Work Text:
Allison knows immediately that she’s doing the wrong thing. She knows it the moment she glances in through the window and sees House sitting there with a strange woman. She knows it as she pushes the door open. She knows it as she walks towards them.
She knows it even as she hears the woman ask “This isn't a job interview, is it?”
Allison remembers her job interview, and no, it wasn’t anything like this. She’s not even sure why she’s so angry, even as she gathers breath to speak. It’s none of her business who House sees after hours, and for what purpose. Just as it’s none of House’s business who she sees after hours, and for what purpose.
Maybe it’s revenge, for everything he’s ever said or done to get back at her for trying to have a life outside of the hospital. A life that doesn’t involve him. For not wanting her for himself, but doing whatever he can to get in the way of her trying to have something with anyone else. Why not do the same to him in return? No, it’s not because she’s jealous of him. It isn’t.
Or so she tells herself.
“House,” she says, interrupting them mid-conversation. He turns and looks at her, and something flickers in his eyes. Unease, maybe. “Hello, have we met?” Allison asks his apparent companion, not waiting for him to reply. Funny, his female companion doesn’t look like a hooker.
He’s picking up new women, all while making her feel bad about her outside relationships? Yes, that’s it. It’s not jealousy Allison is feeling. No, it’s really not.
“I don’t think so. I’m Honey,” the woman says, extending her hand. Allison’s not impolite enough to ignore it, but she only shakes it slightly less as long as is necessary. “And you are…?” Honey asks (OK, maybe she is a hooker with a name like that, Allison thinks unkindly).
“Allison Cameron. I work with House.” Allison glares over at the man in question.
“Oh, you’re part of his team? He’s interviewing me, for a position in Diagnostic Medicine.”
Allison almost makes a rude remark about exactly what position House wants her for (or in). She can’t stop herself from laughing, so she covers it up with misdirection. “Interviewing in a bar? Wow, House. Like your job interviewing style wasn’t unique enough already.”
House is scowling, but it seems overdone. He’s acting like a little boy, caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar.
“It’s time for a change,” he grumbles. “Foreman’s leaving, and we need fresh blood. A new perspective. Honey’s a nutritionist, and—“
Allison nearly doubles over this time with laughter. A nutritionist? On a diagnostic team? Sure thing, House.
Still, she narrowly manages to control herself this time. Honey is apparently not a hooker – unless House is, as usual, lying – which makes her the equivalent of an innocent (foolish) bystander.
Instead, Allison decides to warn her, and annoy House at the same time. He’s earned it. “Honey, let me give you some professional advice,” Allison says, turning to her. “Run.”
The woman raises her eyebrows and looks confused. “What?”
“You don’t want to work on our team. Trust me on this. House will insult you almost constantly, belittle your ideas, and use you to do his dirty work, so he can sit in his office and watch soap operas and play with his GameBoy all day. If something happens to you, like, oh, getting splashed with HIV-contaminated blood, he’ll crack jokes about it. If a team-mate steals your article and publishes it under his own name, House’ll tell you to suck it up. You especially don’t want to be around if he pisses the wrong person off. Like law enforcement officers. Because if they then decide to lean on the team for information, he’ll stand by and not lift a finger to help you if it’s his ass on the line. Well, he won’t help you anyways, but especially if it’s his ass-- ”
“Dr. Cameron, can I speak with you privately?” House’s hand is tight around her wrist, and he’s limping and pulling her away, off towards the door of the bar.
“What the HELL has gotten into you?” He hisses. “Don’t tell me it’s the meth agai-“
“Shut up, House,” Allison snaps. Ah yes, the whole HIV incident. A perfect example of why any sane person would not see House as ‘boyfriend material’. A perfect example of why she should hate this man, why she should applaud the fact he’s chasing after other women.
Exactly why she’s not jealous in the least. She’s just doing her civic duty by warning Honey what she’s in for.
House just stands there, staring at her like he’s never seen her before. Then his brow furrows angrily. “I should fire you,” he growls.
