A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks to NaiveEve for the beta!
Please Note: This chapter is rated 'M'.
-3-
They were done for now. The whiteboard was clean. Foreman was off somewhere doing whatever it was Foreman did when he wasn't irritating her. Chase was off somewhere, doing his best to avoid another of her rebukes. Sex with him had been exciting, a release, a fantastic diversion to the everyday go-to-work-go-home existence. But that's all it was, and a bed partner was all he would ever be, no matter how much he yearned fortheheart and soul of her.
Forget it.
Yes, they were done for now. So why was she making this great show of gathering file folders, empty coffee cups, pens, legal pads, and not even considering heading to the cafeteria for her afternoon fruit plate?
House.
He stood by the window, his back to her as he chatted on his cell. Occasionally he would turn, pace, and throw her a knowing look, his voice going low, rough, his words indiscernible. A smile played at the corner of his lips, a gruff little laugh escaped him once, then again.
She glanced at the wall clock and realized she hadn't moved for the last five minutes.
House was getting his jollies playing this game with her, forcing her to wonder just what he was saying and to whom. And as much as she didn't want to give a flying fuck about what he did, where he went, this woman he was marrying, she couldn't help herself.
House winked at her and she realized with grim certainty that her cheeks were burning.
They must be crimson. How ridiculous must you look?
She wanted to avert her eyes but her neck, her shoulders, her entire body seemed to be encased in an invisible block of cement. And he knew. Oh, he knew.
Damn! She shook herself free of her imaginary encasement, of his sensuous stare, and stood, forcing herself to turn away from him. Her gaze darted from the ceiling, to the floor, to that wall clock, ticking the time away. Breaths coming hot and quick, she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
"Awww." He clicked his phone shut, tucked it into his front jeans pocket. "Leaving so soon?"
"You're an ass," she spat, frozen to the spot. "What could that poor woman have done that was so horrible to deserve you?" The moment she said it she wished she hadn't. She should be in the cafeteria right now, choking down blueberries and apple slices.
"So that's your problem?"
"I don't have a problem." With some reluctance, she returned to her seat.
"Sure you do." He lurched closer, cocking his head. "It's true what they say, you know."
"I don't know." Why was she even bothering...?
"Once you're off the market, you become three times more desirable to the opposite sex." He smirked. "Wow, looks like my standings must have just shot straight through the roof."
She gawped at him. "Oh my god, House. Just...stop."
"In case you're wondering, that was my mom on the phone, yakking about the big day." He moved closer still. "So happy her Greg's finally getting himself hitched."
Cameron rubbed a hand across her brow, down her cheek, wrenching her eyes from his. "Why should I care?"
"Well, you were straining so hard to hear, I thought your ears might just grow little legs and scoot on over."
"That's just plain stupid," she grumbled. "Even for you."
He seated himself on the corner of the table. "We-e-ell, I didn't want you to think I was cooing dirty love rhymes to the future missus," His gaze darkened, his tone going low and husky. "There's a time and a place for that..."
Cameron took a deep breath, her thoughts shifting to an all-nighter she had pulled last week. On a break from hashing over differential diagnoses with Foreman, she ambled into Pediatrics and found Myrna hard at work. The department had been short staffed that night and Myrna was filling in, caring for a newborn who inhaled meconium inside the womb and a preemie who nearly died the day before. Myrna glanced up briefly from her tasks, sharing a nod with Cameron, an implied 'hello'. She had recently become an RN, progressing from her former LPN status. She seemed diligent, dedicated but, in truth, pretty darn bland. She was one of those women who could melt into a crowd without being noticed, wander off and never be missed.
What the hell did House see in her?
"I-"
"What? he asked in a voice that was grit against satin. One brow quirked up. His lips parted slightly, forming that soft cutting smile, the tip of his tongue grazing the edge of his front teeth, eyes mocking her as they probed.
Damn him. He was enjoying this.
"You what?"
"I...wanted to congratulate you."
He scoffed. "No, you didn't."
"I...did." It had been months since she'd felt such a ridiculously strong attraction to him. Or maybe she had just repressed it. She managed to shift her gaze to her hands, which were moving restlessly over her thighs. That's right, bite your tongue. Keep those eyes averted. Don't let on how, at this very moment, your panties are as moist as dew soaked grass.
"You just wanted to do the right thing." He snapped his fingers in her face, causing her to jerk her head up. Her gaze was snagged by his again before she could do anything about it.
House's subtle open mouthed grin transformed itself into a smirk. His gaze fell to her crotch and, like a caress, drifted along her breasts and neck before settling on her eyes again.
