(no subject)
Author: athousandsmiles
Title: Oven Roasted Revenge
Rating: PG-13
Genre: fluff, humor, romance
Beta: blueheronz
Author's notes: The fic portion of my brain is completely consumed with my Big Bang fic. This story suffered for it. Nevertheless, I gave it my best shot.
Secret Santa fic for burnaroundme, whose requests were as follows:
Three Things I Want:
1. A real live chicken. As in the kind that squawks when you fry it. That kind of chicken.
2. Some mention of some important House/Cameron moment from Seasons 1 through 3. (Some examples would be the kiss, the first date, or The Date From Hell, but you don't have to use any of those. You can pretty much pick whatever.)
3. A happy ending. (Because God knows I ain't getting it from the show.)
Three Things I Don't Want
1. Any mention of Cuddy/Huddy.
2. Any mention of the recent Plot Developments From Hell. (Meaning, Chase/Dibala/Cameron leaving/etc.)
3. Character death.
The lobby was cast in the sort of half-light of early winter afternoons, when their little portion of the earth seemed to spin away from the sun for longer periods of time. The sky was the color of cement, and Cameron gave a mental nod of approval to the interior designers of the hospital for injecting warmth and color into the place. She reached her hands into her pockets for her gloves before realizing she'd stuffed them into her bag, which was now in her locker.
"We're not taking your bike again," she said, stumbling to keep up with him as he moved toward the doors. "It's freezing." As if to prove her point, a bitter gust of wind swept in, shaking the vermilion leaves of the tree in the waiting area.
"Relax, I didn't bring the bike today," he replied, moving toward his weathered gray Dynasty.
Gray, gray, everything was gray, she thought. Next time she went shopping, she determined she'd buy herself a new winter coat; something with color. She was so tired of gray. Casting a doubtful glance at his car, she wondered if it even had a working heater, and quickly decided she didn't want to find out.
"Let's take my car," she said, leading him away from his handicapped parking spot.
"Fine, but I'm driving. Gimme," he ordered, wiggling his fingers for her car keys.
She deposited them in his hand with a beleaguered sigh, but in all honesty, she liked his assertiveness, his need to control. Heck, she loved riding on the back of his bike with him the last time they'd gone to investigate a patient's home, but even wrapping herself around House would not be enough to keep either of them warm on this almost Christmas day.
******
On the outskirts of Princeton proper, sat a small, retired farm; the patient's home. Corn stalks, dried up and hacked off, withered in the worn out soil and the buildings themselves stood like aged sentinels in the middle of gently rolling fields, surrounded by acres of untouched forestry.
Finding nothing helpful in the house, Cameron and House parted ways to explore the outbuildings. Making her way around the side of the barn, she wished she'd had the forethought to bring a flashlight. The dusky light made it hard to see what she was looking for, whatever that was; some clue to their patient's condition, she hoped.
Behind the barn was a cornucopia of scruffy weeds and plant life, dried out and dying in the hard packed earth. She stooped down a bit to get a closer look, poking at the bushes with her feet, when from out of the shrubbery, a white shadow flew at her head like a winged ghost. She shrieked, arms flailing, and stumbled backwards to get away. For a moment she went airborne, wondering if the ghost bird had carried her off in its talons. And then she was rolling and tumbling, end over end like dice in a craps game. She landed with a crack and a splash, her breath carried away with the cackle of the spectral beast.
House heard Cameron shriek and rounded the corner just in time to see her fall off the face of the earth, an enormous chicken strutting angrily a few feet away.
"Cameron?" he barked out, rushing to the spot where she'd disappeared and holding his breath as he waited for an answer. Panic, like kudzu, spread through him, obscuring every other thought and emotion.
Groaning, she tested her limbs and found they were all in one piece, battered definitely, but not broken. Shivering, she became aware that she was lying in a shallow creek, icy water soaking through her coat and pants. Hearing House's call, she answered, "I'm down here."
His heart, formerly lodged in his throat, fell to his stomach as he peered over the edge of the ravine and found her lying on her back about ten feet below him. "You hurt?"
