FIC: Driftwood
TITLE: Driftwood
PLAYERS: Wilson/Cameron
RATING: Somewhere between R and NC-17.
IN BRIEF: Cameron has a different sort of proposal for Wilson.
WORDS: 1240




“Uh, Cameron, hi.” Wilson realizes just how ridiculous he sounds a couple of seconds too late to prevent awkwardly stammering at his uninvited guest.

First of all, he’s in jeans and the oldest, rattiest shirt in New Jersey -- and Cameron is dressed neatly in a tweed coat with tailored jeans and heels, a rose-colored scarf loosely flung around her neck and her hair swept off her face with a silver headband. Specifically, it looks like she’s dressed up for something.

“House… isn’t here,” Wilson guesses, still confused, stepping aside a little so she is able to see the vacant hotel room behind him.

“I know,” she says easily. She then gestures into the room, “Mind if I…?”

He shakes his head and makes a sweeping gesture inward, opting for civility while he struggles to figure out what on earth she’s doing at his hotel. Frowning, he watches her procrastinate with getting to the point of her visit by walking a leisurely circuit of his room and examining various fixtures.

“Is something wrong?” he prompts her eventually as he closes the door; she doesn’t look at all distressed, but he hopes that it will lead to a discussion about what’s going on.

“I just broke up with Chase,” she says matter-of-factly, her expression completely neutral. She trails delicate fingers along the wallpaper.

He nods once, more of a confirmation that he’s heard her rather than an indication he’s following the conversation. “And,” he circles his wrist in a gesture for her to continue, “you… want to talk about it?”

She presses her lips together, eyebrows arched. “No.”

“Huh,” Wilson says, before waving a hand in the air. “Look, is it something about House? Because if he’s forcing patients to solve his Rubik's cube before he‘ll treat them again, I‘ll…” Her chuckle makes the sentence die away on his lips.

She flops down on the end of his bed, smoothing the blankets around her with flat palms. Eventually, she looks curiously at him. “Do you know what sort of relationship I had with Chase?”

“I assume the type where you hang out after work, see movies, get pizza…” he starts sarcastically, until her expression chastises him. He opts to answer genuinely. “I gather not a very fulfilling one, if you’ve broken up with him.”

She shrugs. “I got what I needed from him.”

Wilson starts to feel very uncomfortable. Shifting his weight, he crosses his arms just in case he inadvertently ends up wiping moist palms on his jeans in a way that is obvious to her. “A casual relationship, then,” he concludes.

She nods, leaning back onto her hands in a manner which is intended to be seductive, especially with the solid gaze she’s fixed him. “It’s all I’m interested in.” It’s a far cry from the blushing fellowship applicant he remembers interviewing three years ago, he thinks as she continues, “I have a proposal for you.”

“They don’t generally go well for me,” Wilson reminds her, glancing back at the door. It’s going to be awkward, and he’d almost rather just leave than be forced to hurt her feelings.

“From what I hear, they go a little too well for you,” she grins, unfazed by his obvious hedging. “So, what do you say?” She presents herself to him with a smile, which is probably supposed to be alluring, but only successfully achieves cute.

Wilson swallows. “First of all,” he says, gesticulating, “despite the elaborate rumors House spreads about me being a Casanova, I’m not. Secondly, casual sex with someone you work with is universally a bad idea.” He realizes what he’s just accused her of and quickly adds, “Which I’m sure you’ve just discovered.”

Cameron’s little smirk suggests she’s actually finding his discomfort entertaining. “You told me yourself that you’ve cheated, and we don’t really work together.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, deliberating whether or not he should pull out the big guns. Eventually he opts to be direct rather than prolong the discomfort. “I’m sorry, Cameron. You’re an attractive and intelligent woman, but I’m just not interested in a relationship with you.”

She rises confidently from the bed. “Good,” she says resolutely, approaching him at a swagger. “Then this won’t get complicated.”

Before Wilson is able to stop her, Cameron’s slender hands are clutching either side of his jaw, and she’s pulling him downward into a firm, open kiss. Over her shoulder he can see the newsreader narrating some sort of natural disaster on the muted TV, and the whole scene complete with Cameron moving passionately at his lips feels incredibly surreal.

Then, as abruptly as she started kissing him, Cameron pulls away. A mischievous smile reminiscent of The Grinch creeps along her cheeks and she takes a fistful of his shirt, swings him to face the bed, and then pushes him roughly back onto it. He lies helplessly prone as she flings off her coat and climbs onto him, palms on his chest.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks disingenuously, thumbs mapping his collarbones as she sits heavily on his hips.

He stares at her, acutely aware of the crotch of her jeans weighing on the front of his own, and figuring he’ll probably end up with an inadvertent erection within a couple of minutes. “Cameron,” he begins, unsure how to address the fact that the woman on top of him is a very different person than he’d calculated her to be. “We should,” he falters, “I mean, this isn’t…” Actually, as fate would have it, his erection makes an appearance much earlier than expected. “Ignore that,” he tells her as she glances down toward it, “it has bad judgment and gets me into trouble.”

“That sounds kind of like a yes,” she says, grinning. “Look on the bright side: you get sex that won’t lead to another failed marriage.”

“Right. Because before it has the chance to blow up in our faces, House will kill me.”

“He won’t find out. I’m a good liar, and so are you.” It’s bizarre, being lectured on deception by Miss Morality 2005. He has a sinking feeling that her time spent in House’s guidance may have been a fabulous career move, but the worst possible thing she could have done for herself otherwise. He ponders this for all of twenty seconds while she undoes the buttons of his shirt.

Leaning down, she drags her lips across his chest, circling a nipple with her tongue and pinching it briefly between her teeth. It feels clinical, jarring, and far too sudden. The whole affair has the air of a business transaction. “Cameron,” he says, “this isn’t going to work.”

“I haven’t even started!” she complains with a smile, sliding down his body in a way that draws the fabric of his jeans against his erection. He inhales sharply.

Putting his hands over his eyes, he makes a frustrated growling noise in the back of his throat.

Her lips reach his lower belly: warm, slow and sensual. Her tongue swirls the sparse hair about the hem of his jeans into a curl. When he hears the zipper on his jeans and feels her warm, confident mouth breath hot air through the cotton of his briefs, he lifts his hands off his eyes and stares helplessly at the ceiling.

Oh, Crap, he thinks, and realizes he’s somehow gotten into another mess.