Roused by a gentle dip in the cardboard-like mattress, House rolls slowly onto his side to find himself accosted with tousled curls; his newfound bedmate lying with her back to him and saying nothing.
Still, he's sure she must only just have joined him, or else what could have awoken him?
Cool blue trained on the gentle slope of her shoulder, he notes that she's changed out of the hoodie she had been wearing upon greeting him in favour of a simple, white t-shirt.
And, there is something strange about that, but he can't quite place his finger on exactly what it might be...
"What are you doing?"
Low. Gruff. Emotionless.
He has to keep his tone free of emotion, as right now, he's crucially aware of her body heat and the smell of her, as thick curls - fragrant and delicately sweet, almost as though fresh from the shower - ignite some very inappropriate ideas in his head indeed.
But then, isn't she the one who has crossed the line by crawling into bed with him?
"Cameron?"
No answer.
No verbal answer anyway, but he's certain he catches a low laugh; sure he feels her shaking with it.
"What are you doing?"
Curious now, waiting for an answer, but still, she maintains her teasing silence.
And this time... This time he knows she's chuckling playfully at his expense.
And fuck it, why does she have to be lying so goddamn close?
He could have sworn there was more space between them only a second ago.
Her long hair tickles the bare flesh of his bicep; having stripped himself of his shirt and jeans upon retiring to bed to sleep in his boxers.
She adjusts her position ever so slightly, and he raises a brow as the soft cotton of her shorts brushes low against his abdomen.
He wonders if he should be embarrassed by the fact that his body responds to the sensation as swiftly and unabashedly as it does, but then he's not the one rubbing his tight, little ass against his ex-boss's crotch.
"What are you doing?"
Lower this time - murmuring into the shell of her ear - but he knows.
Oh, doesn't he just know what she's doing...
Slipping his hand around her waist to rest flat against her stomach, he pulls her into him with a little more force; guiding her body into applying pressure where he needs it most.
Growling into golden tresses, he allows his fingers to wander a little further south; slipping his hand beneath the waistband of her shorts to brush against the scant wisp of her underwear.
Slim legs clench together, but she backs up into him teasingly, and he slips a long middle finger deftly over damp cotton and smirks when she lets out a low hiss, and her hair smells like honey, and her heat smells like freshly ground... Coffee?
Coffee?
Blinking slowly to adjust to the dim shadows that shroud the blonde's living room, House suppresses a groan as the beer from last night greets him with an overly-friendly thrumming behind his eyeballs.
He's a veteran of a heavy night's drinking, but he has found that since stumbling past forty, he's no longer spared the aftermath of his decisions.
The dull ache in his groin isn't doing much to help matters either.
Fuck...
Fuck, indeed. It's been a long time since he last dreamt about his young protégée in a less than platonic fashion - certainly not since she flew the nest - but the hyper-realism of his most recent curse of the Sandman is something else entirely compared to the old dreams in which he had frequented bars or hired an escort only to find himself confronted with some ill-remembered, subconscious-fractured, dream-version of the young doctor.
Slinging his arm over his eyes and clenching his jaw as he attempts to corral the static hiss of his hangover into submission, he finally proceeds to rub at his eyes before taking better stock of his surroundings.
Flat white ceiling; no nicotine stains, of course.
An understated lampshade he has seen replicated a thousand times before.
A thin, hairline crack in the paint in the far left corner.
Rolling over onto his side to observe her kitchenette, he frowns.
"... Why are you sitting in the dark?"
His voice sounds obscenely loud to his own ears as he addresses the blonde's shadow-cast profile, and she turns to face him with a start.
"Huh?"
A spoon heaped with muesli comes to a stop halfway up to her mouth as she sits perched on one of the barstools that surround her kitchen island.
In front of her sits a steaming mug of coffee.
Coffee.
And her hair is wet - the scent of her shampoo detectable from where he lies - but her t-shirt is navy blue, not white, and he slowly comes to the realisation that he had imagined her in the same shirt she'd worn during the last time his brain selected to conjure her, after being shot.
Curious.
Perhaps, but he's not about to get Freudian over the fact.
His current interest is directed much more towards her behaviour than her wardrobe.
"Why are you eating your breakfast in the dark?"
"I didn't want to wake you."
A fair answer, yes, but there's still something ever so slightly comical about the situation, and he rolls his eyes as he finds he isn't surprised in the slightest.
"I made you coffee. It's still in the machine to stay warm."
No. Not surprised at all.
Of course, you did.
Nor is he surprised when she lowers herself carefully from her seat and pads over to pour it for him.
"Thank you."
He mutters, and she nods, making her way over with a large, yellow mug and handing it to him with a slightly awkward smile.
"If you, uh-... If you can get ready soon then I can give you a lift."
"To work?"
A sudden edge to his voice, but Cameron bears this no mind.
She isn't any more surprised by House's behaviour than he is by hers.
"No. To yours, so you can make your own way in... I need to leave in twenty minutes."
She informs him, before padding back to the bar to finish her breakfast.
He tells himself to look away.
You've grown up, Cameron...