Disclaimer: Sadly enough, I don't own any of the characters of House, MD.
He snorted, as he turned off the radio where he'd been searching for a station that played music to suit his mood. But it was Wednesday morning, and all stations were playing supposedly "uplifting" tunes for those who had to get up at the crack of dawn to go to work. Night of love indeed, he thought sarcastically, as he poured boiling water over his bag of black tea. It was all he could stomach at half five in the morning, even if he hadn't been awake for most of the night, the first half of it in a frantic whirl of passion with a colleague who was so high on meth that she probably didn't even know her own name and the second tossing and turning in his own bed, torturing himself over it again and again.
Why had he done it? He took a first tentative sip from his cup and promptly burnt his tongue. Fuck. Wrong question. He knew exactly why he'd done it. Swearing, he opened the fridge and took out an unopened carton of milk, ripped it open and added some of its contents to his tea. He was a man, right? And Cameron was a damn pretty girl. And she had been offering herself on a silver tablet. He hadn't been supposed to say no.
Carefully, he probed the tea with his sore tongue. It was almost too cool now; he had added too much milk for his liking. Oh, sod it, he thought. And besides, wrong answer. He had said no before, probably even to girls who were prettier than Cameron. With a face like his, the hundreds of girls swarming around him were just part of the package. He knew about the way the nurses were talking about him. Hell, even Cuddy had eyed him speculatively before. In fact, Cameron had probably been the only one stubbornly resisting his charms.
And then, last night, she wasn't anymore. He had been surprised when she'd suggested going for a drink after work. He had asked for it once over a year ago, only to be cut off in mid-sentence, while she was already storming out of the room, and he hadn't dared repeat the question since. But he found himself growing less and less interested in the advances of the nurses and the other female doctors towards him. Sure, he remained perfectly friendly, sometimes he even flirted back, but it was more out of habit than anything else. He wondered quietly if it was only the challenge he liked about her. Would he lose interest, the way he'd done before, after she showed interest? But she would have to show interest first, and how likely was that? Not very, he concluded, awash with frustration… until she did.
He had imagined lots of scenarios before he had raised his hand to knock on her door. Maybe she would still be in her work clothes, deliberately not making an effort. Or she would be dressed up, not for him but for who knew she might meet while they were out. Maybe even an image of her in her underwear had crossed his mind, not as a realistic option but as a result of more than a year of silent, unrequited yearning. But whatever he had imagined, it hadn't been this. When she had opened her door, he had done a double-take to make sure it was actually her, because she certainly didn't look like the girl from work. Her hair was all over the place, she was wearing a rather revealing top (well, for her standards, anyway) and her eyes were glittering dangerously. If he had to pick one word to describe the way she looked in that particular moment, wanton would have been his choice. She had pulled him inside before he could finish telling her that he was glad about her change of heart on the matter of post-work drinks. The thing he could splutter out before she had him pressed against the wall was "Are you high?" And her lips were so tantalisingly close when the reply came. "Yes…"
He shouldn't have done it. He knew that with painful certainty. He had no clue what he had been thinking. Well, obviously he hadn't been thinking at all, but seriously… what had he been thinking? That the possibility of having been infected with HIV had made her change her mind about going out with a colleague she didn't even like? She hadn't even wanted to go out with him, not even for one lousy drink. All she had needed him for was for doing something risky, something stupid. He cringed with the memory of how readily he had obliged.
But then again, she had picked him, right? While she could have chosen anyone. Wilson, Foreman, any of the male nursing staff, but she had preferred him to everyone else. Was that reason enough to hope? Ever the realist, he doubted it. She had probably decided on him because she knew that he had a thing for her and wouldn't put up too much of a fight. Wilson would have told House, Foreman would have used it as a fact to forward his career and the male nurses would have volunteered information for the entire hospital staff. He had to hand it to her, he was by far the most convenient choice.
It was six o'clock now. He put his empty teacup in the sink, snatched the car keys and slammed the front door shut behind him. He so did not want to see her today. Maybe he was in luck and she'd take a sickie – it was certainly what he would have done if he was coming down from meth. His spirits rose as he pulled into PPTH's parking lot and didn't see her car anywhere. Being a morning person, she was usually very early. She would be, he thought, suddenly annoyed. He imagined her buzzing through her apartment in the morning, a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of fruit in the other, or maybe on the phone, making arrangements of some sort or other.
He pulled into an empty parking space and climbed out of his car. It was a nice morning; the sky was rosy-tinted and birds were twittering in the trees. He noticed it briefly. Cameron would probably have remarked on it later, and for some reason that thought was unnerving, too.
When he got to the lift, he passed Foreman, who nodded briefly in his direction. Apparently, House wasn't in yet either, which was no surprise really, because he was usually at least fifteen minutes late.
There was no Cameron in the conference room either, but this time, the spell of relief lasted only seconds. What if she was really sick? Of course he had made sure she was okay before he'd left her house in the night. He had even contemplated staying and watching over her, but he had quickly realised the lunacy of this idea. She would have gone mental in the morning. The point was, however, that she had taken quite a large amount of a dangerous, illegal substance, a behaviour the consequences of which they could witness in the ER almost every day of the week. She had quickly passed out afterwards, but her pulse and breathing had seemed normal, so he'd put a glass of water on her bedside table, gathered his clothes and left. He could see now how immature and irresponsible that had been. He was already getting up to drive over to her house, his mind had half-formed some ridiculous excuse why he had to leave, when he suddenly heard the door open and House's familiar voice, which even made "Good morning" sound sarcastic.
He turned around and right there next to him she was, dead pale, dark circles under her eyes, and he noticed that her hands were shaking. He looked at her, wondering what to say, but his mind was blank. In the end, he settled for "Good morning." She didn't say anything, and he wondered if House had commented on her obviously dishevelled state. He probably had; House was a very acute observer and it couldn't have escaped his notice that Cameron looked like death. Chase wondered what conclusions he had drawn. Would he merely suggest a bad hangover? He probably knew detox symptoms better than anyone else did… what else would he assume? Bloody hell. What if he'd already guessed that he and Cameron…? No. brilliant and everything as House was, he couldn't read minds. He interpreted people's behaviour, and for all the times he was right, he was also wrong a lot. So all they had to do was behave completely normal towards each other. Trusting that Cameron had drawn the same conclusion, he asked her if she wanted coffee, but she shook her head mutely.
A minute later they were off on their usual game. Cameron was delivering a monologue about one theory or other and Chase was sure that despite her ceaseless pacing of the room the meth hadn't done any permanent damage to her. She was narkier than usual, of course, but then again, he didn't blame her. Hell, he'd be angry with himself if he'd taken a shitload of drugs and slept with a co-worker…
House, on the other hand, was growing more interested by the minute. You could just tell that he was waiting to cut in. Chase wasn't too alarmed, until – how had that happened? – they were having a discussion about condoms.
"So, do you always wear a condom?" Cameron shot at Foreman, who laughed indignantly. House said something insulting about working girls being sticklers, then rapidly turned around. "What, you're not gonna poll Chase?"
"I'm not an idiot." He didn't realise he was in for it until he saw her face, then he felt the wave crashing above his head.
"Obviously not. Who doesn't sleep with a drugged-out colleague when they have a chance?"
He had been in his right mind; he had known what he was doing. Hell, somewhere deep down he had probably even known how much she'd loathe herself in the morning… and he'd slept with her anyway. Oh God… if only the crystal-clear knowledge of how he'd ruined everything precisely in the same moment he had obtained everything he'd been dreaming of for the past year, would go away…