Disclaimer: House MD (and all references herein) remains the property of Fox. Not me.

XIV.

Cameron pulled out her shorts from in-between the cushions on the couch and held them up between finger and thumb. A crumpled mess.

She checked the antique clock on the wall: 10.45am. Noon was creeping up slowly.

She had to get out of there.

She walked quickly into the bedroom and located the Stones t-shirt he'd leant her the previous night, tangled up amongst the bed sheets. She pulled it on and then looked around for her underwear. Gone.

She said a silent apology into the still room and pulled open a couple of drawers in the wardrobe. Looking for something to wear.

Settling on a pair of his jeans, she pulled them up over her naked butt and stood staring at herself in the long mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. She grabbed a belt that hung on a small hook and managed to cinch them in at the waist so that she looked almost cool.

She paused at her reflection. A teenager again. Big baggy jeans, an old band t-shirt. Sneaking about. Not wanting to get caught. Not ready to face up to the responsibility of it all.

She wondered about writing a note, but what could she say?

Sorry House. We are doomed. You are right. (You always are)

She couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd respond to that.

You're weak. You're pathetic.

She knew all of that anyway.

She located a rubber band in a kitchen drawer and pulled her hair back from her face, securing it as best she could.

Her cell phone rang and she paused, seeing the diagnostics number flash up. House? Maybe she could tell him how she felt over the phone. Not having to look into his blue eyes was the cowards' way out but that's what she needed.

"Hello?"

"Hey Cameron."

"Hi Foreman," She relaxed a little and then remembered that she was supposed to be sick, "I was just in bed." – at least it wasn't quite a lie.

"Yeah, sorry to call you. He filed all of my case notes yesterday," Foreman whispered, through gritted teeth, "and I can't find a damn thing."

She frowned, since when did she become the queen of filing? On the other hand, it was the perfect excuse to leave his apartment.

"Right," She mused, "So you want me to get up off my sick bed and drive into work just so I can help you locate these files?"

"You could just direct me over the phone." Foreman replied.

"It's ok," Cameron said quickly. She was famous for her martyrdom, now was not the time to let that halo slip, "I can be there just before noon."

She figured this gave her enough time to walk home, change out of House's clothes and get to the hospital. Hopefully, he'd be on his way back home by then and their paths wouldn't cross.

She snapped her phone shut and moved back to the lounge to pull on her sneakers.

Just as she was bending over to tie her laces, the door behind her opened.

She paused – a rabbit caught in the headlights – as House stopped and leant against the doorframe enjoying the view.

She stood up. Span around and managed to murmur: "Hi."

He looked her over and shut the door behind him, resting on his cane and cocking his head to the side: "Going somewhere?"

"You're back early," She muttered, nervously scratching the back of her neck.

His eyes flashed darkly, "I left 15 clinic patients waiting so that I could get back here."

"You hate clinic patients," She said readjusting her hair.

He took a step forward. His tongue resting on his bottom lip, deep in thought.

"I –" She began. She took a deep breath. "I'm going into work. Foreman needs me."

"Right," He watched her move around him and edge towards the door. He let her reach for the handle before he spoke:

"Because we have no cases."

"It's about your filing," she said looking at the thick wood of the door.

"Right," he said again. Not sarcastically. Not anything.

She felt him move behind her: "I didn't know it was 'Dress Like Doctor House Day'."

He reached out his hand and grabbed the back pocket of her jeans – his jeans – gripping the material as his fingers turned white.

She stared hard at the door, addressing it, rather than him: "I need to get away. Just for a little while."

"Are you afwaid?" he said in a silly voice.

She turned around, knocking his hand away, her eyes flashing:

"As a matter of fact: yes. Yes I am afraid. Just because we know it's going to end in us both getting really hurt – and let's me honest, that's the only way this thing could end – it doesn't make it any less scary. It doesn't mean that my feelings are any less…"

His eyes: amused? Sad? Melancholy? What? She couldn't put her finger on it. She stared into them for a moment. Managing to stop herself from falling back into the simplicity of touching, kissing, feeling him.

"What scared you the most?" He said quietly, taking her hand before she could resist.

"I tell you so you can mock me?"

"No." he said, rubbing his thumb gently across the inside of her palm, "You tell me so that you won't walk out the door and beat yourself up because you didn't."

She could feel tears start to prick at her eyes. She quickly looked down so that he wouldn't see that she was crying. She drew nearer to him speaking into his chest.

"It was the daisy chain. And the muffin –" She sniffled into his shirt, "I mean, why would you do that? It was so…nice."

His cane fell to the ground and he brought his hands up to cup her face, forcing her to look at him.

"I don't know." He said calmly, brushing her lips with his own, kissing her slowly and softly, his stubble brushing gently against her, his tongue tentatively finding hers and setting the rhythm of pushing and pulling, tangling and uniting.

A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her face. She tasted its saltiness as it mingled in their kiss.

You can't leave now.