sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-11 01:27 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-11 01:27 am
Entry tags:
Housefic: The Shortest Distance, 3/3. R-rated.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2
"You look awful," Chase said the next morning, arriving with bagels and looking far too well-rested.
"Thanks," Cameron replied. She was highly conscious that she'd only had three hours sleep and showered in the hospital locker room, that she had no makeup on and hadn't been able to do much with her hair beyond tie it back in a ponytail.
"Sorry. Long night? Did you sleep here?"
"Yes and...yes. Labs," she said. "And then another heart attack, and some more labs, but we think everything's cleared up now."
"Yeah? What was it?"
"Broken heart," House said, appearing in the doorway. He rubbed his eyes and made a beeline for the percolating coffee. Chase looked inquiringly at Cameron, who passed him the file.
"Nice," he remarked. "You should write this up."
"I might," she admitted. "Gotta get something out of the all-nighter, right?"
She was gratified to hear a quiet choking noise from House, standing behind her.
"Anything new?" Chase asked, closing the file. Foreman pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying his breakfast and a coffee in with him.
"Not a thing," House said, standing at the window and looking out, casually propping his cane against his hip. "Catch up on your email, do a couple of crosswords, rob the vending machines, go home early. Cameron."
She looked up at him.
"Go home now. You look like crap."
She winced inwardly, but she knew herself and Wilson and House had both warned her not to expect anything different.
"I want to make sure he's really stable," she replied. "I'll stay."
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Pining for the kid with the broken heart? Sweet."
"Seriously, we can handle it," Chase said.
"I'll stay."
"You're a masochist," House replied. "Chase, ask her out. Oh wait -- it's been done."
Chase blushed; even his blush was pretty and perfect, just barely staining his cheeks. House turned around finally and leaned against the window. It put most of him in shadow, but he had to know what it did to his eyes; they were almost luminous in the sidelight.
"You're useless without any rest. Twenty-four hour rotations are the reason we're not interns and ER doctors," he said. "Go home."
She rubbed her eyes indecisively.
"Oh, for god's sake. You, mind the plantation," he said, pointing at Foreman with his cane. "Pretty boy can keep an eye on our patient."
He came forward and smacked Cameron in the legs. "I'll drive you home."
She looked up at him and realised she was hopelessly checkmated, and he'd probably intended this from the start; he knew she'd put up a fight about leaving. With a sardonic look at the other two, she gathered up her bag and shed her lab coat, pulling on yesterday's jacket. House was already heading down the hallway.
"When it's a choice between staying here and subjecting yourself to House's driving, I'd stay the hell here," Foreman said.
"I don't think I have a choice," she answered, as the door swung shut. House was holding the elevator for her, standing next to a man in a wheelchair and what appeared to be his wife. After the door shut, he turned to her.
"So if I grab your ass, is that still harassment?" he asked. The other couple in the elevator looked at him curiously. "Young love," he informed them.
"House," she said through clenched teeth.
"Don't mind them, they don't care. Do you care?" he asked them. The woman shook her head.
"If I were ten years younger I'd do it myself," the man croaked hoarsely. The woman swatted him on the back of the head.
"See? He's practically ordering me," House said. "Hands off, she's mine," he added to the man.
"Lucky bastard."
She half expected that House would actually do it right there in the elevator, but instead he just inched closer and rested his hand on her hip, almost...subtly. Though when the elevator slowed and the doors began to open he did slide his fingers across her ass as he let his hand drop.
"House!" Cuddy called from her office doorway as they passed through the clinic.
"Can't stop now!" he shouted back. "Taking Cameron home to have my wicked way with her."
"God, you're a perpetual lawsuit," Cuddy replied, but she saw the dark circles under Cameron's eyes and didn't push the matter further.
They passed his motorcycle and she was reaching for her keys when he took them from her.
"I meant it. I slept last night," he said. "Passenger's seat."
She rolled her eyes as she got in. "If you crash my car -- "
"I am an extremely safe driver. Ask any of the cops who gave me a speeding ticket," he said, closing the driver's-side door behind him. She was turning to say something smart that she hadn't quite come up with yet when he turned too and kissed her, startlingly and greedily.
