Pairing

House/Cameron

Spoiler Warnings

If you haven't seen up to and through season 6, then proceed at your own risk, as this will be heavy in spoilers. There is some dealing with a season 8 plot point as well, but it is related to a single episode. So, if you really want to be safe, you probably shouldn't be reading this if you haven't seen all of House and care about being spoiled.

Preface

Things you need to know about this alternate universe:

This is my exploration of what could have happened had Cameron not married Chase. This is based on canon right up until the last ep. of season 5. In my universe Cameron leaves Chase at the altar. But other than that, Greg House's storyline is more or less the same.

I am moving forward with the idea that Foreman still does exactly the same thing when he takes over the team, only Cameron and Chase, having not gotten married, are just more or less forced to stuff their personal feeling in their back pockets and deal with working together. House still comes back when he does. Chase still kills Dibala, but the subsequent fall out with Cameron never happens because there is no marriage to fall apart. She has no reason to know what happened, or to notice Chase being off, since the two of them have a very strained working relationship.

House wants Cameron around, but she is on the fence about leaving the E.R.. She enjoys the cases and is happy to have House back trying to be a better House but Chase needing to be on the team is the biggest factor in her indecision on whether to stay on House's team or go back to the E.R.

House still cons Thirteen and Taub back.

This story starts in the spring of 2010, around the time of "Private Lives" though I don't really dive into canon plot lines in detail until "Lockdown." I use and alter quite a lot of the dialog from the canon episodes, and obviously all the credit for that stuff goes to the actual writers of the show. I'm just playing with their toys and hoping they are too bored to sue, because disclaiming doesn't make it any more legal to use it, but at least attributing it makes it sorta less bad. However, I'm not adding footnotes, lol. So deal with the fact that my brain eloped with canon and had a baby named Hameron.

This story is written as a character study of House, in second person. There are many story/character details that just float around, because we only know what House knows.

Thank you

I posted this the first time 'round as a work in progress, so I made a note with a credit to my beta on almost every chapter. Now that it is finished, to make it easier to read, I am going to be doing another round of edits, removing most the author's notes from the chapters (except where footnotes or warnings are needed) and moving the general notes to the preface and epilogue.

I want to give a big thanks up front to my beta atavares! She has been awesome helping me find typos and spinning ideas. I've been fortunate to make a friend while writing this. She gets full credit for all Portuguese translations. It's super cool to have a polyglot as a beta when your main character is one too! Love you babe!

And thanks to all of you for reading and rereading and dropping off reviews. :)

On to the story!

Chapter 1: A Random Non-Date

It starts out innocently enough.

You need some air, a night out, so you find yourself walking around Nassau Street around eight o'clock on a Thursday night. It had been a warm spring day, but with the evening, the temperature drops so you wear your riding jacket. The street is lined with restaurants and bars; people wander in and out of doors and stroll the streets. Given the time and day of the week, the businesses are not full but quite active.

As you walk, you people-watch through windows, building likely scenarios about those you see: a young college aged couple, out for a second or third date, getting just drunk enough to take the jitters out of a potential first fuck; a single man getting shot down while buying a drink for a girl 15 years his junior that you're sure he has mistaken for a prostitute. People meeting old friends or new friends, single people drowning their sorrows, all giving off clues that color in a likely backstory in your head as you survey each establishment.

Looking in the next window you find a face you recognize. It's owner sits alone in a corner nook in a lounge chair, next to a small end table, flanked by an empty matching lounge chair. Her legs are folded under her, as she reads from a folder, and nurses a beer. You observe her for a moment through the window, surmise she is studying a case file, likely from the stack of files that had been on your desk earlier that day. Tucked under the table is a computer briefcase which, more than likely, has a number of other case files stuffed into it alongside her Macbook.

You consider walking past, but can't resist the temptation of getting a few late night jabs in with someone you're beginning to think of as a real friend. The thought is amusing, considering the awkward start with her. The crush; the forced, and failed, dating attempt; her constant need for approval; your constant need to push her—both away from you and forward in her career. You're glad she seems to be over you. She's grown up and become your colleague. She can banter with you head to head, toe to toe. She definitely isn't an idiot.

