Fic: Drinks on the House (5/5)
Title: Drinks on the House
Spoilers: AU after S1. This story was started before S2 began airing. So...yeah. Keep that in mind.
Rating: Work safe.
Word Count: 1,012
Notes: Dedicated to enchanted_april who forced me to finish this. Cheers to _vicodin for making me an awesome icon, talking to me despite my feverish haze, and...oh, yeah. For betaing.
Cameron threw an arm over her eyes in a vain attempt to keep the sunlight out. Even without opening her eyes, she knew that she was alone in bed. Running her free hand across the mattress, she discerned that he had been gone for quite some time; the space beside her was cold. She couldn’t smell pancakes and coffee wafting in from the kitchen, and the shower was not running.
He had left.
Rolling her head to the side and dropping her arm, she cracked an eye to peer at the clock on her bedside table. Almost nine. She was grateful that she had the day off; she wasn’t certain that she was entirely up to facing her coworkers--or her boss--after her behavior last night.
She rolled out of bed, pulling the blanket around her body. Pulling jeans and a sweater out of her closet, she quickly dressed and began to make the bed. She refused to consider the fact that she didn’t want to wash the sheets just yet--didn’t want to admit that she wanted to keep his scent around a little longer. Wanted to be able to remember.
It wasn’t until she padded into the kitchen that she realized that she ached. Long unused muscles had been overtaxed the night before, and the feeling was bittersweet. She filled a glass of water and stared at her living room as she drank. The glasses and bottle from the night before were still out--and her eyes fell on the shot glass. Her lips tugged into a miniscule frown.
Pouring the rest of her water down the sink, she walked into the bathroom to get ready for her day. Maybe she’d call Foreman for brunch; she wanted to see a friendly face, and possibly tease him about his inevitable hangover.
She was midway through brushing her teeth when she finally looked at her mirror. What she saw there nearly made her choke on her toothpaste, and as she read, her toothbrush dangled limply between her teeth.
Written in red lipstick--her favorite shade, she would later realize, and the message had ruined the entire tube--across the span of her mirror were the words “MY PLACE. 7:00. BRING FOOD.”
Despite herself, Cameron laughed, sending the toothbrush spiraling into the sink.
------------------
It wasn’t that he was frightened, or angry, or regretful. He didn’t leave the bed for any of these reasons. He left the bed because he desperately needed to use the bathroom.
It was when he was actually in the bathroom that he realized he needed space. Temporarily, of course, but he needed time to process. This developing, breathing thing they’d started. He didn’t know what to call it, but he knew he wanted to keep it. Keep her.
For the first time that he could remember, Greg House used a tube of lipstick. He smirked as he imagined Cameron’s reaction.
His goal for the rest of the day was to think about anything but her, or at least anything but their time together. In this arena, he failed miserably - a first for him, or at least something he’d not encountered for quite a while.
He failed, not because he couldn’t stop thinking. He failed because he couldn’t stop feeling.
The wisp of her hair brushing across his shoulders as she leaned down to capture his lips with hers.
The warm rasp of her tongue as she traveled across his stubbled jaw, dropping kisses and blazing a trail of fire in her explorations.
The feel of her smooth skin, flushed and panting, under his rough hands.
The sensation of her sleeping body warming his. An errant strand of hair tickling at his nose, her fingers tracing minute unconscious trails over one particular patch of skin. Her expelled breath, warm and even, dancing across his chest.
The pulling on his chest, or inside, from looking at this sleeping woman.
The sound of her voice caressing him, stimulating him. ”I suppose the pressing question is whether I should lick the back of my hand or the side of your neck.”
At a quarter after four, House grabbed his keys from the counter to head to the grocery store. He needed supplies.
------------------
At precisely 6:58, Cameron stood in front of House’s door, hand poised to knock, clutching a bag of take-out Chinese. A nervous hand tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and she reached out and knocked on the door.
He answered immediately, decked in a pair of faded jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Her skin flushed as she felt his eyes run over her body.
“You’re early,” he pointed out, his voice criticizing.
“Surprising,” she replied, “seeing as it took me nearly an hour to clean my mirror.”
He lifted a chin towards the bag hanging from her left hand. “I see you got my message, then.”
She chuckled. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
His eyes caught hers and they did not falter. “You are.”
They stood at his door, silent, neither moving, the smell of Chinese food filling the hallway. Finally, Cameron lifted the bag between them, breaking the contact.
“It’s going to get cold,” she mumbled.
He stepped back and ushered her into his apartment, locking the door behind her. Walking into his living room, she paused at the sight of the small bottle on the table. Placing the Chinese to the side, she picked it up and read the label.
Jose Cuervo.
“I didn’t know you liked tequila,” she stated simply.
His hands snaked around her body, one resting on her hip, the other across her stomach. “I don’t, really,” he responded, “but after your screw up last night, I thought that I should teach you how to drink your liquor. It seems that you have been undereducated.”
She spun in his arms and looped hers around his neck. “Are you a good teacher, Dr. House?” she intoned softly.
“You have no idea,” he replied, pulling her flush against his body and claiming her lips in the first of many times that evening.