"My days of making out in cars are over," he said when he leaned back.
"All evidence to the contrary."
He started her car and backed out, and to her gratification drove much more safely than he had last time.
***
Just because he drove Cameron home didn't mean he had to walk her to her apartment, of course.
But, he reasoned, if he did, he could phone for a cab from there instead of from her car, and it wasn't safe to use cellular telephones while driving.
Just because he walked her to her door, though, didn't mean he expected an invitation in, or even wanted one. She was tired, so was he; she should sleep. He should go back to the office before the other two got suspicious.
"You want to come in?" she asked.
Just because he went in didn't mean he had to stay, of course. He could call for the cab from inside, and he'd get a look at her apartment too, which was a bonus. Peoples' homes fascinated him. Hers had been ridiculously tidy the last time he'd seen it.
And, of course, just because he was inside her apartment and she was taking off her coat and undoing her hair didn't mean he had to kiss her or anything.
Except, standing rather awkwardly in the middle of her still excruciatingly clean apartment, he watched her hang up her coat and set her bag on the couch and then walk back to him and wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him.
Which didn't mean he had to do anything more. He could leave anytime he wanted.
He knew Cameron was small, bones-thin almost, but it was different -- had been different -- to feel that physically, to put his hands on her hips like he was doing now (not that he had to) and feel the size of her and still know how solid and stubborn she was. Her skin was cool under his fingertips where her shirt had hiked up a little, and he couldn't resist sliding one hand down for the promised ass-grab. She laughed against his mouth and slid a hand up into his hair.
But he didn't have to stay, and she wanted her sleep, and this was clearly a "thanks for driving me home" kiss. He eased back a little and let go of her ass, which was just as stunning as he'd expected.
"You're tired," he said. "It's been a long day -- "
"You don't have to do that," she said. "I know you're an opportunist."
He grinned just a little at that. "I'm tired too."
"Do you want to go?" she asked. He fumbled for a truth he could substitute for the real truth.
"Chase and Foreman are going to wonder where I am."
"Do you want to go?"
"I wouldn't be very -- "
"Greg," she said, and he looked down at her, startled. She smiled. "You didn't think I was going to call you Doctor House?" she asked. "Now that would be inappropriate."
"It's -- "
"Soon?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"For you or for me?" She untwined one of her hands from around his neck and slid it over his shoulder, down his chest. "You're not frightened."
He took a moment to actually examine whether he was or not.
Intrigued; turned on; fascinated that she apparently had more kitchen appliances than God; not frightened.
And he'd never been one for taking it slow before.
"No," he agreed. She kissed his jaw and he felt her fingers slide down his ribcage, tugging at his shirt. He shrugged his jacket off and let it fall on the floor (take that, tidiness!) and tugged his shirt off, grabbing her hands when she reached for his belt. Damned if he was going to be the first one naked in this situation.
She laughed and let him undo the thousands of annoying buttons on her shirt, his other hand skimming over her back, reaching for the bra that he'd almost gotten undone last night. She let the shirt fall off and pressed against him, kissing him again. He decided to let the bra alone and grabbed her ass again, pinning her there.
"Nice," he said against her cheek.
"If I didn't know you were king of understatement..." She nuzzled his neck where it met the crook of his shoulder. He bit her earlobe gently while he was trying to work out a tactical way of bringing up the subject of what his leg would and would not handle. Considering he was having his collarbone nipped by someone fifteen years younger than he was, it wasn't a bad idea to bring up the questionable status of his stamina, either --
"Couch or bed?" she asked, breath warm on his skin.
"Couch's closer," he said, closing his eyes.
"Bed's nicer."
He didn't want her to see him limp, not right here and right now. It was a completely irrational desire, and she'd seen him limp everywhere for two and a half years, but he remembered the shame and humiliation the first time Stacy had seen him try to walk --
"Bed," he managed, feeling the flush of shame spread down his throat and across his bare chest. He also felt her fingers hook in his belt and tug gently; when he opened his eyes she was looking up at his face, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. She kept her eyes on his the whole way there, and he was grateful, and then he felt pathetic for feeling grateful. Who was whose boss here, anyway?
