Title: T.G.I.F.

Pairing: House/Cameron. Duh.

Spoilers: Up to and including 'Kids'. This takes you up to the last scene and then veers oddly sideways.

XXXXX

This time is different.

If the first time in her apartment was Ravel's Bolero, then this, this is more like Claire de Lune. There's a lot of kissing, that much is similar, but the tone, the flavour of them has changed. Now when he kisses her, House feels something down low in his gut; a odd, frantic kind of ache, like something powerful and caged is going silently nutzoid. His hands on her are a little clumsier, his breathing a little more ragged and irregular, and when he drags her in deeper and harder against him, her mouth tastes of whiskey and raspberries.

"Bedroom. Now."

He's on his feet, pulling her behind him by her hand, but it feels like he's trying to lead a sleepwalker. Her shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist and eyes glassy, Cameron stares up at him, her lips slightly parted, and it takes him a second or two to realise that she isn't budging. Letting her hand drop, he takes a step back and waits - two seconds, three - before he can bring himself to ask the question.

"What's changed?"

She's still and silent, although the flush of pink that he raised is still there, still colouring her throat and collarbone. A strand of her hair falls forward and, with an absent-minded gesture, she pushes it back behind her ear. Frowns.

"Something," the frown deepens and she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. "Something. And nothing. I don't know."

"Yes you do."

He can't help himself. Even though he knows this is one truth he really isn't ready to hear, he can't help contradicting her. Force of habit. Comfortingly, her reaction is similarly familiar; she rolls her eyes.

"No. I really don't. This was supposed to be simple. I mean, it sounded pretty simple. In my head. But now..."

"Now you're not sure you can go through with it."

Her mouth twitches, but she doesn't look up. Won't look at him.

"So what's changed?"

She doesn't answer.

"What's changed?"

"Jesus!"

From hunched and passive, she's on her feet and in his face in a second, her eyes flashing that special steel-grey that he knows she reserves especially for him, her feet planted toe to toe with his.

"What do you want from me! You want me to tell you I made a mistake? That I thought I could handle it but now I can't? Fine. You're right. I can't. I thought I could, but I can't. I can't just turn off my emotions like you can, ok? It isn't just a physical thing for me. It has to involve me as well as my body."

"...Are we still talking about sex?"

It's maybe the wrong time to make a joke. Reeling away with a look of disbelief, Cameron starts to button her shirt, bends down to retrieve her shoes. Even her ass looks angry.

"I should have known you couldn't talk about this."

"If I knew what we were talking about I might surprise you."

Her mouth is a hard-line. Shoving one of her feet brutally into a shoe, she stands on one leg as she pulls on the other.

"Feelings. I'm talking about feelings."

"Oh...feelings!"

She's looking for her purse now, but he's already seen it. Taking a step over to the armchair, he gets there a second before she does, and when she holds out her hand for it, tucks it securely under one arm.

"You want to talk about feelings? Fine..."

"Can I have my purse?"

"After we've talked about our 'feelings'."

Her expression darkens and it feels like the temperature drops a degree. Folding her arms, Cameron stares him down.

"This is funny to you?"

Her voice is small and strained and she lifts her chin a little higher as she speaks, takes a breath.

"You want to pretend this is still just another casual fuck? No strings attached.That's fine. But that isn't me. It's not what I am. I can't...not care, all right. So maybe..." she sighs, looks down, "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."

The tension goes out of her body, her shoulders slumping a little. The silence between them stretches out into seconds and, when he doesn't make a move, doesn't reply, she clears her throat softly. Extends a hand again. Her fingers are pale and slender.

"Can I have my purse now. Please."

Wordlessly, he hands it to her, but, even as he does so, he knows with perfect clarity what it means. That this is it. This is the moment, the switchover, this is the second that he'll relive over and over, against his will. And just like before, he can see it coming, he can see the door open and, once again, he's letting her walk through it; 'She asked me for her purse...and then she left'. Her fingers closing over the leather, Cameron takes a small step back from him, looks to the side.

"I should go..."

Ten seconds. Nine. Eight.

"I'll see you Monday morning."

Seven. She's getting her coat from the hook by the door, two more steps and she'll be gone.

"Goodbye House."

"Cameron..."

In the end, he likes to think it's involuntary. The larger part of his brain that deals with rationality and sense and reasoning throwing itself to the fore, beating the other part - the very sizeable portion that deals with fear and mistrust - into bloody submission. Because the larger part know it makes sense. The larger part still remembers how it feels to wake up with someone warm and soft beside him, remembers the smell of pancakes in the morning and the sound of the shower running in the next room. So he takes a step. Two. Puts his hand on the door in front of her.

