One month of taking it slowly, and you're going crazy.
Twelve dates. Four dinners, three movies, two concerts, one basketball game, one day trip to Atlantic City -- where you discovered she was a whiz at blackjack -- and one picnic down by the river. They always ended the same way -- a kiss at her door, a little PG-rated groping, and good night.
Part of you doesn't mind. You've enjoyed getting to know her. You love making each other laugh. You delight in how she's grown from the wide-eyed little girl you hired into a confident woman with a tongue as sharp as her mind. You cheer inside when you insult her during a differential -- just trying to throw Chase and Foreman off the scent -- and she gives back as good as she gets.
Still, you yearn for more like a starving man yearns for food. You daydream about the taste of her mouth and wonder how the rest of her tastes. It's not the release you crave; you can take care of that yourself, and you have, many times. It's her.
She's in Boston this week, at a symposium on autoimmune disorders. She calls every night, and you talk about everything and nothing. She tells you about the young immunologist from Dartmouth-Hitchcock who hit on her the first night, until he found out whom she worked for. "THE Dr. House?" he'd squeaked, then backed away, assuming she was obviously too smart for him. He's probably right, you thought.
You're between cases, and you're going crazy. You do all your assigned clinic hours and volunteer for more. Cuddy has been giving you a look that says, "Call Mulder and Scully. My top diagnostician has been replaced by a pod person."
Wilson knows. He's known since that day two weeks ago when he stopped by your office with a Vicodin scrip.
"You're early," you said.
"By my calculations, I'm just in time," he replied. "Two weeks ago I wrote you a scrip for a 30-day supply. A normal person's 30-day supply. The way you go through them, I figure you must be down to three or four by now."
"Do the math again," you said, pulling the vial from your pocket and shaking it at him like a miniature maraca. It was still one-third full.
His eyes widened. "Who are you, and what have you done with Gregory House?"
You chuckled. "That's exactly what Cuddy said when I volunteered for extra clinic hours."
"You volun- OK, House. What the hell is up with you? Are you in less pain? The leg?"
"It's still there," you told him. "I just don't ... notice it as much, I guess."
The smile that crept across his face reminded you of Scout in "To Kill a Mockingbird" when she meets Boo Radley face to face for the first time. He sat down slowly. "Oh ... my ... God. It's Cameron, isn't it? You did it. You told her how you f-"
You cut him off. "No, I told you. She overheard. And the rest, as they say ..."
"Oh, my God," he says again. "I can't believe this."
"Why are you so shocked? Chicks dig me. I think it's the cane."
"So, are you two ..."
"Are we what? Doing the horizontal bop? The mattress mambo? Making the beast with two backs? You want to know if she's a tiger between the sheets?
"Shame on you, Jimmy. You know I don't kiss and tell. If there was anything to tell."
"You mean ...?"
"We're taking our time. Getting to know each other as people. You might want to try that sometime before jumping in the sack. Save you a fortune on divorce lawyers. Oh, that's right; you don't marry all of them, just the ones who aren't dying."
The digs about his love life would normally make him wince. But he just sat there, smiling ear to ear.
"What's with the shit-eating grin?"
"My mother taught me it's not nice to say, 'I told you so.' But you don't do nice; why should I? Besides, this is a twofer.
"I told you that you should come clean about your feelings for her. And I seem to recall trying to convince you that much of the pain in your leg was in your head. Not that you were imagining it, but that if you weren't so damned bitter and depressed, the leg wouldn't hurt so much. And judging from your recent Vicodin consumption, or lack thereof, I was right."
"Quit being smug, Jimmy. I hate smug like Lou Grant hates spunk. And keep your trap shut. We're trying to keep things professional at work, and the last thing we need is you going around singing, 'House and Cameron, sittin' in a tree.' Now get out of here; I'm due in the clinic in 10 minutes."
"Nice to see she hasn't completely turned you into the Marshmallow Man. See you later."
He turned at the door. "House?"
Careful, you think ruefully. I've become the poster boy for careful.
You've been waiting for her to make the next move, and you can't wait any longer.
She tells you she'll be home Friday, midafternoon. Do you want her to come in? No, you tell her. "Rest up and go over your notes from the symposium. Then come over to my place around 7-ish. There's a Marx Brothers marathon on the Classics Channel. Bring beer. I'll order pizza."
Friday, you're vibrating. You snap at Foreman and Chase more sharply than usual. Finally, you order them to clean up the backlog of paperwork, and you leave early. You tidy up the apartment, fool around on the piano, pop a couple of extra Vicodin. Your leg doesn't need it, but your nerves do.
It's the first time he's asked you over there, and you wonder if something's up. Probably nothing more than the fact that it's been a long week, you've been away, and you both could stand to put your feet up and take it easy. And he knows you love the Marx Brothers, and your cable service doesn't include that channel.
You pick up a 12-pack of beer and drive to his house. You know the way; you've been there before, but never at his invitation.
He opens the door to your knock. You smile, tell him you've missed him, hold out the beer.
He takes it from you, sets it down, takes your hand, pulls you inside ... and into his arms.
His lips are crushing yours, his tongue probing your mouth hungrily. You feel as if you're being devoured by a starving animal. His hands are all over you; they're rough, harsh, urgent. If this were any other man, it would feel like rape. But you know, somehow.
The word flashes in your skull like a giant neon sign. He needs this, needs you. His need is a force of nature, a tornado, an earthquake, a forest fire. Impossible to stop. And you don't want to. You let his need carry you away.
You don't know how you got there, but you are in his bed, your clothes in a heap on the floor next to his. He is inside you, thrusting like a man possessed. You climax with him, wanting to scream but unable to make a sound. He has literally taken your breath away.
"So much ... for taking it ... slowly," he gasps against your neck. "Over ... too fast ... sorry."
"Why? Do I look unhappy?"
He raises his head and sees the satisfied look in your eyes. "I'm glad. But next time ... will be all about you."
You wonder what it will be like when he takes his time. You don't have to wait long for the answer. His hands and mouth are gently exploring every inch of you. His touch is tender, teasing, maddening. Your nipples tighten under the softness of his tongue, the warmth of his breath.
He kisses his way downward, the feel of his stubble against your skin a quiet reminder of the sweet roughness of the last time.
His mouth has found its target. You moan. You sigh. You squirm. You say his name, softly, not wanting him to hear it ... yet.
You are so close, but you want him in your arms when it happens. You try to pull him up, but you have no strength, only want. "Come here," you whisper. "Hold me."
He hears you. He returns to your side, his fingers taking over the delicious duty from his tongue, which is now in your mouth, wrestling with your own.
"Greg ... Oh, my God... Greg...." You pull his hand away and it clutches your back as your hips thrust feverishly against him. You are sobbing without tears. Sobs of relief. Of joy. Of a certain four-letter word starting with L that you dare not say ... yet.
You steer him on top of you, and he enters eagerly. You want to close your eyes, but you force them to stay open, to relish the ecstasy on his face. That is what sends you over the edge with him this time.
When it's over, you rest your head on his chest, listening as his heartbeat slows from a frantic pound to a gentle thump.
"Well, I'll be damned," you quip. "Mean old Dr. House has a heart."
"You tell anyone, you're toast," he snaps back. "By the way, I seem to recall something about pizza and the Marx Brothers."
"You're right; we should eat. But I'm loving this."
"Groucho loved his cigar, but he took it out once in a while."
You laugh, and he joins in. His laugh -- so rare a few weeks ago -- is like music. You reach for the bedside phone and hand it to him. "Mushrooms and anchovies are a must. Beyond that, whatever you like."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.