"I'm okay. I... don't think anything's broken," she answered on another groan of pain.
"You think you can climb back up here?" Lowering painfully to his knees, he extended his cane down toward her as she gingerly rose to her feet.
She grabbed the end of his cane and began climbing the rocky embankment, as he all but pulled her to the top by sheer upper body strength alone. Tiny stones and thorny bits of foliage dug into her already stinging flesh, and she gritted her teeth and crawled over the edge. Once at the top, she collapsed again, panting and shaking, as he plopped down beside her.
A second later he was squeezing and flexing her limbs. Protesting, she tried to scoot away from him. "I told you, nothing's broken."
"I'll be the judge of that," he dismissed, continuing his exploration of her battered body. His face, in the moonlight, was impassive except for the glimpse of worry she saw in his eyes when they caught the light.
"You just want a chance to feel me up," she joked through chattering teeth.
"Right, 'cause you looking like you've gone two rounds with a litter of rabid cats is such a turn on," he snapped, pulling out a penlight from his pocket and shining it in her eyes.
"You're worried," she stated, half in awe and half smug that she'd caught him exhibiting feelings for her.
He rolled his eyes and told her to shut up, but there was no sting in the words and he wouldn't meet her gaze. With his fingers he probed her scalp, eliciting a gasp from her when he found a cut along the side of her head. Shining his light on it, he saw the blood seeping from the wound and swallowed hard, reminding himself that even minor head wounds bled profusely.
"Here," he ordered, taking her hand and putting it to the wound. "Keep pressure on this. I don't think it's deep, but you're bleeding like a stuck pig." Her hand in his was delicate, an intricate carving of tendons and muscle in ice. He couldn't help but rub it for a moment, trying to inject some warmth.
Extending a hand to help her to her feet, he said, "C'mon, I'm taking you to the ER."
"House, no. I don't need to go to the ER. I'm fine." She stood and brushed herself off, noting the tears in her clothing and one sleeve of her coat that had ripped at the seams and was now gaping open at her shoulder. "Nothing's broken. I'm just bruised a bit. There's no need to waste staff and resources in the ER for nothing more than abrasions and minor lacerations."
"That's what the ER is for."
"I'd know if I needed to go to the ER," she argued. "I'm a doctor too. Got a medical degree and everything."
"I see your sarcasm muscle is intact," he retorted, wavering in his resolve to take her to the hospital. If he could just examine her more thoroughly, he'd be satisfied.
"Fine, I'll take you home," he told her, without specifying whose home. If she wouldn't go to the hospital, then she'd have to settle for staying with him overnight, because there was no way he was just dropping her off at her place. Not when she might possibly have a concussion. He helped her over to her car, easing her into the passenger seat and buckling her in.
Once he started the car, he blasted the heat and sped off to his apartment, frowning as she dozed beside him. She was right; he was worried. Seeing her fall was one of the most frightening experiences of his life. He'd had a sudden flash of life without Cameron, and he didn't like it one little bit.
They arrived at his apartment, and he nudged her awake and helped her inside. In the soft, incandescent light of his living room, she looked even worse than he imagined, her face pale as the wintry afternoon sky, clothing torn and soaking wet, hair matted and plastered to her head in a damp tangle, and a streak of rust colored blood dried to her cheek. He ushered her straight to his bathroom and began undressing her, but she pushed his hands away.
"I need to examine you," he told her, voice unyielding.
"You already did," she protested. "I can examine myself."
He stood his ground, staring her down until she relented and began undressing, peeling her tattered clothing off with shaky hands. Standing before him in bra and panties, she was a battle-scarred goddess, covered in minor wounds, scratches running together like freeways on a map.
It took him a moment to tear his gaze away. She was okay. She'd be okay. He wasn't so sure about himself.
Remembering her head wound, he eased her down on the toilet lid and looked it over again. The bleeding had stopped and in the bright light he could see that it wouldn't require stitches. Grabbing a washcloth from the shelf, he ran it under the faucet and dabbed at the cut to wipe the blood away. The skin beneath his fingertips was numb, and he realized she was still shivering. Giving up on her head wound for a moment, he turned and began to fill the tub with hot water, dumping in a bit of his shampoo in lieu of bubble bath, which he didn't own.
