't stop thinking."
She surrenders, slipping her arm around his neck and moving with him, matching the thrusts of his hips with her own.
Soon, he can feel her inner walls flutter around him. A few well-timed thrusts push her over the edge. He follows, burying his head in her neck as the last waves of his orgasm surge through his body.
They lay locked in a tight embrace for several minutes.
"Is your leg okay?" she asks, barely finding the strength to lift her head.
He chuckles.
"What's so funny?"
"You're still trying to fix me," he says, pushing her hair off her forehead.
"Is it working?" she asks. She is so open, so vulnerable that he can hardly bear it. She never used to affect him like this...
"My leg is fine," he says, moving off of her.
She takes that as a hint to leave and begins to gather her clothes.
"Allison, where are you going?"
She stares at him. "Well, we're done here, so I was going to go back home and..."
"Get back in bed."
She sets her clothes down and approaches, almost afraid to move too quickly should he change his mind.
He flips the sheets back, indicating where she should lay.
Her body is warm against his, but stiff, uncertain.
He coaxes her into relaxation by tracing his fingers up and down her side. Finally, she stretches out, nuzzling against him.
He knows that in an hour, they will be too hot and move apart to cooler ends of the bed.
He knows that in the morning, she will have to leave.
He knows...
But for now, he chooses to enjoy the feeling of his newest addiction seeping under his skin, the slight high, the warm tingles.
After a few minutes, he slips into a deep, painless sleep.
"I guess we're all a little dead," she had said.
For the moment, he is very much alive.
Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks for reading!