A/N: For the usual suspects, my readers, but specifically dedicated to Kymba & Katej, with thanks. Kymba & ColorOfAngels beta like it's an art form and have my gratitude.


Cameron shifted from foot to foot on his stoop, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and checking out Cassiopeia and the Seven Sisters while waiting for House to open up.

As she'd switched back and forth between radio stations on the drive over she'd heard a disc jockey predict an electrical storm for later that night before turning the dial in time to hear the chorus of "No Such Thing."

At the moment, the sky was clear and inky with a three quarter moon. It was a perfect night for stargazing, but she had other plans.

There are other ways to see stars.

The door opened a crack and light poured out into the dark. House's face was framed like a photograph by the gap as he peered through it and saw her. His jaw dropped and without self-consciousness he stared at Allison Cameron. Was she real or was she a hallucination? He squinted to make sure.

She was simply beautiful, with minimal makeup and her hair secured by a barrette, wearing his jacket over a black seamless stretch halter with a scooped neckline that revealed her breastbone and the smattering of miniscule freckles against her snowy skin. The top ended parallel to her naval. Low-rise Joe's Jeans hugged her hips and accentuated the space between her thighs. The outfit was classy, sexy, sporty, and utterly feminine.

No one would need a stethoscope to diagnose that his heart raced as he devoured her from the safety of the doorway.

"You look … suspicious. Were you expecting someone else?" she asked quietly.

"You just missed Chase," he said. "You should know that I verbally abused your boyfriend."

Almost killed him for implying you're a whore. Thought Tritter might have nailed me for murder, and where would that leave us?

"That's nothing new, and he's not my boyfriend. You didn't punch him out again, did you?" Cameron wrinkled her nose at the thought of violence between the two of them.

"I restrained myself, but I did imagine the end of my cane covered in blood and blonde hair," House plead guilty from his confessional behind the doorway.

I can't stand it that he touched you, fucked you first.

"I don't want to talk about Robert," she asserted, studying House's countenance, as it was the only part of him she could see. Even his face was sexual. A look from him was like his tongue between her legs. His gaze stole her breath.

"Yeah. You want to talk about the way I feel … about you." He met her eyes, his expression serious, his voice resigned and blew out a lungful of air as his gaze moved from her face, which managed to be both caring and sensual, down over her body.

House acknowledged the swell of her small breasts, paused to admire the place where her waist curved into her slender hips, and continued on to ogle her shapely runner's legs. His gaze fell to her feet. They were bare except for a coat of scarlet polish on the toenails. She carried a pair of sling backs in one hand; the other clutched a large tote.

From the look in his eyes, Cameron was glad she had taken care with her appearance. As she'd stepped out of the shower back at her place, she had treated her skin to Neutrogena sesame body oil, the result being that every inch of her looked and felt silky and radiant.

Her skin shimmered in the moonlight.

"What is it?" she queried, as he fucked her with his eyes.

"You're … not what I expected."

She raised her eyes to his and fucked him back.

"You … like that."

Desire coiled like a snake in his belly and his cock twitched with awareness.

I want you. I want you on me, above me, under me. I need you. I need to be inside you, to know you.

Light from a streetlamp reflected off of House's striking eyes.

Cameron wanted – needed – to see more of him.

She had been waiting a long time.

"Are you going to let me in?" she asked softly, and offered him a smile. "I'm harmless."

Tell that to Chase, House thought, as he took a deep breath and swung open the door. His expression reminded her of the one he wore the night she had come to the condo to resign her position. For once his face was quiet, reflective. Cameron was treated to the sight of his toned torso in a black Replacements t-shirt and noticed that he wore the pair of button-fly jeans that clung to his muscular thighs and ass.

She wanted to slip her hands beneath the tee, pull it up and over his head, kiss the skin below his naval, and then move up to lick his nipples erect.