He channeled all the sudden frustration and instinct for control into stopping her at the edge of the bed (her bedroom was messier; good sign) and stripping off the rest of her clothes. She didn't seem to mind, even when he gave her enough of an off-center push to send her sprawling on the bed. She propped herself on her elbows and watched as he turned away and leaned against the wall, ungracefully and definitely unsexily getting his shoes and socks off. When he started on his belt, she spoke again.
"Hey -- turn around."
Damn. Why did he have to train them so damn well? He'd just about managed to turn so that she wouldn't see his leg.
"Busy here," he muttered, hands frozen on the waistband of his trousers.
"Turn around," she said.
"Why?"
"Because I want to see you."
He turned, reluctantly, and took off the rest of his clothing. He waited for -- some reaction; clinical detachment was probably the best he could hope for, and he was hoping, desperately. Pity would have stopped him in his tracks.
But she wasn't looking at the leg at all. She was following the line of his body, from his chest down over his stomach to his erection. She didn't even look.
He managed not to hop too much as he came forward and knelt on the bed with his left leg, sliding up against her body.
"Nobody who makes that many jokes about cripples could possibly be secure about it," she said, kissing him.
"Nobody who sees me naked doesn't look at it," he replied.
"I don't need to. I'm much more interested in other parts of your body," she breathed, leaning against him so that he rolled onto his back. She rolled with him, drawing her really astounding legs up against his.
"Not much on foreplay," he observed, and gave her just enough time to hesitate before adding wickedly, "I like that in a woman."
She was probably kissing him to keep him from talking; lord knew she wouldn't be the first.
"Condom," she muttered, sprawling across him to reach for the nightstand. Oh god, it was every cliche ever...
He moaned and sat up on his elbows to watch; backlit by the light from the living room, he couldn't see much more than her silhouette, but he could see the curves of her breasts and hips, the fall of her hair over her shoulder, and he wondered idly why it had taken him two years to get her alone on Wilson's couch long enough to make out with her.
"What?" she asked, smiling at him. He was about to say something witty, he was certain of it, but she touched him and rolled the condom down his cock and whatever he had been planning on saying came out sounding like "Hummh" instead.
"So that's how I get you to shut up," she said, and then she shifted her hips slightly and bit her lip and he had the momentary insane thought that she might be the last to kiss him in order to shut him up. On a kind of permanent basis.
She wasn't Stacy, she didn't know how to do this beyond basic medical knowledge and there were a few jabs of pain, but fortunately pain and pleasure sound pretty alike in a dark room and when they finally found a rhythm together god, of course she wasn't like Stacy, she was Allison. She liked it when he bit her throat and shoulders and licked his tongue into her mouth and she liked to feel their hips rub together and she made short, breathy sounds when he arched his back and she had one of the most satisfying-sounding orgasms of his admittedly not terribly diverse experience.
He caught his breath and flexed his leg a little while she lay on his chest afterwards, one hand touching his arm, the other pillowing her head. For one of the few times in his life, he couldn't think of something to say.
"Totally worth turning down Johns Hopkins for," she managed, and he laughed, full and deep.
***
"You look relaxed," Chase said as Wilson wandered into the Diagnostics office, carrying a cup of coffee. "Hear about House's patient?"
"Yeah -- glad to see he's doing better," Wilson replied. "Where's House?"
"He took Cameron home. She wasn't looking too good."
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "They were here all night?"
"Seems that way," Foreman said from the computer desk. Wilson grinned to himself. "What?"
"Nothing, I was just thinking -- either of you know the movie White Christmas?" he asked.
"Don't think so," Chase said. Foreman shook his head.
"There's this scene where two friends are talking about why one of them keeps setting the other up on dates, and how annoying it is, and the guy says to the other guy something like I want you to get married. I want you to have nine children. And if you only spend five minutes a day with each kid, that's forty-five minutes I could have all to myself."
Foreman and Chase both stared at him, looking lost.
