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It wasn’t that Allison Cameron, M.D. made a point to stay late so often—she had as healthy an understanding of work/life boundaries as any other doctor, or so she’d convinced herself. But a single widow could only spend so many hours a night in an empty apartment before she went stir-crazy. And besides, there was always some trivial task that needed doing when you were a fellow for one of the world’s leading diagnostics departments. Being a salaried professional meant that she had a responsibility to the hospital, no matter how many hours a week it took to fulfill.
At least, that’s what she told herself. And she continued telling herself those convenient truths of omission as her finger dragged along the spines of Dr. House’s medical tomes. She paced across the length of the bookshelf as slowly as she possibly could, moving forward only inches at a time with each step as if a single misplaced heelfall might expose the secret behind her insistent rationalities.
It was silly to be nervous, of course, since she had already drawn the blinds around both offices and killed the lights for good measure. A few stray night owls passed through the hall periodically, but nobody would have any reason to be interested in House’s office anyways, let alone care if Cameron were still working or not. But even so, something about being shrouded in moonlit silence put her mind at ease as she pawed through her boss’s things.
Some nights, she curled up in his lounge chair and flipped through the pages of his books, not to refresh her medical knowledge, but to read through the marks he had left behind: the rude scribbles in the margins criticizing each author, the crass doodles inside the covers, the obscure cross-reference notes that only his genius brain could make sense of. She would wonder what he must have looked like in med school, hunched over a desk, pen flying across paper as he marked up each one of those books.
“House,” she says, approaching the table with slow, deliberate footsteps, “you need to eat something.”
For the first time in hours, he glances up from the stack of medical journals he’s been absorbing. Behind his reading glasses, his eyes look wide and innocent. The sight brings a smile to Allison’s lips as she finally reaches the table and sets the steaming bowl of soup down in front of him.
House sniffs once, furrowing his eyebrows. “What’s in this?”
Allison pinches the bridge of his glasses, cheekily pulling them off his face. “It’s minestrone,” she replies, folding the wire legs in and setting them down on the table. “Now eat up.”
One corner of House’s lips twitches and for a second he looks like he’s about to crack a joke. But instead, he shakes his head and reaches for the spoon. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” is what he finally chuckles before slurping away.
On other occasions, Cameron would go after his balls—those big, tacky, off-limits therapy balls that he just had to crack dirty jokes about. Their bristly texture against the curve of her palm reminded her of stubble, of the wiry hair that covered men’s bodies. Sometimes, when House was asleep in the clinic and Chase and Foreman were on some adventure of their own, she would slip behind the desk to stroke one of those balls, imagining just for a moment that it might be the warm face of a human being.
He’s pissed and the scowl on his face only makes it more apparent. But Allison is a professional and has dealt with far less cooperative patients before.
“Nuh uh, mister,” she warns, pressing gently against his shoulder blade. “You still have three more reps before this set’s done.”
House’s grimace deepens, but he continues to raise and lower his outstretched arms obediently, fingers trembling against the therapy ball’s fuzzy surface. “You’re not even a physical therapist, where do you get off bossing me around?”
Allison’s free hand moves to her hip. “Who wouldn’t get off to making you suffer?” she sasses back. “I’m the only one in this hospital who can put up with you long enough to make sure you actually do your exercises, and that’s why Cuddy left it up to me to sign off on it.” House finishes his final rep, then throws the ball across the room. “There, see? Was that really so bad?”
He rolls his shoulders in small circles, wincing. “You know, I’d actually be in less pain if you weren’t making me do this.”
Smiling, she gives him a firm clap on the shoulder, which elicits an enthusiastic “ow” from its owner. “No, House,” she says wryly, “you’d be in less pain if you used your cane correctly.”
He retrieves the object in question from where it’s leaning against the wall, then waves it threateningly in the air. “Go bend over that counter and I’ll show you how correctly I can use this baby,” he grumbles right back.
