A/N: Wooh, fast update! Aren't you guys proud of me? I'm proud of me. I decided this morning that I'd put y'all out of your misery, so yes, we learn what happened that night! Wooooooooooo! Um, hopefully Cameron doesn't come off to creepy, or fluffy for that matter. And yes, the chapter is bit short, but I had to stop where I did, or there'd be too much going on. Oh, I'm screwing with House's bed, and with Cameron's physical strength, I know. However, her "method" is very possible. Without giving too much away, I employed the same technique lifting a 300 pound television. I'm also not going to change the rating to M, but this guy is a bit explicit. I tend to stay away from words like 'dick' or 'cock' etc, but some things are not left to the imagination. Woah, okay, the author's note is getting rather long, so I'll leave you guys to reading. Please review and let me know if I did this chapter right. I have a niggling feeling it was too...weird?


Chapter 11

"You win, guys," Cameron croaked the next day. Foreman and Chase looked up, surprised to see five hundred dollars sitting before them. The neurologist opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when he saw her face.

Allison Cameron, in his professional opinion, looked like death fallen over. Her skin was pale and gaunt, large bags were nestled beneath two dull eyes, and the corners of her mouth seemed permanently turned down.

"Five hundred was what we agreed, wasn't it?" she said in response to his shocked stare. Foreman nodded slowly.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"What happened, Cameron? Did someone die?" Chase asked with wide eyes.

She sighed, running a hand through her uncombed hair. "Nothing, Chase. Absolutely nothing. You guys were right, I was wrong. House hates me." She paused. "And I hate him."


"Well, damn," Wilson exhaled. House nodded.

The office fell silent, each man absorbed in his own thoughts. A prescription sat half-filled on Wilson's desk where he'd left it when House had burst into the room and sat in a chair, glaring angrily at the floor. It took much persuading to get him to explain what had gotten him so riled up, but when the story was out, Wilson could understand his friend's frustration.

"What are you going to do?" he asked after sufficient time had passed.

House shrugged. "What can I do? For the first time in my life, I'm lost."


She took her time with each button, marveling in the hard surface of his skin. Her hands caressed every inch of his torso. Every freckle was seen, every hair stroked. As she carefully slipped off his shirt, his biceps bulged against the powder blue sleeves. Next came his pants. She closed her eyes and pushed away the conscience that kept repeating what she already knew. Yes, this was wrong. Yes, she shouldn't do this.

It was her conscience's fault she was in the situation in the first place. Besides, she'd never get another chance; might as well grab the opportunity while she could. That was her reasoning, and she was sticking with it.

Her shaking hands reached for the brown leather belt. Unbuckling it slowly, Cameron concentrated on not letting her eyes drift up, at the top of the bulge in his briefs that had been revealed when she'd dragged him into the room. Finally, after the belt had been slipped off, there was nothing left to do but pull down the zipper and tug the brown slacks off her boss's lean hips.

She gulped.

Cameron could feel him through his pants, could watch as a part of House she'd never laid eyes on was uncovered with each slip of the zipper. Her breath caught in her quickly drying at the sight of the clean white briefs and the evidence of what lay underneath the cotton. And then she could take it no more. Enough with the slow bullshit. She yanked the pants of his body and sat back on her haunches.

He was beautiful.

Toned calves and tanned skin filled her vision. For a cripple, the man had one hell of a body. Even the scar that bit into his thigh was beautiful. Perhaps she was being overly sentimental, but damn if it wasn't utterly Housian: painful and angry but so inspiring of curiosity. Ever since she'd first met him, Cameron had wanted to see his scar. She wanted to know what it felt like underneath her palms, what it tasted like if she kissed it.

Just like House, she thought sadly.

Shaking her head, Cameron stood and contemplated how she would get the man into his bed. There was no way she'd be able to lift him, and, while he didn't appear to be in any imminent danger from an overdose, the pills had definitely knocked him out. Levels, it was all about levels. If she could just raise him up a few inches at a time, she could get him onto the sleigh bed that stood a foot and a half off the ground.

It took fifteen minutes. Sweat had beaded at her hairline and her arms hurt, but it was worth it. Besides, she was committed now. No backing out.

Wishing he were awake and angry that it had come to this, her clothing came off, discarded in a pile with House's. Cameron blushed, even as she gazed at his sleeping face. This was crazy. Psychotic, stalkerish even. But as she pulled his boxers off his body, it felt so right. She gasped at the manhood between his legs; long, wide, and perfect. She wondered what it looked like when he was aroused. What would it feel like clasped in her hand, or enveloped in her mouth? Would his eyes clench together tightly when she made him come, or would he stare at her in that special way that made her heart do flip-flops in her chest? Would he pound into her hard and make her scream his name, or would he pace himself, bringing her to her peak with slow, languid strokes?

Cameron blinked back a tear when she remembered that she'd probably never know. Pulling the quilt over both their naked bodies, she resigned herself to knowing that this would be the closest she would ever get to Gregory House. His heartbeat echoed in her ears with her head placed soundly on his chest and an arm across his stomach and hoped he didn't hate her in the morning.