"Get in," he ordered gently. "It'll warm you up. I'll find you something to wear. I'm sure Wilson left something girly around here."
She smiled at him then, and he was sure that if he'd been the one dumped in an icy creek, that smile of hers would've been enough to warm him. He grimaced at the sappy thought, and as he closed the door, he warned her, "Twenty minutes. If I don't hear anything by then, I'm coming in."
When the door shut behind him, she shimmied gently out of her bra and panties and eased herself into the tub with a hiss as the water stung across every cut and contusion. Once the stinging subsided, she relaxed and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth seep right into her marrow. She was sore, run-over-by-a-Mack-truck sore.
True to his word, he was tapping on the door with his cane twenty minutes later. "I'm getting out," she answered impatiently. "Keep your pants on."
"Is that reverse psychology?" he quipped. "'Cause we both know you want me out of my pants."
Inside the bathroom, she shook her head and smiled at the same time, rubbing down her skin with a fluffy towel. Inching open the door, she stuck her arm out for the clothes he promised, soft cotton meeting her fingers as he deposited them in her grasp.
His pajama bottoms were miles too big for her even with the drawstring tied as tight as possible. But his button down felt like lingerie: soft, intimate, smelling faintly of him. She inhaled deeply, creating a sense memory of something she had only ever longed for but had never experienced.
Bunching the waistband of the pants in her hand to keep them from sliding off, she exited the bathroom to find him on the couch with a mug of soup and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the coffee table in front of him.
"Sit. Eat," he commanded, patting the cushion beside him.
She did as told, sipping the soup. But now that she was out of the tub, the ache began to settle in again and she set the soup down and laid her head back on the couch, eyes closed to hide the pain.
"Here," he offered, and her eyes flew open to see a Vicodin in the palm of his hand, stretched toward her. "I don't normally share, but that look on your face really detracts from your lobby art status."
She took it without hesitation, swallowing it down with a mouthful of warm soup. Then, taking her time, she nibbled at the sandwich, and managed to finish off the broth in the mug. "I'm tired," she said finally, and realized what an understatement that was. Under other circumstances, she'd be asking him why he brought her to his place and not her own, and wondering how deep was the extent of his concern for her. But right that moment, all she wanted was sleep.
"C'mon then."
In the bedroom, the crescent moon stood framed in the window between the open curtain panels, casting yellow light across the bed. He drew back the duvet and sheet for her to crawl beneath as she released the hold she had on his pajama pants, letting them fall to the floor. And then she slid into bed, snuggling up with his pillow, and fell asleep almost immediately.
"Lightweight," he muttered, but he couldn't help but smile at the sight of her in his bed. He desperately wanted to crawl in beside her, but... he had a mission to accomplish first.
******
From the depths of drug-induced slumber, Cameron felt the bed shift beside her and the unique scent of arrogance that she only associated with House stirred her senses into wakefulness. Buzzed and lit up like a neon sign, her blood was electrified. Grinning, she pressed closer, slinging one bare leg over his own and placing kisses along his neck and jawline.
Her breath on his neck was cashmere: soft, fine and warm.
"Uh uh," he said, gently pushing her off. "Don't."
"You want me," she teased, trying again to mold herself against him, mouth finding his carotid artery. As she spoke, her fingers tiptoed down toward his burgeoning erection.
"That was never up for debate."
His breath hitched as she squeezed him and murmured, "So what's the problem? Come on, House, play doctor with me. I'll tell you where it hurts." She took his earlobe in her mouth briefly, breath hot and heavy as she spoke. "And where it doesn't."
"You are so high," he huffed, trying to dislodge her hand from his cock.
"And you are so hard," she answered, squeezing him again.
"Cameron... not now," he groaned, almost in disbelief at what he was saying. "No more Vicodin for you."
"But I want you now."
He grabbed her hand, pinning it to his chest. "Seduce me when you're sober," he muttered, turning away from her.
"Fine," she conceded, her arm wrapped around him, her chest against his back. Placing one last kiss on his shoulder blade, she settled in and went back to sleep.
