Title: Do What You Have To Do
Author: Alice J. Foster
Summary: House knew Cameron wasn't his to have; she wasn't even his to want. Cameron tried to tell herself that she was over House; it was useless.
Spoilers: Wilson's Heart
Category/Warnings: dark!fic, sexual situations, angst, and more vicodin than anyone should ever take
Pairing/Characters: House/Cameron, Cameron/Chase
Rating: NC-17/M
Started: 06/06/2008
Finished: 06/24/2008
Thanks to: vands88 for the awesome beta work (and constant reassurance).
Envy
I should had known, as soon as I saw Chase and Cameron enter the dimly lit bar, that the evening would be hell.
I should never have agreed to this little shindig, I realized as Cameron's side pressed against mine in the overcrowded corner booth. Every time she laughed at one of Kutner's lame jokes, her body shook against mine in what could only be described as slow, soul-breaking torture.
It was all Kutner's fault for organizing a birthday celebration for himself—who the hell willingly celebrates their birthday at that age? Of course, I could've said no, but it wasn't like I had anything better to do on July 3rd. Hooker sounded fun, but it was a bitch to find a decent one right before a three-day weekend. Wilson was still too mopey to be any fun.
My plan for the night had been simple: I figured I'd get to watch my fellows get drunk, make asses of themselves, and then use it all as blackmail in the future; I even had my cell phone camera ready to go. Of course, that was before I watched Cameron walk towards our booth in a short green dress and knee-length boots, blonde hair curled to perfection… it was hard to focus on anything else after that.
My thigh throbbed painfully as I sat there, motionless, and I realized my vicodin was in my jeans' left pocket—which was currently pressed against Cameron's thigh. I reached for the pill bottle, noticing how her breath seemed to catch in her throat as my fingers brushed against her right hip.
I washed two pills down with my third glass of whiskey, as I tried not to think about how silky the fabric of her dress had felt against my skin. When the leather of her boot brushed against my pant leg, I told myself it was only an accident, even as it refused to move after the initial contact.
Taub 'gifted' Kutner with a round of tequila shooters for everyone, and I took my time downing mine, trying not to stare as Cameron slowly licked some salt off the back of her hand. Chase's fingers were right there, holding a slice of lime for her, always helpful and supportive.
Something she'd never get from me.
Realization dawned that she'd dressed this way for him; he was the one who'd enjoy peeling off the green silk from her skin… the one who would benefit from her alcohol-induced lack of inhibition.
I was such a masochist that I let the scene play fully in my mind, and the imagery alone was enough to make me nauseous. I wished it were my hands running over her skin, calloused fingers touching and exploring her sharp angles. Of course, Chase wouldn't need to take the time to get to know every part of her; for him it would be just one more night out of countless nights he'd get with Cameron.
Wrath
I could taste the bile as it rose in the back of my throat; Chase asked if I was okay, and that only made things worse.
House shouldn't still be able to get to me like this. I tried to tell myself I was over him, day after day-- my own personal mantra over the past few years. It was a song to which I knew the lyrics from memory, but it was never easy.
I sat there, doing my best to focus on Kutner and his stories – trying to ignore the heat of House's body next to mine. I wondered if he noticed the way his fingers tapped against his thigh to some imaginary melody, or how my body hummed along in defeat.
When he reached for his vicodin bottle, I almost lost it; the contact with my hip went straight to my core. I shouldn't respond to such a small accidental touch with such force, but it was useless to tell that to my brain as endorphins raced through my nervous system.
I made quick work of every shot and drink that was placed in front of me, trying to numb myself so I wouldn't feel his presence so acutely. In retrospect, it was probably not a good idea, because as soon as House left, I began feeling dizzy from the alcohol. Something sharp poked at my thigh and I looked down to see House's keys lying in the empty seat next to me.
My fingers covertly reached for the keychain; the feeling of metal was heavy against my palm, a forbidden sense of sick pleasure filling me as I held it. It had probably fallen out of his pocket when he'd reached for his pills.
"I'm sorry, I don't feel too well," I announced to the party as I started to slide out of the corner booth. "Stay, you're having a good time," I whispered to Chase when he began following me. "I think I'm coming down with something. I'm gonna go to my place tonight and get some sleep; I'll call you tomorrow," I promised as I pressed a chaste kiss to his cheekbone.
He nodded, disappointed, but didn't argue as he sat back down and instantly re-engaged in conversation with Foreman.