"Could you take this for me please?" She handed him the tote, and shrugged off his black leather, handing the jacket to him. "I have some things in the car." As he hoisted the large handbag up and under his left shoulder, she glanced at the bulge of his biceps and the blue vein that stood out on his forearm. She longed to trace a finger along his inner arm where the skin would be sensitive.

He watched her ass as she walked away, swinging her shoes, and when she leaned over to open her car door, the shirt rode up to show the small of her back.

I want my fingers between each vertebra.

Lifting a brown paper bag in one arm, she sauntered up the steps and he let her pass into the condo, breathing in the clean scent of pure Cameron plus a hint of fragrance so light that it was gone before he could name it. The smell of her alone made him consider throwing the tote on the floor, knocking the bag out of her arms, sweeping her up and carrying her to the bedroom. His leg would punish him for it, but Christ who is Holy, he thought. I've got to nail that.

He followed her into the condo and she set her bag of stuff on the table while he swung his jacket over a chair and set her tote next to it.

Since she had shed his black leather, he'd registered that her top was sleeveless; her arms and shoulders bare. He stared, holding himself back from running his hands over the silky skin.

Later, he promised himself.

"Hungry?" From the bag, she pulled two sticks of pink and blue cotton candy and a Clear Channel Motor Sports Gravedigger double feature.

"Nostalgic?" he shot back, grabbing a stick of the fluffy confection and taking a bite. Cane between his legs, he leaned back against the table where earlier that day they had looked at Us Magazine.

She walked over to him and ignoring her own stick of cotton candy, swiped his and licked it, enjoying the sensation of it melting against her tongue. "Um. Tastes like sugar and sawdust."

As he took the Monster Trucks DVD from her hand to examine it, the pads of their fingers touched sending a tiny volt to his cock. "Cool. Heavy metal. Even better than Girl Gone Wild: Sexy Sorority Sweethearts."

With studied nonchalance and an eye roll, she spoke. "I know you mentioned watching some Portuguese skateboarders pulling half chubs or flippin' a crapper, but I thought it would be nice to …what??" Cameron stopped talking as House folded his arms and looked at her skeptically.

"You've been hanging out at Wikipedia," he pronounced this observation as a fact, not a theory. A grin, as unexpected as a sunbeam in Scotland, broke over his devilishly attractive face. "I'm touched that you'd bother to nail the terminology of sick skateboarding tricks, but I hope it's not how you come up with your contributions to our differential diagnosis jam sessions."

Turning to him and leaning a slim hip up against the counter by his side, she laughed. "Oh, no. I consult an astrologist for that."

House grinned, glancing down at her and appreciating the fun that shone from her eyes. "Can't compete with my Magic Eight Ball."

"Did you know there's a trick they call the Wilson?" she asked, gauging his face for a reaction. "It's when a skater positions his feet wrong and ends up doing the splits."

A phantom smile softened his face, the one that you'd miss if you weren't tuned in to him. It flitted away as quickly as it appeared.

"Sounds like Wilson all over again," House said, hoping his voice didn't sound as thick with lust and emotion as he thought it might. He imagined his head, heart, and cock as three balls juggled by a clown.

Cameron.

Funny, capricious, caring, and the woman got him. There was something in the way she moved, in the way she was, that made him want her more than he had ever wanted any woman.

Still, making small talk was like a circle of hell to him on a normal day. With Cameron looking the way she did, and after the foreplay of their weekend, hell, the foreplay of the last three years, being nonchalant was proving to be more difficult than diagnosing a case of lupus, House thought with an inner growl.

"You're late," he abruptly brought the fact to her attention. "Why?"

He noted her blush.

"I wanted to look … nice," she replied, her hand moving up to smooth her hair. Wisps of it kept coming loose from her tortoise shell barrette.

You look like a gift box. You look like an invitation. And yes, you look nice.

House turned to face her, tilting his chin to look into her eyes. "Interesting choice of adjective."

I've seen you look nice. House reflects, irritably. I want to see you wanton: head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth half open, sensuality playing over your face, all that I've seen only in my dreams and – God help me – my fantasies.

