Title: Proximity - in three parts:
1: First Dance
Cleaning Day
Salt Water and Wounds

Author: LaDanaid (sgr11)
Rating: a hard R, NC-17 scattered here and there
Beta: gabesaunt and lynettinspaghet - Very many thanks to both who looked at this last minute! And big hugs to gabesaunt who helped me through my insanity! xo She deserves some cookies!
Summary: Trace the path of House and Cameron's relationship as they relive some old wounds and try to survive and heal from them. Are they close enough to survive?
Written For: enchantedapril
Assignment number: #23 / theme Scars (House/Cameron Fic Challenge)

Three things enchantedapril wanted to see in her story: Can be as specific or as general as you want.
1.House/Cameron in a somewhat established relationship (and smut would be nice)
2.some angst
3.happy ending (not sappy happy, but you know what I mean)

Three things she doesn't want anywhere near her story:
1.OOC anyone
3.Sappiness... some nice 'awww' moments are nice, but nothing hugely fluffy... again, I think you all know what I mean.

Extra notes: Is in a 'You' POV.


First Dance

Most mornings, you feel the sunlight creeping up the blinds, climbing higher and higher into the room and up the walls like magical vines. Soon it starts reflecting off the mirror and alerting you that the alarm will start going off soon. Most mornings, you are quick and quiet out of bed without pushing the snooze-button and you try your best not to wake your lover, who is not a morning person.

This morning is different. It is cloudy, overcast and you are tired. Out of habit, you are slightly awake, but you just want to turn back over into the warmth of the bed and pull the blankets over your head, and bake like a morning croissant for a few more hours. You are already tempted to start pushing the snooze button a few times because you so exhausted, but you know that your bedfellow will elbow you to turn it off and to get your ass out of bed and off to work, and then he can sleep an extra hour.

You, usually noted as the young, naive, beautiful, sensitive, Dr. Allison Cameron, have been seeing the older, misanthropic, grumpy Dr. Gregory House for almost a year. People would be shocked if they knew, well, that's what he keeps telling you. You are getting so tired of "keeping up appearances," you just don't care anymore, you actually wouldn't mind if the whole hospital found out and it was just done and over with.

Part of your morning ritual of you getting up on time is to confuse your co-workers. You arrive an hour earlier than House, and people have never seen you arriving or leaving together. The only person aware of your relationship is Wilson. And to be honest with you, all this lying is tiring you out. You're having problems keeping track of all the lies you have told about where you have been and what you have been up to, it's really starting to wear you out, and lying just doesn't suit your nature. You have never been good at it.

As you stand in the hot shower, enjoying the steam, you recollect that no one could argue that he treats you any different at work since you have been sleeping together. He's equally as hard on you if not harder. Maybe you should start considering a position somewhere else, and get out from underneath this? (But could either of you handle that?) And would he ever come forth and be honest about your relationship? You would never ask him to be someone he's not and you can't force him to do anything. You are honest to yourself about who is he, and that's part of what makes this relationship work.

You feel like you are pondering the world in the morning steam, when the bathroom door bangs open, and House tells you you've been in there a half an hour and could you save him some hot water?

And some people wondered what his bedside manner was like at home . . .


It is misting outside. It is the most annoying precipitation to drive in, where it's not really raining hard enough to use your wipers, but to see you have to use them. The fog and the mist, however, are similar to your thoughts in your brain and the feelings in your heart, heavy and clouded. You think back and recollect how you and House started spending time together. The first non-date date that was perfect: Monster Trucks, one of the best times you ever had, one of the first inklings that you both saw something underneath the surface of each other. Of course, he had to be difficult and misjudge you, and the first actual date (well, you kind of bribed him) you had gone on together went horribly, where he basically said you were a one-person rescue-person-shelter; always looking for people to fix, never really loving. He was really wrong. He spent the next few months pretty much apologizing to you and trying to woo you.

