A/N: In case anyone needs clarification, here is Wikipedia's definition of a French Tickler :

A French Tickler is a latex condom that is designed with additional protrusions, for enhancing the sexual pleasure of the user.

A typical French Tickler uses a number of bumps, crests and falls in the lining of the latex ostensibly to make sexual intercourse more enjoyable or pleasurable for the recipient.

Hope that helps.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Thanks: to NaiveEve for the beta!

-5-

He watched her.

Busy with so many things, she didn't even feel his eyes on her. At least he didn't think she did.

Hell, she could be as cagey as you, pretending her attention was on her work but, from the corner of her eye, she was watching you... making damn sure you noticed her.

But then, that wasn't Myrna. If she was busy, she was busy. She was the only woman he knew who had her own agenda and stuck to it.

She had been through every room in his (their!) apartment at least twice since he arrived home thirty minutes earlier. They said their hellos...fell into an embrace, a lingering kiss; the sort of greeting that hadn't gone the way of all men...yet. He set up the Chinese take out on the coffee table and switched on the TV. The sound of her purposeful footsteps moving across the hardwood floors was making him weary. He didn't know where she found her energy. A few moments ago she had arranged a stack of her treasured books on a shelf of his (their!) bookshelf. Now she was off in another room doing...something else.

He changed the channel and tried to think about other things.

The day's caseload had been easy. Only one patient had given his team any sort of challenge: a fifty seven year old woman with a heart ailment. After running a myriad of tests, it hadn't been too difficult to work out a diagnosis of viral cardiomyopathy, even with Cameron getting all pissy and obstinate every damn time he asked her a question. She would have to learn to can the dramatics, keep those lame personal feelings out of her professional life or there really would be hell to pay.

Then it was save a life, sign out, go home, have some dinner. It was all in a day's work. He ate a forkful of fried rice and watched a recap of the day's Met's game. From the other room came more steps, the clinking of glass, the sound of water running. He stirred his rice, downed another forkful.

What the hell was she doing in there?

The can of beer was cool against his lips. He took a swig then banged the can on the table. "Yo!" he shouted. When there was no response, he pressed the mute key on the remote and...listened. He heard the medicine cabinet squeak shut.

"Yo!"

Myrna padded out of the bathroom while tying her hair back with an elastic. "What's up?"

"What are you doing?"

"Putting my stuff away."

"What stuff?"

"Toiletries. Girl stuff."

He ran his eyes over her, his expression somber. "Girl stuff."

She shook her head, folded her arms. "Don't...start, Greg."

He tossed out an expression of boyish innocence, knowing it was his most effective look. "What'd I do?"

"It's not what you did," she told him with a small smile. "It's what you're thinking of doing."

"Oh, so now you're a mind reader."

"I learned that particular talent from you."

His thoughts flew to his caper with Slawson, The Bargain News, and the bed. He was mighty proud of that one.

Sighing, Myrna continued. "I've got stuff to do and then I really have to try to get some sleep before I go to work."

"Why did you bring those boxes today?" He gestured toward three cardboard cartons in the hallway. "That's what I'm paying movers to do on Thursday."

"It's just a few things. Stuff I need." She threw up her hands, then let them fall to her sides. "There's a lot more, believe me."

He pointed the fork at her. "Your doing this is cutting into our time."

"Our time?" Her mouth fell open as she huffed out a surprised laugh. "You're the one who said you wouldn't always have time for me."

"Mmm, yeah, well..." House's top teeth grazed his lower lip. "...I lied."

"That'll change, I'm sure." Laughing, she waved at him dismissively and turned back toward the bathroom.

He gave her just enough time start her rearranging and sorting again. Just...enough...time. After a silent backwards ten count, he threw his head back and yelled, "YO!"

"Alright." She stomped back into the living room and stood over him. "What?"

"Your food is getting cold."

"I told you I would bring some with me to work." She eyed him suspiciously. "Anything...else?"

He set the fork down and picked up his beer. "Wilson was under the impression that I needed to buy you a present."

"And why would you need to do that?"

The beer can was gradually warming in his hands, a sheen of condensation dampening his palms. "Wilson says it's what you do when you get married."

"Really."

"Really. He would know, having been there and done that multiple times."

They were silent, staring, almost daring each other not to laugh.

