Hangover hike

House woke the next morning with a headache and a groan. During the night his position must have shifted, because half a pillow was hanging off the edge of the bed, and his face was mashed into the undersheet.

"Welcome back to the world of the living".

At this voice, House turned over. Cameron, sat up in bed reading a book, was gazing down at him with amusement.

"Got any water?", he croaked.

"There's a glass next to you and some Ibuprofen", she replied, turning back to the page but nevertheless reaching down to stroke his hair absentmindedly.

Rather than stir immediately, House lay still, enjoying the movement of her fingers, even if his head throbbed insistently. Normally, this dozing period after waking up was a real joy of the weekend—nowhere to be, nothing to do. Just that nebulous state between awake and asleep. Cosy. "Mmmfhhhh", he murmured eventually.

"Nah, Belichick has lost it. No way are the Patriots gonna rediscover their mojo". A while back, Cameron had also muttered something incomprehensible and he had responded with a similar comment.

House opened an eye and peered up at the other, whose grin went some way towards softening his headache. "I'm gonna sit up now".

"OK, well, I'm sure we can expect a congratulatory call from the President any second". Still she remained engrossed in her book.

After a brief internal pep talk, House hauled himself up and propped a pillow against the headboard. Then he located the water, downing the whole lot. But the pills remained on the table.

Cameron noticed. "You aren't taking them?".

"Nah".

Comprehension dawned, and she rested the book in her lap. "It's just garden-variety Ibuprofen, Greg. Completely harmless".

"I'm not taking the pills". This time the tone was laced with tension and his fingers, which still held the empty glass, fidgeted.

"OK", she smiled. Sometimes, it was possible for her to get so caught up in the here and now, in the simple joy of their relationship, that she forgot the past. But House was a man on whom the past weighed more heavily than most. Indeed, the same could be said of her. Both of them, in their own way, had overcome a hardship alien to their colleagues. "Well", she continued, "how about I make you an extra strong coffee and a bacon sandwich?".

"You have bacon?". House looked so happy at this revelation that she almost laughed out loud.

"I always have bacon". Cameron replaced her book and prepared to head for the kitchen.

House held out a hand. "I'll do it. Need to use the facilities, anyway.

"But-".

"-it's fine. I know where everything is". He had slipped into his boxers and shirt.

"But…your coffee sucks!", she blurted out.

"You're sweet".

Cameron threw a salute as he left the room and picked up her book again. It was a thin one on the reign of the first Christian Roman emperor, Constantine the Great. Aimed at the general public as a brief introduction, it was proving surprisingly readable. In London, she had started to think about the Saxons and the other kingdoms. But upon reflection, she considered it best to start with the later Romans, and then move forwards in time. Last year she wouldn't even have thought about reading such things. But House's influence was beginning to make itself heard.

At that, her gaze flicked to the abandoned pills on the nightstand. Ibuprofen was no Vicodin, but she supposed it came down to what they symbolised for House: an earlier time, a worse time, when he hobbled and lurched and grimaced. As the man himself liked to say, humans were pattern-seeking mammals, and, for him, those little white pellets likely called to mind a pattern he had successfully consigned to history. Safer, perhaps, not to dabble in pain-relief medication and risk past colliding with present.

As the smell of sizzling bacon wafted through her bedroom, she closed her eyes and relaxed back into the pillow. At times like this, she pinched herself just to make sure it was no dream. Since starting at PPTH, nobody had spent as much time in her home as House. And by the same token, she had not spent so long under somebody else's roof as she had at 221B Baker Street. Although her apartment was cleaner and brighter, she still preferred House's for its unapologetic clutter and appealingly masculine atmosphere. Even now, whenever crossing the threshold, she couldn't shake the notion that she were entering a subtly darker place, metaphorically and literally. Not dangerous, of course, but nevertheless ever-so-slightly threatening, like the deserted lair of some extinct predator. It was an intoxicating feeling which had yet to dissipate, no matter how familiar the rooms were becoming.

Suddenly she felt House sit on her side of the bed and lean in. "Gimme a kiss, love", he said in a decent imitation of their black cab driver from London.

Cameron, who had opened her eyes, playfully recoiled. "No way, stinky hangover breath".

"That's Doctor stinky hangover breath to you. Let's smooch, darlin'". Again he tried to lean over.

But the woman, falling over to his side of the bed in an effort to escape, put out her hand to block his face; the other began to swat him with the discarded book. "You smell. Go back to the abyss, foul demon".

"One man's demon is another man's freedom fighter. Or something". Since Cameron was practically lying down, face turned away, House shimmied across to pin her to the mattress with his body. "Well", he announced, this time in a posh English accent, "it seems we have reached an impasse, dear lady".