"Don't know why I thought of it," Wilson said smugly.
END
"You look awful," Chase said the next morning, arriving with bagels and looking far too well-rested.
"Thanks," Cameron replied. She was highly conscious that she'd only had three hours sleep and showered in the hospital locker room, that she had no makeup on and hadn't been able to do much with her hair beyond tie it back in a ponytail.
"Sorry. Long night? Did you sleep here?"
"Yes and...yes. Labs," she said. "And then another heart attack, and some more labs, but we think everything's cleared up now."
"Yeah? What was it?"
"Broken heart," House said, appearing in the doorway. He rubbed his eyes and made a beeline for the percolating coffee. Chase looked inquiringly at Cameron, who passed him the file.
"Nice," he remarked. "You should write this up."
"I might," she admitted. "Gotta get something out of the all-nighter, right?"
She was gratified to hear a quiet choking noise from House, standing behind her.
"Anything new?" Chase asked, closing the file. Foreman pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying his breakfast and a coffee in with him.
"Not a thing," House said, standing at the window and looking out, casually propping his cane against his hip. "Catch up on your email, do a couple of crosswords, rob the vending machines, go home early. Cameron."
She looked up at him.
"Go home now. You look like crap."
She winced inwardly, but she knew herself and Wilson and House had both warned her not to expect anything different.
"I want to make sure he's really stable," she replied. "I'll stay."
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Pining for the kid with the broken heart? Sweet."
"Seriously, we can handle it," Chase said.
"I'll stay."
"You're a masochist," House replied. "Chase, ask her out. Oh wait -- it's been done."
Chase blushed; even his blush was pretty and perfect, just barely staining his cheeks. House turned around finally and leaned against the window. It put most of him in shadow, but he had to know what it did to his eyes; they were almost luminous in the sidelight.
"You're useless without any rest. Twenty-four hour rotations are the reason we're not interns and ER doctors," he said. "Go home."
She rubbed her eyes indecisively.
"Oh, for god's sake. You, mind the plantation," he said, pointing at Foreman with his cane. "Pretty boy can keep an eye on our patient."
He came forward and smacked Cameron in the legs. "I'll drive you home."
She looked up at him and realised she was hopelessly checkmated, and he'd probably intended this from the start; he knew she'd put up a fight about leaving. With a sardonic look at the other two, she gathered up her bag and shed her lab coat, pulling on yesterday's jacket. House was already heading down the hallway.
"When it's a choice between staying here and subjecting yourself to House's driving, I'd stay the hell here," Foreman said.
"I don't think I have a choice," she answered, as the door swung shut. House was holding the elevator for her, standing next to a man in a wheelchair and what appeared to be his wife. After the door shut, he turned to her.
"So if I grab your ass, is that still harassment?" he asked. The other couple in the elevator looked at him curiously. "Young love," he informed them.
"House," she said through clenched teeth.
"Don't mind them, they don't care. Do you care?" he asked them. The woman shook her head.
"If I were ten years younger I'd do it myself," the man croaked hoarsely. The woman swatted him on the back of the head.
"See? He's practically ordering me," House said. "Hands off, she's mine," he added to the man.
"Lucky bastard."
She half expected that House would actually do it right there in the elevator, but instead he just inched closer and rested his hand on her hip, almost...subtly. Though when the elevator slowed and the doors began to open he did slide his fingers across her ass as he let his hand drop.
"House!" Cuddy called from her office doorway as they passed through the clinic.
"Can't stop now!" he shouted back. "Taking Cameron home to have my wicked way with her."
"God, you're a perpetual lawsuit," Cuddy replied, but she saw the dark circles under Cameron's eyes and didn't push the matter further.
They passed his motorcycle and she was reaching for her keys when he took them from her.
"I meant it. I slept last night," he said. "Passenger's seat."
She rolled her eyes as she got in. "If you crash my car -- "
"I am an extremely safe driver. Ask any of the cops who gave me a speeding ticket," he said, closing the driver's-side door behind him. She was turning to say something smart that she hadn't quite come up with yet when he turned too and kissed her, startlingly and greedily.