Cameron jumped as what sounded like a cudgel slammed against the door to the condo.

"Go to hell!" House hollered in the direction of his front door, which was rapidly becoming the bane of his existence. The next knock was even louder. "Better get that," he muttered. "Feel free to plant your ass on a piece of furniture."

"My ass doesn't get an adjective? Cuddy's always does," she pointed out, grinning. "Actually you seem a little obsessed with Cuddy's behind."

Your tight round rump. Want to cup it in my hands. When I look at you from behind, I can see the space between your thighs. I could so go there.

"Fishing for a compliment? You're in the wrong pond. But I'll try to come up with something besides 'mammoth,'" he replied, moving purposefully toward the door, knuckles white from how tightly he grasped his cane.

He'd had it with the goddamn door, and considered digging a moat filled with piranhas around his place. His face relaxed however when he swung the door open and recognized take-out food from what he privately considered "their restaurant." Grabbing the box of fine cuisine from the deliveryman and palming him a couple of hundreds, he turned back to Cameron.

"Hungry?" he asked, bringing the stuff over to the kitchen table where she'd sat herself.

Wilson's bottle of wine was open and breathing and the Zinnias were arranged in a vase.

"Nostalgic?" she replied, noting that the food was from Café Spiletto, the place they'd gone to on their date.

"Don't be ridiculous," House cantankerously, recovering his edge and lying. "Wilson has a tab there, so the food was free, for us, anyway. Did you know that 'free' is Princeton's favorite four-letter word?"

"Every moment with you is an education," she shot him a fond look, "only sometimes the things you learn you may not want to know."

"Ooh. Deep." He held up the bottle of wine and raised his brows. "Want to get drunk and screw? I think that's what Wilson had in mind when he bought vino with an alcohol content of - see for yourself."

She skewered him with her eyes as she stood up and reached for the bottle. "Give me that." Walking over to the kitchen cabinet, she found a couple of long stem glasses, and poured some of the red in each before handing House his.

Placing the wine on the counter after whistling at its alcohol content, Cameron paused to admire the bouquet of orange and yellow blooms. "These are beautiful."

"Save your 'I'm grateful for what I receive speech' for Jimmy. Wilson's responsible for the wine and the flowers. He thought I needed his help to 'A' seduce you or 'B' date you or 'C' show you how I feel … about you."

House's eyes landed everywhere but on hers as he unpacked the fillet mignon and braised asparagus with roasted yams and dished portions onto dinner plates. And then the corners of his mouth turned up and he looked straight at her.

"If Wilson micromanaged my personal life the way he thinks he does, I'd be paying alimony to three ex-wives."

He handed Cameron a plate and cutlery, watching as she tilted her head at him with a smile and a shrug. She set her dinner and glass on the table as he piled food on his own plate.

"I've never made my feelings for you a secret. And Wilson had nothing to do with it. That was all you, oh ye of little faith." She reached out and touched his hand.

Her fingers burned and he itched with desire as if it was a rash. Her voice with its quiet cadence penetrated his reserve and snuck under his skin. He wanted to clasp her wrist in his paw and draw her up against him until she had no doubt as to his intentions, his feelings, his chemical reaction.

But standing between them was the specter of Robert Chase. House had made his peace with the dead husband, although he'd kill the bastard for beating him to her if the bastard wasn't already deceased. Chase, however, lived and breathed, mostly in House's dark thoughts.

His lean, long body rested against the counter as he attempted to exorcise the last of his demons – at least the ugly little bastards that lived in his head and stuck him with pitchforks chanting "you'll fuck it up; you'll fuck her up; she'll fuck you over."

"About Chase," he said, moving his hand out from under hers. "You … jumped him. Why?"

She took his plate and arranged it across from hers on the table, forming her words. "If you were me, and I liked you, what would you do?"

House raised his brows and wrinkled his nose as if he'd just gotten a whiff of Limburger. "Okay," he said, drawing out the last syllable. "I'd want you to notice, to be jealous. Would have been easier if you just jumped me instead of creating all that red tape."

