"Strange Brew"
Part Two
Glue
She's some kind of demon messing in the glue. If you don't watch out it'll stick to you . . .What kind of fool are you?
-Eric Clapton
When Dr. House entered his office, he was aware of two very important things: one, his head was pounding terribly, like a rave was going on in his temporal lobe, and two, a pot of coffee was brewing.
As he walked towards the coffee pot, he involuntarily took note of the table where his employees sat. It was a habit to him, to just casually look over at the large glass table as he walked passed it. It was one of the largest things in the room and was obtrusively in his line of sight. Foreman was eating a bowl of cereal and Chase was focused intently on a crossword puzzle, his pen clenched in between his teeth.
House almost expected Cameron to hand him a cup of coffee and take a seat in between Foreman and Chase, but Cameron was nowhere to be seen. Her bag was there, though, propped against the leg of a chair, and her jacket was slung across the back of the chair. It was a very normal thing for her to do, sit her bag down, throw her jacket across the chair, make a pot of coffee, hand him a cup . . . .
She was probably avoiding him.
He supposed he probably should have acted a little more sensitive to their predicament. Although they had both been drunk, his alcohol consumption had been considerably less than hers. Judging by the pain in his head, he had been quite drunk, which meant that she must have been smashed. She probably felt used, like he had taken advantage of her. She probably didn't remember throwing herself at him, kissing him, taking off his shirt. She probably didn't even remember him suggesting they go get a drink in the first place.
The rave in his temporal lobe suddenly got busted and pandemonium ensued as the guests tried to get away from the cops. The pounding in his head scattered about, trying to find an escape. He massaged his temple and poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a large gulp despite the inevitable burn . . . and then gagged when he realized it tasted horrible.
He looked down at his mug. It was the same mug he had used for the past year or so. It looked clean and sparkly red. He took another sip, thinking maybe it had just been his imagination, and immediately spit it back out, disgusted by the stale taste.
"Who made this?" he asked, holding the offending beverage away from him.
"Chase did," said Foreman, taking bite of his cereal.
"Why didn't Cameron make it?"
"Because Cameron has clinic duty," said Chase, looking up from his crossword puzzle. He crossed off 5 Down with a satisfied smile and started working on 12 Across.
House sighed and placed his mug down.
There are two accepted definitions of the word "addiction." Some within the medical profession insist that it only applies to an escalating drug or alcohol use as a result of repeated exposure. However, the term "addiction" is also habitually applied to compulsive behaviors, such as gambling. In all cases, though, addiction describes a chronic pattern of behavior that continues despite the adverse affects of engaging in such activity.
Like eating that chocolate cake even though you're twenty pounds overweight.
As a doctor and a Vicodin addict, House was well aware of what addiction was. Nevertheless, he was slightly surprised and perturbed to discover a new addiction he had.
An addiction to coffee.
He was surprised because he had never really thought he was reliant on caffeine before. As he was walking towards the clinic, the thought of making his way to Wilson's office, talking him into buying a cup of coffee, and then stealing it entered his mind.
But for some reason it just wasn't appealing. It made him feel bored and little annoyed.
The realization that Cameron's coffee was always better than the hospital cafeteria's coffee and that he really didn't want to settle for theirs when he could have hers, was what perturbed him.
A more adjusted person would have sat and pondered on this new finding and its implications. A person more in touch with his emotions would have probably come to conclusion that the coffee was just a symbol for his reliance on Cameron herself–a reliance that could probably culminate into an attachment, and possibly escalate into something that could be called a "romantic interest." A desire to get in her pants.
Since House was not a well-adjusted person and generally only touched his emotions with a ten foot stick, he decided to focus on the simple fact that Cameron's coffee just tasted better.
Besides, he'd already slept with her once, so he was exempt from thinking about things too much.
He arrived in the clinic as quietly as a man with a cane can arrive anywhere, and quickly discovered that she was in examination room three. He opened the door without knocking.
"Why didn't you make the coffee this morning?" he asked, looking down at her.
