as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

Hopeful. Cheerful is what happens when hope pays off - so he smiles when he gets an unlatched door, and holds his offering up, one in each hand now.

"I know you buy both of these, but I couldn't remember which you get more often. So I got both."

That's explained at speed, before she has a chance to shut the door on his lack of serious purpose, and before he drops his gaze any lower than her face. Which he then does, although he's checking, not appraising. It's been a rough few weeks for the residents of the city, and he's been restricted to checking up on her at work, largely in a hurry, where a white coat can hide a multitude of things.

"I wanted to see you." There's the full truth. "I can eat mine on this side of the door, if you leave it open."

She looks... well, actually; at least, no worse than she would under less dire circumstances. The one upshot of the City falling to pieces is that the ticking's gone, and that coupled with the intensity of work meant no sleepless nights. Especially since she spent a few of them dead to the world on one of the sofas in the lounge, too tired to find a group headed towards her building to join with.

Now things are slowing down, with the harpies shut out again, and she's gotten a chance to catch up on rest; so the dark circles under her eyes are only faint shadows. Cameron lifts her chin, considering his motives, his offer. Finally she steps back and opens the door.

"I'm not going to make you stand in the hall."

She won't offer him anything, though; not even suggest he take a seat. But civility doesn't hurt.

Which is good. It's a relief that the worst she looks is as worn as he does. He gave up on going home too, most nights. Being on call made it easier to stay within a short jog of the ICU, and less frustrating than getting home only to find he was needed back. The shade under his own eyes is fading, too.

He nods as she lets him in, similarly not taking more than he's given, which for now is the chance to stand a little closer, within arms reach.

His hands, of course, are full of sandwiches.

"Which did you want?"

It's a point of private pride; Cameron considers herself to be the wronged one, and as such she won't be cruel. Never mind that her civility is cruelty of another sort, the denial of anything between them but the barest acquaintance between colleagues. If she slammed the door in his face it would be outright nastiness, and that isn't her style. Especially not now, with her anger out of its first flush. She glances from one to the other, extends a hand to accept the sandwich in his right.

"Thanks," she murmurs with a nod. It's polite.

He checks the label, making a mental note, before handing it over. Tugs at the peel-back tab on the one she's left him, which is why he brought the things, really. Something to occupy his hands - the first place to reveal when things are awkward. He's always been good at that in the office, but they tend to have pens or coffee cups in reach.

"Angela told me what you've been doing for her. I think most people would say it goes beyond the duty of care."

She told him what Cameron's been doing for her, but she didn't tell him her problem beforehand. Not that he hasn't been aware: he's been waiting. That she bypassed him is sensible, or he understands the reasons it should be. And it stings a little.

"Sounds like it's been working."

There's a little quirk of her lips at that. "All she needed, I think, was a better option." Than drinking alone. Somewhere else to be, someone else to talk with. Cameron's not a drinker but she understands how-- here, especially-- seeking solitude can be a form of self destruction. And what a hard cycle it is to break.

She peels the wrapper off her own sandwich delicately. "She does seem to be doing better."

"She's had them, but maybe it took someone to help her see. Do you remember how unrelentingly positive she used to be?" He shakes his head - of course, the memories will be different for Cameron, but for Chase it was fascinating - and overwhelming, after a while. "Never met anyone like her. This place has kicked a lot of that out of her."

Caching the corner of one slice between thumb and forefinger, he slides it out of the pack like an ace in the deck, twists it and takes a bite small enough that he's speaking again soon. Solitude has also been on his mind.

"Think it might be a permanent arrangement? Until the other day I thought you two were just looking out for each other - with the monsters around."

"I don't know that I'd say permanent. As permanent as anything else has been." Funny, how many people have passed through Cameron's spare space. Chase had the couch a while; Eden bounced around until her boyfriend showed up. Mindy was, in some ways, the closest thing she had to a real apartment-mate, but after she'd seen that video on the Network... Cameron had changed the locks, half at a time so Mindy would get the idea and sneak in to take out anything important, and they hadn't spoken after that.

"But none of that's unusual, here." They've all been worn away, one way or another.