“Then fire me,” she spits at him. “Asshole.” She wrenches her wrist free (there was a time when she might have actually enjoyed such a touch from him) and strides to the door, not looking back. She should probably care that she just told her boss off and probably has no job to return to Monday morning.
But she’s been completely and utterly sick of him for a long while now, and somehow this (stirring of not-jealousy) has become the last straw.
She doesn’t look back. She composes her letter of resignation in her head as she goes.
*~*~*
House is floored. Little Miss Nice, acting like this? It doesn’t compute.
He tries to pick up the conversation with Honey again, but he can’t really remember why he asked her here in the first place. Cameron’s little blow-up is so much more interesting to him than listening to Honey list off the benefits of a vegan lifestyle. Yawn.
Finally, he just rudely grumbles that he’ll be in touch (he won’t), nods his farewell when she gives him a vacuous smile, and limps off to his bike.
He makes a beeline for Cameron’s place. He hasn’t been there since going to ask (beg) her to come back in the early post-Vogler days, but he still remembers the way. And it’s still just as much of a pain to get up those damned stairs as he remembers.
He raps on her door with his cane – old habits die hard – but he gets only ringing silence in return. Not even the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door.
House knows immediately that he’s doing the wrong thing, but he can already feel his hand going for his credit card. Well, if she turns up as he’s breaking in, he can always say he’s just practicing his B&E skills. And remind her that it’s all about saving lives, blah, blah, blah.
He shuts the door behind him, studying the place. He’s never been inside Cameron’s home. Or Foreman or Chase’s, either, but that’s beside the point.
He limps over to the treadmill, turning it on and toying with the settings. He flips through the magazines and medical journals on her coffee table. He reads over the titles in her bookshelf and studies the posters on the wall. He isn’t too interested in her kitchen, except to rummage through her fridge (surprisingly well-stocked) and grab the last Red Delicious apple in the bottom drawer.
There’s nothing else to the apartment except a narrow hallway with two doors in it. He makes a bet with himself that the first door is the bathroom, a bet he wins. He glances around. Three rubber ducks stared back at him, from their perch on the bathroom counter, and that was interesting. Kind of. He’s always figured her for a stuffed animal girl, not someone who would sing “Rubber Ducky, you’re the one,” in her bathtub.
That gives him lots of interesting mental images, though – most of them of Cameron naked and wet and dressed only in bubble-bath foam – so he steers himself to the bedroom. In search of those stuffed animals, he tells himself. He’s got an image of her to maintain. Isn’t that why he’s here?
The bedroom’s kind of a disappointment, though. He’s almost hoping to find something teeny-bopper in here, so he’ll have something new to make fun of her with (once he figures out what the Hell is going on with her at the moment). Yes, there’s some frills on the bedskirts and pillows, but nothing too lacy or frothy. Yeah, there’s a couple pretty still-life prints of flowers on the walls in plain frames, and a small vanity in the corner with several little glass bottles of amber- and yellow-hued perfumes. But there’s no pile of dusty stuffed animals on the dresser, glaring at his invasion with blank button eyes. Or lying against the pillows on that bed. It’s just a bedroom, a mature woman’s bedroom, with a pale blue bedspread and sheets, a beat-up wooden chair, a dresser that’s seen better days, the vanity, and a messy closet. Other than the feminine touches, not much different from his bedroom, actually.
He’s considering rifling through her drawers in search of lacy thong underthings, when he hears the front door open. Interesting. It might be amusing to give Cameron a scare. He can always call it payback for the way she mouthed off at him in front of Honey.
But then he remembers that he’s broken in. That might already be pushing it. So instead he goes out to meet her, letting his cane thump loudly with every step.
She doesn’t actually look all that surprised to see him. Obviously, she did recognize the sound of his steps, and had time to compose herself.
Or, she really isn’t surprised by this. That shouldn’t really surprise him, her lack of surprise. He’s underestimated her before.