She was sitting in the chair, one leg crossed professionally over the other. Her hair was pulled back from her face, her bangs pushed to the side. Her eyes looked dark and tired. A pen was poised in her hand, and she took a deep breath before setting it down. She turned to him, looking calm, as if she had expected him to come looking for his morning coffee.
For a minute, he felt a twinge of something in his chest. Guilt for interrupting her, perhaps, although that was highly unlikely. Or maybe even a remembrance of the night before. He thought it was probably because he couldn't bring himself to simply forget the night before.
He may not have been thinking about it directly–it wasn't like he was reliving it– but it was there, dancing around in the back of his brain, having a great time at that rave.
Her lips, and cheap beer. Her skin in the dark and her sloppy drunken kisses, his sloppy drunken kisses. Her hair had been soft and rested against his cheek and her hands, her hands on his shoulders—
It wasn't that he really secretly loved her. It was simply that it had been a good time. It was nice. It felt good. Like sticking your finger in an electrical socket when you were a kid. Your mother would tell you not do it, but of course you still would, because it felt good and because she had told you not to do it in the first place.
The sexual imagery of "sticking your finger in an electrical socket" was not lost on him. Most sexual imagery was not lost on him.
Cameron was forbidden territory, even if she wasn't working for him. Even if she was working for Yule at Jefferson, she would still be the older brother's bedroom with a big "Do Not Enter" sign on the door. The cookie before dinner. She was the popular table in the middle school lunchroom and he was sitting in the corner all by himself with a sarcastic remark on his lips and a bum leg.
She was something he wasn't supposed to do.
She only wanted him because she was needy and he was damaged. It was an illusion that she could fix him, bring him back to humanity and a better understanding of what love really is.
Dr. House was never really one to believe in romance. Sure, he could love; wasn't that what Stacy was? And yes, he could care about other people when he wanted to; he cared about Wilson . . . usually.
But Cameron would want roses and candy and sweet gestures that showed she was his. Hand-holding and little pecks on the cheek.
He couldn't do that. It was against his nature, against that rude and sarcastic barrier of his. His wall of rocks. Let that wall down and he'd drown.
"I have clinic duty," she answered.
"Yes, but why didn't you make it before clinic duty?"
His voice had that annoyed sound to it. The one he used when talking to a patient that kept lying. Kind of gravelly and sarcastic. The one that implies you're an idiot.
"I got here a little late."
Her words poked at the tension that was clearly between them but both were trying to ignore. She stood up and moved to the counter, grabbing her prescription pad and scribbling something down on it. His eyes followed her, capturing her movements like a camera.
His shutter speed was a little slow, and he somehow caught the slight sway of her hips in her sleek, black pants. It was an unintentional observation that he would normally comment on with all the abrasiveness he could muster. But now–now he was just trying to remember his denial tactic.
"Besides," she continued, "I don't remember making coffee being in my job description."
It wasn't the comeback she had been searching for, but it opened a window between them. A breath of hot summer air. Winter is over, it said.
"Well, I don't remember last night being in your job description either."
The patient shifted uncomfortably and the paper sheet underneath him rustled loudly.
Cameron dropped the pen. Her back was facing him, but he could see her hair falling down her back and her shoulders all clenched, like they had a patient almost dying and they weren't even close to figuring out why.
Maybe she was the one dying and she knew why.
He took a deep breath and said, "Just make the coffee when you get back up there."
When she turned around, he was gone, and her patient smiled nervously. "So what happened last night?"
She ignored his question and handed him the prescription. Mumbling off some directions, she left the room and found House just as he was entering the elevator.
She followed him and pushed the button. "I thought you said nothing happened last night."
He couldn't think of anything particularly witty to reply with, so he looked at the elevator door. "Everybody lies," he said, the familiar words sounding foreign to him for some reason. Like they had a new meaning now.
They didn't have a new meaning, though. They were just being applied to the wrong subject matter. They were applying to him and her.
"Look, something happened . . . ." she began to say, but the doors opened with a ding, and they had to get off.
She followed him into the conference room and silently made a fresh pot of coffee.
