Disclaimer: Like it or not, House m.d. and its characters belong to powers greater than me: the Fox Network & David Shore.
A/N: Although you can't tell from the first two chapters, this is a fairly light-hearted babyfic that happens to be set as a post-ep to "Informed Consent." I wrote this for katej, who designed my LJ page for me. Please come visit and check out her beautiful & insightful artistry. She is also responsible for the icon/avatar on my profile page at Fan Fiction.
Betas: Thanks to the always awesome ColorofAngels for editing. Her beta skills are equal to her amazing abilities as a writer.
My LJ: is now open to the public, if you care to read my Fan Fiction there. Find it under my username.
This story: is rated M because it contains sex, sacrilege, and frank language. There are spoilers through S3, "Informed Consent."
Dedication: For katej, for "all the etc."
Feedback & Reviewing: I appreciate feedback on my writing, so if you read it and thought, "Me Likee," well, there's a wee blue button at the bottom of the page. Click on it like you mean it, and then please take the 30-odd seconds to let me know. Thanks for reading.
House dreamed he was dead.
If Wilson knew of it, he'd want to know why, whipping out a handy dandy copy of Freud's Interpretation of Dreams for a look-see. House himself couldn't say from whence the dream had come and wasn't sure he could procure a definitive answer, and yet his restless mind produced theories in spades.
Perhaps it was a result of the ethical mumbo jumbo that Ezra Powell's case had stirred up in the Diagnostics department. The renowned medical researcher was determined to die, doggone it, and he gosh-darn wanted their help in so doing. Debate had ensued regarding if or when it was okay to help a patient end his life.
House, when said patient was terminal, but not before.
It might have been from watching Cameron try to come to terms with what she thought was right, and wondering whether she could live with the consequences of acting on her convictions. When House had left the hospital around midnight, Cameron was almost as pale as Powell himself, and considering Powell was on his deathbed, that was saying something. She had stabbed House with her eyes, and he'd backed away from the locker room leaving her to duel with her demons.
Or it could have been because of House's conversations with Powell, his own description of dying as slow, painful, and torturous. Where you struggled for every breath, and afterwards, found nothing but the nothing that is.
Exploring the origin of the dream would have fascinated Cameron too, House supposed. But personally, he was disinclined to analyze it, although the part about Cameron had him standing at attention in more ways than one.
It was what it was:
He dreamed he was dead.
From a distance he looked down on his funeral and appraised his grizzled mug and lean frame in its satin-lined box. Yuck. The bronze exterior of the casket did nothing for his complexion. Waxy? Well, yes, but his visage was unmarked. He'd seen worse. For a corpse, he looked pretty good. But what the hell was he doing in a coffin? Apparently, Wilson had failed to honor his request to be cremated privately and without ceremony. Trust Wilson to fuck it up. At least they hadn't shaved him, the makeup was minimal, and he would return to the earth dressed in his favorite shirt, the Stones tee that Cameron had given him. On the front was the familiar insignia: a pair of scarlet lips with a tongue protruding and above it the words you can't always get what you want. Maybe the next time he died he'd make Cameron his medical proxy and executor of his will, such as it was – it wasn't like he had children on whom he could bequeath all his cool stuff.
Stacy hadn't wanted kids.
His view expanded to reveal groups of mourners standing in clumps near his parents, who huddled together with stooped shoulders, as if sharing an umbrella in a spot of cold rain. Seeing his father? That made the dream a bona fide nightmare.
Hovering near the people responsible for bringing him into the world stood Wilson, head bent to hear something House's mother was saying. With an arm in a sling and a bruise clouding the left side of his sensitive face Wilson looked like he should be the one headed for permanent foreclosure. At least it looked that way to House, who detected the remnants of tears beneath his friend's expressive brown eyes. Why was Wilson's countenance a mess when all House's lifeless face needed was a shave?
House looked for clues that might explain how he'd died, but a glimpse of Stacy distracted him. Her angular looks were softened only in that while she wore her perpetual black power suit, she had paired the tailored jacket with an A-line skirt instead of the usual dress slacks. Thin lips pursed and features pinched into an I-need-coffee-to-get-through-this mask, Stacy leaned on Mark, and Mark leaned on (yes) a cane. The irony bounced about like an Energizer bunny. So she had finally learned to stand by her man. She was so last season, he thought, cattily.
To the right of the matrimonially bound twosome, was the striking form of Lisa Cuddy. Instinctively, House looked for the nearest exit, and then laughed. Not much she could do to him now. Foreman and Chase flanked her as if they were her bodyguards. For once, she looked demure. Her cleavage was tamed beneath a modest navy sheath – in fact, he could barely see the hollow of her throat. Hmm. Did that indicate guilt? And Chase? How predictable. Mr. Hairspray wept silently for his boss like a dog mourning the loss of its abusive master. Foreman averted his eyes from the open coffin, no doubt to avoid imagining himself in House's place. Don't want to end up like you. House could just hear him saying it. House itched to make a face at the three of them. Couldn't. Death sucked. Still, when it came to looking pathetic, he had only to observe the three of them to know he had competition in that department.
All of the mourners hung back except for one slight figure that stood vigil at his coffin, dark hair spilling around her pale face, her small white hand grasping his presumably cold, stiff one.
Allison Cameron. And she wasn't wearing black. Apparently, Cameron had come as is, dressed in her normal workday garb of a mulberry hued blouse with short puffy sleeves and form fitting low rise trousers that reminded anyone with a pulse (and some without one) that she was purely feminine.