He never had to woo you. He pretty much had you the first moment you shook your small hand in his big warm one and said "Welcome to Princeton." His intense eyes cut right through you down to the bottom of your stomach. At that moment, you would not have minded if he had pushed everything off his desk and fucked you madly. And you didn't know a thing about him - was he married? Involved? Gay? Nice? You had no clue. All you knew was that your attachment was instinctual and animalistic. You learned all his other fine attributes later.

He started showing up at your apartment, knowing you were angry at him regarding the horrible date. He feigned excuses like his cable was out and you have satellite television, so he could watch some regionalized sporting events. His visits became frequent. You didn't talk to him much, you basically ignored him, going about your apartment, cleaning, cooking, reading a book. Once in a while, you would take pity on him and feed him a plate of what you made for dinner.

You didn't really appreciate his games, but at the same time, you knew he was trying and this was his way. Simultaneously, his physical proximity was killing you. Because as much as you could shut out his words, the distance of his body heat to yours, his scent to your nose, the intensity of his eyes, these were the things that made your body go into melt down mode.

His visits increased. Sometimes Saturday, sometimes Sunday, sometimes both days. You wondered if he told Wilson about his silent visits to your apartment and if he did, what did he say. You pretend that you don't care that he's there, that he doesn't bother you. You try to pretend that you don't feel his presence taking over your space, heating your body, flushing your cheeks. You just keep doing your best to imagine he's not there, that he's just an illusion.

You can no longer sit on your couch. One night, after he leaves, you're lying on the sofa reading a book when suddenly you realize you are aroused. Your body is having an instinctual response and your nipples are hardening, your breathing is becoming hitched. You turn your head to rub your face against the pillow, when it hits you. The sofa smells like him. You can't help it, but you spend the next hour masturbating into a back arching, mind-blowing orgasm, just over his smell. You go to work the next day with a glow in your cheeks that no one has seen on you in quite a while.

After this, you know this can't continue the way it has been going.


The following weekend, you decide to throw him off. You leave a note on your door inviting him to brunch if he shows up at your apartment.

You sit with the sun streaming onto your face. You know that you will get little freckles across your nose. You have only ordered coffee so far, and you are sure other Sunday patrons are annoyed at you for taking up a table, but frankly you don't give a damn. You are enjoying the sun and the crisp, clear air. You are reading the paper, when suddenly the handle of a cane grabs the crease and pulls the paper down.

"What the hell is this?" House demands, holding the taped up note in his hand.

An offer for brunch, you explain with a smile, folding the paper and putting it down.

"Baseball is on today."


He tilts his head and looks at you, jamming the note in his pocket. You extend your hand toward a chair. He pulls it out and sinks himself into it.

So he came?

"Well, I do eat." He opens the menu. "Is this place any good?"

You smirk at him and tell him, which on the odd occasion when you used to go out to brunch on Sundays, uhem, you thought so.

"Well, why didn't you say you so?"

You just did.

After ordering eggs and bacon and french toast and more coffee, you decide you would slice through the silence like a knife through the butter melting in the sun and ask him why has he taken to intruding himself upon your life?

House did not seem at all surprised by your question, as if he had been waiting for it. "Have I intruded?"

Doesn't he think?

He shrugged.

You point out to him that he has made some ridiculous excuses to come over to your apartment every weekend for weeks.

"Well, you always seem to intrude into my life always asking questions about my parents, showing up unannounced, and I've never complained." He responds.

You hold your sigh. He? Who clearly has no personal life?

He smiles at you. "Now, I've learned that you don't either."

You pull a House, and tell him you don't know if you really want to share.

"And in all these weeks, you've never asked me any questions, you have barely said one word to me. Why now?"

You tell him you want him out of your apartment. You play with the food on your plate while you lie to him. You need to start some reactions otherwise you'll be masturbating on your sofa forever.

"I don't think that's the reason."

