Disclaimer: I don't own House or any of his employees, much to my own dismay.

He was hiding in the lab. Still angry, his hands shook so badly that the delicate vials and tubes of blood and DNA trembled when his hands met the shelf. His skin was dark against the white countertop, and he sneered at it.

Chase danced into his head, flawlessly pale skin, shining, her knight in shining armor, her white knight, looking at her with that self-assured smile while he told her he loved her. And Forman had been there, standing in the door, stunned as she returned that smile, repeated his words back to him before brushing her lips against his.

He couldn’t shake the image of Chase's perfect blond hair mingling with her long, dark tresses, Chase’s elegant surgeon’s hands clutching her belt loops, pulling her close to him, pressing his hips to hers. Of Chase's eyes skittering over to meet Forman's as his lips moved against Cameron's, a hint of a smile in them, impossibly smug.

He hated them both.

He hated Chase for reaching out and taking what Forman had not been able to, had not been brave enough to. He hated Chase for being breathtakingly handsome in that boyish way, for being so damaged after the death of his father, for looking at Cameron from underneath those thick lashes and letting her see his tears. He hated him for manipulating her perfectly, for pushing all those buttons in precisely the right order, the combination that made her melt into his arms, offer up her beautiful lips for kissing.

He hated Cameron for being so easily manipulated. He hated her for offering up herself, her body, to comfort Chase. He hated her for loving House and lusting over Chase, and offering Forman nothing but cool rhetoric and the occasional smile.

The night in the bar came rushing back too quickly, and he was reliving it before he could stop himself.

Chase had drawn the short straw, and they’d left him behind at the hospital to finish the paperwork. Forman and Cameron had changed into street clothes, shedding the white coats like snakes shedding skin, and emerged into the wintry street for their customary drink.

Most nights, after they solved a case, all three of them would meet and drink and commiserate over House’s attitude and laugh over his various antics. Only this time, Chase was left behind, and Forman finally has his chance.

Her body was warm beside his as they trudged through the snow. Her hand dangled, mitten-less, inches from his. No effort was needed to reach out and enfold her icy fingers in his own, but Forman was nothing but a gentleman when it came to women…or at least, when it came to Cameron. He needed permission, but the necessary words came awkwardly to his suddenly clumsy tongue, and they were outside the bar before he had a chance to do anything but blush in the darkness as she chattered away.

Perhaps if he’d been sober, things would have gone differently. He threw back several strong drinks before working up the courage to approach the topic he’d been dreaming about since the day he and Cameron first locked eyes. But he was nervous, half-drunk, and Chase could join them at any moment, and panic forced the words clumsily from his lips.

She flinched before she could stop herself, and that one, involuntary gesture caused him more pain then he’d ever admit.

And she then she took a sip of her drink, holding the liquor in her mouth for a moment, as if trying to buy herself time. As if he would ever try to rush her. Forman was not that sort of man. The silence stretched itself thin, until Cameron’s voice shattered it.

She rejected him.

In her defense, she hadn’t meant to break him. She was shockingly naïve, unaware of the way people responded to her. She was used to dealing with damaged, broken men, and was unaware of how insulting her veiled phrases of rejection pierced him like knives. Had he been House, or Chase, he would have interpreted those fragments of sentences differently, finding hope where there was none. But he was neither of them, and her pity stabbed like the edge of a knife.

“Why?” He asked, hating the pleading arch to the word. She smiled, and offered what she apparently thought to be a consolation, a compliment.

“You’re safe.” She murmured.

Perhaps she’d meant to continue, to further explain herself. But her eyes fixed on a figure behind him, beautiful eyes widening in pleasure as their conversation faded from her. Nothing but a dream, something she wouldn’t have to think of again.

And when she called out to Chase to join them, he ordered another drink, then another, trying to drown his pain.

The memory cut worse now than it did then, and he scowled at the tubes in front of him, as if the test results were at fault.

Safe.

He sneered at the word, wondering what she thought she meant by that. As if Chase were so dangerous. As if House were so dangerous.

But after working with her for so long, he realized the danger she saw in broken men, the thrill House and Chase presented. The seductive offer to act as savior, as redemption. It drew her like moth to flame, and he hated her for it.

The gentle hiss of the door moving in its track alerted him to company, and he turned, settling the tubes in their holder before placing it on the counter.

Cameron.

Her eyes were wide as she read his mood. She was good at that, reading people. Reading men who didn’t wish to be read. It was most likely how she dealt with people like House, he assumed, and the realization did nothing to ease his anger. She slid the door closed behind her, and for a moment all was silent. Then she licked her lips, and shattered it.

“Forman, we didn’t mean for you to see that.” She said quietly, and he wanted to snarl at her, take her pity and shove it back at her, see how she liked that. But he contained himself, shrugging as he replied, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” She insisted, hands crossed behind her back. She was in street clothes, jeans and a slim-fitted blazer over a t-shirt, and he knew she must be on her way out, to meet Chase. It was like that first night, Forman realized, only he and Chase had switched roles. Foreman had drawn the short straw on purpose, trying to allow himself time to calm down, to rationalize before subjecting himself to this agony.

For all her intuition, Cameron hadn’t seen that. Or she’d seen it, and didn’t care. She could be incredibly selfish, her own need to justify her actions often robbing others of their right to be angry, to hate her.

She couldn’t stand the idea of people not falling at her feet when she floated down the hall, the idea that people wouldn’t look at her like the saint she thought she was.

