Title: Tragic - PT 11
Rating: M --please note warning label! ;)
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV)
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...
Note: Long night..leaving the blues club...

it may be a bit longer before next chapter...it's taking a little longer to write...

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar (esp. in this part), and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... And I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV --oh yeah, this still stands!

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You are dreading the music ending, the noise of the horns winding down, the guitars being put back in their cases, amps taken off the stage. Rich voices stretching out their last mournful lyric, harmonicas placed in pockets, basses thumping their last rhythm. You are dreading the awkwardness of whatever you may find and feel with House when you leave the bar. The unknown. And the want.

You leave the bar shortly after three. Rushing out into the cool air, you dash across the street to the open Korean before House can say anything. He knows what you're doing. You spend a ridiculous nine dollars on a pack of cigarettes, knowing you'll smoke three of them. You know you need to get one into your mouth immediately, because you don't know what else to do. You light it, inhale and cross back over the street to where House is leaning against a lamp post.

"I'd never thought I'd see the day where Allison Cameron was jones-ing for a cigarette," he smirks.

You laugh and inhale again. What now? Maybe you should check in with the sitter.

"I'm sure she's fine. She hasn't called. Why wake her now?" He's glancing around, people still emptying out of the bar, heading off in various directions.

The city night surrounds you like a coat, weighing on your shoulders . Right now you carry the night with you as you walk slowly, the sounds of beeping taxis, rumbling subways, whispers on the street, your soundtrack for the evening. You love the Village, it's always so full of life . . . at all hours. There is always something going on. And right now, you feel like it's your protection, your armor, here to keep you company at a time when you feel . . . unsure.

"What do you say, one more cocktail? And then maybe a quick bite before we head back uptown?" He reaches over a tucks a piece of hair blowing in your face behind your ear. You are (still) surprised by his intimacy.

Okay, but just one. You're feeling guilty about leaving Pearl this long, and she'll be up before you both know it.

You round the corner and eye a bar that is still teaming with people. Look's like you could probably get another one in before last call.

House garners a table outside under the heat lamps and orders two drinks. You light another cigarette. No one will really complain about you smoking outside at three o'clock in the morning, especially at this nighttime establishment. The taste of House is starting to fade from your mouth, tobacco and alcohol are overtaking your tongue. Right now, you think this might be a good thing, because you're not sure what the hell is going on. As much as you want this man, you know it's complicated.

You watch House as his eyes travel over the other patrons, walks of every race, sexual orientation and imagination crossing over the threshold. You can tell he is intrigued, his keen observation skills going into overdrive. You're concerned what he might do or say with his combination of alcohol and vicodin, but he keeps quiet, locking away all comments, perhaps for another time. Or maybe he just considers this research time.

You lean back in your chair, crossing your legs under the table, inhaling your cigarette, observing House. You ask him, he didn't really want to celebrate his birthday, did he?

"No," he says looking at his hands, "why would I?"

So, it was just an excuse.

"An excuse?"

You glare at him.

"Yes and no." He sits back and looks at you, blue eyes piercing you. "I really did want to come and see you and Pearl. I just felt I needed a reason."

Other than he missed you both?

"Well, yes, I guess," he shrugs, looking away again, picking up his drink and taking a swig. "Give me one of those." He reaches over a pulls a cigarette out of your pack, quickly lighting one. You eyebrow him, he eyes you back with a smirk.

And his birthday?

"Well, I really wanted to see if the blues bar was still here and I didn't want to go by myself," he smiles wickedly at you.

He could have just asked, you point out to him.

"Yeah, well, that's not really my style."

This is true. He's direct, but indirect simultaneously. Two dichotomies.

"Isn't that my charm?"

What charm? Now your turn to smirk at him - your never-ending game of smirks and eye glares, the facial expressions that you need dictionaries for sometimes. You never have traded those books, though you think you had gotten pretty good at deciphering him when you were in Princeton. You wonder if you were ever really right.

"Ahaha." He swigs again and finishes his drink. "C'mon," he says tossing some money on the table, "Let's get out of here."

Does he still want to get something to eat? Look for a diner?

"Nah, but you know what, let's find a bakery and get some goodies for the morning, some crumb buns and stuff. There's bound to be one open." He grabs your arm as you head toward Seventh Avenue. "I'll make breakfast in the morning," he says, "and I promise, I'll clean it up."

Right, you say to him. You glance up at him, as you let him guide you down the street. You're slightly drunk and too tired to care or argue at this point.

You eventually find a bakery that's open. You stand outside and have another cigarette and make House go in and buy his crumb-buns and donuts. When he comes out, you flag down a cab and uptown you go.

When you enter the apartment, you're running for the bathroom, it's been a long night after all. On your way back to the living room, you peek in on Pearl, who is sleeping soundly, tiny fist curled up by her head. You kiss her forehead, and finger her curls tenderly. House is paying your sitter, Carol. You insist on walking Carol downstairs and paying for her cab ride home, it is after four in the morning after all. She tells you on the elevator ride that Pearl went down a little later than usual. You're guessing from the ice cream. You thank her and send her home in her yellow chariot.