"Get off, you big dinosaur. Fetch my breakfast". She attempted to squirm free but, like in London, her movements served only to excite him.

"I think I'll just lie here and sleep".

"Why are you…so…annoying?", she grunted, having seemingly given up. In fact, she pushed her butt back against his groin.

"Why don't you just gimme a kiss, pet?".

"You're good at that accent. I was correct after all: you are secretly English". Cameron had teasingly wondered this aloud in London. Then, she had been referring to his love of cricket and use of British phrases.

House scoffed, though said nothing, instead resting like a plank over the other, albeit ensuring that he supported most of the weight himself. Playfighting was fun, but he didn't want to hurt her. Cameron also lay still, enjoying the fact that he literally could not be closer, even if they were not face to face.

Only when the sound of aggressive sizzling filtered through did he finally murmur into her ear: "bacon's probably charred".

"A bit of carbon never hurt anyone".

"Right", he announced, finally releasing his quarry and getting to his feet. "We'll eat, stop at mine for some proper clothes and supplies, then we're off for a hangover hike".

"Roger that".


Later that morning, House and Cameron were getting sorted for their walk. Having parked up, the former was tying his boots while the latter zipped up her waterproof and donned a pair of woollen gloves and hat. Both wore rucksacks. House had needed to rummage around in the closet to find his old hiking stash. Like many other things he had once enjoyed, the leg infarction quickly put a stop to anything remotely resembling recreational exercise. But today offered a horizon of new possibility. He took a deep breath and gazed up at the leaden sky.

Cameron, who had seen House lost in thought, pretended to fiddle with her bag straps so as not to disturb his peacefulness. Only when he shut his door and locked the car did she make her way around to join him. "Think I'm all set", she said.

"OK. So, you remember the route? Just in case we get lost or split up".

"Yes, I remember". House had insisted that she study the map during the journey. Cameron had found his concern endearing and somewhat uncharacteristic, given his usual preference for rule breaking. "Sure you're up for this? I mean, you drank a fair bit last night".

"Are you kidding? Exercise is the perfect antidote for a hangover, and I've been meaning to come here for ages. It was on my list of things to do as soon as I arrived in Princeton, but then, yeah…never got the opportunity". His eyes glazed a little, but he quickly snapped out of it. "Shall we?".

"Lead on, babe". To her surprise, House merely smiled at a term of affection he traditionally disliked. Weird.

Given the time of year, weather conditions were on the chilly side. But both wore several layers and had full thermos flasks in their backpacks. The only real risk was heavy snowfall, but none was forecast, and in any case the trails winding through the forest provided ample shelter, even if the branches were bare. For House, this excursion was a step into the unknown. Regular exercise was one thing, but hiking on uneven ground, up and down inclines, with a weight on his back, was something else. A risk it may be, but swimming in a heated pool or running on a road provided little stimulation. The great American outdoors, however, offered much.

The pair walked in comfortable silence, each lost to their own thoughts. House had seen a lot of the world, thanks to his nomadic upbringing: the deserts of Egypt, the crush of Japan, the humid closeness of the Philippines. But there was something inherently appealing about this local wilderness. Here, on the eastern edge of this vast continent, all was orange and brown, and as they penetrated deeper into the trees, sounds of winter life filled their ears. Every now and then they would pass another pair or trio taking advantage of the pre-Christmas lull. In three weeks these trails would be much busier, as New Jerseyites sought to burn off holiday season calories.

After an hour and a half of steady walking they stopped at a bench, where they each removed a layer and took a glug of water. "How's the headache?", asked Cameron.

"Basically gone. And there was you thinking I needed drugs. Kids these days".

She sighed good-naturedly and set off first. "I saw you talking to Fiona Townsend last night. What did she have to say for herself?".

House pulled up alongside and arched an eyebrow. "Just standard boring stuff. She wants to read my article before I send it off".

"Uhuh. I'm not jealous, by the way. Just, y'know, interested".

"Mmm", he nodded knowingly, and the pair lapsed into silence for a few minutes.

"D'you think she's pretty?", Cameron asked finally.

"She's alright", he shrugged. "Why're you asking?".

"From my experience, people don't tend to like you. But now we have Fiona and Oscar to add to the old fan club. Gonna get crowded if we're not careful".

"Well, we wouldn't want that".

"Definitely not", she grinned.

The pair stepped aside to let a small convoy of cyclists overtake.