He pinned her with his harsh glare, demanding, “What does he have that I don’t?”

“Forman, I’ve told you—” She began, but he cut her off, voice finally dropping into a snarl.

“I’m safe.” He spat, and drew close to her, invading her personal space. It wasn’t something he did to her often. In fact, he could only remember two specific moments when he’d been this close to her. It unsettled her, a hot blush painting her cheeks. Cameron liked everyone at arm’s length, and the only time anyone was allowed closer was when she decided she wanted them closer. She was a closet control freak, Cameron, and while Forman usually tried to at least play along, today, he was past caring what she did or did not want.

For once, this needed to be about what he wanted.

“I’m safe, and that scares you.” He breathed, then hurled the pent up words at her like stones. “Because for once, you’d be having a relationship with an equal. Someone that you wouldn’t have to fix, or take care of, and maybe you would have to admit that you need to be taken care of yourself. And you know I’d take damn good care of you. And you’re terrified; you’re a coward, because you’ll take all the chances in the world on screwed up men like House and little lost boys like Chase pretends to be, but me…”

He hesitated for a brief moment, caught by the unexpected tears welling in her eyes. He shouldn’t be surprised by her emotion. Cameron was overtly emotional. She was the one who wept over every lost patient, who felt everyone else’s pain far too deeply for her own good. She ripped herself to shreds over House and Chase, and sometimes Forman thought she must be a masochist to keep putting herself through that kind of pain.

But it wasn’t enough to keep him quiet.

“We would have had a real relationship. Equals. Equally dependant. We would have been happy.”

She shook her head, not so much at his statement, but perhaps at their situation, at herself.

“You think I don’t know that?” She murmured. “You think I couldn’t see it from the first moment we met? You’re a good man, with strong convictions and intelligence, and you would have been perfect for me.”

“Then why?” He asked again, and she sighed.

“Because I can’t. Not while we’re here, with weaknesses all around me. I…you’re right about me, wanting to fix them. And I know myself well enough to know that I would get bored with you, when day after day you stood beside House and sat next to Chase, and I would be comparing and contrasting, and…and you’re safe, Forman. I know what I would be getting, and it would be perfect, if I were a different girl, or we worked in a different place.”

“Safe.” He spat, and laughed. “If you think I’m safe, you’re nowhere near as intelligent as House gives you credit for.”

He didn’t know why he did it. Perhaps to accentuate his point, perhaps to keep her from replying. But mostly, he suspected it was because he didn’t think he’d ever have this chance again.

He crushed his lips to hers, furious, hungry, passionate, and some dim part of his brain that wasn’t driven insane by the touch of her lips on his, was thinking about how Chase or House could walk into the lab at any moment. And he didn’t care.

The t-shirt she was wearing was composed of sheer fabric, and she was not wearing a bra. His hands found her nipples, and he kneaded them, bringing them erect as she gasped in pleasure. Tweaking them, rubbing them, pressing against them, each motion seemed to drive her more and more wild as she panted and gasped and arched her back to give him more access. Her long dark hair swirled wildly as she tossed her head back, and Forman felt the strands brush his skin, sending shivers down his spine. She smelt like flowers, roses or cherry blossoms, perhaps, and she was intoxicating.

And her hands were suddenly at his waist, threading under his lab coat to find skin. Pale, beautiful hands cool against his dark skin, and he wished he could pull away to see the effect, but he could not bring himself to pull his lips from hers. Not as long as she was cooperating like this, kissing him back, biting gently upon his lower lip as he swallowed each breathy sigh that escaped her.

He hoisted her upwards, her legs wrapping around his waist as her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. They overbalanced, mostly because Forman found that he could not concentrate when her tongue moved like that against his. He absorbed most of the impact, and she was on top, smirking down at him.

“In control again. You must be thrilled.” He observed, a smile dancing at the corner of his lips before she pressed her own to them.

She was beyond words, he realized as she rubbed herself against him. He slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, flipping her over as he did so. His free hand pinned both of her hands above her head, holding her immobile as he teased her clitoris. She let out a soft mewl of pleasure, eyes closed as she arched upwards.

This was not making love. This was fucking, because neither of them expected a second time. This was about speed and about passion and about his anger at her weakness. It was about Chase waiting in the hospital foyer, and it was about House playing electric guitar in his office. This was about showing her how much better he was than both of them combined.

This was about vindication.

He was hard, had been since the moment her lips touched his. But he asked her first, the tenderness in his eyes betraying the harshness of his actions, and tears streamed down her face as she begged him to do it, rolled on the condom, whispered his name over and over like a charm as he moved within her. She came first, but only because Forman held himself back, forced himself to slow down and spare himself more embarrassment. It was only when she was biting down hard on his lower lip that he joined her, muscles trembling as he spent himself.

She was shaking slightly as he rolled off of her, wondering if he should apologize. The implications of his actions were suddenly glaringly obvious. He turned to look at her, and found her already zippering up her jeans.

“Cameron…” He began, but his voice trailed away, unsure of how to proceed. She smiled sadly at him.

“When we leave this hospital, I’m leaving with you.” She promised, holding out her pinky.

It was ridiculously adorable, and Forman couldn’t help but chuckle at her innocence, despite what they had just done. He wrapped his own finger around hers, holding it for a moment while they stared at each other.

And then she was gone, vanishing out the door and leaving him sprawled on the lab floor with several unfinished tests to run and the taste of her lips on his. And he let her go, like he’d always done, and yet, this time was different. This time, he knew she was coming back.