He knows how wet you are.
"Thanks for the invite."
"De nada," he said carelessly. "Bring bubbles."
"What?"
"Rice makes a helluva mess."
"Oh." Her brow furrowed as she pondered this.
"Uh, ah, ah, nooo pouting." He clicked his tongue, twirled his cane. "You'll have fun, believe me, standing on the Town Hall steps next to your boy toy Chase, blowing bubbles in honor of the happy couple racing off to the reception." His forefinger traveled to his cheek and tap...tap...tapped his stubble. "Oooh, and maybe if we have some time, me and the missus will bop in somewhere for a quickie. Nothing more exciting than newlywed sex on the fly. But I don't have to tell you about lovin' on the run, do I?"
Fuck you.
Her eyes were as moist as her panties.
He heaved a long, deep sigh and, like a diva at her final recital, drew a hand to his brow and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Life goes on. Somehow you will muddle through without me."
She had no idea why she was still sitting here, dumbfounded, the sole passenger on this Tilt-A-Whirl of abuse. It was like watching a slow motion car wreck: twisted metal, mouths open in rictuses of fear and pain. Horrific, devastating. Yet...there was an odd beauty to this House inspired devastation, the way he teased, caressed, then struck. It was like watching a master at work. No wonder she couldn't look away.
"Thanks for your good wishes." His lips pursed in a semi smooch as he eased off the table and headed toward the door. "I'll pass them along to the little woman."
Something swirled in her gut. If she had to guess she would say it was the remnants of the tuna salad she downed about three hours ago. Having no desire to see it again, she took a few deep, shuddering breaths and shut her eyes against the intensifying nausea.
"And Cameron..."
Her eyes snapped open. Damn. He was still standing there, watching her. If she had known that-
"...lock up after you puke, will you?"
----------------------------------------------------------------------
"I'm sorry, Mom. I can't hear you."
Pressing a hand against her free ear, Myrna lowered her head and made her way across the living room to stand by the window.
Frannie Bromfeld, a woman who would never be in the running for Mother Of the Year, snorted on the other end of the phone. "You have a doctor for a husband. You should have him check your ears."
"Mom." Her hand clenched and unclenched. "I can't hear you because the guys who bought my furniture are here. They're taking the bed apart to move it out." A clank of metal against metal sounded as another part of the bed, the frame, she assumed, was being readied for transport.
"Damn, you almost dropped that wrench on my foot again, Steve. You don't get your cut if you cripple me."
The three men were loud in a good natured way, trading off marginally clean jokes, and sarcastic jibes. Slawson, the guy who had paid her the six hundred dollars cash for the bed and sofa, was a great bear of a man. With his barrel chest, thick black hair and beard, he reminded Myrna of Bluto from the Popeye cartoons. He was getting married soon too, he told her, and needed the furniture for his new apartment.
"Oh, so that's what all that banging is?"
Myrna cringed as her mother did the lip flap: the damnable brrip sound she would make to emphasize her annoyance or consternation over anything that didn't float her boat.
"Yes." Myrna sighed. "And Mom, Greg's not my husband yet. Remember? We're getting married Saturday. Remember? The wedding you're coming to? Saturday."
"You hope," Frannie said. "Men are fickle. They can change their mind in a second, an instant. Ffft! And he's gone. You didn't break your lease yet, Myrna, did you?"
"I'm getting married, Mom. Can't you be the least bit happy-?" Those unshed tears pricked the corners of her eyes: the tears that had remained bottled up since she left home. Although, at any moment this could change. Her composure was pretty close to being shaken, the floodgates perilously close to lifting. "God damn!"
"Myrna." Frannie squeaked as if she'd been goosed. "you're as bad as your brother with that language-"
"You call me at the same time every day to give me a hard time about...something." Myrna silently cursed the tremor in her voice. She pressed her forehead against the window and watched two girls racing toward the swing set in the playground. "I've got a lot to do, a lot to think about..."
"Think about the fact that your brother is turning into a shvartzer."
The latest wrinkle in the Georgie saga was that he hung around with black boys, blasted rap music and cursed incessantly.
"Talk english, Mom," Myrna grumbled. "You're in America."
"I can throw a little Yiddish in here and there, if I so please."
Her mother's voice was grating. Tiny dots of pain rode atop each of her jibes and complaints, supplanting themselves inside Myrna's head, making her temples throb, the back of her neck ache.
"Speaking Yiddish is part of our tradition, Myrna," Frannie continued. "Remember when you were little and you made it a point to learn a new Yiddish word every day?"