The rest of the day trailed on, riddled with little moments and secret glances. He would tell her what to do and she would do it. She'd make a comment and he would ignore it. He would walk into the Pathology lab and she would stand there, her back to him, refusing to turn around or tell him that the tests were not finished yet. She didn't contradict his diagnosis even though she thought he might be wrong. Foreman could do that well enough.
She just acted with maturity. Professionally. Distant. And it killed her.
"I can't do this one more day," she said that night, as he reluctantly let her into his house. "I can't work in an environment like that and we need to talk things through, come to an agreement."
"An agreement about what? Whether or not we had sex last night? 'Cause I can assure you, we did."
She crossed her arms over her chest, a sly smile on her face. "I thought you said we'd forget that. You keep bringing it up."
He averted his eyes and gripped his cane tighter, as if it were a life preserver. Hold it tight, don't let yourself forget who you are.
There was sharp knock on the door before he could respond. Wilson had invited himself over to watch a football game earlier that week.
"House?" he called.
"Just a minute."
House was on the verge of finding his stethoscope and making a big show of hanging it on the doorhandle, when Wilson just let himself in, like he lived there or something.
"I still have a key," called Wilson.
House waited, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at Cameron briefly and saw that her cheeks were pink. Either she was embarrassed or she had worn blush that day. He knew for a fact that Cameron never wore blush.
He turned his attention back to Wilson . . . shutting the door . . . shifting the bag of potato chips from his right arm to his left . . . stuffing the keys back into his pocket . . . turning around . . . and . . .
"Oh." Wilson shifted his eyes between House and Cameron. "I didn't know you were going to be here, Allison," he said at length.
"Didn't you hear?" said House, making his way to the couch. "With that lousy pay I give her, she was forced to take a second job. Her specialty is a prostrate exam."
Wilson continued to look between House, sitting on his couch, and Cameron, her eyes focused on her shoes. Her lips were a thin line connecting her rosy cheeks and her arms were folded across her chest protectively.
House was calmly looking at Wilson, a small smirk on his face and his eyebrows raised. "I'll share her if you want some," he continued.
Wilson opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and closed his mouth. "I better be going," he said. "I'll see you two tomorrow."
After Wilson closed the door behind him, Cameron took an uneasy step towards the couch.
"That was awkward," she said.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
She sighed and took another step closer to him. "I . . . ."
Another deep breath and she was sitting next to him. It felt like a violation of his couch, her sitting there next to him, a comfortable warmth seeping into his side.
It felt kind of nice.
He shifted and said quietly, "What do you want me to do?"
For a minute, he thought she was going to tell him to kiss her. She looked up at him, her eyes shining in the low-light of the room and her lips parted.
"Nothing," she answered. "I don't want you to do anything."
Miss Stubborn reared her attractively annoying head, and now he just had to kiss her.
He leaned down, his eyes staring pointedly above her head and touched his lips to her temple. The kiss lingered for a second and then he straightened, his grip on his cane increasing in intensity.
Her posture stiffened. Her blood pressure increased. Her pupils dilated, arteries constricted. Her skin felt warm. And her hand, slowly, nervously, rested on his knee. She moved closer to him, turning her body to face him and placed her hand on his chest.
It was a night of strange consequence, a period of no thoughts and no guilt. There was no conscience to stray them away from each other and no awkwardness to cause any fumbling. There was no thought of "This is wrong," or "We should stop." There was only physical contact and the floating realization that neither one really wanted to live without this luxury of having another's body so close or being able to look in another's eyes and see.
She assumed that he had some sort of feelings for her. He made no effort to fight whatever advances she made towards him thus far and after the initial shock, he warmed up to her quite well. It was him who maneuvered them into his bedroom with remarkable ease, and it was him who removed her shirt expertly.
And yet, it was her who was lying awake, staring at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering what this meant. It's one thing to sleep with your boss while you're drunk, but doing it while you were sober was something completely different.
She wondered if she could blame it on him. I was drunk on him
She laughed lightly and turned on her side to look at him better. His chest rose and fell with each deep breath. She wondered if maybe she was hallucinating, like maybe he was just a figment of her imagination. Or maybe she was dreaming. She continued to stare at him until her eyelids faltered, and she fell asleep.
tbc
A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! The third part will be up soon.