"My days of making out in cars are over," he said when he leaned back.
"All evidence to the contrary."
He started her car and backed out, and to her gratification drove much more safely than he had last time.
***
Just because he drove Cameron home didn't mean he had to walk her to her apartment, of course.
But, he reasoned, if he did, he could phone for a cab from there instead of from her car, and it wasn't safe to use cellular telephones while driving.
Just because he walked her to her door, though, didn't mean he expected an invitation in, or even wanted one. She was tired, so was he; she should sleep. He should go back to the office before the other two got suspicious.
"You want to come in?" she asked.
Just because he went in didn't mean he had to stay, of course. He could call for the cab from inside, and he'd get a look at her apartment too, which was a bonus. Peoples' homes fascinated him. Hers had been ridiculously tidy the last time he'd seen it.
And, of course, just because he was inside her apartment and she was taking off her coat and undoing her hair didn't mean he had to kiss her or anything.
Except, standing rather awkwardly in the middle of her still excruciatingly clean apartment, he watched her hang up her coat and set her bag on the couch and then walk back to him and wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him.
Which didn't mean he had to do anything more. He could leave anytime he wanted.
He knew Cameron was small, bones-thin almost, but it was different -- had been different -- to feel that physically, to put his hands on her hips like he was doing now (not that he had to) and feel the size of her and still know how solid and stubborn she was. Her skin was cool under his fingertips where her shirt had hiked up a little, and he couldn't resist sliding one hand down for the promised ass-grab. She laughed against his mouth and slid a hand up into his hair.
But he didn't have to stay, and she wanted her sleep, and this was clearly a "thanks for driving me home" kiss. He eased back a little and let go of her ass, which was just as stunning as he'd expected.
"You're tired," he said. "It's been a long day -- "
"You don't have to do that," she said. "I know you're an opportunist."
He grinned just a little at that. "I'm tired too."
"Do you want to go?" she asked. He fumbled for a truth he could substitute for the real truth.
"Chase and Foreman are going to wonder where I am."
"Do you want to go?"
"I wouldn't be very -- "
"Greg," she said, and he looked down at her, startled. She smiled. "You didn't think I was going to call you Doctor House?" she asked. "Now that would be inappropriate."
"It's -- "
"Soon?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"For you or for me?" She untwined one of her hands from around his neck and slid it over his shoulder, down his chest. "You're not frightened."
He took a moment to actually examine whether he was or not.
Intrigued; turned on; fascinated that she apparently had more kitchen appliances than God; not frightened.
And he'd never been one for taking it slow before.
"No," he agreed. She kissed his jaw and he felt her fingers slide down his ribcage, tugging at his shirt. He shrugged his jacket off and let it fall on the floor (take that, tidiness!) and tugged his shirt off, grabbing her hands when she reached for his belt. Damned if he was going to be the first one naked in this situation.
She laughed and let him undo the thousands of annoying buttons on her shirt, his other hand skimming over her back, reaching for the bra that he'd almost gotten undone last night. She let the shirt fall off and pressed against him, kissing him again. He decided to let the bra alone and grabbed her ass again, pinning her there.
"Nice," he said against her cheek.
"If I didn't know you were king of understatement..." She nuzzled his neck where it met the crook of his shoulder. He bit her earlobe gently while he was trying to work out a tactical way of bringing up the subject of what his leg would and would not handle. Considering he was having his collarbone nipped by someone fifteen years younger than he was, it wasn't a bad idea to bring up the questionable status of his stamina, either --
"Couch or bed?" she asked, breath warm on his skin.
"Couch's closer," he said, closing his eyes.
"Bed's nicer."
He didn't want her to see him limp, not right here and right now. It was a completely irrational desire, and she'd seen him limp everywhere for two and a half years, but he remembered the shame and humiliation the first time Stacy had seen him try to walk --
"Bed," he managed, feeling the flush of shame spread down his throat and across his bare chest. He also felt her fingers hook in his belt and tug gently; when he opened his eyes she was looking up at his face, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. She kept her eyes on his the whole way there, and he was grateful, and then he felt pathetic for feeling grateful. Who was whose boss here, anyway?