"So-ooo," House said, setting his beer next to his container of rice. "I got you a present. More than one actually."

"Well, now, this is so romantic." She smirked. "I can hardly catch my breath."

"Sit."

She sat next to him, giving a little expectant bounce before settling back into the cushion.

He reached over his armrest, picking up the pink plastic bag and an envelope off the floor. Smiling, he handed her the bag.

"Personal Peccadilloes? She hefted the bag in both hands before setting it on her lap. "Wow, Greg. Such a high class emporium. How charming," she said, wrinkling her nose. "But I would expect nothing less from a discriminating shopper such as yourself."

"Open this first." He handed her the envelope.

"What's this?"

"Open it!"

"Ohhhh-kay." Her brows lifted as she tore open the paper and pulled out the card. "Why, it's a cow."

"It moos."

"That's right," she said slowly, as if talking to a child. "That's what cows do."

"No," he told her. "I mean it-"

She opened the card.

Moooo.

"-really moos. See?"

She squealed, then slapped one hand over her mouth as she leaned forward and dissolved into a fit of silent hysterics.

House sat back, narrowing his eyes, watching her shoulders shake. The harder she laughed, the less sound came out. Occasionally a tiny peep would escape her, a signal she should seep in a breath and start again.

"It's funny but...not that funny," he told her as she sucked in a bit more air.

"Oh my god, yes it is," she said. "Moo-ving day. I love it." She sat back and scrubbed her palms against her damp cheeks.

"Here." He handed her a napkin. "You're a mess."

"Gee, thanks." She sighed and dabbed her eyes. "Now," she said, peering into the bag. "What's this present?"

"Presents."

"Ooooh, lovely stuff! Penis pops." She held them up to the light. One was green, one yellow, one red." Running a finger down the red shaft, she eyed House seductively, running her tongue over her lower lip. "They all have pink balls." Gently, she laid them out on the coffee table.

"Cherry." His throat went dry. He lifted his can of beer and took another swig.

"Yum." Digging deeper into the bag, she discovered the shirt. "'Doctors Know How To Stick It Good'. Why, whatever could that mean?" She tossed it to the side and found the warming gel. "Ooooh, I definitely have plans for you." After planting a kiss on the little jar, she handed it to House. "Take special care of this, Greg. It's going to come in very handy."

Her eyes shone; her cheeks grew flushed. She radiated excitement, anticipation. It was a familiar prelude to how their time together had been playing out recently. Some talk, some food and the rest of the time spent in bed.

Sex was such a joy for her. It was like a fabulously intense amusement park ride that never got old; the thrill of it never seemed to wane. It didn't take a whole lot of goading to steer her thoughts into erotic mode. Right now, if he touched her, if he just brushed his fingers against her arm, she would grab his hand and lead him off to bed.

It was nice. Some would say he had really stepped in it this time.

But what if, old man? What if?

What if one day the little guy decided not to stand proud so often and with such gusto. He was getting to that age when Viagra might be a necessity and not just a playful option.

"I really am too old for you," he told her flatly. It wasn't the first time he had said so.

Myrna twisted her lips. She looked up from the Peccadilloes bag and fixed him with a glare. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"Then why have you been handing me that same ridiculous line since we started sleeping together?" She smoothed her hand over the shiny pink plastic.

He lifted the beer can, studied the red and black writing, then put it down. "Because you have to seriously consider what you're getting into." As if to illustrate his point, he dug a bottle of Vicodin from his shirt pocket, popped the cap, then downed two pills. "These are a way of life. They are not going away. Either are the facts that I'm moody, egotistical and a cripple. I'll argue any point with you. I will drive you nuts and I won't really care." He capped the bottle, tucked it safely away again.

"And what did I tell you about those things?"

"It...doesn't matter what you told me. You haven't lived them yet."

She shrugged and got to her feet, still holding the bag. "I have things to do, Greg. I want to finish arranging the bathroom so my stuff doesn't get in the way of yours."

"That can wait..."

"No. It can't." Suddenly her face fell, like weariness had finally caught up with her. "I'd like to finish what I'm doing, then get a few hours sleep before work." She pressed her lips together, then added, "But if you'd like to join me for a romp, I'd be happy to accommodate you."

"You're tense."

"Ye-es. I'm getting married. A certain amount of tension goes along with that."