If you're honest with yourself, it felt bad rejecting her. She was, still is, gorgeous. Despite insisting otherwise, you had no issues with the age gap. You simply couldn't get past thinking of her as a student. You had your heart in other places. In many ways, you can empathise with her, if empathy was something you did. You've always had a knack for loving women who couldn't love you back, or at least love you back enough to deal with you being a jackass. So, in some strange way, you know exactly how you made her feel with your rejection. Only hoped you nipped it early enough to save her a much greater hurt, though you will never admit it to anyone.

Now, as you look at Cameron sitting there, you find you're proud of the way she has come into her own—a stronger-willed version of that meek teddybear you hired—the woman you knew she could become, if the right pressures were applied. Breaking from reverie, you walk into the bar. You order a scotch neat, collect it, pay the bartender, walk to her and plop yourself in the empty chair adjacent hers.

She doesn't look up as you sit. You're not sure if she knows it's you or thinks it's some schmuck getting ready to drop a cheesy line. You decide, why not just be both?

"I'm fighting the urge to make you the happiest woman on earth tonight."

The faintest signs of a grin being stifled, is her reaction. Looking up, she banters "I keep waiting to take you up on that, but you're always all promises and no action." She's long since become comfortable with your flirting game, despite your early rejection of her advances. She gets this is your way of being friends with women. You're not trying to be cruel, you just don't have another way to interact with women who aren't your mother.

"Anything interesting in there?" you inquire, motioning to the folder in her hand with your drink, before it finds your mouth and you take more than a sip.

"Not really anything worthy of your lordship's intellect," she answers with playful sarcasm "but I'm pretty sure I've got diagnoses for most of them at this point, so I suppose some good has come of them wandering across your desk." She closes the file and stuffs it back into her bag, turns a bit in the chair to look at you, and takes what appears to be the last swig of her beer.

You catch the attention of a waiter, grab the bottle from her and hold it up to indicate he should bring another, then hold up your own drink "and another scotch neat," before downing the rest and turning back to Cameron.

"Do you always send back diagnoses for my rejects?" That's surprising. Never really considered what she does with the cases she decides not to give me. She used to like to answer your letters in your name, and sometimes those answers included suggested courses of action. Your reputation only benefited from it, so you let her do it, even though she signed your name with the girliest handwriting.

"It's a habit I've picked up since being on semi-permanent loan to your team. I get tired of knowing the answer and not helping the people who need it. I got used to a higher volume of fixing broken people in the E.R. and you know my weakness for fixing broken people."

Another playful stab at your history. Sometimes you're not sure what to make of it. You don't think she holds it against you and you don't think she's still has a 'crush,' for lack of a better term, on you, but sometimes you wonder if the two of you should just have sex and get it over with. You're fairly certain she still finds you attractive, so it's no wonder that fucking her does occasionally cross your mind because you can't deny having a physical attraction to her. The idea is dismissed each time; there's still some hope of hooking up with Cuddy. You think you love her. Even though she has rejected you at this point, you suspect she loves you too.

Can't really blame her, she's a mother and she wants father/husband material in a boyfriend. Neither are words anyone who knows you would ever associate with you.

No one, not even Stacy herself, knew that you were only weeks away from asking her to marry you; even picked out a ring and planned on stealing one of her other rings to take it in for sizing. You wondered what it might be like to have a child with her. Wondered if you should even entertain the idea after your own childhood experience. On many levels you were happy with Stacy, at least until the damned infarction.

Not everyone can point to one moment in their lives that changes everything, but you can. Goddamn leg. Goddamn misplaced trust. Goddamn love.

You had wanted to forgive her, did eventually, but not before it was too late.

It dawns on you that you're staring off. You snap yourself back with a bit of snark "just be careful to not make it look like it's me that is doing the caring. My reputation as a heartless bastard is very important to me."

The drinks come. The waiter asks if you want to start a tab. You say "Yes", then tell Cameron "Give the man your card." She rolls her eyes, but complies.

