Title: That Place Where Footprints Disappear
Prompt: 2.25 - Imprint
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own House MD.
Beta: Thanks so much to GabbyAbby for looking this over.
Summary: He was standing on her doorstep and all he could hear was the voice in his head whispering "mistake". Sequel to I Guess We Really Need To Move On and Chasing Ghosts with Alcohol.

"Talk about a sunset, all I could see were purples and reds, and her silhouette saying goodbye," - Cool Thing by Rascal Flatts

He doesn't do long walks on the beach. He doesn't do candlelit dinners followed by cuddling on the couch to a romantic movie. He doesn't have any pick-up lines or charming stories. His last date, if you could call it that, was happy to do without the charm and small talk, after he tucked the fifty into the front pocket of her pleather pants.

Cameron (Allison, when he dares to call her that) wanted these things. Or at least he convinced himself she did. She certainly deserved them. And his inner voice wouldn't let him forget it. Mistake, it kept whispering harshly. It only got louder and louder as he waited for her to open the door.

Great, he was hearing voices. Schizophrenia was probably the last thing he needed then.

"Shut Up," he wanted to scream back at that voice. But it did nothing to quell his doubts. He took another deep breath and tried to reason with himself.

Another voice (should he be worried?), the one that probably made him get on the plane in the first place, whispered that she already knew he wouldn't make any of those silly gestures. She wasn't expecting him to be standing on her doorstep with roses and chocolates after all.

She wasn't expecting him at all.

When Cameron first opened the door, she didn't know what to say. Was he really there? But he looked so real, felt so real, that she let herself believe that he was more than just another one of her sleep-addled fantasies. And in that moment, everything was ok. That not so simple act of showing up had told her more than any of those other silly gestures could.

It only took the first touch for her worries to fade to black, but his were still there. He wished she would've said something; because he couldn't. Almost five hundred dollars for a plane ticket; this was one expensive mistake, the voice in his head kept repeating (god, that one sounded like his mother, maybe he should see a shrink). He couldn't even read the emotion in her eyes. Had this been the right choice?

House tapped his cane against the door awkwardly before deciding to just go for it. He hadn't come all this way to grace her doorstep like a broken garden gnome. House reached out and pulled her into a kiss. He had no words for her, so that had better have been enough.

It was.

The touch of his lips broke Cameron out of her shock and she responded almost immediately. She pulled him into her apartment and closed the door behind them. It was one hell of a first (second?) kiss.

He pushed them backwards, trying to find a hard surface to lean against. But, they only stumbled, bumped into a coat rack and then decorative table in the entryway, still kissing. Why the hell did she have so much furniture? For all his finesse over the phone, he was lost here. There was something to be said about home court advantage, but he wouldn't tell her that (she hated sports metaphors).

House broke the kiss and stared down at her. Her eyes were wild with a tumble of emotions and her hair was mussed from his hands. It had been too long, and he could feel every I've missed you in her wandering touch.

She tugged him back a few steps, and they tumbled onto the couch. Cameron claimed his mouth again when they landed; she just couldn't stop kissing him. She tugged his shirt off, and he followed suit. House reached behind her to find her bra clasp; he wanted to feel her bare skin against his.

His fingers felt clumsy and twice as big as he struggled to undo it. (They wouldn't have changed these things since the last time he did this, would they?) He swore under his breath and she tried not to laugh. Instead, she took pity on him and released the hooks herself. His hands instantly went to tease the newly revealed skin and she whimpered into his touch.

She tried to pull him closer, but he moved a bit, turning, and they both tumbled off the couch. This time she couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling out. House tried to glare at her but it probably didn't come out as strong as he would have liked. She was straddling him, half-naked, and it didn't matter how many things them bumped into (or fell off) as long as they were really there. It was still hard to believe that they were doing this.

He leaned up to capture her mouth in another heady kiss. She wasn't laughing anymore, he smirked.

"Bedroom," she gasped out. She helped him up, but then let go of his hand. They wouldn't make it to her bedroom if they kept touching. But, House planed on making up for it as soon as he had her lying down. He was not wasting any more time.

They spent most of the three days he was there in her bed. He's missed her more than he wanted to admit. The actuality of being there, instead of just hearing her far away voice, was so much better than he could have imagined.

House woke up the first morning more comfortable than usual. His pill bottle was not on the nightstand (he can't remember the last time he didn't have vicodin within arm's reach and that scared him as much as she does).

On the second day, he woke up with her curled around him and didn't even mind that what they were doing something that could technically be considered cuddling. It felt too good. She seemed to fit so perfectly against him. He couldn't remember what it was like to wake up alone, or when was the last time he actually cuddled, for that matter.

