Morning glory

A.N. First entry of 2021. What a time to be alive. Stay safe out there! There are a few swear words in this but you can take it.


Insistent knocking on the door awoke House from a deep sleep. Rather than actually get out of bed, he decided to bury his head under the pillow and hope whoever it was gave up and left him alone. Early mornings were not his forte. And he didn't consider himself unique here. Humans just were not designed to be awake while it was still dark outside. Hundreds of thousands of years of evolution had made it so. For one thing, homo sapiens possessed decidedly average night vision and hearing; for another, since the species exhibited superior intelligence and practical ability, it expended far more energy than other animals, which needed to be replenished every night. Failure to do so resulted in inevitable cognitive and physical degeneration. So, really, thought House as he stuffed a second pillow over his head, he was just looking after his health. And nobody could blame him for that.

The knocking soon stopped, to be replaced by his phone on the nightstand vibrating aggressively. The person at the door obviously knew him well enough to have his number. Potentially interesting, but not sufficient reason to get out of bed. House reached across and muted the phone without glancing at the screen. Problem solved. Satisfied, he relaxed back into the sheets and hoped beyond hope that his dream would return. Monica Bellucci just happened to be the latest case and, as thanks for diagnosing her, had bought him dinner before coming back to the apartment. Obviously, House had been a complete gentleman about the whole thing, but she was newly single. One thing led to another, and she was waiting for him in the bathtub. He willed himself back to sleep.

Suddenly an alarm blared through the room, shattering the pleasant drowsiness which had descended. House groaned and turned over in confusion, for he had not set his own alarm clock in at least a decade. Groping around in the darkness, he plucked it from the bedside table, and with scarcely a glance at its face threw it against the door, noting the satisfying crunch. Unfortunately, however, the alarm continued. In fact, a moment later yet another sound pierced the air; this time it was a ship's foghorn.

House, now fully awake, sat up in bed. "What the fuck is going on?", he murmured aloud.

Both alarms, the beep and the foghorn, were soon joined by a police siren. Before long, the three contraptions had settled into a merry symphony as House, groggy and confused, stumbled around his room in a futile attempt to locate the multi-pronged noise source. "What the fuck!", he yelled as he checked the drawers and under the bed to no avail. The cacophony was as truly ear-splitting as it was disorienting. "Fuck you, Wilson!", he shouted at the ceiling. The man stumbled to his nightstand and picked up the phone, intending to call his shit-eating friend and tell him that he was a shit-eater.

But there was a text waiting. I can end this torture. Open the door.

Phone still in hand, House stampeded out of his bedroom, down the hallway, and to the front door, working himself up into a righteous fury. Wilson had pulled the most despicable prank and now he would meet his (Jewish) maker. A man's bedroom was his sanctuary. Sacred ground. But the oncologist cared not for holiness, and he would be destroyed. House threw open the door, words of indignant outrage already on his lips. But there was no Wilson waiting outside.

Instead, Cameron, completely wrapped up in woolly hat, gloves, and overcoat, stood there beaming back at him. "Hi, House!", she greeted cheerily, before trailing her eyes over his dishevelled hair, angry expression, bare torso, and boxer shorts. "How's it going? Wow, that's a loud noise—what are you doing in there? Your neighbours aren't gonna like this".

"I'm-, are you...it's-", he spluttered.

"-maybe you ought to gather your thoughts before attempting to verbalise", she interrupted calmly.

House's mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he mustered a response. "Did you orchestrate...this?".

"Not quite sure what you mean there, buster. D'you mind if I come in?". Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him and into the apartment. "Huh", she mused from the threshold to his bedroom, "I thought it wasn't that bad, but now that I'm in here, it really is a pretty loud noise".

He slammed the door and marched up to the other. "It's not 'pretty loud'; it's a fucking cacophony. These are not normal alarms. Turn them off!".

But Cameron gestured towards her ear. "What?", she mouthed.

"TURN THEM OFF!", he yelled, deciding that 'cacophony' was too hard a word to lipread.

"I can't hear you! I'll just go turn them off and we can talk!", she screamed back, jogging into his bedroom. After a few moments' continued blaring, silence settled.