Being the one to handle all his bureaucratic affairs, Cameron knew everything about House’s office. She had long already memorized his preferred brand of gum, tucked away into the left corner of the first drawer. Unlike Chase and Foreman, she knew about the workplace-unsafe magazines taped to the underside of the desk. She knew exactly where to find the hidden slingshot no doubt intended for use on either Cuddy or Wilson. She could easily recite the titles of House’s hollow books: one housing a secret stash of vicodin and the other half flask of whiskey (far too sour for her own tastes). In the glove box of her car, she even kept a small pile of the most sincere thank you letters House had ever received from patients—letters he would no doubt have thrown away if he’d ever bothered to read his mail; even if their real recipient would never know about their contents, it made Cameron feel warm inside to know she wasn’t crazy—that others in the world could come to admire the brilliant doctor too.
For each minute little detail she discovered about House during her secret explorations, she had a whole litany of fantasies. Her mind was like a storybook, capturing hundreds of mundane moments that had never really happened: small snapshots of intimacy, banter, vulnerability, and romance that would probably never be. At times, it worried her that her admiration for her world-renowned boss might be edging dangerously close to the point of no return. But even the world of fantasy was better than her empty, lifeless apartment.
That particular night, there was something new waiting for her. Even in the dim light, her eyes landed on it immediately as she approached the desk. Draped over the back of his chair, innocuous but so tantalizingly novel, was House’s jacket.
The first thing she did was run her hands across the smooth fabric. For a suit jacket, there was nothing particularly exciting about it. There was hardly a crease on it, no doubt a feature of its material rather than of its owner’s superior ironing abilities.
For a brief instant, she wondered what it would be like to be such a jacket, hugging the doctor’s strong shoulders tight and draping across the contours of his torso. However a second, more curious thought occurred to her as she lifted the garment off its perch and wrapped it around her own frame, inhaling deeply as she did so.
One of the pockets rattled, no doubt housing a bottle of vicodin. But Cameron didn’t feel compelled to worry about it as she breathed in the rich scent of House’s skin, tantalizingly familiar. Immediately, she was transported to another place: a chilly autumn afternoon, made tolerable only by stray beams of sunlight filtering through orange tree leaves. In her mind’s eye, House’s expression was much the same as the weather—distant and cool, with a tantalizing something flickering through his steely blue irises.
“Hey,” he rumbles, tilting his chin a little like he’s giving a nod. “It’s 43 degrees out, aren’t you cold?”
Allison hugs her arms even tighter to her chest; it serves the dual function of signaling both cold and defiance. “Of course not,” she lies. It’s obvious that it’s a lie, but what else can she do?
House sighs—or maybe it’s more like a huff of exasperation—and stops in his tracks. Allison halts her own slow steps as well and looks up at him.
His lips are slightly pursed, his eyes narrowed. For one long moment, all he does is stare, eyes flickering back and forth between hers. Then he thrusts his cane out towards her. “Here, hold this for a second.”
By reflex, she reaches out for it. As soon as her fingers wrap around the smooth, polished wood, he moves. He shrugs his jacket off with ease, and then it only takes a single hobbled step for him to close the gap between them. In one fluid motion, he flips the garment around and drapes it across Allison’s slim frame so it hugs her shoulders.
The sudden warmth against her bare arms sends a shiver down her spine, or maybe it’s the intoxicating musky smell clinging to the fabric. She nearly drops the cane in surprise. Her body quivers like a leaf about to fall.
“H—House,” she stammers, mouth falling agape. “Wha—? Why are you…?”
Her words falter as his large, warm hand strokes her forearm. “You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, staring intently into her eyes. “Just look at you, you’re covered in goosebumps.”
It’s true, of course, but the number of goosebumps peppering her skin are dramatically more than they were a minute ago.
Allison shakes her head and begins to protest. She tries to shrug the jacket off, but House’s hands grab the lapels and bring them together, enveloping her snugly in the body-warmed fabric.