"You don't have to worry about looking soft. I stopped signing your name on these things a long time ago. I don't feel the need to give you any credit for my work and I no longer feel like I need your validation to do my work," she states matter of factly before downing half her beer in a single drink.

Putting on a mock sad face, you pretend to shed a tear. "My little girl is all grown up and turned into a woman." She rolls her eyes again, downs the rest of her beer and nods to the waiter for another. "Damn woman, slow down. I am not sure your boss wants you working tomorrow with a hangover."

"Then he should reconsider how his actions drive me to drink."

You down your second drink and ask for another as the waiter comes back with Cameron's beer. Wonder what she is up to? You've not said anything that should or would upset her. Then again, she didn't seem to be interested in getting drunk before you sat down.

"Cameron, is there something wrong?" you ask. Your caring side is showing more since your time at the psychiatric hospital. You've tried to open up a bit more to people who could be your friends with just a little effort from you. You tried to get Chase to open up to you after the 'incident' with the dictator. It didn't really work, but it did seem to make Chase feel like he wanted back on your team.

It was hard for him and Cameron. Though they had broken it off, and seemed to be amenable at work, working on the same team again was a little too much, too soon.

You understand that, but pushed both come back and get over it. You still have a selfish streak. Cameron has yet to pull the trigger on your job offer officially. However, it's been a few months and she hasn't returned to the E.R. full time. At first, she said it was just until you found someone to fill the spot, but the new-old team came back, and she never walked away.

Cuddy let it be, most likely out of guilt for how things have played out for you lately. She has always maintained that Cameron's a good influence on you. So she fudges the numbers and keeps chalking it up as a loan of resources.

Cameron smiles at the show of concern. "I was just joking. I came here to deflate from the day, and well, the files were distracting, but then you showed up and now, I figure, why not get a little buzz and enjoy the hang? I haven't really just hung out with a anyone away from work in a while."

"Since you broke it off with Chase?" you ask, still seeking answers to the puzzle, though you are less demanding and prodding than you would have been a year ago.

"Yeah." She goes back to taking small drinks. Your new drink comes and you match pace, sipping now as well.

"What went wrong with you two? You were all set to marry when I flew over the cuckoo's nest, then I come back and hear you left him at the altar." You take another drink. "I never pictured you the jilting kind."

"Well, me either," she pauses, staring at the label of her beer. "I just couldn't go through with it... It never really felt right," taking a drink she pauses again to collect her thoughts, then looks back down at the bottle rather than your eyes.

"I woke up the morning of the wedding and it was suddenly clear. I was using Robert to prove to myself that I was capable of having a normal relationship." She takes another drink and starts pulling at the label.

"You were right about me; about us. Well, mostly right, least with the big picture stuff. You always knew our relationship was one sided. I thought I loved him, and, in a way, I guess I did. But, at the end of the day, it all turned out to be a rebound from my first marriage. I was being selfish. Robert deserves better.

"It all just… spiraled. All I wanted from him in the beginning was sex. Sex to get over wanting to have sex with you, to get over wanting more than just sex from you." She makes the briefest eye contact, but the old feelings bubbling to the surface don't allow her to maintain it. Her eyes drop back to the label, fingers picking at it some more, peeling it away slowly, in an attempt to remove it without tearing it.

"It worked for a while... Until I kissed you. I was back to being confused, because you kissed back. Then he wanted more, and I knew I didn't. And then the team exploded and I couldn't be the one left alone with you, so I quit and ran back to Robert, and convinced myself that being loved and being in love could be the same thing. But in the end, all I did was help myself get over a tragic marriage and schoolgirl crush by hurting one of my best friends more than I ever thought I was capable of hurting another person."

She's back to chugging, but you don't even blink at it, silenced by her honesty, selfishly placing puzzle pieces; taking score of where you were right and wrong in your evaluations of her the last few years.

"The irony is everyone that knew I had fallen for you years ago, and knew I had blackmailed you on that stupid date, warned me you'd be the one to do all of those things to me.

"Well… everyone but Wilson." She pauses for a moment, in consideration.