Her hand still held in his, he listened to her breathing as he tried to calm his raging erection.
******
She slept late, and when she awoke, it was to the smell of something savory that reminded her of family holidays. Stretching her sore body, she stepped over the pajama pants she discarded the night before, squinting at the clock to find that it was nearly four in the afternoon.
Padding out to the living room, she was shocked to find a scraggly pine tree standing in the corner where the bookshelves met. From the branches hung syringes, tongue depressors and empty prescription vials, all attached with the kind of twist ties that came with garbage bags. A chain of paperclips was wrapped around the tree from top to bottom. At the top of the tree stood an intricate silver caduceus. It was strangely artistic and festive, despite being the most bizarre Christmas tree she'd ever seen, and her heart flipped in her chest at the thought of House doing this for her, because she was sure he wouldn't have done it for himself.
House stood in the kitchen, keeping watch over something on the stove. Sneaking up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing into his back and murmured, "Merry almost Christmas. I like the tree."
Turning in her arms, he eyed her intently, checking for signs that she was still under the influence of opioids.
"I'm sober," she assured him with a gentle smile, and he nodded in agreement. Then his gaze darted about the room as he realized how close she stood, and how nearly naked she was as well, those endless slender legs stretching out beneath his button down. His raging erection of the night before was preparing to make a reappearance.
"Damn! When I asked Santa for a hot, barely dressed babe, I meant one who didn't look like the poster child for domestic violence. I guess I should've been more specific. I suppose you'll do though. But for the record, we're not having sex until you're all healed."
"You want to have sex with me?"
"Duh. In case you haven't noticed, you've stoked my yule log," he retorted, gesturing toward the slight bulge in his jeans.
She smiled, wide and sincere, with a hint of laughter in her eyes.
"What are you cooking?" she asked, backing away to give him space.
In response, he opened the oven door, displaying an entire chicken browning nicely under the red hot lights and smelling, well, good enough to eat. "Got a while to go," he said. "If you're hungry now, I've got more soup."
"I... didn't know you could cook," she said, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Can't. Wilson gave me a few tips."
"Ah," she replied with a nod. "I can't believe you went out shopping while I slept."
"Didn't have to," he retorted. "Got everything I needed last night."
Her brow furrowed as she contemplated what he said. "From where?" she finally asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Patient's house, remember? That big white bird that nearly killed you? Is this ringing any bells? Maybe I should check you for brain damage."
"You... you... that..." She pointed to the oven, mouth opening and closing like a garage door with a short. "You didn't," she finally manage to get out."
"Didn't what? Save future unsuspecting victims from a dangerous animal?"
"But... where are the... feathers and... parts?" she asked, as she started to wonder if she was being played.
"I took it down to that Chinese butcher this morning. He took care of all the parts for me," he said, mocking her words. "You should've heard that thing squawk, just before, you know?" He made a slicing motion with his hands across his neck, his eyes comically wide.
Her hand flew to her mouth in disbelief, horror, shock, and then she started laughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath. He killed a chicken; it was the most bizarrely romantic thing any guy had ever done for her. House was House; she was learning not to expect anything conventional from him.
He stood staring at her, wondering if the Vicodin hadn't completely worn off after all. But then his lips twitched up and he smiled. He'd half expected her to be so outraged on behalf of the poor chicken that she'd refuse to eat it, and probably lecture him about theft and animal cruelty while she was at it. Laughter was a pleasant surprise.
Once she regained control of herself, she stepped right up to him and wrapped her arms around him, her chin resting on his chest as she looked up at him. "You're very sweet," she said, grinning from ear to ear.
"I'm not sweet," he protested, with a roll of his eyes. "I slaughtered a defenseless chicken today."
"Yes, but you did it to avenge me. You like me."
"I don't like anybody," he said, trying to look annoyed, which was hard to do with her lithe, gorgeous body pressed against him. "I just dislike you less than other people."
Her answering smile was smug. Mona Lisa without the mystery.
"You like me," she repeated.
"Oh shut up," he ordered.