Spoilers: AU after S1. This story was started before S2 began airing. So...yeah. Keep that in mind.
Rating: Work safe.
Word Count: 1,012
Notes: Dedicated to enchanted_april who forced me to finish this. Cheers to _vicodin for making me an awesome icon, talking to me despite my feverish haze, and...oh, yeah. For betaing.
Cameron threw an arm over her eyes in a vain attempt to keep the sunlight out. Even without opening her eyes, she knew that she was alone in bed. Running her free hand across the mattress, she discerned that he had been gone for quite some time; the space beside her was cold. She couldn’t smell pancakes and coffee wafting in from the kitchen, and the shower was not running.
He had left.
Rolling her head to the side and dropping her arm, she cracked an eye to peer at the clock on her bedside table. Almost nine. She was grateful that she had the day off; she wasn’t certain that she was entirely up to facing her coworkers--or her boss--after her behavior last night.
She rolled out of bed, pulling the blanket around her body. Pulling jeans and a sweater out of her closet, she quickly dressed and began to make the bed. She refused to consider the fact that she didn’t want to wash the sheets just yet--didn’t want to admit that she wanted to keep his scent around a little longer. Wanted to be able to remember.
It wasn’t until she padded into the kitchen that she realized that she ached. Long unused muscles had been overtaxed the night before, and the feeling was bittersweet. She filled a glass of water and stared at her living room as she drank. The glasses and bottle from the night before were still out--and her eyes fell on the shot glass. Her lips tugged into a miniscule frown.
Pouring the rest of her water down the sink, she walked into the bathroom to get ready for her day. Maybe she’d call Foreman for brunch; she wanted to see a friendly face, and possibly tease him about his inevitable hangover.
She was midway through brushing her teeth when she finally looked at her mirror. What she saw there nearly made her choke on her toothpaste, and as she read, her toothbrush dangled limply between her teeth.
Written in red lipstick--her favorite shade, she would later realize, and the message had ruined the entire tube--across the span of her mirror were the words “MY PLACE. 7:00. BRING FOOD.”
Despite herself, Cameron laughed, sending the toothbrush spiraling into the sink.
------------------
It wasn’t that he was frightened, or angry, or regretful. He didn’t leave the bed for any of these reasons. He left the bed because he desperately needed to use the bathroom.
It was when he was actually in the bathroom that he realized he needed space. Temporarily, of course, but he needed time to process. This developing, breathing thing they’d started. He didn’t know what to call it, but he knew he wanted to keep it. Keep her.
For the first time that he could remember, Greg House used a tube of lipstick. He smirked as he imagined Cameron’s reaction.
His goal for the rest of the day was to think about anything but her, or at least anything but their time together. In this arena, he failed miserably - a first for him, or at least something he’d not encountered for quite a while.
He failed, not because he couldn’t stop thinking. He failed because he couldn’t stop feeling.
The wisp of her hair brushing across his shoulders as she leaned down to capture his lips with hers.
The warm rasp of her tongue as she traveled across his stubbled jaw, dropping kisses and blazing a trail of fire in her explorations.
The feel of her smooth skin, flushed and panting, under his rough hands.
The sensation of her sleeping body warming his. An errant strand of hair tickling at his nose, her fingers tracing minute unconscious trails over one particular patch of skin. Her expelled breath, warm and even, dancing across his chest.
The pulling on his chest, or inside, from looking at this sleeping woman.
The sound of her voice caressing him, stimulating him. ”I suppose the pressing question is whether I should lick the back of my hand or the side of your neck.”
At a quarter after four, House grabbed his keys from the counter to head to the grocery store. He needed supplies.
------------------
At precisely 6:58, Cameron stood in front of House’s door, hand poised to knock, clutching a bag of take-out Chinese. A nervous hand tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and she reached out and knocked on the door.
He answered immediately, decked in a pair of faded jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Her skin flushed as she felt his eyes run over her body.
“You’re early,” he pointed out, his voice criticizing.
“Surprising,” she replied, “seeing as it took me nearly an hour to clean my mirror.”
He lifted a chin towards the bag hanging from her left hand. “I see you got my message, then.”
She chuckled. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
His eyes caught hers and they did not falter. “You are.”
They stood at his door, silent, neither moving, the smell of Chinese food filling the hallway. Finally, Cameron lifted the bag between them, breaking the contact.
“It’s going to get cold,” she mumbled.
He stepped back and ushered her into his apartment, locking the door behind her. Walking into his living room, she paused at the sight of the small bottle on the table. Placing the Chinese to the side, she picked it up and read the label.
Jose Cuervo.
“I didn’t know you liked tequila,” she stated simply.
His hands snaked around her body, one resting on her hip, the other across her stomach. “I don’t, really,” he responded, “but after your screw up last night, I thought that I should teach you how to drink your liquor. It seems that you have been undereducated.”
She spun in his arms and looped hers around his neck. “Are you a good teacher, Dr. House?” she intoned softly.
“You have no idea,” he replied, pulling her flush against his body and claiming her lips in the first of many times that evening.