"But it turns out that the misanthropic bastard is much kinder in matters of the heart than sweet little Allison. You could've played the part, used me for sex or as some sort of emotional crutch, but you had the good grace to be honest with me and tell me you didn't have those kinds of feelings for me. You were a bit of a cock-sucker with the delivery, but you were a better human being than I've been."

The weight of the conversation is too much, so you adjust in the only way you know how "Well, don't give me too much credit. I did hire you as lobby art and I did wanna get in your pants. I just didn't wanna have to date you to do it. That's were you made your Team Asshole rookie mistake. Dating and casual sex can't be mixed, otherwise you have a relationship. It doesn't prevent hurt, but it certainly reduces it." You drink and wonder how seriously she's taking your comments.

It seems to have worked, her mood lightens and she jokes back feistily "I guess that is the big advantage to hookers. Unfortunately, finding a straight male hooker isn't quite so easy and, aside from that one experiment in college, I've never really been into girls." It's an easy jab, given your reputation for hiring professionals to take care of your baser needs.

With a nod and a wink you confirm, "You're right about hookers, they are simple, low maintenance and effective." Swigging back your drink, then wiping your mouth dramatically, you continue. "Now, please tell me, in detail, about your experiment in college." You waggle your eyebrows at her jokingly, and do in fact hope she doesn't just roll her eyes at you this time.

Damn, the thought of her with another woman…

She blushes a bit, or maybe it's just the alcohol setting in. She motions to the waiter again and you both order another round. Eyes meet again, staring at each other for an extended moment. You're starting to feel a little buzz. You've curbed your drinking since your breakdown and the antidepressants lower tolerance, so the three quick drinks are starting to work. Cameron on the other hand, is at least one drink ahead, and given her weight and light drinking history, she is well on her way to drunk. You're pretty sure, she is also well on her way to taking you to bed in her mind.

You should take this opportunity to cancel your drinks and just walk away. But you don't. You're still a man, and she is still beautiful, and you still want to fuck her, even if you don't intend on acting on it.

She smiles, as if to read your mind. "I think I'd rather you tell me what you're imagining I did."

You swallow hard and your cock twitches.

"Alright." You say, daring yourself to continue with this dangerous game.

"I imagine that the other girl looks a whole lot like Cuddy when she was in college. She has a very nice rack and an even nicer tongue that she is using to, very slowly, lick each of your much smaller, but still gorgeous and perky, tits to full attention."

The waiter drops off your drinks, raising an eyebrow at your conversation, but you're sure he gets an earful every night. You take another drink, as does she, never breaking eye contact. Her pupils are dilated, her breathing is deeper. She's aroused, but the mention of Cuddy has the desired effect of bringing her back to reality.

"Why am I not surprised you'd bring Cuddy in on it?" She pauses fiddling again with the label. "You know, I find it to be strangely comforting that she does to you what you used to do to me."

You want to deny it for a moment, but for some reason—maybe the alcohol, maybe your new attitude on life, or maybe your new respect for Cameron, or the combination thereof—you decide to let yourself be caught. "That obvious, huh?"

"Yeah. It has been for a while. But the difference is, I think she loves you back, but knows you two'd be like a time bomb in a relationship. She can't take that risk, because being a mom and being in control of her job are more important to her."

She looks back to her drink, continuing fiddling with the label. The moment of sexual tension is dulled by the truth of her words.

"I'm sorry. I know it sucks," she adds as she looks back to your eyes.

You nod, "Yeah. Pretty much." Damn, was she always this observant? You don't think so, but she sure as hell sees right through you now.

"I should get going," Cameron says as she stands. She staggers a bit, and starts giggling. "I guess I'm drunker than I realized. Standing up just made all of it rush to my head."

You finish off your drink and stand, somewhat drunk, but functioning, because alcoholics don't lose all their tolerance in a few months of better behavior, antidepressants or no. You motion to the waiter to cash you out, steady Cameron, and help her gather her things. She signs the receipt and stuffs her card back into her bag. You offer your left arm to steady her as you walk to the door.