He pulled her chair out for her, and when she was seated, limped around the table to his spot, raising a forkful of meat to his mouth.

Cameron stabbed at some sautéed yam and then cut into an asparagus spear. "So … you noticed. Might have been easier if you'd showed that you cared. Why are we talking about this now? You hate to talk about anything personal."

"Don't want any – oh, Wilson would call it 'baggage' lingering like a venereal disease," House responded, after finishing his bite and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

He raised his eyes to hers. His were the blue of beach glass worn by the sea. Hers were the gray-green of the water.

"I thought you liked mystery," Cameron commented, meeting his gaze. She resisted running her bare foot up under his pant leg.

"I like solving 'em, not dating 'em."

"What do you want from me, House?" She sipped her wine, and viewed him from the rim of the glass, unperturbed.

Don't get me started on that.

"Answers to my 20 questions." He pushed his chair back and put his fork down. "You fucked Chase as if it was an Olympic event. And yet you couldn't even bring yourself to touch me this morning when it was clear you wanted to hop on and ride, Sally, ride." He folded his arms across his chest, unintentionally showing off his biceps, then looked up as Cameron sighed audibly. His voice tinged with curiosity, he asked, "What held you back? I'm the guy who hired you because you look good in a lobby. Did you think I'd kick you out of my bed?"

In spite of herself, Cameron smiled at this. "I fear, therefore I am?" she said, shrugging and throwing up her hands. "Didn't want to be rejected. Again. You can be…" her gaze traveled over his bookcase, "as prickly as a cactus."

"Well, that's just lame," he shook his head in mock disgust.

"You're the one who said I only need you because you're damaged," she replied, a note of resentment crept into her voice.

House caught it and lobbed it back at her, tipping back his chair until it balanced on its two rear legs. "On our date, I tried to protect you. You're just not sure from what. And that's what scares you. That you might act on wanting to be with me, and find out that I'm someone you don't want to be with. Where would that leave you? You couldn't bear to leave me the way Stacy did. But with you, it would be worse. You'd stay, but you'd pity me and feel sorry for yourself."

He knew that he risked everything by these words that brought to life his greatest fear of starting a relationship with Cameron. But if he didn't voice it, it would lurk like Boo Radley between the two of them.

And he wanted nothing between them. He wanted them naked.

She spoke softly, bringing her hand up to caress his shadowed cheek before letting it drop back down to the tabletop. "That's … pretzel logic, House. You're talking yourself into a cage. You … can't help trying to sabotage your own happiness."

The look in his blue eyes reflected a fear of what he hoped could be and a fear of what might not occur. But his fear filled her heart with tenderness; she had always known him to be human.

Still, he was House, and she had to answer him with some of her own pretzel logic.

Cameron held his gaze so that he could see the sincerity in her eyes as she spoke. "Remember how on our date, you said that I was interested in you because you were damaged? Well, maybe that's part of it. But, I wouldn't have asked you out if I didn't find you brilliant, funny, oddly moral, sexually attractive, and worthy of my love. But that's what really scares you," she replied, "that I'm someone you want to be with, and that you might have to act on it."

House heard these words and relaxed: brilliant, funny, oddly moral, sexually attractive, and worthy of my love. And he couldn't find fault with her reasoning.

Fuck the fear. He'd save it for his worst nightmare: being trapped in eternity with a roomful of clinic patients.

His hand moved to stroke his chin while his eyes stripped her naked. Pushing his plate aside, he got to his feet.

"Do you want more?"

He could have been talking about the food; he could have been talking about the two of them.

I want more of you, Cameron thought.

She rose from her chair, attempting to tuck stray hairs back into the hairclip. "Are you finished questioning me?"

"I have what I need," he replied as she fussed with her hair. "Oh for Christ's sake, let me." Instead of refilling their plates, House reached out and circled her neck with his hands until his fingers found the barrette. Unclasping it, her hair fell around her face and her lips parted.