House, who had retreated, massaged his ears and waited for the mischief-maker's return. As soon as she stepped back into the living area, he launched into his tirade. "What the fuck, Cameron. I was trying to fucking sleep. I don't mind pranks, but that was totally shitty, especially since I explicitly told you I value my rest a while back. It's like four in the morning, for God's sake".

"Closer to five, actually. You realise we leave for the airport soon, right?".

"Of course I realise. I have my own damn alarm. I don't need you messing me around". House was still really angry.

Cameron tilted her head. "Well, are you packed?".

"All I need to do is stick a few clothes in a carry-on and I'm good to go, OK? Ten minutes max. Jesus".

"I figured you'd be upset, which is why I brought you this...", she handed over a Starbucks, "...this", now she handed over a pair of freshly-buttered croissants in a paper bag, "...and this...", she finished, pulling him into a deep kiss. Despite himself, House's hands edged under her woollen sweater, feeling the warm skin beneath. It quickly became apparent that she was bra-less. "Better?", she whispered into his mouth.

"Getting there", he admitted grudgingly. "But it's going to take a little more than that for me to forgive you. My dream was completely ruined".

"Good one, was it?".

"Monica Bellucci".

"Interesting. She's not blonde, though".

House shrugged and took a sip of coffee. "Hair colour isn't everything". The drink softened his anger somewhat, and he jettisoned surliness to ask a question: "who's your celebrity crush, then?".

"If I tell, will it aid the forgiveness process?".

"Maybe".

"Hmm. Well, I'm a sucker for British guys in general, and I have several favourites. But if pressed, I'd have to say...Sean Bean. I saw him recently on TV. Aged like fine wine".

"Huh, he's pretty old".

"Confession time: I like older men", she murmured, leaning into his body.

"Am I gonna have to be on the lookout in London, hey? There'll be a few British chaps who'll want a piece of you". It was hard to stay mad when the smell of croissants wafted through his apartment.

"Maybe so, but it doesn't matter, because I'm already accounted for. Now go and get ready. We leave in...", she glanced at her watch, "...twenty-five minutes. Foreman and Chase are meeting us at the airport".

"I bet they didn't have an annoying woman sabotaging their sleep at some god-forsaken time in the morning", he grumbled, moving off to the bathroom.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that", she called after him.

"No need", came the reply.

"Get a move on, else I'll plant even more comically loud alarm clocks around your apartment!".


The four diagnosticians boarded the plane and were directed to their seats by the flight attendants. House had cheered up slightly but still largely kept to monosyllabism. "Not a morning person, boss?", asked Foreman as they waited for a large man to store his luggage in the overhead compartments.

"Mornings, people, planes. You name it, I probably don't like it", he replied shortly, letting out a large sigh as the aisle was finally cleared.

"No way", chimed Chase. "I love planes".

"Of course you do. They're the only means of leaving Australia".

"Looks like we're...", muttered Cameron as she checked the numbers on the tickets with those on the seats, "...here. And you guys should be just a couple further down". Chase and Foreman nodded and moved off. "Aisle or window?", she spoke to House.

"Window", he murmured, before deciding it was too antagonistic and adding a quick 'thanks'. Cameron merely smiled. House's grumpiness had ceased to bother her long ago. She had no way of knowing so, but this even-keeled temperament was one of the first things Wilson had pinpointed when he, House, and Cuddy had spoken about her a few months back. "Stop smiling. It's seven in the morning and freezing cold", he complained.

"I'm not as bitter and twisted as you, remember. I like mornings just fine. Would you help me stow my bag?".

House glanced up from the earphones he was untangling. Cameron had her holdall precariously balanced above her head, unable to find room alongside someone's else's suitcase, which had shifted out of place. The position caused her sweater to ride up, revealing an expanse of smooth, pale skin. Not for the first time in the last few days, his brain travelled back to the hallucination and how the robotic arms had carefully peeled away her clothing, unveiling the perfection beneath. Maybe it would soon be time to confess. Maybe it was not actually such a big deal.

"How tall did you say you were again?", he asked, aware that Cameron was looking at him. "They design those things for accessibility".