He channeled all the sudden frustration and instinct for control into stopping her at the edge of the bed (her bedroom was messier; good sign) and stripping off the rest of her clothes. She didn't seem to mind, even when he gave her enough of an off-center push to send her sprawling on the bed. She propped herself on her elbows and watched as he turned away and leaned against the wall, ungracefully and definitely unsexily getting his shoes and socks off. When he started on his belt, she spoke again.
"Hey -- turn around."
Damn. Why did he have to train them so damn well? He'd just about managed to turn so that she wouldn't see his leg.
"Busy here," he muttered, hands frozen on the waistband of his trousers.
"Turn around," she said.
"Why?"
"Because I want to see you."
He turned, reluctantly, and took off the rest of his clothing. He waited for -- some reaction; clinical detachment was probably the best he could hope for, and he was hoping, desperately. Pity would have stopped him in his tracks.
But she wasn't looking at the leg at all. She was following the line of his body, from his chest down over his stomach to his erection. She didn't even look.
He managed not to hop too much as he came forward and knelt on the bed with his left leg, sliding up against her body.
"Nobody who makes that many jokes about cripples could possibly be secure about it," she said, kissing him.
"Nobody who sees me naked doesn't look at it," he replied.
"I don't need to. I'm much more interested in other parts of your body," she breathed, leaning against him so that he rolled onto his back. She rolled with him, drawing her really astounding legs up against his.
"Not much on foreplay," he observed, and gave her just enough time to hesitate before adding wickedly, "I like that in a woman."
She was probably kissing him to keep him from talking; lord knew she wouldn't be the first.
"Condom," she muttered, sprawling across him to reach for the nightstand. Oh god, it was every cliche ever...
He moaned and sat up on his elbows to watch; backlit by the light from the living room, he couldn't see much more than her silhouette, but he could see the curves of her breasts and hips, the fall of her hair over her shoulder, and he wondered idly why it had taken him two years to get her alone on Wilson's couch long enough to make out with her.
"What?" she asked, smiling at him. He was about to say something witty, he was certain of it, but she touched him and rolled the condom down his cock and whatever he had been planning on saying came out sounding like "Hummh" instead.
"So that's how I get you to shut up," she said, and then she shifted her hips slightly and bit her lip and he had the momentary insane thought that she might be the last to kiss him in order to shut him up. On a kind of permanent basis.
She wasn't Stacy, she didn't know how to do this beyond basic medical knowledge and there were a few jabs of pain, but fortunately pain and pleasure sound pretty alike in a dark room and when they finally found a rhythm together god, of course she wasn't like Stacy, she was Allison. She liked it when he bit her throat and shoulders and licked his tongue into her mouth and she liked to feel their hips rub together and she made short, breathy sounds when he arched his back and she had one of the most satisfying-sounding orgasms of his admittedly not terribly diverse experience.
He caught his breath and flexed his leg a little while she lay on his chest afterwards, one hand touching his arm, the other pillowing her head. For one of the few times in his life, he couldn't think of something to say.
"Totally worth turning down Johns Hopkins for," she managed, and he laughed, full and deep.
***
"You look relaxed," Chase said as Wilson wandered into the Diagnostics office, carrying a cup of coffee. "Hear about House's patient?"
"Yeah -- glad to see he's doing better," Wilson replied. "Where's House?"
"He took Cameron home. She wasn't looking too good."
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "They were here all night?"
"Seems that way," Foreman said from the computer desk. Wilson grinned to himself. "What?"
"Nothing, I was just thinking -- either of you know the movie White Christmas?" he asked.
"Don't think so," Chase said. Foreman shook his head.
"There's this scene where two friends are talking about why one of them keeps setting the other up on dates, and how annoying it is, and the guy says to the other guy something like I want you to get married. I want you to have nine children. And if you only spend five minutes a day with each kid, that's forty-five minutes I could have all to myself."
Foreman and Chase both stared at him, looking lost.
"Don't know why I thought of it," Wilson said smugly.
END
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