That pesky voice came back and started screaming that he run (or hobble really fast) for it, before she decided that she needed something shiny on her finger and a white picket fence to keep their two (point three) kids and dog from running across a busy intersection. He untangled himself from her embrace before he could think about it more.

He limped to the bathroom (god knows where his cane was) and splashed some water on his face, tried to wash those dangerous thoughts away. Sure, he could pull his usual self-preservation shtick, but really, what good would it be now? He didn't want to think that his heart was already too involved.

From the bathroom mirror, he saw her reflection. Cameron was still sleeping peacefully, her arm outstretched to the spot he had occupied. The thin sheet was doing a lousy job at hiding the curves he spent all of the previous day memorizing and that was all it took for him to want her again.

He turned back to the bedroom; he hoped to silence the voice further. He had a return ticket for the next morning and he couldn't really decide if it was too soon, or way too late. But those thoughts were for later. Right then he had more important matters to deal with, like waking up Sleeping Beauty. Besides, if he played his cards right, he would probably be able to convince her to make waffles (and there is no way he'd raise kids dumb enough to play in traffic anyway).

During breakfast, they decided that they both needed a change of scenery. What House wasn't saying was that he needed something, anything, to keep it from getting too serious (like it wasn't there already) and Cameron could tell. There was something about the way he woke her up. Those soft kisses were more intimate than any of the others they shared.

There was something in air the since then, something they both weren't saying. Maybe if they got away from that bedroom, they could both forget those kisses (it wasn't very likely). Maybe if they got away, they would both stop feeling the need to run.

So Cameron brought him down to the boardwalk. He made the requisite comments about him getting stuck in the sand, but she just rolled her eyes and told him this was the best place in town to get hot dogs. House didn't want to call it a date; he hated that word. It always seemed to mess him up.

It was just food, free in fact, because he made her pay. When they wandered over to the arcade, it was just two friends (lovers) goofing around. It felt so natural to harass her because she sucked at pinball, and so natural to get harassed back because she was better at skee-ball than he was.

He bought her ice cream, but that wasn't a date-like gesture either. It was just because it was there, and he wanted to watch her eat it (he'd never be able to look at a cone innocently again). The show was worth every penny, and after the last bite he dragged her back to her apartmentcomplaining they had been out of bed way too long.

He was sure their cabbie must have noticed something because he kept giving them dirty looks in the rear view mirror. But, Cameron couldn't make herself care, not with House's hand resting high on her thigh. She was too busy trying to stifle the gasps that were trying to bubble out as his fingers traced lazy patterns on the inside of her thigh.

She was in such a haze, that she barely noticed when the cab stopped and House shoved the fair at the cabbie before yanking her out. He couldn't get enough of touching her, his hand rested on the small of her back and he wished that she wasn't wearing so many clothes. She looks much better without them.

The elevator was (thankfully) on the ground floor. And even before the doors closed, his mouth was one hers. They were groping each other like teenagers and it had been too long since he was able to do this. But, he didn't want to think about that either (and couldn't actually with her tongue doing that thing it does).

Gregory House did not date. So why was it that it had felt so much like one? (There was even a kiss on her doorstep) Would it really be their third? He'd lost count. And why was it that he was sort-of, kind-of, really glad to be with her? Nothing good could come from this, the voice in his head mocked (maybe Wilson had the name of a good shrink). All he had to do now was sit back, and wait for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe, she would be their waiting with him.

He couldn't believe that he was the one that made that first step. And all he had was three days. Three days where he could pretend that he (they) wasn't as screwed up as he thought he (they) was. Did he really want to walk away from this? Could he?

Their goodbye was awkward at the end of the weekend. He was kind of silent, shuffling around and not knowing where to look, as she busied herself with making him a travel mug of coffee and making sure he had enough reading material for the long ride.

She wanted to say something, anything to show him that she was glad he came. She didn't know if she would ever be able to have someone's hands on her body without thinking of him, surrounding her, touching her, making her feel complete.

Cameron insisted on driving him to the airport and the whole time they were silent.

They hugged at the gate, both of them lingering longer than necessary. There was no declaration of eternal love, or any of that other mushy romance novel crap. Just hands that couldn't get enough of each other.

The ride back to her apartment was lonelier than she expected. It had been just three days and yet her apartment (life) felt empty without him.

Cameron found the job application on her dining room table when she got home. She was so drained that she almost didn't pay any attention to it. But there it was, filled out with his handwriting, (she recognized the sharp r's and jumbled t's ) instead of just a photocopy of her last one. There was a sticky note on top that read: You've been gone four hundred and thirty-seven days; you've got a lot of mail to catch up on.

Cameron was surprised. She didn't even think he knew where she left the sticky notes.