I forced myself to smile as I waved goodbye to everyone.
It wasn't until I got into a cab and gave House's address that I began to really hate myself for lying to Chase.
Greed
I stood at my door, digging through my pockets as I searched for my keys.
"Fuck," I cursed. I'd driven to the bar, so I had had my keys up until that point; which meant I'd lost them sometime between the bar and the time the cab dropped me off.
Defeated, I reached for my spare and unlocked my front door, not too happy at the prospect of not having the keys to my car or motorcycle.
I figured I might as well keep my buzz going, so I poured myself some good scotch. As soon as I turned on the TV, I heard a soft knock on my front door.
"What are you doing here?" I asked Cameron, unable to stop my eyes from running from her boots all the way up to her face, framed by loose golden curls; she looked even more stunning, in the improved lighting conditions of the hallway outside my apartment.
"Figured you might want these," she replied nervously, holding out my keys.
I opened my hand and she dropped them on my palm, her eyes never breaking contact with mine.
She licked her lips, tongue carefully running over her lower lip before quickly darting over her upper lip; it was mesmerizing, and the muscles in my hands twitched with the effort of not reaching for her.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Her voice was sultry and I had to tell myself she wasn't mine to have; she wasn't even mine to want. Yet it didn't stop me from wondering if this was how her voice would sound during sex.
"You want to come in?" I asked skeptically.
"Would I have said that if I didn't?" she responded with a smirk, even though her eyes looked full of uncertainty.
I held my door open, breathing in her scent as she walked under my arm and into my living room. The heat of her body as it brushed against mine reminded me of my thoughts at the bar; my hesitation still stood, even as I began craving her more than I craved my next vicodin.
"Where's Chase?" I inquired, more bitterly than I had intended.
"Not here," was all she said as she ran her fingers over the back of my leather couch.
Her presence was intoxicating; it felt too right to be comfortable, and that thought alone made me want to throw her out. She shouldn't be here, and more importantly, I shouldn't want her to be here.
She was someone else's; I shouldn't want her.
But fuck—I wanted her.
As my lips brushed against hers, I realized wanting more than I should wasn't always a bad thing.
Lust
The kiss wasn't as awkward as the one we'd shared a long time ago; he met me halfway this time, so I didn't have to stand on my tiptoes.
I tasted scotch on his tongue, and an even more bitter taste that was probably vicodin. I pressed myself against his body; every square inch of me that touched him felt like fire.
"You're drunk," he muttered against my lips, both an accusation and an apology.
"I was, five minutes ago," I offered as an explanation.
"You don't want this," he countered, even as I felt fingers trailing over the outside of my thigh, caressing the skin that wasn't covered by my dress.
"I do," I reassured him.
"This isn't you," he argued. "You don't cheat," he accused.
"And you don't care about other people, or their motives," I replied impatiently. "I want this," I affirmed again, because I did. I shouldn't, but I did. It was completely against everything I believed in, but whatever I felt for him burned through my steel resolve and righteous morals like wildfire.
I broke any contact between our bodies, and reached into my purse to retrieve my cell phone. I quickly turned it off, ignoring the feeling of guilt that threatened to take over, and threw the offending item onto a side table.
I slowly made my way to his bedroom; the telltale sound of a cane against the hardwood floor of the hallway was the only indication that he was following me. I turned the light on when I arrived at the room, and then I reached back, intent on unzipping my dress.
His fingers stopped me, and leisurely took over to lower my zipper. I felt his breath change behind me, just before his lips brushed against my shoulder. I let my dress fall to the ground in a heap, enjoying the way the air conditioner caressed my naked skin in his bedroom.
I carefully turned around; my arms instinctively moving up to cover my bare breasts. His hands settled above my shoulders, tracing the skin there delicately—I'd never known he was capable of such a gentle touch. Fingers trailed down my torso, skipping my concealed chest and coming to rest around my waist.
It was hard to breathe under his studious gaze; I was lightheaded, and my cheeks burned with hesitation. My arms felt heavy so I let both of them drop.
His hands moved from my waist up to cup my breasts, weighing them and running his thumb across my aching nipples; the tight nubs hardened under his ministrations. I braced for a snarky comment about the size of them, but none came.
When his eyes met mine again, I saw pure desire in them; they mirrored everything I was feeling at that very moment.
Gluttony
"Get in bed," I ordered her, my voice sounding hoarser than usual.