“What are you doing here, House?” she asks, her voice tight and controlled.
He shrugs. “I was curious,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious and natural explanation.
Isn’t it, for him?
“Curious,” she repeats. She drops her jacket unceremoniously onto the couch.
“Yes,” he continues. “When one of my underlings goes off the deep end, I kind of wonder what’s going on.”
“Right,” she says sarcastically. “So, you just break into their place.”
“Exactly,” he smirks at her, twirls his cane. This is actually fun. Much more fun than sitting and listening to an in-depth discussion of why consuming milk, cheese, and eggs is a sin against Nature. “So, you gonna tell me why you made such a dramatic little scene earlier?”
She shoots him a dirty look. “No.” She strides past him, heading to the bedroom.
He limps after her.
“We have ways of making you talk,” he says in a heavy German accent. She doesn’t stop, but he hears her snort derisively from the bedroom.
He’s not prepared for what he sees when he follows her into the bedroom, however. There’s Cameron, with her back to him…stripping off her work clothes.
“What the-“ he says, freezing.
She gives him another dirty look over her shoulder. “When I usually get home from work,” she says icily, “the first thing I do is change. What, you think I’m going to change my routine just because you broke in?”
House feels off-balance, and that’s just wrong. Isn’t she the one who’s supposed to be uncomfortable, here? “So, that wasn’t a change in routine in the bar just now?” he says, trying to reassert the balance of power.
She’s wearing only her bra and panties by now, displaying entirely too much soft, delicate skin. House suddenly wants to kiss the curve of that hip, mould his palm over her-
Dammit.
This isn’t working. He does his best to discount both her creamy skin and the pulsating beginning somewhere in the region of his jeans. He’s not going to let it play out this way. He’s got a mystery to solve. A diagnostic case, if you will.
“Why did you kiss me, before?” he asks harshly. It’s maybe the last weapon he has, against all that curvy girlyness she’s using against him.
She turns to face him, raising a delicate brow. “Why did you kiss back?” she parries, and then sits on the bed.
“You’re evading,” House says, but he knows he’s already losing.
“So are you,” she points out, and then lies back on the bed, closing her eyes.
Silence hangs in the room for a long moment, and then House almost swallows his tongue as Cameron’s hand comes up, rubbing lightly across one of her own nipples through the lacy cream-colored fabric.
“What the-“ House blurts out again.
Cameron’s blushing slightly but seems otherwise unfazed. “When I get home,” she explains in a low voice that is shockingly calm, “sometimes I feel the need to have an orgasm. Relieve the tension of the day.” Her eyes open again, fixing on him in a way that can only be described as challenging.
He gets it immediately. She’s daring him to stay and watch.
He has to admit, he’s intrigued. First the jealousy act in the bar, and now this sex kitten display? That’s two new sides of Cameron he’s never seen before, and all in less than one hour.
He should leave, he knows. This will complicate things. Although he’s not sure why he didn’t think it wouldn’t complicate things already, just breaking into her place.
They’ve both crossed the line.
House makes his decision, limping over to the wooden chair, turning it to face the bed. Two can play this game. “Well, in that case, don’t let me stop you.”
He bets himself two shots of Scotch that this is where her courage ends. That she hasn’t the balls – pardon the expression – to go on.
He’s wrong (not that it’s the first time).
She closes her eyes again, bringing up both hands this time, teasing both her own nipples into hard little points that House can see very clearly under the fabric. He has to fight not to touch himself, already aching.
Cameron arches her back, stretching her creamy-pale, slender neck, and tugs gently on each nipple, moaning quietly in a way that makes House’s hand tighten around his cane until the knuckles go white.
She dips one hand inside her bra. House can’t see anything, not directly, but the motions under the fabric suggest her fingers are massaging her nipple in little circles. It’s driving him slowly out of his mind.
When she starts sliding her hand down her own belly, towards those lacy panties, that’s when he can’t stand it any further and he curves a hand over himself, trying to ease the ache. This has to be the most rewarding B&E he’s ever had.
