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9 1/2	By : lot49 Category: G through L > House Views: 10103 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Title: 9 1/2

By: _lot49_

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: House/Cameron

Spoilers: Anything up to and including Autopsy is fair game.

Summary: No one is as curious as House. Eleven moments and nearly ten ways it didn't happen for them.

Disclaimer: House and its characters belong to Brian Singer, David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox. I make no money off of this as I'm only here for the pr0n.
::1::
But you are damaged, aren't you?
...Oh, but she smells nice when she's angry; all hot and ripe, heated skin and boiling jasmine. Six months since he'd hired her, and he's barely looked at her. Dr. Cameron, formerly inconsequential, passing silently in his periphery. And now he finds himself insidiously wondering: if she smells differently in the morning, warm and pliant between the sheets. What the skin behind her left knee tastes like. The color of her toenail polish. Does she scream? Bite? Would she wriggle and sigh, her short, practical nails raking down his back, even as she whispered naughty words in his ear?
Would she leave scars?
Her pager goes off and she excuses herself, backing away, slipping quickly out of focus. He watches her flee and thinks, no, he shouldn't be thinking, not about these things. Not because they're inappropriate; he has those thoughts all the time. But he shouldn't be thinking about her, because...
Because he's very curious.
Yes, he is.
::2::
The girl has spunk, he has to admit. The way she has Chase coiled and wrapped around her pretty little finger. She plays innocence so well, but she's aware. She's very much aware. She'll toy with him, dangle a half-lidded sideways glance, an innocent comment in his direction. Practicing with her newly-discovered powers of persuasion, and he'll follow her helplessly around like an attention-starved little puppy until she kicks him away.
With the other, she plays little sister, perfecting the art of social anxiety. Appealing to his latent chauvanistic instincts. That's right, Foreman, be the big brother. Guard and protect her from the big bad wolf.
And it's not really the way she looks, but the way she looks at him sometimes, still circling warily, unsure of her role in his universe. That strange mix of suspicion and timid hero-worship that makes his curiosity burn. Gradually. Just a teensy bit hotter.
But he stays back. Stays away. Too easy, he thinks. He'd pluck and taste and then he'd bend her, make her moan and hiss and touch her knees to her elbows. And then he'd break her. And he likes to think he might be an asshole, but he's not that much of one.
You can't be that good a person and well adjusted.
The day he finds her in the lab, crying over the husband she buried, he discovers she's more than damaged. She's already broken. Those soft, puffy eyes. The fragments of her voice. Her pain is a lightning rod to all the darker places in him, and he finds himself inexplicably drawn to his doom.
After all, no one is as practiced at the art of self-immolation as he is.
So, over the centrifuge, with one hand firmly planted on the handle of his cane, he slides the other up her back to her neck. With his thumb he tilts her chin up. And when he kisses her, he doesn't feel the tiniest bit of guilt. She does, though, and that's good enough for him.
::3::
And she says 'god' and 'yes' and makes these strange, deep-throated sounds when he runs his palms up her calves, and when he turns to lick the crease behind her knee, it's something between a growl and purr; noises of a strange, lewd beast, and she's naked and open and luscious, her ass sliding across the top of his baby grand, knocking candy canes and three weeks worth of newspapers to the floor, and when he bites her pelvic bone, she says, 'fuck' and then 'oh,' one heel banging out dissonant chords on the keys, the other drawing clumsy circles on his back, and it's the fucking sexiest thing he's ever heard, and he wants to swallow it whole, her, the way she burns and slides and arches against his mouth, and then he scratches his face on the inside of her thighs and she runs out of words and there's just sounds, sounds, sounds.
::4::
She is an undefined itch under his skin, the buzz in that space directly behind his right optic nerve. He loathes how she lingers in his subconscious; she, with that enigmatic, soft smile, deeply-buried daddy issues and unhealthy fascination for things that are so very bad for her.
Him, for example.
And he should really know better. He thinks (he knows) he really shouldn't, and for days, weeks, even, he succeeds. Avoidance is an easy art to master. But he is what he is, and what he is...is disingenuous enough to drop a thinly-veiled comment here; there; turning, shaping, building each moment. Observing her back stiffen, lips pressing together, fingers clutching a chart or her laptop or her valise just a little bit tighter. She's terrible with secrets, one in particular...and he finds that deceptively disarming.
One answer begets another question, and another, and another.
It only takes one innocent-seeming remark about a scuff on his piano to set her off.
"What the hell is your problem?" she snaps, her voice brittle, bouncing off the glass.
What, indeed. It's been days. Weeks. Months have gone by, all those curious, idle thoughts have stacked up like a pile of mental poker chips, and this coy little game he's playing rankles him almost as much it does her.
Full of ire and righteous indignation, Allison Cameron, who came over to thank him for her Christmas gift; who shook and shuddered and came so hard, she left bruises on his back and E, F, F-sharp ringing in his ears. Marks, but no scars. Yet.
One answer, one question. Two questions. Three.
Fingering the two monster truck tickets in his pocket, he thinks she probably has better things to do than watch 'roided out hulks demolish each other in the dirt. Like save the world. Or something equally self-sacrificing and noble and dull.
::::
She surprises him. She's been doing that a lot, lately. And now she's running from him with that strange, embarrassed giggle, letting him catch her in the end.
Could you have been any less subtle?
Pinning her to the passenger side door, he lets her feel him hard against her, his hands sliding up and around her waist. Slipping one hand under her leather jacket, his left middle finger dips down the back of her jeans, strokes circles over her tailbone.
When he leans in, he tastes cotton candy and Diet Coke and laughter, and it makes something unfold, painfully, in his chest.
I tried subtle. You didn't notice.
They've turned around and she has him pressed against the wall between the kitchen and living room. Reaching up to pull the baseball cap off his head, she tosses it to the floor. Then attacks the buttons on his shirt with alarming efficiency, revealing a Yes tee that, from the looks of it, dates back to the original 90125 tour. Owner of a Lonely Heart, and all.
Three sluggish steps towards his bedroom and he trips, falls, crashing into her. Mouths separate as she lands on the couch with an oof, him following right atop, and she laughs again, and this time it's darker, lower and sounds like E, F, F-sharp.
I noticed.
He moves in her, millimeter by millimeter, so deliberate, so slowly, her skin fairly vibrates as she visibly shakes from frustration. She bites her lip, impatient and quivering beneath him and he thinks --he knows, he's going to burn. He's going to crash and burn, go up in a spectacular inferno, and after this, this second time, there's not going to be anything left.
::::

TBC
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9 1/2