Need	  The House Fan Fiction Archive     Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

      	

  Need 
 by OldHamster	

 House

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 My top diagnostician has been replaced by a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?"

"What now?"

"Be careful."

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.

Cameron

His place?

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.

Need.

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."

  
   Please post a comment on this story.  


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.