Locking the door, you feel heat behind you. Slowly you turn to face him. He steps toward you, backing you up against the door. Cautiously you lift your head to look at him, because you are not sure what you are going to see, and you're afraid what you might display.

You're not sure what tonight is about. But you like it when he takes your face in his hands and he lowers his mouth toward yours. Your hips involuntarily thrust outward against his as his cool, wet tongue starts licking and exploring your mouth in the most delicious and tasteful manner. You are melting. All this longing you have had for him, all this closeness you have felt with him in the past and you suddenly feel funny about touching him intimately . . . it's something you have never discussed between the two of you. You are hesitant, but you reach up and place your hands around his neck. Your right hand exploring the curve of his jaw and your hand fitting perfectly on his neck between his ear and collar bone, as if it belongs there, you are enjoying the warmth and touch of his skin.

You know you don't know what you're doing. You wonder if he does. Part of you doesn't care right now. Part of you knows he was right. You are thinking way back to that awful date night (it's in the forefront of your mind because of that damn black dress). Because right now you know that perhaps you don't love, you know that you need . . . but it's a different type of need. You need to feel . . . to be held, to be comforted, to not be alone. Your needs are dominating everything else right now, and you have a huge list of them. Your needs are oppressing the possibility of love. Your relationship with House has so confused you over the years, you are fearful of that love. You have seen his manipulative manners at work. (Is it possible he's just trying to get you into bed?) If so, you need that right now and you'll take it. And you can't think any further than that in some ways. His On-Off toggle switch in your life has left you confused, and you have chosen to ignore it in many ways. If he wants something with you, let him do something about it. You don't want to play any games any more. Because right now, you just need not to feel alone in this world. And your need is the most important thing right now at this moment.

You pull away from him. Turning off the lights, you take his hand and lead him down the hallway to your bedroom. Bringing him inside, you shut the door behind you and lean against it. He is looking around at your room. He turns and faces you. "Are you sure?"

You tell him that you're tired, and that you just don't want to think right now.

"You don't have to think right now," he says, approaching you slowly.

Good, you tell him. Then you're sure.

"Good. I'm sure we'll figure the rest out . . . tomorrow," he finishes, as he closes in on you, dropping his cane to the floor.

You're not so sure about it ever being figured out, but you don't care. You don't care, as you feel his hands on your waist and his mouth hungrily attacking your lips. You are finding that kissing him feels like one of the best in the world (and in ways, it makes you feel like a teenager again, is that so wrong?). God, you love the way his stubble is burning your face, the wetness of his mouth on yours, and the way his tongue tastes. Your hands are stroking the nape of his neck, fingering his hair.

You feel his hands coming up your sides and along your arms, reaching for your hands. Your hands so small in his large, warm hands, he intertwines his fingers in yours, lifts your arms above your head and pins them to the wall. Holding your tiny wrists with his one hand, he reaches for the hem of your shirt and swiftly pulls it over your head and arms, tossing it to the floor. He is in silent, gentle, control here, and you are loving it. He is taking care of you, in a way that you need to be taken care of - in a way that you don't know how to put words or feelings to. His palms on either side of your face, sweeping your hair away as his tongue is working his way down your neck and along your collar bone, you can't help but moan, feel the twitch between your legs, the flood of moisture in your panties. You can do nothing but roll your head back and close your eyes and just enjoy the sensation, the coolness, the wetness, the bristle, the goose bumps, the butterflies in your stomach. He runs his left hand along your breast, down to your waist, bringing you toward him. You let him guide you wherever he may go.

He sits on the edge of the bed. You standing in front of him between his legs. You are surprised by his tenderness. He is running his tongue up your torso, stubble burning and tickling you, you are running your fingers through his soft hair. He unbuttons your jeans and slides them down your hips. You both laugh at the awkwardness of tight jeans and boots and socks, as you lean on his shoulders and he unzips your boots and toss them across the room. You kiss his neck. He murmurs something you don't hear when you nip at his ear. You gasp as he runs his hand between your legs, and he moans when he realizes how soaked your panties are already. You think he's secretly pleased that these panties are lacy also.

You carefully straddle his lap, kneeling on the bed. You unbutton his oxford, pull his T-shirt over his head, run your hands across his bare skin. You love the feeling of his skin under your hands. You are nipping at his neck, inhaling his scent (a smell you can't quite nail down, but whenever you get a whiff of it, it turns you on). You feel his hands running up your back, expertly unhooking your bra.

Right now you are thanking the alcohol. Your inhibitions a bit to the wind. You lean back as he takes a nipple in your mouth, teasing and sucking. You are dying. You want his hand on your clit, fingers in your cunt. It's been a while. And for some reason, you are just ready to go. He switches nipples, twirling your other nipple with his tongue, the first nipple cooling in the air, your hands on his head, his neck, his shoulders, fingers memorizing with touch the feel of his skin and muscle.

He leans you over onto to the bed. You feel naked (well, shit, you know your practically are). But you watch him, stand, toe off his shoes, unbuckle his jeans and slide them down his legs. Standing in his boxers, he hesitates and looks at you.

