disclaimer: i don't own House. damn.

but OMG listen to the song "I'm On My Way" by Rich Price when reading this. it's such a good song and it reminded me of someone running through an airport and trying to get to someone. So, i decided (at two am) to write a House fic based just on that.


"I hope you're proud of yourself."

House paused, iPod halfway into his messenger bag and head still down. "I am, actually." He stood up and put his iPod away, drawing himself to his full height and looking curiously at Wilson. "Although I should probably ask why you say that."

The sandy haired man was standing in the middle of House's office, arms crossed and feet spread, his body language letting House know that there was no way in hell that he was going to let his friend out of the office without a fight.

Unfortunately for Wilson, there was another door. House, of course, realized this much sooner and Wilson was soon dashing in front of the door as House hobbled towards it.

"Seven weeks," Wilson informed him, lifting up seven fingers and wagging them in House's face. "She's only been here for seven weeks, and it's already happened."

House pushed the other man's hand away, glaring cooly at him. "I assure you," he snapped. "That even if I knew what you were talking about, I still wouldn't care. Let me go."

"Oh no," Wilson laughed. "Oh no no no no no. See, you don't get to do the running away thing. Nuh uh. Not anymore, House." He took a step back. "See, she and I are actually friends, and we talk about things. We talk about how her day went, how she's doing, how I'm doing, and we talk about how much of a bastard we think you are. So one night, about…oh, say…seven weeks ago, she shows up at my front door, crying her made-up eyes out and I have to explain to my almost ex wife why in the hell there's a gorgeous woman clinging to me on my doorstep, sobbing her eyes out."

"Wonderful," House said gruffly. "So you're mauled by a woman. Can I go home now?"

"No," said his friend shortly. "Because this time it's different, Greg. This time I'm not going to root for you to get the girl, because for all I know, Cameron's already at the airport."

House, who had been on his way across the room, paused, and looked dangerously at Wilson from over his shoulder. "Airport?" he muttered. "What the hell are you even talking about?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" Wilson asked brightly, arms now akimbo. "She gave her two weeks notice two weeks ago. She's transferring to San Francisco, and her flight leaves today. So you see," he called out as House hurried past him and down the hall. "There's not a lot that you can do! She's gone, House, and you let her go." He watched as his friend made his stumbling way towards his car, and then sped off in the opposite direction of his home.

The same direction that, perhaps coincidentally, led to the airport.

Wilson smirked. "Go get 'em."

000

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER…

House cursed for about the millioneth time as he tried to make his way through the busy terminal. "What?" he snapped at an elderly woman, who was constantly giving him withering glances. She looked away quickly at his outburst, and didn't look at him again.

House continued to stare moodily in front of him. Who the hell did she think she was; running away like this. She had fucking promised to come to stay, and here she was, tucking tail and getting as far away from him as poss—

He paused, mid-thought. He had never thought of it that way: she was getting away from him. She wasn't running away from her feelings for him, she wasn't running away from the hospital…

She was running from him…him and his sarcastic quips and emotional incapability. Him, with the power to trample all niceness and goodness that she had ever offered him.

Him…the guy who could suppress any emotion he felt towards her and tried to see how far he could push her without making her go away.

Apparently, his calculations were despairingly wrong.

000

THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER….

Cameron sighed as she disinterestedly flipped through her People magazine. The articles about the recent engagement to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes did nothing for her, and she was beginning to experience regret.

No, she told herself firmly, this is a good thing. If you leave, he can't hurt you anymore. If you leave…he won't be there. She shut her eyes, the statement almost changing her mind completely. She looked out the window, wondering when the plane would come in. Glancing at her watch, she decided that she had just enough time to sit down for a cup of coffee.

As she walked towards Starbucks, she stared out the window sadly, and watched the dark gray clouds roll in.

000

THIRTY MINUTES LATER…

House glanced up at the electronic boards, scanning the letters with his eyes to figure out what flight Cameron would be taking. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he muttered. "Show me San Francisco…" His eyes lit up when they happened upon the destination. "A-23," he said, hurrying away. "Got it."

Ten minutes later, he found himself out of breath and with a sore hand as he passed by A-19. He paused, leaning against a column. He glanced down at his watch and cursed, realizing that he only had a few minutes before they would possibly start boarding. He limped as fast as he could to the four gates down, and came to a halt in front of A-23.

He gulped, watching as people loaded onto the plane.

He had missed her.

He pursed his lips, hanging his head and turning in defeat, attempting to keep his tears at bay. He bumped into someone carrying a cup of coffee, and muttered out, "Sorry."

"No, it…Jesus…it's okay."

House stopped, turning around at the familiar voice. There, with her carry-on strapped over her shoulder and her brown hair spilling all around her face, crouched Cameron. She looked up at him, mouth open in the position for an apology, and she stood up slowly when she saw who it was. "House?" she whispered. She looked around nervously. "Wh…what are you doing here?"

He stared at her, utter relief flooding through his veins at a pace he thought unimaginable. The smooth wood of his cane slipped out from his hand and hit the carpeted floor of the airport, and he took a giant limp towards his girl, strong hands grasping her face as he lowered his lips to her own.

The coffee cup that they had accidentally spilled, then clutched in her hand, dropped to the ground with a plastic, hollow clatter. Her hands flew up to his neck in surprise, one of them winding their way into his hair.

When they finally broke apart for air, House buried his face against her neck and breathed in her scent. He exhaled shakily against her skin, and she understood what he meant.

"Alright," she murmured, clutching him to her. "It's alright. I'm here. I forgive you."

I forgive you…

000

I forgive you…

It's weird, you know? How three small words can completely change someone's outlook on life. Three little words like "I love you" or "I hate you" or "I want you" or, yes, even "I forgive you."

Now, all four of these had been said to Gregory House at one point or another, two of them by the only other person that he had allowed close to him since his mother. Maybe it was the face that she was giving him only two out of four of the Three Small Words that caused them to break apart.

But the woman that he clutched in his caneless arms that day, the woman that he did indeed propose to six years after that day, had (over time, of course, and not all of them happened after their relationship began) said all four of those Three Small Words to him.

And if you'll notice, the minister's yet to tell him that House may slip the ring on her finger in the ceremony that's progressing before your eyes, and already House's telling her Three Small Words.

"I love you…"

Odd, isn't it? But, to some, odd is the best kind of normal. It's the crazy kind of love that makes us sane. It's the crazy kind of love that inspires those precious words.

THE END