And then he kissed her.
Title: Oven Roasted Revenge
Rating: PG-13
Genre: fluff, humor, romance
Beta: blueheronz
Author's notes: The fic portion of my brain is completely consumed with my Big Bang fic. This story suffered for it. Nevertheless, I gave it my best shot.
Secret Santa fic for burnaroundme, whose requests were as follows:
Three Things I Want:
1. A real live chicken. As in the kind that squawks when you fry it. That kind of chicken.
2. Some mention of some important House/Cameron moment from Seasons 1 through 3. (Some examples would be the kiss, the first date, or The Date From Hell, but you don't have to use any of those. You can pretty much pick whatever.)
3. A happy ending. (Because God knows I ain't getting it from the show.)
Three Things I Don't Want
1. Any mention of Cuddy/Huddy.
2. Any mention of the recent Plot Developments From Hell. (Meaning, Chase/Dibala/Cameron leaving/etc.)
3. Character death.
The lobby was cast in the sort of half-light of early winter afternoons, when their little portion of the earth seemed to spin away from the sun for longer periods of time. The sky was the color of cement, and Cameron gave a mental nod of approval to the interior designers of the hospital for injecting warmth and color into the place. She reached her hands into her pockets for her gloves before realizing she'd stuffed them into her bag, which was now in her locker.
"We're not taking your bike again," she said, stumbling to keep up with him as he moved toward the doors. "It's freezing." As if to prove her point, a bitter gust of wind swept in, shaking the vermilion leaves of the tree in the waiting area.
"Relax, I didn't bring the bike today," he replied, moving toward his weathered gray Dynasty.
Gray, gray, everything was gray, she thought. Next time she went shopping, she determined she'd buy herself a new winter coat; something with color. She was so tired of gray. Casting a doubtful glance at his car, she wondered if it even had a working heater, and quickly decided she didn't want to find out.
"Let's take my car," she said, leading him away from his handicapped parking spot.
"Fine, but I'm driving. Gimme," he ordered, wiggling his fingers for her car keys.
She deposited them in his hand with a beleaguered sigh, but in all honesty, she liked his assertiveness, his need to control. Heck, she loved riding on the back of his bike with him the last time they'd gone to investigate a patient's home, but even wrapping herself around House would not be enough to keep either of them warm on this almost Christmas day.
******
On the outskirts of Princeton proper, sat a small, retired farm; the patient's home. Corn stalks, dried up and hacked off, withered in the worn out soil and the buildings themselves stood like aged sentinels in the middle of gently rolling fields, surrounded by acres of untouched forestry.
Finding nothing helpful in the house, Cameron and House parted ways to explore the outbuildings. Making her way around the side of the barn, she wished she'd had the forethought to bring a flashlight. The dusky light made it hard to see what she was looking for, whatever that was; some clue to their patient's condition, she hoped.
Behind the barn was a cornucopia of scruffy weeds and plant life, dried out and dying in the hard packed earth. She stooped down a bit to get a closer look, poking at the bushes with her feet, when from out of the shrubbery, a white shadow flew at her head like a winged ghost. She shrieked, arms flailing, and stumbled backwards to get away. For a moment she went airborne, wondering if the ghost bird had carried her off in its talons. And then she was rolling and tumbling, end over end like dice in a craps game. She landed with a crack and a splash, her breath carried away with the cackle of the spectral beast.
House heard Cameron shriek and rounded the corner just in time to see her fall off the face of the earth, an enormous chicken strutting angrily a few feet away.
"Cameron?" he barked out, rushing to the spot where she'd disappeared and holding his breath as he waited for an answer. Panic, like kudzu, spread through him, obscuring every other thought and emotion.
Groaning, she tested her limbs and found they were all in one piece, battered definitely, but not broken. Shivering, she became aware that she was lying in a shallow creek, icy water soaking through her coat and pants. Hearing House's call, she answered, "I'm down here."
His heart, formerly lodged in his throat, fell to his stomach as he peered over the edge of the ravine and found her lying on her back about ten feet below him. "You hurt?"
"I'm okay. I... don't think anything's broken," she answered on another groan of pain.