"It's just pretty fiddly is all".

House let out an exaggerated sigh but nevertheless moved to provide assistance. "Y'know", he said conspiratorially, "a man helping a woman with her bag? It's practically Victorian. Don't tell the feminists".

She patted his stomach affectionately. "I love that you equate common courtesy with feminism. Anyway, Emmeline Pankhurst would disagree with your assessment of the Victorians".

"Someone's been doing their homework. What, are you a nerd or something?".

Both doctors settled into their seats.

"You're not the only one who likes history, House. I checked, though, and a lot of the Pankhurst stuff is in Manchester, unfortunately, up north".

"Hmm. I bet we could get a train there at some point, if you fancied. Cuddy would no doubt protest, but who cares? I'll keep mum if you will".

Cameron regarded his profile keenly. "You'd want to do that with me?".

"Well, 'want' is a strong word, isn't it? As you know, I care little for women's rights. Or men's rights, for that matter. But I've been told relationships are about compromise, so...".

"Oh, yeah? Who told you that?", she grinned.

"It was either Michelle Obama or Carletta from Real Hospitals of Los Angeles", he replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"My money's on the latter". Cameron watched as House retrieved his laptop from under the seat and plugged in his earphones. "Bit early for porn, or...?", she mused as he opened a couple of racy folders from the landing screen.

House recoiled. "Don't say that ever again—it's never too early. Nah, but even I can't justify watching it on a plane with you sitting beside me. I'm just trying to remember where I saved my films...not used this machine in a while".

While he fiddled away, Cameron pulled out a book, resting it in her lap while she scanned the cabin contentedly. A large proportion of the passengers looked to be professionals, dressed in suits and skirts, many of them already tapping on iPads and laptops or double-checking emails on phones before the imposition of radio silence for take-off. Still, further down she spotted a couple of children, a boy and a girl, waiting patiently while their father fetched snacks from a bag. Both received a juicebox, the girl helping her brother pierce the hole with his straw; a simple kindness which warmed her heart.

House nudged her arm and he looked at her expectantly. "Sorry, did you say something?", she asked.

"I'm gonna watch The Matrix. The flight is six hours, so time enough for the whole trilogy. Can share an earpiece if you want".

"Not for now. Never liked the first one...", suddenly she trailed off, resuming a moment or two later as she remembered the cast from that movie series, "...Monica Bellucci. Nice".

A grin, his grumpiness banished. "We should start a list, y'know, like a celebrity free pass, just in case we end up in the Ritz rubbing shoulders with the great and the good".

Cameron considered this. "Fine. Top three?".

"Let's take turns. Descending order".

"Rob Gronkowski", she said.

"Well, well. She picks a football star. Interesting. Jawline?".

"Nah. Bet he has sparkling conversation".

House scoffed but confided his choice. "Natalie Portman. Brains and looks".

"Good one. Hugh Jackman".

"Hmm. Bellucci".

"My final choice...Tom Hiddleston. He's my dash of culture, since we can't spend all day in bed".

"I've got to give it to you, Camster; pretty impressive trio there".

"I have fabulous taste in men", she murmured, pecking his cheek. "Your number one?".

"Scarlett Johansson".

"Fair. She's a babe".

The conversation was interrupted by the inevitable safety announcements and demonstrations. Before long, the plane began taxiing to the runway. Wordlessly House took Cameron's hand in his own. The latter smiled. Handholding was such an un-House thing. And yet, here they were. "When did you plant the alarm clocks?", he asked suddenly.

"Couple of days back. We were watching TV. I excused myself to the bathroom. Kinda amazed you didn't notice how long I was gone".

"Of course I noticed. Assumed you were doing female stuff like braiding your hair or making daisy chains".

"Oh, I did that as well. I work fast".

"It was a good effort, but I'll get you back". With that, the plane's engines roared into life, shuddering it forwards and filling the cabin with deafening noise. As the plane hurtled down the runway and the wheels left the tarmac, Cameron could see in her peripheral vision House gazing intently out of the window. Only after the city lights had started to shrink into the inky blackness of the early morning sky did he return to his film and release her hand.