While exiting, you remember that she doesn't live in walking distance from here. You should call her a cab, but decide maybe it would be nice to walk it off for a bit and turn towards Wilson's condo. "There's no way you're driving home. Let's walk this off for a few minutes. We can call you a cab from Wilson's place."

The walk is pleasant. Cameron holds your arm and leans into you for balance. As you amble, she lays her head against your shoulder. Your arm has a mind of its own, snaking around her shoulders when she shivers from her lack of a coat. It's a simple, friendly gesture, and it feels good to have her there.

After a ten minute stroll, you find yourself in front of your home away from home. A few residents look on you oddly as they pass, most likely because they assume you and Wilson are partners, because duh, two over-30-year-old, single, male roommates screams gay. That and the fact that your little game with the woman in 3-B ended with Wilson proposing to you publicly.

Of course, you told Nora the truth, but doubt she bothered mentioning it to the neighbors. Seeing you there with Cameron in your arms, looking very comfortable as if coming home from a date, is probably the last thing they expected.

A date, you think and smile. Your one date with Cameron had been a disaster. But in your lightly buzzed mind you realize that the two non-dates you've had with her, which you are now considering tonight to be one of, were fun. When the two of you don't try, you are actually really good together.

"Come on upstairs. We'll call from up there so you don't have to wait in the cold."

"Okay," she says as she snuggles into you. The walk's done more to pump the alcohol into her system than to sober her up. You lead her onto the elevator, exit on your floor, walk to your door, and untangle her from your arm to unlock the door. She seems to sigh at the loss of the contact, before straightening up a bit and smoothing out her hair.

You push the door open, and see Wilson lounging in front of the TV, beer in hand. "I thought I was going to have to send out the search party." He says, without looking over at you.

"Hey Wilson," Cameron calls out and waves, as he looks up. Her sobriety level not lost on him.

"Oh boy," he says under his breath as he looks from her to you with a 'What the fuck?' look. Cameron begins to walk forward toward the couch, still somewhat unsteady, she manages to make it the few steps and plops down beside Wilson. "Don't worry Wilson, House isn't taking advantage of me. We just ran into each other at a bar, and now I'm too drunk to drive, so I'm here for a cab."

He looks back to you as you hang your jacket. "You brought her home to call a cab? Why not just call from the bar?"

You don't want to admit to wanting to spend more time with Cameron. "Well, I had to do something to keep our neighbors from thinking we're gay, and I figured bringing home a hot babe was a good way to start."

"If you guys are secretly gay, can I watch? There is a betting pool at work about which of you is the top and which is the bottom, but without a witness how can we ever settle the bet?" Cameron delivers the line with a serious face that shocks you and makes you feel some sort of fatherly pride, however weird that is. Wilson for his part, looks completely mortified, which has you and Cameron laughing at his expense.

"Oh, yeah, very funny you two. You're a great role model, House. Cameron was just an innocent when you hired her, and now look at her."

"Oh, my little girl has long ago graduated with honors from The School of House. She's a grown up woman now, with all the wiles that come with." You say, jokingly, but you know you mean it. She is all grown up, and tonight is making you think of her more and more as woman and an equal.

"Hey Cameron, the night is still young, wanna hang out for a while? Watch some TV, snack, drink some water to help prevent you being a hungover pain in the ass to your bastard of a boss tomorrow?" You find yourself not wanting to send her home. You'd like to take her to bed. You can't get past it. Sure, you'll probably regret it, but you want her. Well, maybe not when she's this drunk. She's definitely not at the point of passing out and not remembering, but still not in a frame of mind to make important decisions.

If you are honest with yourself, you probably shouldn't be making decisions about sex with someone you give a shit about right now either. But you feel safe with Wilson around, so you hope she takes you up on your offer to hang.

"Sure. Sounds fun. You don't really have a ton of furniture, can we all squeeze in on this couch thing together?" She, smacks the arm of the couch, and looks down at it with a bit of a raised nose.