He watches slender fingers easing under the waistband of her panties, but again he is frustrated. He can guess at the way she’s touching herself- he’s pretty sure she’s thrusting her fingers slowly in and out- from the motions under the fabric, but he can’t see a damned thing. Not in the detail he wants.
Does he dare complain about it? This is her party, and he’s the party(panty?)-crasher after all.
He goes with something a little safer than just ordering her to strip down. “Look at me,” he rasps.
Her eyes do snap open, but the challenge is still there. “OK…but you need to give me something to watch, House.” Her eyes stray meaningfully to where his fingers are slowly stroking up and down his fly.
He should probably stop and think about this, but instead he unzips himself. Reason, rationality, they aren’t really figuring into this, but he’s not so sure that bothers him.
Still, he pauses, suddenly having a moment of pure chickening-out. They’re rare, such moments for him, but he has them. Everybody (lies) does.
Cameron must sense him hesitating at the brink, because she sits up, eyes locked to his, and reaches behind her to unhook her bra, tossing it across the room to wind up in his lap.
He looks down at it, dazed, not quite ready to look up at her yet. “For someone who dislikes sports metaphors so thoroughly,” he snarks weakly, “You’ve got a great throwing arm.”
Cameron laughs, and it’s reassuring. He finally looks at her, and she’s reclining against the pillows once more, rubbing and tugging at both nipples again. God, she makes every porn movie he’s ever watched seem so…boring.
“I’d make a comment about showing me your ‘bat’”, she says, a new edge to her voice he hasn’t really heard before. Low, silken, seductive. “But that would definitely be a sports metaphor.” Then she actually winks at him.
Before her gaze drops to his crotch again.
He’s still nervous, but he’s pretty sure she’ll never take those panties off if he doesn’t give her…something. Those are the rules of the game, and you don’t have to be a diagnostic genius to figure them out.
So he reaches in and pulls himself out. He even strokes himself for her, long, slow glides up and down the veined shaft. She doesn’t look disappointed, he’s glad to notice.
Her hands move to the waistband of her panties, and he watches raptly as she shimmies and wriggles, slowly sliding them down and off her shapely legs. She almost shocks him by spreading her legs wide, showing him neatly trimmed curls and lots of slick, pink skin, and the scent of her arousal suddenly seems to fill the room, and his brain, and his every thought process. He squeezes himself, even dropping the cane in his other hand so he can cup his balls, no longer worried about the show he’s putting on for her.
Because the show she’s putting on for him is very gratifying. Her eyes are half-lidded and no longer really seeing him, anyways. Her hands are between her legs, one massaging her swollen clit in little circles that make House clench up in sympathy, and the other thrusting two fingers slowly in and out of herself.
His heart is racing, and he’s soaked with sweat beneath all the layers of clothing he’s still wearing. Everything seems too real, too much. Every tiny noise she makes seems to thunder in his head, every shade of pink and cream of her skin and every ridge and fold of the rumpled bedspread seems too sharp and too bright, and he doesn’t think he can stand it.
Finally, he has to admit to himself that he wants her. He wants his hands, then his lips, and finally his prick, between her legs, and then inside her.
He ignores the sharp digging pain in his thigh as he hauls himself to his feet, starting to pull his clothes off. Her eyes are wide open again, watching him, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her pretty mouth.
House won’t even remember later how he makes it onto the bed and between those lush thighs, but he will remember how she tastes on his tongue, creamy and sweet and salty. He’ll remember how tight she is inside, and the noises she makes when he twists two fingers eagerly into her. He’ll remember how snug she is around him when he finally plunges himself desperately balls-deep into her, soothing them both.
When it’s done, she’s still lying on top of him, their bodies pasted together with sweat and heat, and he’s still trying to make sense of it all.
He’s still not sure how this all happened.
But, more importantly, he wonders if he ought to send Honey a thank-you card.