"Hmmm." He squinted at her and rubbed his palm against his ruined thigh. "Did you talk to your mother today?"

She exhaled heavily, like it was a major effort, and set one hand on her hip. "Of course."

"Why?"

"Because she called. And if I don't pick up she'll only call again later."

"She upsets you." House gazed past her to a spot on the wall where a picture used to be. Only the ghost of its hanger remained. "I don't like it."

"So you've told me...more than once." She took a step back, then stopped. "Unfortunately, like your Vicodin, Frannie is part of life."

"The difference here is Vicodin takes away pain, Frannie seems to bring it. She's intrusive, messing with your emotions and she hasn't even arrived yet. I see how you get after you talk with her." Tilting his head, he scrutinized her like she was a clinic patient. "All knotted up and wanting so badly to fight her. You can't though." He clicked his tongue. "You're too used to holding back..."

"Well, you and your dad have had your moments too."

"My dad has the good sense to pretty much stay out of my business these days." His gaze held hers as he drained the beer. "My mother's okay. I'm sure you two will have a good long chat on Saturday. She'll like you. Actually, he'll like you too. He'll just wonder who I bribed to land you."

Myrna opened her mouth to speak but House stopped her with a quirk of his chin. "There's one more gift for the bride in that obscenely pink bag."

"Ah." Peering inside, she nodded. "So there is..." Myrna reached in a pulled out a shiny black box. Slowly she opened the lid, her hazel eyes shimmering as they took in the contents. "French Ticklers," she breathed.

House rubbed his palm over his stubble, biting his lip to stifle the insanely silly grin struggling to break free. "You like?"

"You know I do." Hefting her shoulders, she shook her head. "You said you never wanted to use condoms again."

Once monogamy had been established, the thought of using the exotic condoms she liked so much went out the window-basically because he was lazy. And being forced to wear the things was the ideal way to ruin spontaneity and break the mood.

But, although she didn't press the issue, House knew Myrna had a real thing for French Ticklers. He did want her to be happy. He did love how she looked when she went into paroxysms of ecstasy. So he figured, what the hell, he would give the woman a thrill.

He lifted his brows and liberated his grin. "You said something about a romp before bedtime?"

"Oh, yeah."

"But...what about your chores in the bathroom?" he crowed, mocking her.

"French Tickler sex overrides bathroom chores," she said with great enthusiasm.

Amazing. The thought of bedding down with him made her giddy as a Publisher's Clearing House prize winner. This was truly, amazingly extraordinary. He should be used to it by now but...no, he wasn't.

Fucking unbelievable.

Not that he was complaining.

There she goes...

...gripping that box of Ticklers, scurrying off to ready herself for him, while here he was, leaning on his cane to push his creaky boned, pudding assed, middle aged self to an upright position.

Would wonders never cease?

"Yo!" came the shout from his (their!) bedroom.

"What?"

"If you forget that warming gel, you will be very, very sorry."

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She couldn't sleep.

At some point during the night she felt herself drifting off, but then the slideshow began again and she had no choice but to watch. The scenes ran chronologically, of course, beginning from that first moment of attraction to the time she had initiated their only kiss.

She was aware there were no real rules of attraction. It just happened, like an unexpected brush of fingers on the back of the neck: intrusive but titillating at the same time. The memory of those first moments of awareness struck her like that touch. She could still feel that not unpleasant shiver, borne from the knowledge that here was someone special, someone possessing a smoldering uniqueness, someone way, way out of the norm...

Early on in her fellowship, she made it her business to arrive at the Diagnostics room and begin her job earlier than Foreman and Chase. Her intent was to impress her new boss with her work ethic and enthusiasm. Usually House sauntered in after everyone else but this January day he was early too. He brought the winter chill with him; it clung to his clothes, to his body, like the leg pain he attempted to hide but never could. He seated himself across from her, chewing his bagel, sipping his coffee, dividing his attention between her chatter and the sports page. She recalled wondering why he kept that scruffy stubble. It wasn't designer scruff, like the Miami Vice look some of the younger doctors wore. It was messy, rough-hewn, unkempt, like his shirts, like him. That was the moment she wanted to run her fingers over his cheeks and chin, feel the gradually warming skin under her palms, the prickle of scruff scratching her skin.

It was the moment she lost the game.