"Well, you can sit in my lap or on the floor. Take your pick, because it's Wilson's place, and so he gets dibs, and I am a cripple so I get dibs, and seeing that we are the ones in love and having hot gay-sex on that couch it only seems right. Though, you don't have an ass as wide as Cuddy's, so there is a chance we all three could still fit." Wilson continues to send you looks full of daggers.

"You know, if Wilson could just deal with picking out his own furniture, we wouldn't be having this problem." You dig into the old wound at Wilson's expense, secretly hoping she ends up in your lap, though you doubt one of you is suddenly gonna make good on all the innuendos. If she does though, you'll have to thank Wilson later for being a pussy about furnishing his home.

You limp over from the kitchen with a bowl of chips, and a couple of bottles of water, leaving your cane leaning against the counter. Cameron stands when you get to the seat, you hand Wilson the chips, her one of the waters and you flop down beside your friend.

Cameron looks in your eyes playfully, at your lap, and back to your eyes. "So how does this work with your leg?"

Fuck. You gage her seriousness. You aren't sure. Taking her hand, you pull her down to your good side; she sits on your thigh for a moment still challenging your eyes. After a moment of eye-sex, she winks and you and slides down between your legs to the floor facing you. She pauses, just long enough for you to think about her mouth on your cock, before turning around with a smirk to watch TV, her back to the couch, her head resting against your good leg. She opens her water and takes a big drink, and asks Wilson to pass the chips.

You watch TV for a few minutes. Cameron stands up and asks where your bathroom is. You jerk a thumb back toward your room, and tell her through your bedroom.

She's gone for a long time. You start to wonder, afraid to go look for her, because she's in a mood and you've half a mind she's found your bed. Wilson, is not oblivious. "You've gotten yourself in deep this time, House. At some point, you're going to have to go back there and deal with whatever this is." He says with a warning. "And what is this by the way? I thought you decided you weren't into her? And I thought she was over you."

"Yeah. Not sure what is happening" You say honestly. "but I've decided I like it."

With that, you hoist yourself up and limp back to your room fully expecting to find Cameron sprawled out naked on your bed doing some very naughty things to herself. You open your door slowly, turn on the light and are not disappointed.

"House!" She is calling your name as she…

"House, wake up." You feel your arm shake, you look up confused as you blink and your eyes adjust. Cameron is standing over you, gently shaking your arm; you're still on the couch. Apparently, you fell asleep during the movie.

"My cab will be here soon. You should go to bed. Wilson just headed back himself." She says as she offers you a hand to help you stand.

"How long was I asleep?" You ask, not even realizing you were tired. Damn antidepressants. They do make you more sleepy at night. Not normally a bad thing, but tonight you would have liked to've not passed out on Cameron.

"Not sure. At least an hour."

"Damn, sorry about that. Some great host." You rub the back of your neck as she starts moving toward the door. Limping along behind her, you remember how chilly the night had turned and grab your riding jacket from it's hook by the door. "Take this. It's cold and I don't need you calling in sick tomorrow."

"House, I'm not going to catch pneumonia darting from your door to the cab, and from the cab to my door." She says, holding her hand up in protest.

You walk into her personal space and drape it across her shoulders "I won't take no for an answer. You can return it tomorrow," and open the door. She walks out, turns back to you as she slides her arms into the jacket properly and swings her computer bag back over her shoulder.

You catch her sniffing the jacket and know she smells you on it; your scent and pheromones. She looks much more sober now, though still a little buzzed. Her cheeks flush; she knows you caught her and walks forward raising up to place a kiss on your check. You turn into her and brush lips. She pulls back surprised, more flushed.

"I'd better get going. Don't want them to get tired of waiting and strand me here."

"No, we wouldn't want that." You answer seriously, your voice lower, with a hint regret.

"Thanks for deciding to walk over when you saw me. I had fun. I haven't had fun in a while." You nod, she walks to the elevator and hits the button.

Back inside, you close the door. As you turn to walk back to your room, you find Wilson leaning against the kitchen counter with a questioning look. "I hope you know what you're getting into."

"I've no idea, but I kinda like it." You say as you walk past the kitchen to your room to get ready for bed.