"I was five."
"There is something to be said for staying true to your roots, who you are, where you come from." Silence. Myrna had the urge to click off, stuff the phone in her purse and ignore its ringing for the rest of the day. "This is something you have not considered in planning this marriage of yours."
Change the goddamn subject...
"What's going on with Georgie?" Myrna didn't really want to talk about her brother. He would always be the knife twist in his mother's side, a pain no drug could ease. But it was the best way to get her mother's mind off the wedding. For Frannie, complaining about Georgie was so much more fulfilling than bitching about Myrna's impending non-sectarian nuptials.
"Same thing as last time and the time before that." First came the ffft, followed by a healthy dose of brrip. "He plays that jungle music day and night, talks like he's from the worst part of the ghetto."
"He's just a kid, Mom." The girls had finished on the swings and were now chasing one another, playing a lively game of tag. "He wants to fit in."
"He wants to fit in with trash? Brrip! I didn't raise either of you to be friends with trash-"
Footsteps clomped behind her, making the floorboards creak. Grateful for the distraction, Myrna turned to see two of the guys hauling out the box spring. Slawson carried rods from the bed frame under his arm. "We won't be much longer, Ms. Bromfeld." He touched the brim of his cap and followed the others out the door.
"I'd better go, Mom," Myrna paced the length of the living room, her eyes falling on the space where the sofa once lived. She felt a twinge of regret. She had liked that sofa. But she liked Greg's too. "I've got some things to do-"
"We'll be there Thursday, if I can drag George out of the ghetto."
"Yeah, okay."
"You made reservations at the Princeton Sheraton?"
"Yes," Myrna was certain that one day she would simply lose her mind and go off the deep end. And when it happened...look out. Nearly two decades worth of frustration would come pouring out of her and it wouldn't be a pretty sight. To start the show (and she could picture her eyes bugging out, her cheeks ablaze) she would call her mother a doddering, racist, memory challenged old fool, and then go on from there. But the show was still in the planning stages. It wouldn't be opening anytime soon. "I told you I made the reservations when we spoke...yesterday. Remember?"
"I hope it's a safe place and that it's clean." Frannie's tone softened, as though she were trying to soothe herself. "I'm sure it's safe and clean."
Her mother rarely left the house. Trips to the supermarket and Wal-Mart were considered major outings. So getting her to pack a bag and drag Georgie with her on a plane was quite a feat. Myrna was still not convinced it was going to happen. And at this point, she would almost rather the two of them stay put.
Myrna licked her lower lip, took a chance. "Hey, if you'd rather stay home, Mom, I'll understand."
"Why would you say that?"
"You just sounded kind of unsure."
Silence reigned. Frannie must be thinking.
"Is that so?" Frannie replied cautiously.
Oh, don't think, Mom. Don't-
"Don't you want your mother at your wedding?"
Myrna sighed. "Of course-"
"Then why would you-?"
"Why are you so set against this?" Myrna could picture her mother's face, mouth turned down into that frown that made her look a little like a half decomposed jack-o-lantern. "You haven't said one positive word about my wedding. Nothing. Not even that you're looking forward to it."
"It's not that I'm against this, Myrna. But how can I look forward to your getting married?" she asked. "I don't even know the man you so quickly decided was right for you."
"It' s been six months, Mom. And he wants to be with me." She didn't want to say 'you'll like him', since odds were she would not. "We're...good together. Isn't that what counts?"
"I don't know what that means. Good together. What happened to 'I love him, I need him. He is the apple of my eye?'"
Myrna swallowed against some lumpish thing that had taken residence in her throat. She did love Greg, very much, which is why she couldn't say it to her mother. It would be exposing a vulnerability, a weakness she preferred Frannie not see. Ever. "Good together means...exactly what it says."
"I don't understand you, Myrna." Frannie sniffed and Myrna could tell the waterworks were seconds away. "I just-"
"Gotta go, Mom." Myrna's thumb hovered over the cell's 'end' key. "The guys are back for the mattress."
Oooh, liar.
They were not.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow." Her thumb depressed the key and it was like a weight had been released from her shoulder. She imagined a huge granite block drifting from her body and out the window into the playground: a climbing rock for the kids to play on. Call it Myrna's Burden.
Her body sagged with relief as she sank to the floor by the window. She considered allowing herself a good cry or at least a couple of healthy sobs. But as soon as the guys were finished here, she would head off to Greg's. She loved his place. Those shadow strewn walls, the stacks of books and records, odd little knick-knacks lining his shelves, that comfortable leather sofa and the even more inviting bed made her feel secure, tucked safely away inside a hidden cove. Soon she would be living there. It would be her place too. Her mail would be in the box next to Greg's. These were not unrealized hopes and dreams. They were facts, and facts made her feel better.