"I think she likes having a few options. It's one of the things she's been missing." Somewhere to escape to, even if there's no real escape, where they are. It does make the corridor in his building a little quieter, but he can't protest about that. And he didn't really come here to talk about Angela, of all people.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Plateless, he catches crumbs in his hand and tips them back into the packet, then looks up at her.

"You can always ask."

Her eyes don't meet his right away. That's the noncommittal route-- he can ask, she might answer. It's the best promise he'll wring from her. Taking a small bite she finally looks up as well, expression guarded.

Which he hates, and the line that works its way into his forehead accentuates the point.

"You're living somewhere the conditions turn apocalyptic around once every fortnight. There's someone else in the city who... doesn't much like you right now, probably fairly, but being aware of that doesn't get her out of your head. It's a rough day, giant birds or evil sheep or whatever. You know she'll be pissed if you just show up to walk her to work. Is calling fair?"

Well they both get enough metaphors thrown at them at work, he might as well make this one entirely clear. Leaning against the door frame for want of somewhere to sit, he tries hard not to close off his own expression in anticipation of a bad response.

She'd point out that harpies aren't birds, but that just brings up the fact that harpies shouldn't exist, which is something she'll never quite stop hating about this place. Her lips make a thin line as she tries to figure out an appropriate answer.

"I'm sure plenty of people have noticed there's safety in numbers," she points out, skirting the subject.

The way she puts it is something he can't quite pin down. A call doesn't equal safety unless it's followed up. Perhaps he was wrong on the one thing he thought was a certainty: that she wouldn't want to see him. He raises his eyebrows and tries a quiet trade of truths, though it's up to her to reciprocate.

"I used to get one of your staff nurses to call me when you got in every day."

None of this would matter if she could just stop caring about him. In a way, Cameron thrives on that. It's safer for her if he thinks she hates him. She does; or she has, she comes and goes. If she could not care at all, though, she wouldn't have any reason to be angry. At least if he's with someone else, she's safe missing what they had on her own. It's not satisfaction; but it's what she's always allowed herself, and it has less potential for ruin.

She lifts her chin slightly. "I'm pretty sure that would be grounds for a restraining order," she quips. It's dry, but not vicious; it's not a roundabout way of asking him to leave. Just a joke to avoid saying anything serious. There was a time, at least, when that would have been obvious; what he'll hear now she can't even guess.

"Probably." He agrees, exaggeratedly startled expression confirmation that he knows it's a joke. He's going along with it. Even if there might be just a grain of truth in the suggestion - he prefers to think of it as being persistent. He's always had to be.

There's a sandwich based gesture of things he'd like to express but can't, and it probably scatters crumbs over her carpets. Hell, in for a cent, might as well throw in the full dollar. "I'm not very good at backing off from some things. Not completely. Not when they're important."

And, because she'd gone light and he'd switched things- "At least I haven't started paying the porters to hide in your bushes."

It all cuts a little too close for her. It would be easier if it wasn't important for either of them. A hundred things spring to mind but nothing finds its way to her lips, so she's left looking at him uncertainly over a couple of sandwiches. There was a time when his persistence flattered her, when she gauged how long she could go before rewarding it in some small way; now, she can't afford to be hopeful.

It would be easier if she didn't know about anything. It'd be easier if she was better at giving up.

It would be easier if the City would send one of them home.

Finally, wearily, she looks away. "There are only so many second chances," she says quietly. Of course, he's never quite understood how many she's given him. Maybe it isn't fair. Nothing ever is, though.

She meets his eyes again, because as much as she'd like to be able to put an end to this that wasn't a dismissal.

He may not understand how many, but he does know that he's been given more than a few, and that in each case he's broken the terms of his probation. She's an idealist. It's why her working for House is so insane, and also why, he suspects, she's never completely given up on him as keeping some kind of compassionate soul buried under the bitter genius. Chase isn't sure how far he agrees with that yet, but it leaves him feeling like his own case can't be beyond redemption.