It was the moment that opened the door to embarrassments: the time she had asked him if he liked her (how could she ever have expected a positive response to that?), the time she forced him to go out on that date, only to come away from it mortified from his bruising honesty (but she held onto that damn corsage he gave her that night, storing it in her freezer for months before finally getting up the gumption to trash it). There were seconds, minutes, in-between times with him, words, gestures, moments that on their own were insignificant, but together added much to the larger picture of her obsession. A crush. Her crush. Like a teenager, she was ashamed to admit how often she fantasized about him.

She was pathetic.

Their one kiss came about from her plan to distract. Nothing more. She wanted to stick him while he was...otherwise engaged, jab a needle in him to get a sample of his blood. She never got it. What she did get was his undivided attention, the feel of his stubble against her palms, his tongue making a slow tour of her lips, teeth and tongue. It ended badly, of course. It was just another embarrassment, another sparkling reason for him to hurl a harsh barrage of sarcasm her way: words she hauled around with her the rest of the day, the week, the month. Hell, they were still with her, along with all the others she had collected over time-the makings of a secret shine locked up in her purty little head.

Her bedroom was cold. Before she turned in, she opened the window, enjoying the balmy pine scented breeze. But as the night turned to early morning, the temperature dropped appreciably, making her shiver. She burrowed deep inside her sea of blankets, pretending it was his body wrapped around her instead of down and fabric.

She swallowed, hitched back a sob. She had to stop this.

At work she was an expert at hiding her distress. But after the bitter altercation on Monday, she needed someone to talk to-someone non-judgmental, someone who might not sympathize but would understand. She turned to Cuddy, who provided some comfort, but knew that sad little Allison Cameron was reaping what she sowed. Steer clear of him when you can, was her advice. Keep things professional from now on and you'll be fine.

Fine.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to fall, to dream of Minnesota in July at her brother's annual barbecue bash. But she could hold that image of wives, babies, blue skies, burgers and suburbia only so long before it shattered, leaving her with the Greg House Slideshow playing over and over in lurid Technicolor.

No. Cameron sat up. Hunching forward, she rubbed her eyes and pressed her head to her bent knees.

What's so special about Nurse Myrna?

The words floated up from her subconscious, unbidden. They had been lying in wait, lurking, giving a ten count before leaping forward, grasping her by the throat and throttling her.

What's so special...

The endless loop of the slideshow was disturbing, but this was worse. This was a confrontation of a different kind, like facing herself in a mirror and not being able to escape her own confrontational stare.

...about Nurse Myrna?

Sure, since being informed that House was marrying this woman,

(Marrying her)

the question had presented itself to her. But dismissing it in the light of day had been easy. Alone in the dark chill of her bedroom at 2 A.M., she was forced to reconsider it. She pictured the woman. She had a funny distant look in her hazel eyes, a nose that was neither too big or too small, hair that was two shades lighter than mousy brown. Some highlights would add a bit of oomph to it. Makeup would improve that nondescript look. Hey, they could be best buds.

Cameron pictured herself taking Myrna to Sanson's, that chic salon down in Soho that was all the rage. A woman needs to beautify herself for her wedding, after all. It was a special day, after all. Roberto would do what he could with Myrna, but he wasn't a miracle worker. It was doubtful he could make a silk purse from a sow's ear. But at least the woman could be made to look...presentable.

Cameron shivered again. It would be a simple matter to get out of bed and close the window. It would also be a simple matter to take a drive to the hospital and have a chat with Nurse Myrna. Woman to woman. What kind of friend would she be if she didn't give Myrna a heads up on what she was getting herself into? Gosh.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:11. If she hurried she could be at Myrna's station in twenty minutes. Maybe Nursie had a break coming. They could talk. Yes a talk would benefit both of them. The poor deluded girl probably had no clue as to what might lie ahead. Good ol' Cameron could enlighten her.

Allison Cameron would be Myrna Bromfeld's best bud. Here was the perfect opportunity to find out so much more about...

...about what?

She sat on the edge of the bed, hanging her head, rubbing her hands over her goose pimpled thighs and upper arms. Warmth. She needed warmth. Maybe she should call Chase. At least he would be good for a slow fuck and a few laughs.

But that would be putting yourself first, wouldn't it? What kind of a friend would you be to Myrna then?

So true. With a determined grunt, she pushed herself off the bed and headed for the shower.