You tell him to take them off. (You don't look at him like that, like a man with a scar, with a limp, with a cane. You just look at him like a man. A man that you have wanted for a long time.)

He does. And you don't look at his leg - missing muscle or his scar. You look at his erection. And how suddenly you want to put you mouth on his cock. You smile.

"What?"

Nothing, come here. You reach your hand out to him. Amazingly, he takes it, and you pull him on to the bed next to you.

You kiss him, your arms wrapped around each other. You take your hand and run it along the length of his body, finding his cock, wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a small hiss. You smile, pulling your mouth away from his. Rolling onto him, you slide your body down his. Your breasts and nipples being tickled by fine hairs on his chest.

You still don't notice his thigh, even though your hand is on it, even though you run your tongue along the inner part of his leg. You are teasing him. Sucking his balls, licking his inner thighs, inhaling his skin, loving the smell of his pubic hair, so tantalizing. You finally take his shaft in your hand, your tongue swirling along the head of his cock. You lick up and down his cock, before taking him fully in your mouth. You hear him groan and feel his body adjust a bit, his back arching slightly. Even with his cock in your mouth, you smile. You are getting wetter, just at the fact that you are turning him on. You are sucking and lapping and enjoying yourself quite thoroughly (and you're most certain that he is too), when you feel his hands on your arms pulling you up.

"Allison," (he never calls you that!) he says slightly out of breath, "this doesn't need to end so soon, does it?"

You love that he smiles at you, and you climb up the bed toward him, and he pulls you into an embrace. He pulls your panties off, and starts rubbing his hand along your wet folds. You're not used to each other. You put your hand over his and guide him a bit as to where to touch you. You ask him if this is okay. "Absolutely," he says hotly in your ear, as he strokes you and you find yourself moaning louder with each stroke. He seems to have had the map to your body in his possession, because he is finding all the right places. The small spot just below your collar bone that when kissed just makes you break into a million pieces, just a certain stroke along your clit that just about brings you to the edge. You wonder how this is possible, this first time, no previous make-out sessions, no real lack of failure.

The magic of his fingers sliding in and out of you is starting to bring you to the edge. You feel yourself arching up, you are getting louder (you have never been able to help that). He has been working his way down your body, and you know if he places his tongue on your cunt, you'll be gone in a second. (You've never had any self control, not really, it is all a facade.) You stop him, pull him up to you and tell him that you want him.

He gulps. You said it out loud. No taking it back now. He nods. Condoms? (Oh shit.)

A frantic search begins. It's almost comical. Who thought? He's limping back to the living room to search his duffel bag. You're thinking that there might be one or two in the bathroom leftover from when you were with Ryan . . . but god knows if they're any good. Well, worse case scenario, there is either a) no intercourse (but there are other options) or b) a run out to the store. You laugh at yourself as you are pulling apart your bathroom trying to find an old toiletry bag that was Ryan's. Aha. You find one.

You enter your bedroom from the bathroom, he from the hallway, each with a condom in hand. You laugh. The search kind of broke the moment. But what the hell, you start again. And that's pretty good.

Intercourse. You take it slow. You have a hard time at first finding the right position, neither one of you are into daring right now. He wants to see you, watch you. He lifts your hips toward him, as he enters you. That unfamiliar, yet familiar, burn feels so good, you cry out in pleasure. He is deliberate (isn't he always?). Slowly, pulling out and the sliding back into you, you squeezing your muscles around him, he groans. His skin is becoming pink and glazed. You want to lick him. He is biting at your nipples, the feeling making you scream. His thrusts become faster, and harder. Oh god, you are calling out, harder, faster. He obeys, for once. You feel his fingers digging into the cheeks of your ass. There is something about men, just about when they're going to cum, it's like their dick just suddenly enlarges and throbs. And if you catch that feeling just at the right moment, you're gone too. And you catch it. And you're cumming. And you're screaming, and your fists are full of his hair, your back fully arched, nipples sliding against his glistening chest. He's slamming into you, back sweaty, his mouth on your neck, biting you, sucking you.

And you collapse. Your entity pulsating. Your breathing hitched. Your body sweaty. He is on top of you, your arms around him, stroking up his back. And you're good. And you don't want to think. You feel alive, you're breathing. You haven't seen your black hole. You feel strangely safe. He removes himself, and you instantly miss his body. But you are starting to drift in and out of some kind of semi-blissful, almost drugged sleep, and then you feel him crawl back into bed next to you. He pulls you up against his body and into his arms, you feel his flaccid cock against you. He's kissing the back of your head and your neck and inhaling you and your hair. You don't want him to say anything. Because you don't know what to say. You just want to enjoy this moment and just let it be.

You know you are drifting off into sleep, and he must know his too, as he reaches over and turns off the lamp. He hasn't let you go yet. You wonder how long he'll hold you. You're too weak to move. You're too weak to push him away. You are too weak, because you need him in more ways than you can admit. You know you are afraid of waking up. You are afraid of the morning. Has the music ended?

END PT 11