"You think you can climb back up here?" Lowering painfully to his knees, he extended his cane down toward her as she gingerly rose to her feet.
She grabbed the end of his cane and began climbing the rocky embankment, as he all but pulled her to the top by sheer upper body strength alone. Tiny stones and thorny bits of foliage dug into her already stinging flesh, and she gritted her teeth and crawled over the edge. Once at the top, she collapsed again, panting and shaking, as he plopped down beside her.
A second later he was squeezing and flexing her limbs. Protesting, she tried to scoot away from him. "I told you, nothing's broken."
"I'll be the judge of that," he dismissed, continuing his exploration of her battered body. His face, in the moonlight, was impassive except for the glimpse of worry she saw in his eyes when they caught the light.
"You just want a chance to feel me up," she joked through chattering teeth.
"Right, 'cause you looking like you've gone two rounds with a litter of rabid cats is such a turn on," he snapped, pulling out a penlight from his pocket and shining it in her eyes.
"You're worried," she stated, half in awe and half smug that she'd caught him exhibiting feelings for her.
He rolled his eyes and told her to shut up, but there was no sting in the words and he wouldn't meet her gaze. With his fingers he probed her scalp, eliciting a gasp from her when he found a cut along the side of her head. Shining his light on it, he saw the blood seeping from the wound and swallowed hard, reminding himself that even minor head wounds bled profusely.
"Here," he ordered, taking her hand and putting it to the wound. "Keep pressure on this. I don't think it's deep, but you're bleeding like a stuck pig." Her hand in his was delicate, an intricate carving of tendons and muscle in ice. He couldn't help but rub it for a moment, trying to inject some warmth.
Extending a hand to help her to her feet, he said, "C'mon, I'm taking you to the ER."
"House, no. I don't need to go to the ER. I'm fine." She stood and brushed herself off, noting the tears in her clothing and one sleeve of her coat that had ripped at the seams and was now gaping open at her shoulder. "Nothing's broken. I'm just bruised a bit. There's no need to waste staff and resources in the ER for nothing more than abrasions and minor lacerations."
"That's what the ER is for."
"I'd know if I needed to go to the ER," she argued. "I'm a doctor too. Got a medical degree and everything."
"I see your sarcasm muscle is intact," he retorted, wavering in his resolve to take her to the hospital. If he could just examine her more thoroughly, he'd be satisfied.
"Fine, I'll take you home," he told her, without specifying whose home. If she wouldn't go to the hospital, then she'd have to settle for staying with him overnight, because there was no way he was just dropping her off at her place. Not when she might possibly have a concussion. He helped her over to her car, easing her into the passenger seat and buckling her in.
Once he started the car, he blasted the heat and sped off to his apartment, frowning as she dozed beside him. She was right; he was worried. Seeing her fall was one of the most frightening experiences of his life. He'd had a sudden flash of life without Cameron, and he didn't like it one little bit.
They arrived at his apartment, and he nudged her awake and helped her inside. In the soft, incandescent light of his living room, she looked even worse than he imagined, her face pale as the wintry afternoon sky, clothing torn and soaking wet, hair matted and plastered to her head in a damp tangle, and a streak of rust colored blood dried to her cheek. He ushered her straight to his bathroom and began undressing her, but she pushed his hands away.
"I need to examine you," he told her, voice unyielding.
"You already did," she protested. "I can examine myself."
He stood his ground, staring her down until she relented and began undressing, peeling her tattered clothing off with shaky hands. Standing before him in bra and panties, she was a battle-scarred goddess, covered in minor wounds, scratches running together like freeways on a map.
It took him a moment to tear his gaze away. She was okay. She'd be okay. He wasn't so sure about himself.
Remembering her head wound, he eased her down on the toilet lid and looked it over again. The bleeding had stopped and in the bright light he could see that it wouldn't require stitches. Grabbing a washcloth from the shelf, he ran it under the faucet and dabbed at the cut to wipe the blood away. The skin beneath his fingertips was numb, and he realized she was still shivering. Giving up on her head wound for a moment, he turned and began to fill the tub with hot water, dumping in a bit of his shampoo in lieu of bubble bath, which he didn't own.
