Disclaimer- Nope, definitely don't own 'em, more's the pity

Cameron's apartment Wednesday 7.56am

House opened one eye groggily. To find himself swaddled in a pale pink fleecy comforter. Despite his crashing headache and the fact that his brain was mush, he was certain he owned nothing that was either pink or fluffy, much less an article that was a combination of two such disagreeable categories. Horrified, he tried to find the energy to push it away from his chin. But for some reason his hand was not responding to the signals his brain was transmitting.

Aware that alcohol may well have played a part in his motor functions being impaired, due to the vile taste in his mouth and the empty bottle of scotch he could see lying on its side nearby, he attempted once more to get his hand to obey his command. Frustrated, he opened his other eye blearily, keen to see what the problem was. And was startled to see a mane of tangled hair on his chest. Hair that wasn't his. Wrong colour and way too much of it for it to be his. Chest wig? Ha! Definitely hadn't been drunk enough to have purchased one of those. Surely? Upon further inspection, he realised it was in fact attached to another human being, one who was also wrapped in the afore-mentioned comforter. Feeling the faint rise and fall of another's chest on his, he was relieved that at least they were breathing. Thank God, he wasn't laid beneath a corpse, not a good way to start the day.

Keen not to disturb his new-found sleeping partner until he'd at least established their identity, he used his restricted mobility to his advantage and turned his attention to his surroundings. A whole lot of cream emulsion. A large treadmill. Traces of vanilla fragrance in his nostrils. Definitely not my house, he thought. Or Wilson's. Besides, Julie was blonde, so at least he hadn't got down with his best pal's missus. Huge relief. Sleeping with the Honey Monster would never be high on his list of priorities, regardless of whether she was married to his only friend or not. No clues visible amongst the debris on the table, just empty glasses, a fancy candle arrangement and a purse with its contents scattered. OH SH$T! He spotted a fluffy pink key fob, and in a heartbeat, it all came flooding back.

Unable to recoil, due to the owner of the offensive trinket being prostate across him, he lifted his head slightly, glanced down at Cameron and slumped his head back on the couch, sighing heavily as he did so. He could see his feet poking out from beneath the covers, and noticed he had socks on. Which was either a good thing, signifying he hadn't got naked in front of her, or a very bad thing, meaning he had got up close and personal but, in a bizarre attempt to maintain some modesty, had decided to keep his socks on. Nice. Classy.

As his brain slowly began to reassemble its various parts, he decided that it was definitely sometime after 7am because the daylight was streaming in through the blinds and no later than 10am, because the phone wasn't ringing off the hook to find out why Dr. Cameron hadn't reported for duty. His brain was also trying to tell him via his bladder that he needed to get up. Soon. Or it would all get very messy. What are you thinking you moron, he mumbled, how much more messy could it possibly get?

As he pondered the true awfulness of his current predicament, he felt a stirring. Heard a murmur. Followed by a delicate little cough. And, then, if he wasn't very much mistaken a hand on his belly. Not through his T-shirt either. Definitely skin on skin contact. Highly ticklish as he was, he could contain himself no longer. He jerked violently, and as he did so, music began to blare noisily from another room. He had no idea who the screaming banshee on the radio/alarm was, but he distinctly heard whooping and a woman's voice claiming man, she felt like a woman. Oh Lord, help me please, he thought. I'm in the 9th circle of Hell.

Cameron sat bolt upright, hair completely covering her face, looking like an extra from Terrahawks. She blindly reached out to shut the alarm off, unable to see anything and oblivious to the fact the alarm was in another room altogether. In her confusion she managed to whack House sharply across the left ear. He grunted angrily, causing her to squeal loudly, blissfully unaware up until that point that she had spent the night with anything or anyone other than her dreams.

'Dr. House, what…? I mean…' She quickly glanced at herself and saw she was partially clothed, as was he. He looked how she felt. Tired, hungover and uneasy.

'Good morning, Dr. Cameron. I appear to have taken a wrong turning on the way home, and inadvertently wound up on your couch. Tsk, silly me!' He hoped making light would dissolve what was going to be a uncomfortable situation.

Cameron, speechless, stared at him open-mouthed. You're laid on your boss, laid on House for Chrissakes woman, what are you doing, she thought. Get up, Allison, get a grip. She swung herself round, feet tangled in the comforter, buttocks wedged in the gap between his legs, arms flailing helplessly in trying to push herself forward so her feet would reach the ground, aware as she tried in vain, that she was wriggling all over his bad leg.

As she writhed indelicately over him, a sensation he wished he had experienced in slightly more erotic circumstances, his hands were finally released from the confines of the comforter. He was hugely relieved to see he was almost fully clothed. His shirt was missing, but he had his favourite Black Crowes T-shirt on. His jeans were definitely still there, he could feel them cutting him in two, although the belt was strangely absent, and most worrying of all, he was unbuttoned. Completely. She, for her part, did not seem to have fared as well in the 'being wrapped up warm' department. Her jeans had been replaced by a pair of shorts (short shorts, he cheerfully noted) and the black blouse she had been wearing last night, had mysteriously morphed into a strappy vest top. Pink, naturally.

As Cameron finally made it to her feet, House was able to part-crawl, part-grapple himself to a sitting position, discreetly fiddling with his buttons as he did so. He managed to retrieve his cane from beneath the table by swinging the empty whisky bottle at it, and upon rising to his feet, deliberated as to what to say next. Judging by the look on her face, she was equally unsure as to how they had ended up so clumsily intertwined. Her expression was two-thirds confusion, one-third annoyance. A jaw line not dissimilar to Desperate Dan's. Bet she grinds her molars down to chalk dust by the end of the day, he chuckled to himself.

'You know a post-coital cigarette or a hurriedly scribbled Post-It on the fridge door is probably what most men do at this point, but sadly, I have to disappoint you and go pee.' He smiled weakly, and shuffled off to the bathroom, observing en route Cameron's clothing from the night before in a heap on the floor, along with his shirt. Stopping to hook his favourite blue shirt (the one that almost made him look nice) up with his cane, he was more than a little embarrassed to find he had also managed to collect a pair of white lacy knickers on the handle. His embarrassment intensified tenfold when he tried to shake the offending article off, unsuccessfully, only to find Cameron beside him, seemingly dumbstruck.

'If you'd wanted to see a pair of my pants, I'd have preferred it if you'd asked first,' she snapped, whipping them off the cane angrily.

'Well, I'll make a note for future reference,' he retorted. 'What are they doing inside my shirt anyway? Should I expect to find your bra in my shoes? Fishnets in my trouser pocket?'

'Ha. Cute. But unlikely. I guess I got changed during the night and put my night clothes on, just discarded my clothes as I went.'

'And mine with them? Dr. Cameron, how could you take advantage of an old, rat-a$$ed cripple like that?' Feigning horror, he put his hand inside the waistband of his jeans and pulled at the top of his boxers. ' Ah, Calvins still in place, guess it was just little ol' you letting it all hang out last night. Huh, you feminists, guess you don't even need to use us for sex nowadays.'

She passed him his belt, which had been laid on the back of the sofa. 'Yours, I believe,' she said as she did so.

Draping it over his arm, he looked her squarely in the eye and said, 'You know, if I get in that bathroom and find strap marks on my butt, your face is gonna be so red when I tell Clarkson how a Princess really behaves. Ha!'

He continued on his way, knowing her face would be glowing behind him, allowing himself the luxury of a wry smile as he entered the bathroom. As he answered the call of nature, he remembered that he had left his car outside Hendersons, and shouted through to Cameron, 'Any chance of calling me a cab?'

'You're a cab,' she hollered back. Pleased that the sarcasm she had absorbed from working with him so closely had finally been put to good use.

He emerged, looking mildly amused. 'See, you're good. You're a regular mini-me. House with breasts. And no knickers.' Delighting in the redness that was deepening on her cheeks, he continued, 'You're in the clear. No visible strap-marks. You may wear the princess mantle with pride a little longer. Until the next time we do this. You know you won't be able to resist. Seriously though, I do need a cab. And looking the way I do, I figure if I go outside to hail one and stand on the kerb too long, someone may take pity on me and start throwing dimes into the flat cap I don't have.'

'I'll call you one right away,' she said wandering over to the phone. 'I have to get ready for work anyway.'

Pausing to allow her to ring for a taxi, he then continued, 'Oh yes, work, that little game we play just to break up the day. You up to it today? I mean, you had quite a skinful last night, as I recall. Why don't you take the day off, we can manage without you. We don't have a lot on.'

Cameron realising she was still holding her underwear aloft, tossed them ashamedly on the couch. 'I will be fine. Anyway, I seem to remember you weren't exactly moderate in your intake either. You want me to take the day off because you can't deal with this- this situation we found ourselves in?'

House was surprised how quickly her tone had changed to that of a defensive one. 'Situation? What? I had one lemonade too many and passed out on your couch. Hell I do that to Wilson at least once a fortnight and I still manage to face him in the office.'

Cameron folded her arms and adopted the stance of one who was offended. 'Well, I also recall, a little more vaguely, admittedly, that you said a lot of things last night. Things you may be uncomfortable in dealing with now that the alcohol isn't freeing your tongue up.'

House struggled to remember exactly what he had said. He knew all the things he'd wanted to say, could even hazard a guess at what he may have said, but it was certainly too early in the day for him to be a hundred percent on the matter. Besides, he knew that Cameron would have read something into the most minor of comments.

' Uncomfortable? Me? You know me, easier to read than a Janet& John book. Talk about anything freely.' The knock on the door interrupted his train of thought briefly. 'Don't believe me, I'll see you at 10. Don't be late.'

'I won't.'

He left the apartment, exhausted, pained and looking like a man who'd fallen on hard times. But unless his imagination was playing tricks on him, he most definitely felt a slight spring in his step and a shiver of excitement down his spine, as he followed the driver down the hallway.