Hot chocolate and House

Elsewhere in Princeton, a certain immunologist woke with a start and fumbled around for the lamp switch on the nightstand. Soft light illuminated the room and she breathed a sigh of relief as the darkness retreated. Nightmares were an increasingly common occurrence.

There was adrenaline in her mouth and sweat on her forehead and arms. She waited for her heartbeat to slow, breathing in and out deeply, attempting to empty her crowded mind. The heavy rain against the window was soothing even as evaporating sweat induced a shiver. The alarm clock displayed the time accusingly. 0200. After a few more minutes of silent meditation, dropping off to sleep seemed no closer. "Screw it", she muttered, sliding out from under the plain white sheets.

Allison Cameron examined the face staring back at her in the bathroom mirror: long chestnut hair still tousled from sleep; fine brows over green grey eyes, which (an old boyfriend had once told her) were "both comforting and intimidating", whatever that meant. She used to consider them her best feature until she met a man with eyes so blue her own seemed dull by comparison. A long pale nose which she knew twitched slightly when provoked to anger or amusement. A delicate mouth trained to utter comforting words to patients and acerbic or sarcastic ones to her boss. She believed herself to be pretty, if a little pale, a little thin. Many men had tried to seduce her. Few succeeded. Chase's hungry glances when she had first joined Diagnostics came to mind, as did his attempt to ask her to dinner after a successful case:

"Do you want to-?".

"-no".

Cameron still regretted the night they had spent together. Not so much in terms of the sex itself: Chase had been an adequate lover, occasionally adventurous though on the whole a little vanilla; more so because she had given him unrealistic expectations of reciprocal affection. It annoyed her that she had allowed someone to breach the carefully constructed layers of protection she had erected around herself. Most people considered her to be kind and considerate, and she was. She didn't condone House's deliberate antagonism towards patients and colleagues. But her manner had been honed through years of practice. She had determined long ago that life was easier if you took an interest, or at least feigned an interest, in others. Combined with her looks and fearsome work ethic, it was the path of least resistance.

But while Cameron was perfectly fine with an outwardly sunny demeanour, she also insisted on a few clear lines in the sand. Men could be with her physically, of course: as she had once informed Chase to his acute embarrassment, the joys of sex were too good to pass up. But to be with her emotionally was another matter entirely. She valued her privacy immensely and preferred distance whenever possible. Although she was willing to open up, she did so only rarely, and never thoughtlessly. This was what had so infuriated her about the one-night stand. The drugs had fogged her mind, robbed her objectivity, given her fellow doctor a way in. She had resolved that it wouldn't happen again. New mental fortifications had been made and Chase was to be kept at arm's length until he got the picture.

Cameron padded into the kitchenette and filled the kettle. While she waited for it to boil, the self-evaluation continued and her thoughts drifted, as they often did in idle moments, to House. He thought he had her all figured out. So many things he had said to her over the course of their time together reflected his confidence in this regard:

You are the most naïve atheist I've ever met.

You are cuddly like grandma's teddy bear.

You are 'caring till your eyes pop out'.

You want to fix me.

You don't love; you need.

House was the most brilliant man she had ever met. And she couldn't deny that he possessed a penetrating intellect which afforded him insights most people couldn't explain or understand. But when it came to her, she realised, he was completely clueless. On the one hand, she found it exhilarating that not even as gifted a human as Dr. Gregory House had seemed able to fully grasp the nuances of her personality. On the other, however, she felt a tinge of sadness. If House didn't understand her, who would? Had she made herself so hard to unravel that not even the object of her desire could decipher her? An unpleasant thought.

And yet, there were times when he betrayed a deeper understanding, when he seemed to acknowledge that there was more to Cameron than met the eye. Two instances came immediately to mind. The first had been when he had found her crying in the lab following a case that had reminded her of her dead husband. They had discussed life and death, the reasons for the marriage:

"You cannot be that nice a person and well-adjusted", he had said.

"Why not?".

"Because you wind up crying over centrifuges".

"Or hating people?".

House had been surprised by her then. She still remembered the way his eyes had widened at her response, unwilling to accept analysis from somebody he thought he had figured out. Thinking back, Cameron knew that her boss' words had been more of a question than a comment—are you that well-adjusted? He wanted to know. If there had been time to answer, she wasn't sure how she would have responded. As it happened, however, their pagers came to the rescue. Unresolved situation number one.

The second instance had occurred once again in the lab, and once again he had approached her with a question disguised as a statement:

"You like me" (Cameron had said nothing to this, daring him to ask outright. She only had to wait a moment). "Why?".

"That's kind of a sad question".

"I just want to know what makes you tick".

(Cameron had neared him slowly, hands on hips, gaze unwavering). "What do you want to hear?".

Again, House had refused to answer and walked away. Unresolved situation number two.

Having made herself a mug of hot chocolate, Cameron sat at her dining table, still deep in thought. She suspected, though couldn't prove, that her boss found her attractive. Even more intriguingly, she believed that at some point in the future, the facts would emerge—whether by his doing or by hers. The really frustrating thing was that she knew how he ticked and, despite his protestations to the contrary, was convinced that he knew how she did, too. House had admitted this early on, when he had observed that she was as damaged as he. How can a man as intelligent as that be so deluded as to his own perceptions? He hadn't hallucinated his insight—they really were similar people where it mattered, in heart and mind. The main difference was that she wrapped up her calculating self in a warm, fuzzy exterior; House didn't.

Cameron looked into her drink and gave a little sigh, suddenly exhausted by this train of thought. All this philosophising and what she really wanted to tell House was the truth: that she was attracted to him not because he needed fixing but because she found his intelligence intoxicating and loved being around him; because in his aloof and prickly personality she saw a kindred spirit rather than a man to be moulded; because she liked the way his blue eyes shone as he worked through a case, and the way his hand ruffled his hair and stroked his permanent stubble when he was perplexed.

She imagined telling him other things: that ever since she had seen him in the shower room following his migraine-induced trip, she had pictured his strong arms holding her tightly; that she imagined running her fingers through the soft hairs on his chest and, in turn, what his own fingers would feel like on her. Fundamentally, she fantasised confessing to him her deepest secrets and desires; that, for all the distance she had cultivated and all the barriers she had constructed, she would demolish it all and lay herself bare if he asked it of her.

Such thoughts belonged in the realm of dreams. If it happened—if it happened—it wouldn't be like that. Life was messy, and life with House for a boss was messier still. No. When he returned to work, Cameron would continue to play the game. She loved her job, and her feelings for her superior couldn't be allowed to jeopardise that; she would dish it out and expect to be dished out on in return; she would clear his mail, receive no thanks, and accept it; she would complete his clinic hours when asked; she would care for her patients and maintain her armoured shell. She would embrace fully the life that she had chosen: to work for the most brilliant and difficult doctor in America, the man she desired more than anyone else.

Satisfied that she had suitably hardened her resolve, Cameron washed up the empty mug and retreated to her bedroom. She slipped under the covers and hoped beyond hope that the dream of House's shooting, her almost constant companion over the last few weeks, would not return for another night.