"Get in," he ordered gently. "It'll warm you up. I'll find you something to wear. I'm sure Wilson left something girly around here."
She smiled at him then, and he was sure that if he'd been the one dumped in an icy creek, that smile of hers would've been enough to warm him. He grimaced at the sappy thought, and as he closed the door, he warned her, "Twenty minutes. If I don't hear anything by then, I'm coming in."
When the door shut behind him, she shimmied gently out of her bra and panties and eased herself into the tub with a hiss as the water stung across every cut and contusion. Once the stinging subsided, she relaxed and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth seep right into her marrow. She was sore, run-over-by-a-Mack-truck sore.
True to his word, he was tapping on the door with his cane twenty minutes later. "I'm getting out," she answered impatiently. "Keep your pants on."
"Is that reverse psychology?" he quipped. "'Cause we both know you want me out of my pants."
Inside the bathroom, she shook her head and smiled at the same time, rubbing down her skin with a fluffy towel. Inching open the door, she stuck her arm out for the clothes he promised, soft cotton meeting her fingers as he deposited them in her grasp.
His pajama bottoms were miles too big for her even with the drawstring tied as tight as possible. But his button down felt like lingerie: soft, intimate, smelling faintly of him. She inhaled deeply, creating a sense memory of something she had only ever longed for but had never experienced.
Bunching the waistband of the pants in her hand to keep them from sliding off, she exited the bathroom to find him on the couch with a mug of soup and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the coffee table in front of him.
"Sit. Eat," he commanded, patting the cushion beside him.
She did as told, sipping the soup. But now that she was out of the tub, the ache began to settle in again and she set the soup down and laid her head back on the couch, eyes closed to hide the pain.
"Here," he offered, and her eyes flew open to see a Vicodin in the palm of his hand, stretched toward her. "I don't normally share, but that look on your face really detracts from your lobby art status."
She took it without hesitation, swallowing it down with a mouthful of warm soup. Then, taking her time, she nibbled at the sandwich, and managed to finish off the broth in the mug. "I'm tired," she said finally, and realized what an understatement that was. Under other circumstances, she'd be asking him why he brought her to his place and not her own, and wondering how deep was the extent of his concern for her. But right that moment, all she wanted was sleep.
"C'mon then."
In the bedroom, the crescent moon stood framed in the window between the open curtain panels, casting yellow light across the bed. He drew back the duvet and sheet for her to crawl beneath as she released the hold she had on his pajama pants, letting them fall to the floor. And then she slid into bed, snuggling up with his pillow, and fell asleep almost immediately.
"Lightweight," he muttered, but he couldn't help but smile at the sight of her in his bed. He desperately wanted to crawl in beside her, but... he had a mission to accomplish first.
******
From the depths of drug-induced slumber, Cameron felt the bed shift beside her and the unique scent of arrogance that she only associated with House stirred her senses into wakefulness. Buzzed and lit up like a neon sign, her blood was electrified. Grinning, she pressed closer, slinging one bare leg over his own and placing kisses along his neck and jawline.
Her breath on his neck was cashmere: soft, fine and warm.
"Uh uh," he said, gently pushing her off. "Don't."
"You want me," she teased, trying again to mold herself against him, mouth finding his carotid artery. As she spoke, her fingers tiptoed down toward his burgeoning erection.
"That was never up for debate."
His breath hitched as she squeezed him and murmured, "So what's the problem? Come on, House, play doctor with me. I'll tell you where it hurts." She took his earlobe in her mouth briefly, breath hot and heavy as she spoke. "And where it doesn't."
"You are so high," he huffed, trying to dislodge her hand from his cock.
"And you are so hard," she answered, squeezing him again.
"Cameron... not now," he groaned, almost in disbelief at what he was saying. "No more Vicodin for you."
"But I want you now."
He grabbed her hand, pinning it to his chest. "Seduce me when you're sober," he muttered, turning away from her.
"Fine," she conceded, her arm wrapped around him, her chest against his back. Placing one last kiss on his shoulder blade, she settled in and went back to sleep.