You know his eyes are trying to drill into your skull to try to force some response and to try to understand what is going on in your mind. You refuse to lift your head, and when you do, you look above and beyond his shoulder focusing on something else. You shrug. You ask him if he's got some silly bet going with Wilson or something regarding you.

"I don't get you," he started. "You talk more to me at work, reveal more to me at work . . . "

His point?

"So, why aren't you talking to me now?"

You haven't been?

"You're being intentionally dense."

You are enjoying using some of his own tactics and words against him.

You ask him if there is a reason you should talk to him now. You lean back in the chair and dare to look into his eyes. When you do, see you a fleeting unfamiliar look.

"No," he shrugged, "I was just wondering."

He was very nonchalant. You smiled inwardly to yourself. You both continued eating brunch and talking. You look at the newspaper and talk about work. These were comfort level items. You try to keep your knees from brushing up against his long legs underneath the table. That was hard for you. Other than that, it was a nice day.

That began your days and evenings out and getting to know each other, your entanglement with each other and into each other's worlds. It starts less dangerously than you thought it would. What would life be without the occasional scratch, bandage, scar and lesson?


You both begin slowly, like hurt, kicked dogs trying to find comfort in new homes with new owners, tentative and nervous. Eyes always searching furiously for meaning, reassurance and security. He is scared of you, your sensitivity, your age, that you work for him, that you'll leave him, that you'll hurt him. He has a catalog of hurts written across his flesh that he slowly starts to display to you. You are scared that he'll never let you in, that you'll never get close enough, that he'll never trust you, that you'll lose him, because you're tired of losing people. And even worse, that you are falling in love.

The desire between the two of you is obvious. But because of your two lists of hurts, you move at a snail's pace, gaining inches and small glints of trust. A brush of his hand on yours is a touch filled with a thousand words that only you and he understand, but the common observer would never catch. After spending time with him, you always feel like you have run a marathon because your heart is racing for hours. He's still nervous about kissing you, he thinks you might break. You're hoping that your snarky joking with him will let him know that you are stronger than you look.

After a long night of laughter, he is walking you to your door. He is relaxed enough to not realize that he leans in for a precious, tasty wet kiss. The kiss grows deeper and hungrier, and when he realizes this, he pulls away. You are both slightly out of breath. You smile to him, your arms around his neck, to encourage him on. Instead, he buries his head in your neck and kisses you wetly on your collar bone, hugging you tightly. You inhale his scent, want to wrap your legs around him and never let him go.

Your desire for him is becoming harder to handle. You are always aware of his proximity to you. You are highly attentive of his long fingers and their accidental touches, his lanky legs leaning up against yours when you're seated next to each other. Your sleeping at night is interrupted by tossing and turning in your bed. Your mind filled with distractions, complexities and eroticisms.


You know that you two are baby-stepping, you decide to step it up a notch. One Saturday night, you are supposed to meet House at a new Thai restaurant that opened up in his neighborhood. This is not your plan. The last few days your body has been in heat, he's been standing way too close, hot Thai food will not help. You park near his home and ring him from your cell phone.

You tell him you got into his neighborhood early. Can you come by and you can both walk over together?

Not a problem for him. He's making this easy so far, you think to yourself. How long will that last?

He admits you to his townhouse. You don't spend a lot of time there. House is still getting ready. You tease him that he preens like a girl, even with all that scruff. You take notice of his attire, pleased by the button down and lack of shirt underneath, knowing this will work out perfect.

As you sit primly on the couch in your dress, you casually take in the surroundings. You are starting to lose your confidence, but start talking to yourself . . . that you're tired of this, you gotta move past it, now or never, or it will never work. Looking around, you take in the room, the golden walls, the books, the piano, and then you see it. A straight backed chair, perfect. You casually toss a throw pillow on it, and look away, still waiting for House. Little does he realize he won't be going out this evening.

When he enters into the living room, you are waiting for him. It's now or never.

"Take a seat," you point to the chair.