She was getting married. That was a fact too. A real cool one, as Greg would say.
So really...what did she have to cry about?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day had gone fairly well. There were a couple of marginally interesting cases-one that had actually turned out to be Lupus. But the other, a much more troublesome heart, tumor, meningitis thing, would keep his team busy through the night. When seven o' clock rolled around, House took off. As it is he stayed two hours longer than he had planned, plowing through differential diagnoses with the three of them, sending them off to run tests.
All the while he made no secret of how much he was enjoying Cameron's emotional distress: like images in a flip book, her expression changed from moment to moment...from haughtiness to anger to frustration to...sadness.
Not your fault, boss.
No, it wasn't his fault she was pining away for something she thought she'd lost, something that had never really been hers in the first place.
Stepping into his apartment, he tossed his mail on the computer desk, stopped, then slowly lifted his head. Like an animal sniffing out a scent, his nostrils flared. Oh, yeah. A corner of his mouth lifted as he made his way to the bedroom.
He stood in the doorway, leaned on his cane and cocked his head at the woman in his bed. She was curled up, ensconced deep in his comforter, fast asleep.
Yeah, take it in, old man. Breathe it in. You think it's some kind of dream? Like the ones that seem so damn real they make real life pale in comparison. It's not though, is it? There she is, luscious Myrna, yours for the ravaging. Sex and love are wonderful, eh? Who ever thought they would cross your path again? But don't worry, you'll find some way to fuck this whole thing up. Two years at the most. Two years...
Her scent was a light floral bouquet (a powder? cologne? body wash?) and some other aroma that was distinctively her own. That scent lingered, stayed with him. He liked the fact he could smell her on himself the morning after they'd slept together. That was...
...cool.
He approached the bed and, with the tip of his cane, inched the comforter off her feet. She murmured, shifted and flopped onto her stomach, but didn't awaken. She was a sound sleeper; his snoring never seemed to wake her, with was another point in her favor.
House nosed the cane under the comforter and let it travel slow-ly up the length of her left calf.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Mmmph."
With one smooth swipe of the cane, the comforter was off her, tossed to the hardwood in a heap.
"I asked you a question."
"Huh?"
She wore a t-shirt, panties and nothing else. The cane was hungry, like a sniffing hound it made its way over the rise of her backside to lift the edge of her shirt. The sight of the lovely white skin, the memory of the satiny feel of her made him hard. He drew in a breath and narrowed his eyes.
"Answer me."
She hitched herself up on one elbow, eyes heavy with sleep. Her hair fell around her face, brushing against her cheeks, strands of it settling on her lips. She tossed back those tresses with a shake of her head and two languid swipes of her hand.
"The bed sold. The sofa too, Greg. I figured-"
"So you figured you could just barge in here and make yourself at home."
"I did." A hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
"You think it's funny?"
With some effort, she packed the smile away. "Nooo."
"It's not funny, is it?"
"No." Her bottom lip jutted out.
"Do you know why?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then say it."
Hanging her head, she muttered, "I'm...bad."
"I can't hear you." He drew closer and set the cane's tip beneath her chin. With gentle pressure he forced her head up.
"I said...I'm bad."
"Yes. Muy malo." He lowered the cane, but continued to hold her gaze.
The game had begun.
He traced one finger along her V-neck collar. "Take off your shirt."
"Do it for me," she whispered.
"No. You'll do it." His voice deepened to a husky growl. "You're bad."
Myrna smirked as she pulled the shirt over her head. He frowned and raised a brow as he took her in. He loved her breasts. They were not perfect. They sagged a bit. Their nipples, large, pink and erect, pointed southward. He liked that. They filled both of his hands with their heat, their fullness. He enjoyed the way they jiggled beneath her flimsy t-shirt when she walked braless through his rooms. Fondling them was a true pleasure as was letting his lips and tongue play around their areolas. He realized he wanted her now. Wanted to sink inside her and ride, ride, ride. Not yet though. Not yet.
The game...
Myrna's smirk broadened into a wicked, anticipatory grin as House opened the drawer of the nightstand.
"Talk to your mother today?" House's tone was nonchalant as he removed a pair of velvet handcuffs from the drawer. He dangled them before her and watched her hungry, goggle eyed gaze follow their motion.
"Yes," she told him, her tone both breathless and sad.
