Author's Notes: Beta-reader credits for athousandsmiles. You're awesome, you know that, right? *hugs athousandsmiles*

Written as a very late house_cameron ficathon entry for dominique012, whose request was: H/C chemistry, glasses, some kind of hopeful/glimmer of light ending, no babies, no Chase/Cameron, no conference/trip.

Dominique, I'm so sorry it took me so long to publish it, but college and then Huddy... just please forgive me. :)


All this time, you still longed for him.

You were never one to memorize poetry, but the feeling reminds you of bits of a poem permanently carved on the back of your mind.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

You believe between those lines is a set of comparisons with the act of nourishing and being disrupted by the dawn, but you always thought the sound of that was just too odd.

And truth to be told, you don't hunt. It's only the need that chases you. That nagging craving, taking away your ability to have a comprehensive track of thought when he hovers just above your shoulder. The same craving that's soon followed by a desire to please him, dissolving you into a pathetic version of the woman you are. One that lowers her eyes shyly at times, and stumbles on words. One that almost moans when you see him wearing glasses.

And finally makes you rest your back against the wall, listing down your symptoms.

Hyperventilation, increased blood pressure, nausea, vertigo, dilated pupils, tremors, dry mouth, clammy hands and difficulty swallowing.

An imaginary you raises her hand, promptly suggesting the best fitting diagnosis: panic attack caused by kissing your boss.

You can't help but flinch.

You kissed him. Like in k-i-s-s-i-n-g, with no tree whatsoever involved. Or any possible justification for your own actions, for that matter.

Afterwards, you boldly answered "you kissed back", as if stating so would be enough of a challenge for him.

Really, because he wouldn't have noticed, stroking his tongue against your lips for entrance and all. You were surprised when he came up with such an unimpressive answer to your stupid observation of the facts.

You have no idea what exactly made you reach for the needle, because you're quite sure drawing blood with your eyes permanently closed is not a skill listed on your resume. But then again, in which part of this terrific plan were you thinking at all?

So long being side by side with him, what made your mind suddenly figure it was acceptable to launch yourself at him?

Was it the intake of air he took as you came closer to his body that flashed permission to your cognitive thoughts? How he asked you what you were doing, but never took a single step back? The feel of his skin under your finger tips? The way he stopped his sentence without ever finishing it? Maybe the air burning down your lungs? Possibly it was the jolt of electricity running down your body, making your feet tingle.

Or even the sudden resolution, the acknowledgement that you had no other option but to kiss him.

Although you suppose looking damn hot wearing glasses is as good a reason as any. You always had a thing for men wearing glasses. Which makes you add a small side note on how Chase didn't need glasses. Not even a bit. You asked once. Perfect sight.

Your heartbeat slows down and you push yourself from the wall, regulating your breathing carefully until you're composed enough to face Foreman and Chase.

Would this whole mess be okay if you defined your need for him as a mere addiction?



As you stare at the empty sky, still incredulous, your chest burns.

You hear his steps before feeling him sitting next to you on the balcony. With no desire to recognize his presence, you keep observing the nuances of the dawn, painting the sky with bright colors.

The pain in your chest increases and you feel fury filling your cells. The desire to scream is overwhelming.

Still, words make their way out of you with almost a dull voice.

"I'm happy you're not dying. Freaking happy. Not mad, not angry. Happy. How pathetic am I on the scale now?"

You chuckle silently. Bitterness seems to dress you after all.

"Wilson thinks you're just desperate for attention. From all the times he just says crap about you and your motivations, I hope he's once again plain wrong. Because otherwise, you're just stupid."

You wait for the snarky comeback, but it never comes. He doesn't say a word.

You sigh, staring at the ground beneath you before turning your eyes back to the dark orange sky tainted with purple shades.

His breath dances on your cheek and you turn to him against your best instincts. He stares right into your eyes as he mumbles something you can't understand. You're mesmerized by his eyes.

You part your lips and let your tongue meet your upper lip. His voice seems to get caught in his throat.

His lips mimic yours, opening slightly. He leans in, keeping his eyes open, although yours close automatically.

You still feel his breath. The warmth of his flesh. The ghost touch of his skin that is only there for a second.

He's suddenly gone and as you face the fading light, you find him staring somewhere behind you. The door is open and Wilson's now standing above the two of you, and giving you both a funny look.

You stand up and look down to find him staring at the same sky you found so fascinating minutes ago.

"Chase and Foreman will forgive you. Offer to buy them drinks. You can get Wilson's credit card, I believe he's hiding it down in the pediatric lounge these days."

With that, you walk away with your eyes trained to avoid Wilson's widened ones.

And, yes, you know. You're just pathetic.



The bar's particularly nice for the boys usual taste.

You had arrived more than two hours ago and it was already clear House wouldn't show up.

You wish you had gone home. You wish you'd stop thinking about him. And his lips.

You stare into the bottom of your glass, momentarily ignoring Chase's voice ringing about who knows what. At least they had good drinks served in considerably clean glasses. And the chairs didn't have any stains, unlike the last time they went out and Foreman chose the bar.

"Admit it, Cameron. It's all about Prince Charming. You all go by us, sure there's something better out there. And when you realize we're as good as it gets, you decide to fix us like broken toys," he points his fingers towards you, as if the gesture would bring a final closure to his logic.

Instead of the sound of your name, it's the usage of the verb fix that catches your attention. Instantly, you see yourself ready to refute Foreman's statement.

"I never did," you breathe out and purse your lips. "I never daydreamed about Prince Charming, that is. Never saw much in him. Prince Charming is the complicated man, without any reason to be. He waits around brushing his hair while you struggle and fight the chaos around you. For instance, Rapunzel has to grow her hair for who knows how long, just so he can climb the tower and pretend to save the day, when she actually did most of the work. Cinderella needs a godmother, and the whole pumpkin turning into a carriage... Hell, Snow White was already inside the glass coffin when Prince Charming, by accident, strode by the forest and saw her. He never takes control of the situation until he has absolutely no other option. He's conceited, and mostly boring."

You wistfully take a long sip from your drink, pausing shortly before proceeding to dismiss his earlier affirmation.

"The Wolf, however, is much more interesting. He," you breathe in, choosing your words, "he chases you. He wears glasses to see you better. He finds you whenever you're vulnerable, even if that means cornering you by the lab. Then stands so close to you it's intoxicating. He hovers above your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. And reads you so well that when he asks something with his voice deep and seductive," you lower your eyes, lost in thought, "you answer him without second thought. Because you're hypnotized by his being, drawn by him. Your skin burns out of excitement when he touches you by accident, or even intentionally. You hang on to each word he says. The fast pounding of your heartbeat next to him has you addicted. You know the Wolf is no good. In fact, he might just be the death of you. But you couldn't care less."

You face Foreman before carrying on, suddenly taken by a need to make your point come across.

"Because, in the end, happily-ever-after has nothing on feeling so alive."

A silence falls over the table, and you uncomfortably search for a distraction.

Foreman clears his throat.

Chase opens and closes his mouth twice, frowning slightly before voicing out his doubt.

"When have I ever cornered you in the lab?"

That gets your attention again, and you look up before answering.

"You never did, it was just an example."

"Pretty descriptive image for a simple example," he counters, still frowning.

"Don't press on matters when you know the answer won't please you, Chase," you simply answer before standing up and heading to the bathroom.

That's when you catch his figure by the door, staring at you.

You count your heartbeats as they pound into your ears. Your face grows warm.

To Hell with Prince Charming.