"Reconsider me?" Idly his fingers trailed down the soft skin of her throat and rested on her bare shoulders as his eyes locked into hers.

At his touch, she shivered, breathing shallowly.

"Consider yourself reconsidered," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Still hungry?"

His voice had never sounded more like sex. It was almost as good as his mouth between her legs.

She could swear that his eyes were laughing at her; smile creases showed around his mouth.

Her hand moved to her abdomen. "I don't think I could eat anything."

"We could do candlelight and Marvin Gaye," House offered sarcastically. "I'm open-minded about the alternative medicine of sexual healing."

"Or we could move to the couch and watch Monster Trucks," Cameron suggested mercifully.

House placed his free hand on the small of her back, fingers finding a sweet patch of skin beneath her shirt, and guided her to the leather sofa where she had spent the previous night. Reluctantly he turned his attention to syncing the DVD, adjusting the volume with the remote before tossing his cane aside and sinking down next to his immunologist date.

The roar of revved motors drowned out Paganini's Caprices as Grave Digger went mano a mano with Bounty Hunter, and the two Monster trucks crushed a line of merely mortal cars.

Cameron raised a fist in the air as Grave Digger flattened a trailer. She grabbed House's arm. "Check out that cyclone!"

But House's mind wandered instead to the places he wanted his body to be, imagining the ways he could love her. He couldn't focus on the TV screen. Her face was like hypnosis.

Not even a car-eating robot could distract him from Cameron.

The gentle curve of your cheekbones; the way your eyes change color…

Her legs were slightly spread, her elbows on her thighs as she leaned forward cheering on Dennis Anderson. Her knee pressed against his left leg.

He was already cocked.

A flash of lightning blazed a path across the sky, an electric artery sending out veins and capillaries into the blackness outside.

Cameron grabbed the remote and hit pause, a Monster truck frozen in a wheelie on the screen.

She turned to House and found him with his cheek resting in one hand, staring at her. Raw desire smoldered in his eyes as they roamed over her face, her body.

In the background, Paganini's Caprices frolicked like waves on a choppy sea.

She switched off the TV as lightning crackled, silencing the stereo. The lights flickered and went out.

His voice edged into the darkness and she felt his hand on her thigh. "Cameron."

Her name on his lips was like foreplay. It held all the confidence that House exhibited daily at the hospital, but it simmered with possibility.

"You … want me." She grabbed his hand, tracing between the knuckles, running a thumb over his palm.

She heard a grin warm his voice as he replied, "You're a mistress of understatement."

"Can you … see me?" A rod of lightning lit his face for an instant.

"Like a blind man with a Braille map." He stood. "I'll be right back."

House felt his way relying on the brief flashes of lightning to guide him to his bedroom, where he grabbed Wilson's get lucky bag with the lubricant, Patron Saint Candles and silk scarf. Finding a packet of matches in a drawer, he lit St. Alejo and used it to navigate his way back to the living room.

Fire hazard be damned, he thought as he arranged the candles on top of the entertainment center, the piano, and the coffee table, lighting them as he moved around the room favoring his left leg. As an afterthought he placed a few on the wood floor just beyond the Oriental carpet.

When he turned back to Cameron she was standing with her arms at her sides, watching him. Light flickered over her countenance, loving the hollows of her face.

Flames lit his eyes, revealing shadows beneath them and the blaze behind the blue.

Lightning cracked the sky in two.

A hard rain pummeled the roof.

Cameron was aware of the snug fit of her blue jeans, the inseam tight against her clit. The sheer material of her top brushed against the skin of her stomach as she took a step towards the man she had loved for the past three years, shaking hair back off of her face.

Slowly, tentatively, she advanced on him as he stood his ground, head lowered, gaze lifted. With every move she made, she was conscious of the effect it had on House.

The look in his eye was bare, naked, lady.


Part Two of this chapter is almost ready to be posted. Sorry to make you wait. Comments are appreciated, especially if you like the direction this chapter takes...