"You shouldn't bother with her until you absolutely have to." He ran the soft black velvet up and down her thigh, over her stomach, across her breasts. "She upsets you." His other hand tugged at her panties. She shuddered, then arched her body so he could remove them. He slipped them down around her legs, then off, twirling them around his forefinger before tossing them to the floor. "I don't like that."
"What do you like?"
"You know what I like. Lift your arms."
She raised her arms over her head, as House leaned over her, feeling her warmth, taking in that scent. Yes, she knew what he liked. She had, after all, introduced him to the joys of kink-lite. Nothing too outrageous, just a bit of spice to 'lively up themselves', as Bob Marley might have said. He slipped the cuffs over her wrists and secured their pink chain over and around the knobbed edge of the headboard.
"You were bad," he told her grimly.
"I know."
"There are consequences."
His hands floated over her breasts, his thumbs grazing their fullness, moving up and around and down, slowly at first, then using his fingers to form wonderfully intricate patterns over her nipples, her stomach, moving lower, lower...
(delicious friction)
...speeding up and slowing down to join the rhythm of Myrna's writhes and moans.
He slid two fingers into her wet, wonderful center, smiling as she bucked and groaned her assent.
His breathing quickened, scrotum tightening. He wanted her. "Did you know...I can see the future?"
"Oh?" she gasped.
"Mmm, like for instance." He kept up with the steadily intensifying rhythm, matching her beat for beat. "I know that when I count backwards from three to one, you will come."
"Nooo," she moaned. "Uh, uh."
"You will."
"Nooo."
"I guarantee it."
"You wish..."
"Three..." He allowed his thumb to lightly move over and around the slippery swell of her clit as his fingers slid deeper...and deeper.
"Ah!" Her arms strained against her restraints as her fists clenched. The pretty pink chain jangled merrily, a tuneful little tribute to her arousal. The lower half of her seemed to have discovered a life of its own, hips rolling, rocking, dancing, as she barreled hard toward that place...
"...two..."
Eyes shut tight, she whipped down the final turn, her muscles tensing around his fingers, imprisoning them inside that mass of sticky, hot caramel, that thick, warm cream.
"...one..."
"Oooh! Ohhhhh!" Her hips arched, grinding and thrusting three...four...five times against his hand before collapsing with a whump onto the mattress.
House snickered, oddly sated. "Told you. I see all and know all." Gently, he removed his fingers from her and brought them to his lips, touching the tip of his tongue to each one, enjoying the yeasty goodness of her.
"Oh! Damn you." Her chest heaved as she rolled her head against her shoulders. As her breathing slowed and her head sank into her pillow, House released her hands from their bonds.
"That's not nice," he said.
"You deserved it." She smirked. "You're bad."
"You know, not only can I tell the future..." His brow furrowed as he turned the cuffs over, scrutinizing them like they were an artifact from Jupiter. "...but I'm a mind reader as well." He returned the cuffs to the drawer.
"Oh, yeah?"
"I see a man." He placed one hand against his brow as he grabbed his cane from where it rested by the nightstand. "Dark hair, dark beard." He wandered the length of the room. "Damn if he doesn't look like Bluto from the Popeye cartoons."
His back was to Myrna now. He didn't need to look at her to know her mouth was agape, her eyes as big and round as saucers. "His name is..." He spun around, thwacked a chair leg for effect. "...Slawson."
"Greg." Her tone was quietly suspicious. "What the hell-"
"I bought the bed and the sofa. Slawson's a bartender I know. He gave you the money I gave him, less the two hundred for his trouble, then he carted the stuff off to Goodwill."
She shook her head. "You really had me going there for a minute."
"I'm damn good." He laughed. "Never forget it."
"I don't understand why you went to all that trouble"
House shrugged and turned toward the door. "I...missed you."
"You know," she called after him. "you could have just...told me. I would have stayed here."
"There's something to be said for pulling a cool caper." He heard her rustling around behind him, most likely searching for her clothes. "You'd better get some sleep."
"Hey. Hold on sailor."
He knew what that seductive, anticipatory tone meant, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions. Still naked, Myrna lifted one leg and threw him a naughty, crooked grin A pair of gold studded leather restraints dangled from two of her fingers, while her other hand moved over her form, like a game show model displaying the latest super boffo prize.
"It's your turn." Myrna cooed, tilting her head, waiting. "You've been very, very bad."
He was already working on unbuckling his belt as he sauntered back to bed.
Damn! This one is definitely too good for the likes of you. Let's give it two years before you screw up so badly she'll never want to see you again. Hell, alright...three...
...if you're lucky.