She didn't argue as she walked the short distance to the bed on unsteady feet; she paused to remove her boots, and I felt myself harden at the sight as she bent over, a scrap of black lace the only thing hiding her from my full view.
I wasn't sure if this was a one-time thing; I wasn't even sure if I wanted it to be. Either way, I planned on making sure it was a night we would both remember.
I reached for my pill bottle, getting two vicodins out before I replaced the cap and threw the orange container in the general direction of my night table, not bothering to see if it made it to its intended target.
I watched as she turned towards me and took a step or two backwards until her thighs connected with my bed. She sat down, bouncing slightly to test the unfamiliar mattress; I felt hypnotized by the way her hair moved against her skin, and the way her breasts swayed.
Seemingly satisfied with my bed, her hands reached for the hem of the t-shirt I wore, her fingers tracing the sliver of exposed skin above my belt. My erection strained against my jeans, beckoning for attention.
She brushed against my tented crotch with the back of her hand; the contact was over almost as soon as it began, and I could've believed it to have been accidental if it wasn't for the way her lips curled into a devilish smirk.
I pushed against her torso, until she laid flat on my bed, legs dangling off the side. I pushed my shoes off; my cane was hanging off the bedroom door, so I had to be careful not to trip when I shifted my weight onto my bad leg.
I observed as her chest rose and fell with short, anxious breaths. The scars on my body weren't just from getting shot, or from my infarction; there were marks everywhere, telling stories of broken bones, accidents and carelessness. But I couldn't find a single imperfection anywhere on her skin, and it was almost disturbing to see something so untouched.
I sat on the bed next to her, and let my fingers trace the edge of her underwear. The lace felt strange against my rough fingertips; the soft skin of her stomach felt almost familiar though, and I ran my hands all the way to the even softer underside of her breasts. She gasped when I bent down and ran my tongue over that part of her, because I had to know if it tasted as good as it looked and felt.
It did.
I nuzzled against her breasts, first the right one, then the left, enjoying the way the skin broke out in tiny red speckles from my stubble. Her hand found its way into my hair, tugging and twitching, begging in ways words could never beg.
When my lips tugged on her nipples, she surged in the bed, and I glanced down to see her furiously rubbing her thighs together. I knew she was desperate for release, so I let my hand trail down her torso and between her legs, caressing her through the lace. Her thighs tightened even more, this time around my wrist, and I pressed my thumb against her clit, rubbing it in a back and forth motion.
My knuckles brushed against her center and I could feel the heat and the humidity, even through her underwear. It was pure temptation, I thought as I let my middle finger slip under the lace and her wetness instantly coated my fingertip. Her folds were soft and swollen as they accepted my curious touch, quivering as I explored more deeply.
I pushed my finger slowly inside her, as deep as I could manage from this position; Cameron moaned and thrashed under me. Her feet used the lateral bed frame as leverage, and her hips surged against my hand, desperately trying to increase the contact. I pulled my finger out and pushed it back in with my index finger, trying not to read too much into the fact that she felt unbelievably tight. My thumb moved under the lace of her underwear as well, and I quickly dipped it in her juices before returning it to her swollen clit.
It took less than two strokes before she tightened even more around me; I was briefly concerned about circulation damage to my hand, but it was too enthralling to just watch her.
I wanted her; all of her.
Pride
After I came down from my orgasm, I noticed he'd removed his hand from between my legs and had stood back up to remove his own clothing.
I should've known he wouldn't give me time to observe his body though; as soon as his pants hit the carpeted floor of his bedroom, his hands grabbed me by the waist and turned me over. I reached for the unfamiliar bedding to try to turn myself around, before I remembered his leg – he would know better than me what positions worked best for him. If he wanted me like this, I wasn't going to argue.
As his grip on my hip pulled me closer to the edge of the bed, I realized what he had in mind. My legs touched the ground again, but my stomach was still flat against his mattress, and I bit my lips as I felt his hands tug my underwear halfway down my leg; it would've fallen to the ground, except he pushed my legs apart, and my panties got caught above my knees, the lace digging into my skin.
"Don't move," he warned me before he pulled slightly away. I couldn't have moved even if I had wanted to; every breath was a struggle, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
The more naïve part of me, the one that hadn't come out to play in a long time, thought this was it—I was about to get Gregory House out of my system. Then, as I heard the shuffling of foil packets from one of his bedside drawers, I realized it was more like the opposite.
There would be no walking away from this unscathed.