"People are going to keep screwing up. As long as you're spending time with humans and not the robots in the operating theatres, the one thing I can promise you is that's going to happen to you a lot. But... the ones who keep trying. Who want to do better, if they can. Aren't they worth letting back in, even a little?"

It's been months, and it's taken monsters to bring him to the point of being able to ask this. To be sure he can't just step back completely and give her the peach she so often seems to want from him. It could just be another flaw in his nature.

"Even if it's just getting a drink together once a fortnight and talking about patients behind their backs."

At least the robots in the operating theatre never worry about broken hearts. Cameron's free hand folds across her stomach as she regards him for a long moment. Isn't this the way it always goes? She runs, sooner or later he runs after her. She always gives him another chance.

Believing the things she does-- that people are fundamentally good, that they can change, that no one is irredeemable-- has gotten her through a lot. But if there's one thing the City's good for, it's wearing away at idealistic resolve.

"We've never wanted the same thing," she says finally, quietly. The prospect of being friendly is unsatisfying, even though if he offered right at this moment to come back to her, she'd turn him away. Wanting was so much easier when it was private; now she wears her disappointments like a crown. The weight shows, if not always the reasons.

"I honestly don't know." If she can. If she can help herself. Sooner or later, she knows, she always turns back.

"I've never... completely... known what you wanted." he tells her, speaking of his own shortcomings in failing to figure it out. The few moments where both their wants have met have been startling and intense but, from the first drug-tainted time, left him confused as hell in the few days after. He's too prone to assuming, rather than asking. Maybe she's not prone enough to spelling things out in the simplified phonetics necessary. Either way, he's sure there have been connections they've missed because one of them way looking the wrong way and the other didn't call out in time. Working over 'could have beens' isn't why he's here.

"Listen, why not one drink. Two weeks time. If it sucks you can cut your losses and all you've lost is one crummy night talking to a colleague. We've all had those. One, casual drink." He bites his lip, "And I get to call you on days you might get eaten-- unless you want to check on me, instead. I do have more meat on me."

Hopeful. There it is again.

She doesn't answer that admission; she's rarely known herself what she wants. She's always hoped he'd have enough intuition to follow the flighty, subtle changes of her needs. It's a moot point, now. And he still doesn't understand, of course.

The thin line of her lips curves down a little, just the faintest touch of a frown as she considers his offer. Or request; that might be a more apt way of putting it.

"Ask me in two weeks," she answers at length. It's more than she really wants to give him.

"I will." And she can be assured of his timekeeping on that. For all that he'll shirk extra work where he can, Chase's level of precision is second to none. It just depends what he's categorised as worth paying attention to.

He relaxes, a little, taking a step inward to stretch his legs, and finishing off the triangle of sandwich he's started in two easy bites.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"I won't promise I'll answer."

It's not quite impatience on her face; it's the same old game with no stakes to speak of, and somehow going through the motions makes her wince. Phantom heartaches. Her sandwich is more or less forgotten in her hand.

"That's your prerogative." Chase quirks an eyebrow at the response, but lets it go. He's not playing a game anymore.

"I wanted to know your most memorable case we've worked on. Or... most important? Not here, back at home."

It catches her off guard, and she stares blankly for a moment, giving it some honest thought. Considering that their cases are by definition extraordinary, it's difficult to cite any one as more memorable than the rest. Ezra Powell, she almost answers. Foreman. Cindy Kramer. House. People, not cases. It might be a better question for House; he cares about the puzzle rather than the patient. She makes up for it.

"I'm not sure," she answers, brows drawing together a little. "Why?"

Interestingly, the first name in her mind is the one he'd hoped she'd say, although he wouldn't count it as his own most memorable patient. He remembers being willing to go along with House, though.

"I've been thinking... and I'm not sure I'm at the end of the thought process yet. About whether we've got it wrong, trying to treat patients here the way we were expected to at home. Maybe we need to take different circumstances into account more than we do."

He folds the card back over his sandwich box and puts it down on the nearest free surface, essentially abandoned. Something that probably drove her crazy in the brief time he lived with her.

"So I was just wondering what had been important to you, there."

☎ voicemail

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

I hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded