She wakes up feeling slightly cold. Her left side, on which she was sleeping, tingles sharply. She pulls the blanket tighter on her body, and stirs to start the blood flowing. As it does, she lies on her back, persuading her body to wake up; she feels her heart beat very fast, in fact, too fast, like after a very deep sleep.
She remembers something, something like a faded memory, and she feels the shivers going up and down her spine as she recalls House's hand on her breast, then sliding lower... It only lasts for a split second, and by the time she lets out a long sigh, she knows it was only a dream. A detailed, luscious, absolutely breathtaking dream. He had been so tender, so loving. Recalling his body... his hands... his lips... she feels a sudden jolt of desire deep inside, where she had not been touched for a very long time. She replays the scenes behind closed eyelids, fluttering in pain and ecstasy. It was a dream, yet it felt so real, so very real. The cruelty of it all strikes her in the dark, making her feel even smaller under the blanket that she doesn't remember covering herself with.
It is then she realizes she is technically naked, and a sudden fear grips her heart. Sitting up, she shoves the blanket aside, her movements fast, her breathing uncontrolled. As she notices the wetness on her thigh, she doesn't know what to think. It must have been a terribly good dream if it did this to her, she thinks, on the verge of laughter, but then she sees her bra and undies torn, thrown here and there. She looks at the door, and sees the key hanging in the lock. Sitting on the side of the bed, wondering if this is the dream, right now, from which she will have to wake up, she experiences a sudden throbbing between her legs. His face hovering over hers haunts her, and she feels his slow thrusts inside her as clearly as daylight. What if... what if he found her asleep?
And?
He would never do that.
He might have. He's a man after all. And he likes you. Your body, at least.
But he doesn't do anything stealthily. Against his principle.
She doesn't know him that well, but she knows he would never have done it. The certainty leads her to the knowledge that shatters her every cell, and tears start streaming down her face. She cries because she wishes it was him. She wishes he had been there, and taken her, never mind her pride or obvious shifts in their work relationship. She knows it was someone else, someone who took advantage of her, someone who doesn't even know her, who only saw a piece of helpless female flesh. Her sobs get louder as she stands up, pulling her skirt down with shaking hands. She gathers the torn pieces of clothing from the bed, buttons up her blouse, brushes her hair back into a ponytail. Two staggering steps towards the closed door, then she stops in the dark and has no idea what to do. Should she tell anyone? There is no sign of forceful penetration, she feels no pain, only her heart aches and her stomach feels fluttery as dawn approaches.
Leaning to the door, she relives those amazing moments. He was making love to her, his muscles tensing inside her, while someone else was taking advantage of her unconscious body. She shivers at the thought, but cannot stop thinking of those scenes behind her closed eyelids. Her hand slides to where he had touched her, she teases herself, makes her own tears flow uncontrollably, but she desperately wants to have been his, so she wills her dream to become a real memory she can forever fall back on.
He pushes his apartment door open and bangs it angrily. He is closer to hating himself that he has ever been. The feeling is not pleasurable, and as he discovers he has no scotch left, he throws the empty bottle into the trashcan, upturning it and spilling all its insides onto the kitchen floor. He drops to his settee, dark thoughts chasing each other in his mind. There is something irretrievable in the evening, as he leans back onto the familiar softness, those neutral arms he has been running home to for so many years now. A car speeds past in the silence, and the loud engine makes his head ache with everything he had experienced that evening. He pops in his Vicodin, then after a moment's thought, another. His disgust doesn't diminish at the recollection of Cameron's unconditional abandonment, even if it was unconscious. He knows, he knows she would have done the same, had she been awake. Had it been one of his dreams, he could have denied it all with a clear conscience, because that's what he was like. But she is different: what she dreams is what she is ready to admit. He feels horrible at having been granted the chance to read her like an open book. And then, his raping her. Technically, that's what it was. She was helpless, and he took advantage. He doesn't remember ever having done anything as disgusting his whole life. His sarcasm and arrogance is so lost in the moment that he lies helplessly on his couch, and forgets his leg pain, his thirst for Scotch, his bodily exhaustion. Darkness grows on him like a gigantic spider web, and he accepts the role of the victim readily. Anything is better than being weighed down by the responsibility of what he did. He knows he has to face it sooner or later, but he wants to postpone the moment.
The silence is so thick he can actually feel it around him, shapes of thoughts and memories floating in his room, and his mind. His hands lie on both sides of him, palms down, fingers spread on the leather cover of his couch. He brings his right hand to his face, combs through his hair with it. It is then he smells her smell on his finger. In an instant, he recalls the sinfully exhilarating images from an eternity ago. His contempt grows with his re-awakened desire, yet he is unable to stop himself. He pulls those images out of his mind, he reshapes them into clarity, he re-watches them in sheer delight. He did a terrible thing, but the feeling he is left with is a kind of excited joy, a strange, sinful fulfillment. His shame is washed away by the overwhelming wish to see her again, and make love to her once more.