Her hand still held in his, he listened to her breathing as he tried to calm his raging erection.
******
She slept late, and when she awoke, it was to the smell of something savory that reminded her of family holidays. Stretching her sore body, she stepped over the pajama pants she discarded the night before, squinting at the clock to find that it was nearly four in the afternoon.
Padding out to the living room, she was shocked to find a scraggly pine tree standing in the corner where the bookshelves met. From the branches hung syringes, tongue depressors and empty prescription vials, all attached with the kind of twist ties that came with garbage bags. A chain of paperclips was wrapped around the tree from top to bottom. At the top of the tree stood an intricate silver caduceus. It was strangely artistic and festive, despite being the most bizarre Christmas tree she'd ever seen, and her heart flipped in her chest at the thought of House doing this for her, because she was sure he wouldn't have done it for himself.
House stood in the kitchen, keeping watch over something on the stove. Sneaking up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing into his back and murmured, "Merry almost Christmas. I like the tree."
Turning in her arms, he eyed her intently, checking for signs that she was still under the influence of opioids.
"I'm sober," she assured him with a gentle smile, and he nodded in agreement. Then his gaze darted about the room as he realized how close she stood, and how nearly naked she was as well, those endless slender legs stretching out beneath his button down. His raging erection of the night before was preparing to make a reappearance.
"Damn! When I asked Santa for a hot, barely dressed babe, I meant one who didn't look like the poster child for domestic violence. I guess I should've been more specific. I suppose you'll do though. But for the record, we're not having sex until you're all healed."
"You want to have sex with me?"
"Duh. In case you haven't noticed, you've stoked my yule log," he retorted, gesturing toward the slight bulge in his jeans.
She smiled, wide and sincere, with a hint of laughter in her eyes.
"What are you cooking?" she asked, backing away to give him space.
In response, he opened the oven door, displaying an entire chicken browning nicely under the red hot lights and smelling, well, good enough to eat. "Got a while to go," he said. "If you're hungry now, I've got more soup."
"I... didn't know you could cook," she said, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Can't. Wilson gave me a few tips."
"Ah," she replied with a nod. "I can't believe you went out shopping while I slept."
"Didn't have to," he retorted. "Got everything I needed last night."
Her brow furrowed as she contemplated what he said. "From where?" she finally asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Patient's house, remember? That big white bird that nearly killed you? Is this ringing any bells? Maybe I should check you for brain damage."
"You... you... that..." She pointed to the oven, mouth opening and closing like a garage door with a short. "You didn't," she finally manage to get out."
"Didn't what? Save future unsuspecting victims from a dangerous animal?"
"But... where are the... feathers and... parts?" she asked, as she started to wonder if she was being played.
"I took it down to that Chinese butcher this morning. He took care of all the parts for me," he said, mocking her words. "You should've heard that thing squawk, just before, you know?" He made a slicing motion with his hands across his neck, his eyes comically wide.
Her hand flew to her mouth in disbelief, horror, shock, and then she started laughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath. He killed a chicken; it was the most bizarrely romantic thing any guy had ever done for her. House was House; she was learning not to expect anything conventional from him.
He stood staring at her, wondering if the Vicodin hadn't completely worn off after all. But then his lips twitched up and he smiled. He'd half expected her to be so outraged on behalf of the poor chicken that she'd refuse to eat it, and probably lecture him about theft and animal cruelty while she was at it. Laughter was a pleasant surprise.
Once she regained control of herself, she stepped right up to him and wrapped her arms around him, her chin resting on his chest as she looked up at him. "You're very sweet," she said, grinning from ear to ear.
"I'm not sweet," he protested, with a roll of his eyes. "I slaughtered a defenseless chicken today."
"Yes, but you did it to avenge me. You like me."
"I don't like anybody," he said, trying to look annoyed, which was hard to do with her lithe, gorgeous body pressed against him. "I just dislike you less than other people."
Her answering smile was smug. Mona Lisa without the mystery.
"You like me," she repeated.
"Oh shut up," he ordered.
And then he kissed her.