I could have hit that.
His spirit flew back into his body as Cameron brushed her thumb over his knuckles and spoke quietly into his hitherto lifeless ear.
"So this is how you get out of a date?" At first, she's incredulous, and then fun creeps into her voice. "A little dramatic, don't you think?" When he remains still, her voice quavers. "I lied, House," she says and he has to work to breathe shallowly so she won't notice that he's not really dead. He wants to hear this. "I never stopped liking you … loving you," she amended. "I never hated you. I never got over you. That never happened."
Apparently, he was wanted, dead or alive.
It was not beyond him to fake being dead. (His capacity for deceit continued to surprise even him.) But, House knew that it was Cameron – her voice, her touch – that brought him back to life. He is risen. He is risen indeed.
Propping himself up on his elbows in the casket, he grabbed her by the waist and dragged her down on top of him as she gasped first in confusion, then in anger, and finally with desire as his mouth coaxed hers into submission, his tongue parting her lips and seeking her warmth. He was so cold.
Between kisses, he kept repeating, "It's not a trick. Cameron, this is not a trick."
And then the box o' death turns into a bed, the mourners disappear, and what's left is House, red-blooded and fully erect, and Cameron, straddling him, his cock in her hand until she's got it right at her entrance and why waste time? She lowers herself down excruciatingly slowly over his pulsing, venous prick, pushing her pelvis against him so he feels her soft bush. Ah, friction. Tossing her hair back, it slips down across her face once more. She begins to unbutton her blouse, while looking down at him.
"Let me. Do that." House grasps her wrists, moves them away as he rips the flimsy material so buttons fly, followed by the remnants of her blouse: her pink nipples poke impatiently at the lace of her purple bra. Deftly unhooking and flinging the bra aside, House feels his cock twitch as his eyes fix at the swell of her high, firm breasts.
"You grow inside me," she says cryptically from above him as his tongue teases her hardened peaks, sucks one into his warm mouth, nudging the nipple as his tongue twirls around it. His hands span her waist as she rocks him, and he feels her open up and take every inch of him. When he thinks he's as far inside her as he can be there's a reservoir. More for him. She gushes, flooding his erection with hot wetness and – fuck – where did you learn that? Who taught you how to do that … to me?
And the music. Soundtrack to their sex: Must be Cameron's pick: Jerry Harrison's "A Perfect Lie." Ahem. No double entendre there, he thinks as the lyrics clear his receptors:
You made your move
What you do to me
I know you know what you're doing
And I'm taken by a perfect lie
Who taught you how to do that?
(Where did you learn that?)
House wakes, rock hard, heart pounding, leg aching, and very much alive. He considers jerking off – fuck Cameron. He wants her even when she drives him to distraction. Like she's been doing throughout this whole Powell debacle, dressed in black, a bit prematurely, he thought – Powell may look like a corpse, but he isn't dead yet. House wants her nevertheless. Wants her when she asks him about his leg, the pain. None of his antics scare her away. Wants her when she hates him. She has. She will again. And when he yells at her, he still wants her. When she wants him, he wants her back.
It's just that distance is best, right?
Why does he care? How can he not care? She makes it impossible to remain apathetic. It's like that Elvis song: I forgot to remember to forget you. Insipid in a country music kind of yuh huh way, but he can relate.
His prick will have to wait. Glancing at his watch, he sees it's time to get to PPTH to check on Ezra Powell, see how he coped with his terminal diagnosis. And what I want to know is how do you like your blue-eyed boy Mr. Death?
Cuddy finds him in his office, and delivers the news that half an hour after being declared stable, at 2:30 a.m., Powell passed away. House keeps his cool, leaving Cuddy suspicious only of him. But as soon as she leaves, he's flooded with thoughts. Sometimes Cameron makes his head spin; never mind what she does to his cock.
From the start she'd stymied him. She thought that House found her easy to read and predictable, but just when he had a bead on her, she'd do something to surprise him. Like enjoy a monster truck rally. Resign her position to make his life easier – hers, too, if he was fair. Ask him out on a date – not for more money or a loftier title, just a single date … dinner. With him. Stealing ecstasy from a patient, taking the drug, and mounting Chase? He hadn't seen that one coming, but she'd done it. And to think she'd go for a foot massage from Johnny Damon. He thought she hated sports. Maybe she just hated sports metaphors. After all, she had a brother …
And then there was her behavior while they tried to diagnose that stubborn bastard Powell on deadline so the old coot could hurry up and die. (He'd never met a guy so determined to skip out on the land of the living, not even John Henry Giles when he thought he had ALS.) One moment she was tossing off a sarcastic quip about staying up all night having wild sex and doing Jell-O shots – while a man's life hung in the balance. Next she spewed forth about the right to die in a dignified fashion – as if death was ever dignified – and then she'd run away from the moral dilemma, chilling in the locker room like a benched athlete.
Now Powell was dead.
Wasn't me. Nope. For once someone else had decided what was right and had grown up enough to act on her beliefs. Good for her, House thought. Hard for her. Could she live with it? He needed to see, to know. If Cameron was crying, he was a goner. The time he'd caught her weeping in the lab, he'd nearly taken her from behind. He'd wanted to encircle her in his arms – white coat, reading glasses and all – and never let go.
Gripping his cane and lowering his chin, eyes gazing past the glass panes of his office, he hobbled off as fast as his handicap allowed him.
House knew just where to find her.
A/N: Want more? Or should I bag it? If not, why not? If you tell me what you liked, you'll probably get more of it!