“Just… let me do this for you,” the stoic man grumbles. There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes Allison’s knees weak.
Wordlessly, she nods.
House’s jacket—the real one in his office—felt icy compared to the one in Cameron’s imagination. But as she hugged it tighter around herself, it absorbed her body heat, warming up in no time.
Feeling snug and coy, she wandered over to the lounge chair and collapsed into it, flipping the jacket so it draped over her torso like a blanket. Its lining was silky smooth against her skin and she couldn’t help but wonder for a fleeting moment whether House would miss it if she took it home with her. But instead of entertaining the thought further, she bundled her fists into the lapels and brought the fabric to her nose, drawing in lungfuls of House’s heady scent until she felt lightheaded and relaxed.
The pockets didn’t contain any particularly interesting finds—only a bottle of vicodin, a pen, and a snipped half of a tie that she recognized as Wilson’s. She shook her head at the clear evidence of some inane prank, but at the same time she couldn’t help but smile inwardly; House’s inability to act professional was a constant source of frustration, yet the thought of Wilson sputtering in outrage over his ruined tie was rather amusing.
Even without whatever secret love letter or old crumpled photo she had vaguely hoped to find deep in the depths of House’s jacket, the night still felt like a victory for Cameron. She couldn’t deny that sitting there in his chair, wrapped by darkness and the smooth fabric of his clothing, felt enchanting. For just a moment, it was like being the object of his stony affection, being held against his strong chest. With a sigh, she leaned back into the cushions of the lounge chair and let her eyes flutter shut.
There’s a loud rap on the glass. Allison jolts awake, the jacket slipping into her lap. She’s bleary-eyed and confused, and it takes a moment for her to remember where she is.
House is standing by the door, his cane raised. He smacks it once again against the glass, making Allison wince at the noise. Then he flicks on the lights.
“H—House,” she grumbles, rubbing at her eyes. “What are you doing here this late?”
His cane lowers to the ground and he takes a limped step forward. “I could ask you the same question,” he retorts, then gestures towards her. “Forgot my jacket here.”
Allison blinks at her makeshift blanket. Then she remembers.
Heat rises to her face and she finds herself rather hastily jumping to her feet. “Wait, I didn’t— I wasn’t— It’s not what you think!” she splutters. Her anxious protests ooze with embarrassment.
A funny kind of smirk crosses over House’s face. He continues his approach until he’s standing just inches away from his doe-eyed fellow. “You didn’t what?” he teases, staring down at her. “Sneak back into the hospital to snuggle my jacket?”
The bright red flush gives her away. “No, of course— That would be unprofessional— I had a bit of work I needed to—”
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down and picks the garment up off the seat of the lounge chair, then drapes it over his arm. “Relax. Chase and Foreman definitely don’t need to know about this one.”
But his voice is sardonic and his lips remain curled upwards. He turns to leave, but Allison finds herself reaching for him, grabbing at the tail of his untucked shirt. “House, wait.”
He turns back around, his pale eyes twinkling. “Oh, I am so never going to let you live this down,” he sings.
That’s when she grabs his collar and pulls him down into a fierce kiss.
Cameron jolted awake, her heart racing. It wasn’t the first time she had ever dreamt about mustering up the courage to kiss House, but something about having that dream after accidentally falling asleep in his office felt all the more shameful. She took inventory of her surroundings: it was still dark and quiet, and the blinds were still drawn around the room; there was plenty of time to slip out and head home before the hospital would fill with people once again.
She breathed a sigh of relief and moved to push the jacket off herself so she could put it back in its rightful place. But instead of the jacket’s silky lining, her hands filled with the cheap cotton of one of the hospital’s patient blankets.
For a moment, she could only sit there, stunned. Then, she frantically patted the seat around her, somehow expecting the jacket to be nearby. But as the sleep cleared from her brain and her search came up empty, she realized: the jacket was nowhere in sight. There was only the scratchy blanket that had replaced it around her sleeping frame instead.