So this is my attempt at some House/Cameron angst. I'm toying with the idea of making it into a multi-chapter fic. I wrote this in about 25 minutes last night. Once I got started it just kept on coming.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but if I did, they would be in a very graphic relationship at this point.

How I wish you could see the potential

The potential of you and me

It's like a book elegantly bound

But in a language that you can't read

-Death Cab for Cutie

Thoughts

Doesn't he see the possibilities? All the wonderful, intoxicating, and excruciating, possibilities?

She does.

She thinks about them all the time.

During her morning jog, while shopping at the grocery store, in the car, at work, especially at work.

She sees herself peering up at him from underneath his desk, his eyes glazed over recovering from his orgasm, her mouth gathered up at the

corners in the semblance of his telltale smirk.

She imagines the feel of the cool tiles against her bare back as he pushes her roughly against the

side of the deserted hospital pool; the buoyancy of the water giving him the feeling of weightlessness, and her the satisfaction of getting him to

the physical therapy department.

She imagines it happening at his place. For some reason always late, dark outside. It fits them better. She

sees rich colors. The mocha colored leather of his couch, the amber liquid in his heavy bottomed glass tumbler, the smooth, glossy, black finish

on his baby grand, the deep mahogany wood of his bed.

She sees skin, sweat, and sheets.


She doesn't know how much longer she can wait.

Why doesn't he see?

She is right here. Waiting. Wanting.

She doesn't need his professions of love, she doesn't need his affection, she needs his body moving against hers, needs it. Plain, simple and

animalistic. He is an overtly observant man, so why can't he see that she is right here before him: open.


She is literally directly in front of him in the conference room, letting her mind go completely.

She should be listening to Foreman's prospective diagnosis, but she can't.

He looks especially good today. Maybe it's because it is a Monday and she hasn't seen him for two days over the weekend.

Agony.

Or maybe it's because he is wearing the dark blue shirt that in turn darkens his eyes to how she imagines they would look

during their carnal acts. She takes a few deep breathes, readjusts herself in her chair, and tries to refocus.

Oh god- she thinks because he is staring at her now, that deep, penetrating, seemingly never-ending gaze that roots her to her spot around the

glass table. She realizes that he has asked her a question. She hadn't heard a word. She was focusing on the point where his beard growth

stops midway down his throat, and where his chest begins, and how she would latch her mouth just there, she thinks.

"I'm sorry what were you saying?"

Cameron shakes her head, having to clear her throat, raspy from her silence throughout this entire differential diagnosis session. House straightens up, tells Foreman and Chase to disperse, and quickens Cameron's pulse with two words,

"You, stay."

It is an order. She will obey implicitly. She has spent a good deal of time pondering the amount of control he has over her. She considers herself

a strong, independent person. She watched her husband die. She stands by her moral convictions. She puts up with his constant belittlements.

But if he were to assume control, she would give herself over to him completely. A thought that simultaneously arouses and frightens her.

She follows him into his private office. She tries to maintain her composure, but this is a thrill.

She is alone with him. In her mind she makes elaborate plans, plans that involve her strutting up to him and placing herself in his lap, assuming

the control, initiating the contact, but in this moment, she is lost.

She waits for him to commence, always waiting. Finally he speaks,

"Is your mother sick?"

She is confused. She shakes her head in the negative. He continues to stare; she can literally see him rearranging the puzzle pieces, finding

where some fit and where others still need to find another place.

"Are you pregnant?"

Now, she is really confounded. Why would he think that? She answers with honesty.

"Of course not."

"Then what's your excuse? These past few weeks my annoyance with your insane sense of moral code has dropped dramatically, it's an

anomaly. Where's the ever ethically conscious Cameron I'm familiar with?"

Cameron seems to have recovered slightly. It isn't obvious but he is showing his concern for her well-being. This excites her, but she must put on an air of indifference. She manages an eye roll and makes a move towards the door.

"I'm sorry to have bitten my tongue and made your life easier; remind me not to do that next time."

She puts on her mask too.

"Stop."

And she does, which only adds to her complete self-loathing. A smirk plays on his lips, if only he knew the full extent of his control.

"You always question me. If it's not my diagnosis, it's my motive. Why no inquisition?" He is standing now, circling around the front of his

desk.

What is the correct response?

Because you invade my thoughts every waking moment.

Because I feel like if I don't have you or get away from you I will suffocate.

Because I've thought about doing things to you that make me question how morally righteous I really am.

"It's complicated,"

is all she can come up with on the spot. She exits quickly. She knows he isn't satisfied. She knows that he will continue

to pry until he has exhausted every angle, discovered every subtle nuance, and committed it to memory.

Once she leaves his office, she enters the ladies' room. She closes the door to a stall and inhales. How can a simple encounter with him be so

intense? She realizes that she is doing this to herself. He seems perfectly capable of continuing their usual (fucked up) working relationship.

She is the one granting him entrance to her thoughts.

She is the one who can barely control her primal feelings.

She is the masochist.


As the day progresses, she does contribute, just enough to appease him for the remainder of the afternoon. Although when she gathers her

belongings to leave for the night, his fixed glare is not lost on her.

She has become accustomed to reading his expressions: fascination, frustration, surreptitiousness, pain. This face is determined.

Oh shit.

She isn't really all that surprised when later that night she opens her apartment door to blue.

Tbc?