"Stay."

"Why?"

Why? Why do they always need to hear a why? He grimaces. Looks at her.

"Because I want you to."

Her eyes are dark blue, almost navy. The space between them is less than a the span of his hand, less than six inches.

"Why?"

She needs an answer, but right now, right now he can't give her one. So instead he gives her honesty. The next best thing. And that's hard enough. He almost has to wrench the words out of himself, hates them as he says them aloud.

"Just...give me some time. OK? This..." he frowns again, looks at his hand on the door, down at the floor. "This isn't...easy for me."

A pause and she sighs; small, soft.

"I don't think it's supposed to be."

He shakes his head, at so many things; in disbelief at what he's just done and said, at her ridiculous optimism, at the cliché of it all. He's still shaking his head when she takes his hand again. When she drops her coat and her purse back on the chair and loosens her shoes, kicks them off.

"Put some music on," she says quietly.

His bedroom seems different with her in it. He's glad he got Wilson to help him move the furniture around last spring. His bed is underneath the window now instead of parallel to it, the wardrobe beside the door instead of opposite it and he's thankful that, along with all the other ghosts he's being forced to re-encounter this week, the site of a slim, dark-haired woman undressing in front of him doesn't seem like another.

Unbuttoning her shirt, Cameron takes it off and folds it carefully onto a chair. Her movements are small, self-conscious, and, watching her, House can still sense her uncertainty.

"Do you want a hanger?"

She darts a glance at him, trying to see if he's making fun of her, but when he actually produces one, she raises her eyebrows. Unbuttons her pants.

"Do you provide a wake-up call as well?"

"After a fashion."

She smiles and shakes her head as she steps out of her clothes.

The music from the next room drifts in and there's a moment of awkwardness when she hears his choice. Maybe Ben Folds smacks a little too much of angst and idealism, but House contents himself with the fact that he is also a kickass pianist.

"Let me guess, 'Song For The Dumped' saw you through some hard times?"

Now it's his turn to smile, "It was either this or Bartok," he shrugs, "I didn't figure you for a classical fan."

Her eyebrows lift again sardonically and, reaching behind her back to unhook her bra, she hands him the hanger. As he turns away to open the wardrobe, he sees the movement out of the corner of his eye; familiar and yet always alluring, always mysterious. When he turns back to her, she's naked, her head cocked slightly to one side.

"Now you."

House isn't normally self-conscious, but the act of undressing under Cameron's direct scrutiny doesn't rank high on his list of turn-ons. Tugging off his t-shirt, he drops it to the floor, before walking to the side of the bed to sit down.

"No pictures."

She moves to stand in front of him. Looking at the empty night-stand beside his pillow House nods wryly, takes off his watch and lays it down beside the clock.

"No pictures," he repeats quietly.

He feels the warmth of her hands through the fabric as she lays her palms against his thighs. Her face is alight, impossible glowing blue-grey eyes that he knows will swallow him alive if he lets them. She is a ridiculous angel, an insane pale drift of loveliness that shouldn't be here, that is changing the whole shape of his world by simply being here and suddenly he's afraid. Her hands pull at the waistband of his jeans and he only half helps her, turning his head away at the last minute as she pulls them off him.

Her sharp intake of breath feels like a knife sliding between his ribs.

Over the years, his scar has become a blind spot for him, somewhere he never looks even when he has to. When he showers, he avoids soaping it, letting the water run down over instead. When he dresses he never looks in a full length mirror until he has his pants on. His right side is a dead zone, everything below the iliacus officially designated a wasteland, so when she touches him there; runs a single sly finger down the length of his ruined femoral muscle, the shock of sensation nearly jolts him off the bed.

"Don't..."

He catches her hand, but she pushes it away. Her hips, moving in between his knees, push his legs further apart and, momentarily distracted, he brushes his thumb over her pelvis, bringing his hand round to cup her perfect little ass. Her fingernails trial down, raking his inner thighs and he shivers, tugs her close enough so he can at least reach her nipple. Her breast is cool against his lips and the skin slightly salty.

"Does it hurt?"

Her mouth is next to his ear, breathing against his neck, and he tugs her closer, bends her against him like a bow.

"Right now? No."

"The vicodin helps?"

He sighs against her skin. Her hand on his right leg slides up and down; soothing, stroking, either side of the scar-tissue. If it didn't feel so damn weird it might almost be sensual.

"It helps," he says, and his hand finds the hollow in the small of her back. Molds to it. "It stops it from reminding me."

"And the whiskey?"

"Ah...now the whiskey," he bites her softly, the soft peach-skin under her ribcage, "The whiskey is more pro-active. The whiskey actually helps me forget."