As I felt him begin to push against my entrance, I had doubts about walking away at all, especially when every muscle in my legs began wavering. Of course, he couldn't let that escape his notice and I felt him go still.
"Don't stop," I begged him.
"Are you sure?" he asked, sounding distraught but not unconcerned.
"Yes," I gritted out, right before I used the little bit of traction I had to push back at him a couple of inches.
His hiss went straight to my core, and my walls contracted even more tightly around him. He cursed, but my mind was suddenly overtaken by a fog and I couldn't make any of it out; and then he pushed the rest of the way inside me, and I let out my own string of sexually charged colorful words.
As he began thrusting in earnest, I could tell he was putting most of his weight on his left leg and the rest on his right arm, which rested next to me on the bed. It couldn't be comfortable for him, but judging by his pleasurable moans, he didn't quite care.
I couldn't find any fault with his positioning either, especially when he began hitting spots inside me I hadn't even known existed. My toes curled around his carpet, so fast and so forcefully I'd probably have rug burns on the tips.
It was impossible to withhold my moans, or the screams that followed them. I came again within minutes, and he sped up his thrusts as he felt my orgasm. Part of me wanted it to never end, but the rest, the part that had suppressed the guilt of my actions so far, was beginning to weigh in more and more by the minute.
When he came inside me with a gasp, I felt relief flood me. My brain was already working overtime to rationalize the evenings' events, and as he slipped away into the bathroom to dispose of the condom, I worked on setting a world record in speed-dressing.
He returned to the bedroom wearing boxer shorts and a perplexed look on his face, eyes looking at me but avoiding it at the same time. I couldn't blame him, because my eyes were doing some avoidance of their own as I slipped back into my boots.
"Where are you going?" he asked me in a voice that suggested he hadn't expected me to leave.
"I got what I came for," I replied in a shaky tone, surprised by the almost hurt look that crossed his face.
With his legendary intimate knowledge of call girls, he couldn't possibly be inexperienced with this kind of scene. Sure, our lack of monetary exchange might have thrown him off, but he still had no right to look hurt—not after everything.
"Stay."
His voice was barely above a whisper, and anyone with less than perfect hearing would've probably missed it.
I froze, carefully studying my options.
Leaving would be the smart thing to do; it was self-preservation at its most basic. Walk out of this bedroom, this apartment, and forget everything. Maybe I could try to salvage whatever was left of my relationship with Chase—oh god, Chase.
If I stayed, that would definitely prove to House that he was right and that I couldn't be with someone undamaged. Chase had had his fair share of bad events in his life, but he always seemed to bounce back up; he wasn't miserable. To House, that was a downside for me.
To me – yeah, it was a downside; I didn't want it to be, and it wasn't enough of a deterrent to be considered a deal breaker, but part of me knew there was something lacking.
I still wasn't about to admit that to House.
"I can't," I informed him before I walked out of his bedroom.
Sloth
I couldn't sleep after she had left, and after a couple of hours staring at my bedroom ceiling and trying not to smell her all around me, I had gotten up and headed to my living room.
My couch had been the perfect place to sleep; sure, it was uncomfortable, but there had been no memories of her naked skin against it. And after half a bottle of scotch and four sleeping pills, the leather was as good a place as any to pass out.
I woke up the next afternoon in extreme pain, which radiated up to my hip and down to my calf. I managed to limp to my bedroom and fish the orange bottle from behind my night table before I collapsed onto my bed. I took half a handful of vicodins, ignoring the Wilson-like voice in my mind that said it was too much.
I was still lying in bed, clutching my thigh, when the sun began to set. The smell of barbecued meats came from the outside and hung around my apartment, but I was too high to feel hungry. I was too high to move at all, even as my bladder's protests escalated; yeah, I would have to move soon, or chance having to change these sheets for reasons other than the feminine musk that lingered on them.
My loneliness was comforting in its familiarity; so was the pain.
I made it to the bathroom sometime after the first fireworks began outside my window. After peeing for what felt like hours, I just stumbled back onto my bed. With the help of vicodin, booze and sleeping pills, I slept away much of the rest of the three-day weekend.
Note: I had really bad writer's block when it came to ending this story, because I wanted a happy ending but I couldn't make it fit… so I went with this angsty unhappy ending, but now I have to decide whether to write a short sequel (1-2 pages), something longer (perhaps the seven virtues?), or nothing at all. sigh
Please let me know what you think.