A/N: I don't write much and this is my first House fic, but after last weeks episode I had to write something. I never thought I'd say it, but Chase/Cameron is the best pairing on House right now.


She agonized over where to put the flowers. They really didn't fit anywhere, and were looking especially stupid on top of her microwave. She had already found they were too bulky for the windowsills, and they didn't match her tablecloth, and on the coffee table they blocked her view of the TV. It irked her that the only place they did look good was on her night table. They matched the decor of her bedroom quite well, and she could find each one of the flowers' colors in the bedspread. However, the lingering smell of sex from the unchanged sheets would surely taint the delicate petals, and maybe the pillowcases that still smelled like his shampoo would be over powered if the flowery scent were on the other side of her.

This isn't right.

And really, how bold he was to expect her to wake up every morning and look at a reminder of him. He must have known somehow that the mornings were her most vulnerable. When he slept over, when she'd wake up next to him, when her conscience was still foggy, she'd think how sweet he looked while he slept and how nice it was to lay here with him. Once she even let her fingers trace over his eyebrow and down his jaw before she slapped herself back to reality.

Reality meant a dead husband and an unrequited love. Reality let her look into the eyes of her suffering patients and feel a little less guilty for what she had, because they at least had someone to hold their hand.

You dumped me.

But now she can add "I let him fall in love" to her list of things to be guilty about, and this time she can't say she did all she could to stop it. Once, early on, he told her she had a beautiful smile. She gently reminded him of their relationship boundaries, and he tried to explain himself before trailing off and ending with a "yeah, you're right, sorry." And then she smiled more.

And there was also the way she'd stroke his cheek and look up at him with soft eyes, while she told him to fuck her against the wall. Psychologically she was always in control (usually), while physically she let him be in control (sometimes).

You don't get to be mad.

But really, giving her flowers that only looked good in her bedroom? Who did he think he was?


She could see that his porch light was still on when she pulled around curve of the street. She knew he was usually good until well after midnight, but she was hoping to catch him off guard, in bed, so he'd let her speak her peace and leave without much resistance.

We had a really good thing.

She tries to see his face through the distorted glass door and he's trying to see her's. For a moment they stand there, on either side of the front door, imagining the array of faces that could be greeting them on the other side. It's his turn now, and he opens the door before their pause becomes noticeable.

You broke the rules.

His smile is not returned. He loves that such a small person could take a simple word like "hey" and, with the right vocal infliction paired with the best brow furrow, make him feel like he was two inches tall.

I'm angry.

She wishes she could remember what comes next. The speech she planned in the car had much more than "hey" to it. But she knows that the still smiling man in front of her probably doesn't deserve her words anyway.

He doesn't wait for her to remember, and invites her in. She notices that he doesn't glow any less while doing it. She awkwardly stands in his foyer, eyes shifting to everything around her, trying to see if anything changed. She can't tell though because the last (only) time she was here, they didn't bother to turn any lights on.

He's in front of her again, careful to mind the appropriate distance of two non-dating co-workers, and he's inviting her to join him in the living room. But her eyes are fixed just beyond him, the hall to his bedroom… and it's the only place she can actually form a detailed picture of in her head. She's suddenly aching for familiarity. And for control.

She's leading him by the hand down the hall for "the last time, I swear." He watches as she lies on his bed and begins to undress for him. She's down to the zipper on her jeans before he makes his decision and helps her slide them off. She doesn't help him with the rest.

His hands take control, following their familiar trial and stopping at all the right spots, just to make her happy. Just as he enters her and his head hangs and his glow fades and resigns to another buddyfuck, her flailing hand comes into contact with a cool metal picture frame instead of a bedpost. It's face down, and when she turns it over she sees it's his reminded of her… for the early mornings, when he's most vulnerable. He buries his head in the crook of her neck in shame, and tells her to put it down so they can keep going. She does. He begins his slow rhythm with the picture facing them.

She thinks about the flowers on her bedside table. She doesn't know how she is going to face everyone at work tomorrow knowing that she's happy. The guilt is already starting to eat her up.

But I'll get over it.