Her breath is hitching now, little gulps of air as his fingers slide down over her belly, tracing the line of her groin before dipping down to press between her thighs. As his fingertips enter her, he feels her jerk, muscles contracting around them as she arches back involuntarily. Undeterred, he pushes in further, enjoying her sudden loss of control.

"What else...helps..."

Her legs are shaking. Moving back a little on the bed, he makes room for her to move in closer. Her hand on his thigh is still, but the other one is tugging at the waistband of his boxers. Freeing his cock, her fingers wrap around it with a clumsy impatient hunger, pushing it down to meet her and suddenly everything is blurred and urgent. Pulling her forward into his lap, House groans as he feels himself slide inside her, her pelvic bone meeting his in a sudden frantic clash. Cradled, Cameron rocks against him, her breath ragged and uneven, holding his gaze, and he can't look away.

"You..." he finds her mouth and her kiss is breathless, warm and breathless against his lips. "You help."

oooooooooooooooo

For once his clock doesn't wake him. But the smell of bacon does. Rolling to one side, House stares at the display, trying to focus in the semi darkness before giving up and reaching out for it. 8.30am. Since when did he sleep through till 8.30am? Tossing it back, he rolls onto his side and stares at the ceiling, listens to the sounds coming from his kitchen. Familiar and strange at the same time, the noise is oddly comforting; ambient sound that wants to lull him back into sleep, but after a second or two, he rolls up and sits. Looks around for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

She doesn't see him at first. A cliché straight out of the movies, she's dressed in one of his shirts - the blue one, only half-buttoned - bare-assed and a pair of thick wool socks, her back is turned to him as she searches through a cupboard. On the stove, a griddle pan that he didn't even know he possessed is happily crisping bacon, whilst alongside, another that looks suspiciously like a waffle-iron is standing empty, spattered with batter.

"Oh my god, tell me you didn't make waffles."

She looks up, surprised and a little guilty, and then a slow smile lights up her face. Standing up, she pushes a strand off hair out of her eyes. Her legs, pale and skinny under his shirt, are made all the more ridiculous by the socks.

"I did." Her nose scrunches. She's adorable. "Is that ok? I mean, I'll wash up afterwards and..."

"Wilson left that Bisquick here when Karen threw him out."

"I thought his wife's name was Julie?"

"His current wife..."

"Oh."

She bites her lip and frowns. Patters over to the plate by the stove and regards the waffles with a serious expression. After a moment, he joins her.

"How long have they been married?"

"I don't remember. I didn't go to the last one."

"You weren't his best man?"

"Once was enough. My speech the first time round was rather...shall we say...pithy?"

"Ah."

She looks at him sideways as he picks up a waffle and sniffs it. She's still smiling, but something about her has changed. Meeting her gaze, he arches an eyebrow.

"I'm willing to risk it if you are."

Her smile widens, but she doesn't reply. Picking up a piece of bacon, she nibbles the end, watching him.

"What?"

"This is...nice."

"It's oak-smoked."

She narrows her eyes, "I meant this. You and me. Having breakfast."

"Ah."

Plucking the bacon from her hand, House crunches it with his back teeth, looking at her. Below her shirt-tails, the dark curls of her pubic hair are just visible and, unable to help himself, he reaches down, twists one around his finger.

"Hey!"

Swatting at his hand, Cameron takes a step back, but she's not quick enough. House's arm snakes around her waist and he pulls her back hard against him, pinning her arms to her side. She puts her head down, but her struggles only tighten his grip, only make her louder. Snagging another strip of bacon from the pan, House crunches it next to her ear as she laughs, pulls and fakes bites on his arm. He holds on for two more strips, until she's worn out. Until she's leant back warm and pliant against him again, her head tucked tight under his chin.

"You doing anything today?"

His voice vibrates against her back, breath in her hair and he feels her stiffen. Turning her head to one side, she looks at him out of the corner of one blue-grey eye.

"Today?"

His chin rubs against her hair, "Today. Tonight." Pushing a hand up underneath her shirt, he runs a hand over her belly, splays his fingers. "There's a Godzilla triple bill at The Garden this afternoon. I thought we could..."

"Today is Saturday."

"So it is."

Her neck tastes of bacon and, when he nuzzles closer, soap and sunshine. Turning her round, he moves her back against the kitchen cupboard, lifts her up so she's sitting bare-assed on the countertop, one leg on either side of his hips. Her face is glowing, radiant cream and rose, as she smiles at him, tugs him closer.

"Doesn't matter," she says softly, and her finger traces his jawbone, before she leans in to press a kiss against the side of his mouth. "It has to be Friday somewhere in the world."

FIN