He looks at you quizzically as you take control of the room, quickly dimming lights and approaching him with hands on hips.

"What's going on?" he asks.

Nothing, you tell him. Maybe that's the problem, you question and lift an eyebrow trying to imbue a little humor.

You lean over him and you start to nuzzle his neck, your fingers start unbuttoning his shirt.

"Cameron, Cameron," he says, a slight octave lower, "maybe we should wait, or talk about this more."

No more talking you tell him, you fingers working faster down the shirt, because you feel his strong hands on your arms about to push you away.

"Cameron . . . " he says quietly, and you are surprised by his reluctance, "seriously, maybe we should talk more . . . "

You stop, you look at him strongly and deeply with desire, because he needs to see it in your eyes, and he needs to know it comes from you and it's pouring over like a geyser. No, you tell him. You don't want to talk to him, you just want to fuck him right now.

You know your words just startled him, because he still looks at you like a pristine little girl who would never say the words "fuck" or "cunt" or "cock" or "pussy." You know you have him and that he's aroused, and that finally, he'll put down this good boy act he's been playing with you for security and be himself for a bit, because you're almost certain he's been spanked before, even if he's never told you that (yet).

You pull his shirt back far enough to expose his chest and neck, but not enough to take it off, his arms are slightly bound now by that shirt and he can't touch you. He knows this and you smile at him. You kick your shoes off and stand in front of him, his back arching his chest out toward you in the chair. You crouch down a bit, with your hands on his knees lightly for balance, and start running your tongue up the length of his torso, sucking on his nipples, loving the taste and feel of his skin under your tongue.

When you are standing, you smile at him, and pull your dress over your head, revealing a lacy demi-cup bra that you are practically bursting out of and a pair of matching thong panties. You are wet with desire, normally you would fantasize about House controlling you and what he would do to you, but right now, you want him too badly.

You stand over his lap and lean down over him, letting your hair brush along his skin like feathers. You bend more toward him, your breasts brushing his skin. You run your mouth along his, in a breathy manner, never letting him reach you with his tongue, you teasing him. You suck on his neck and his earlobes, hear him moaning, his body responding with heat and groans. You crouch down, licking his chest again, and remove your bra, then running your hard nipples along his wet chest.

You are glad that you have taken pilates and have long, strong legs, because in order to distract him, you are essentially giving him a lap dance, you hear him breathing harder. You finally kiss him. Let your tongue run along his lips, let two tongues meet and taste. You have undone his buckle and have your hands around his cock, stroking him. He is hard, and he is moaning. You are wet, and you are about to break in a million pieces.

Parts of you want to free his arms so he can touch you wherever you desire. Instead, you pull his cock more free from the confines of his pants and roll a condom onto it that you had hidden in your dress. Quickly you remove your panties, and lower yourself onto House. You watch him contort in deep pleasure as you control your muscles and movements, your wet walls contracting against his cock, both of you feeling the deep burn and pleasure. Before you realize it, you are in ecstasy. Your back arched, one hand on his shoulder, one hand in your own hair – you mentally try to control your breathing and screaming because you are the edge of shocks and of losing it. House is watching you intently, and leans forward and takes one of your nipples in his mouth and bites down, then swirls his tongue around it. You are fucking him hard, gliding up and down his cock quickly, squeezing him hard, you feel him tense up and know it's 'now' and you let go as well, finally breaking down, spilling your juices all over his lap.

You are sitting on his lap, naked and sweaty. You are both breathing hard. His head is rolled back. He lifts it and looks at you. You smile at him. He leans in and kisses you. You pull his button-down back up and around his shoulders, and he puts his arms around you, holding you on his lap.

"So, that's what you wanted to talk about," he smirks.

You smack him.

"So much for Thai food tonight. Wanna have breakfast tomorrow?"

After that, there were few nights and days spent alone. Most have been happy and have been filled with relatively normal couple stuff. This surprises you, but you are content, in fact, you're happy, at least for a while.

end part 1