"What about you? Do you find Chase attractive?". House would, if he could help it, never be the one to initiate a personal conversation. But now that Pandora's Box lay open, the question may as well be posed since it was something he had wondered about.

Cameron tilted her head. "He's a pretty man, for sure. Not my type, though".

"Not Tom Hiddleston-y enough?".

"Not Greg House-y enough", she replied, looking directly into his eyes as they walked along, following in the freshly made tyre tracks.

House met her gaze steadily. For a second, he considered saying something like 'that's so cheesy' or 'this won't last forever, believe me'. But rather than sabotage the moment, he coughed discreetly. "That's enough yammering: you're making my headache swell. Shut up and let me enjoy the scenery".

Cameron only laughed, tightening the straps of her backpack as a gust of wind whipped her hair. This would be a fun one.


"Let's stop here for lunch".

The walkers had come to an oasis which overlooked a small lake fringed all around by reeds. The sky remained grey but unthreatening as House dug into his bag and lay out a picnic blanket.

Cameron dumped her own rucksack but stood still, gazing out at the water. "Look, over there. Is that a heron?".

House glanced up and followed the point of her glove. "Looks like it. Got a gun on you? Could take shots".

"I'm always packing".

"Are you?", he asked, surprised.

"Of course not".

"You should be exercising your Second Amendment right to bear arms, Camster".

Cameron sat down and ran her eyes over the simple but substantial feast her boyfriend had prepared: chicken, bacon, lettuce, and mayonnaise sandwiches; apples, chocolate biscuits, crisps, carrot and celery sticks, and Diet Pepsi. "The Second Amendment also allows me to join a well-regulated militia. Reckon I'll give that a pass, too".

"Mmm", House murmured, pouring them both drinks and handing one over. "Cheers".

They clinked glasses.

"You got a gun, then?", she asked.

He bit into a sandwich. "Not that you'll ever see".

"Come on. I told you".

"No", he lied smoothly. In truth, House had bought a firearm shortly after his own shooting. But it still remained in its holster in a box atop the bookcase in his living room. The purchase had been spur of the moment, and he had immediately regretted it. No one knew, not even Wilson. And that was how it would stay.

"Hmm, OK". She looked at him keenly for a few seconds but then changed the subject, apparently convinced. "Stacy was a constitutional lawyer, wasn't she?".

"Yeah". House polished off a sandwich and cracked open the biscuits, offering one to Cameron who took it wordlessly as he continued: "there wasn't a thing about the Constitution she didn't know. She held it in such high regard…".

"You don't?", asked Cameron, taking a sip of Pepsi.

House shrugged. "I didn't walk around with a copy of it in my jeans pocket, if that's what you mean".

Cameron laughed. "No way she did".

"Nah…", he smiled, always charmed by her laugh, "…I dunno. It's great to have an actual founding document. I mean, how many countries can boast that? But it's kinda limiting, in a sense, even anachronistic. The 1790s were a long time ago".

"Surprise, surprise. The guy who dislikes the Bible also dislikes the Constitution!".

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I didn't say I disliked it. Just don't have much time for the diehard originalists". With that, House leant back, hands planted behind him, looking out onto the surface of the lake. The overspreading branches cast strange shapes over the water, which rippled in the wind. Not a human in sight. Only birdsong and faintly creaking trees.

Cameron left her half-eaten apple on the rug and shuffled over to sit next to him. "You OK?", she whispered into his ear. "You seem…different. I called you 'babe' before and you didn't even blink".

"If I'm different, it's because all your niceness is finally rubbing off on me. And I'm more than OK", he returned, flicking her nose characteristically with his thumb. "Can I kiss you now? Pepsi breath ain't so bad".

"I don't know. Can you?". House had insisted on the proper grammar during their walk to the British Museum.

"Guess I deserved that. May I?".

"Go on, then". The pair kissed softly for a minute or so. "You may touch me, too", she murmured into his mouth.

"My hands are cold. I took my gloves off a while ago".

"Don't care. Feel me".

When House edged a hand under her woollen sweater she gasped. "See?", he grinned, "what did I sa-".

But the words were cut short as Cameron pressed her lips to his with such force that he fell back to the blanket, quickly followed by the woman herself.

The picnic was soon forgotten.


A.N. House, pointing to his leg, claims in the second episode of season 2 that's he's "not much for the long walks in the park", so I figured that I would give the caneless version…a long walk in the forest. House's gun crops up in season 8, and he discusses it with Wilson. Also, I said at the start that while I would generally favour British spelling over American, I would in turn favour American words over British; thing is, though, I just can't bring myself to write 'chips' for 'crisps' and 'cookies' (?) for 'biscuits'. Sorry.