Title: T.G.I.F.
Pairing: House/Cameron.
Spoilers: Up to and including 'Kids'. This takes you up to the last scene and then veers oddly sideways.
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, 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 off.
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 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 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. 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 'Fatal Attraction'."
"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. Your clichés 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?"