as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

sure, why not?

if you want anything to eat, pick something up?

we'll hold them off as long as necessary

I'll be waiting

At least the day's curse sorts out whether or not flowers are appropriate. The local flower stand looks like the set of Little Shop Of Horrors, and Chase gives it a wide berth. By the time he reaches Cameron's place, the rations he's accrued include sushi and an expensive looking bottle of something red. Not much to tide them over for a lengthy seige but, if anyone asks, that's what he brought the chocolates for.

She's blindsiding him, lately. While acknowledging the exceptions that prove the rule, the prettiest member of the diagnostics team has always had one easy work around. She's reliable. Which means she's predictable, which means she's reliably predictable. Given any patient, illness or ethical dilemma, it's not hard to guess what Cameron will diagnose, prescribe or find to disapprove of. It's useful at work, slightly disheartening in more personal situations.

Now she's veered from the pattern. Inviting him over, first, and what happened between his couch and bedroom the other night, more significantly. Now he's hopeful, guilty, mixed up as all hell and not sure whether she's asked him round for a repeat performance or to tell him it was all some terrible mistake.

He's not even sure which reason makes his life easier. Still, he didn't even think about saying no. Sushi trays balanced on one arm, he shifts the bags around enough to knock.

Cameron knows she's letting him get away with a little too much for this to end well. Admittedly, it's kind of nice. It's always been kind of nice. It's probably for the best that the flower option is off the table, because Cameron likes flowers-- and as such that would kill the mood. He's at a disadvantage, not aware of the rules of the game she's playing. At least, that's Cameron's justification for being unusually forgiving, when it comes to those rules.

She's a little taken aback by the sheer volume of stuff he has with him when she opens the door; she covers it well, stepping aside to let him pass with a small smirk.

"You must be hungry," she says. The tone suggests she might be laughing at him, and that it's probably best if he assumes she's laughing at him and runs with it. Teasing is safer than suspicion of (heaven forbid) any acknowledgments of emotional involvement.

She shuts and locks the door behind him, turning to watch him unload his burdens. She's not even certain why she invited him oer-- maybe only out of a suspicion that he wouldn't expect her to. That's reason enough; she hates being the predictable one. The art in the lobby-- pretty, but boring.

"No marauding dandelions followed you, I hope?"

She's always had enough to keep him interested. The opinion everyone has of him aside, it's not just the art he pays attention to.

"I had a close call with a daisychain set on strangulation," he teases, choosing the kitchen counter as the best place to set out the couple of trays of sushi he picked up, bottle clinking down next to it. Overall the provisions looked bulkier than they are - delicate little rolls of salmon and rice and seaweed. He snags one and bites it in half, grinning, "Wonder what the vegetarians are thinking."

The chocolates stay in the final paper bag, pushed to the back of the counter. He knows better than to present it to her as though it's some kind of issue. It's not. It's just dessert.

"Forgot to ask if you were hungry, too, I just assumed you wouldn't let me eat the entire aquarium alone."

"I'd imagine they're hungry," she replies airily, trailing into the kitchen after him and leaning on the counter. Not close, not far; more interested (apparently, at least) in the sushi than the company. Chewing a piece thoughtfully, she eyes the frill of greenery on the takeout tray. Plastic, of course-- they're safe for now. "Disappointed, maybe. It might seem like a wasted effort, when your lettuce is suffering so loudly."

It's okay to eat fish, because they don't have any feelings. Well, in any case Cameron has no qualms about it, helping him pick apart the arrangement. She won't comment on dessert if he doesn't, and the bottle isn't too much nicer than what she'd had on hand for the evening. Maybe she'll get dinner next time. If that happens. If this isn't already a disaster. She has no honest idea of what a bad idea it would be, here, to make a habit of him.

"I suppose we were about due for a monster attack, though," she adds wryly, thinking of the shattered mess of her bathroom door-- replaced just in time for Chase's arrival, of course, so perhaps her odd little laugh is lost on him.

"I know I get antsy if I haven't been attacked by anything, recently." A comment in the tone of W.T.F. but then he's one of the lucky ones, he got here just after the attack of the killer perm. Something happened to her before he showed up, that much he's guessed from the underly of the way some conversations go, particularly those early ones. He hasn't pushed the issue, but now it's habit to check in on days when things get freaky, even if it's only a few grumpy vegetables.

Though, he may have had ulterior motives, today. He turns over the idea of revealing them, uncorking the wine and pouring himself just enough to taste before nudging the rim of the bottle against her glass. "Say when?"

Well, he's here now. She can't throw him out to the mercy of the killer plants, and something in the way she smiles and keeps laughing is incredibly disarming, even if he's not completely sure of the joke. "You know," he comments to the wine glass, voice casual and slow, "Before today turned into a walk on the wild side, I was going to call anyway."

A sidelong glance watches for response, "About going for a drink?"

It was a suggestion made during yet another curse, but she'd still suggested it. He was only following up.

The embarrassing curses are bad enough-- the dangerous ones, she doesn't talk about. She's not going to any great lengths to hide it-- you can't really, when you never know when you'll wake up with a desperate need to spill all your secrets. But she won't be the one to bring it up.

Cameron lets him fill the glass, tilting it back toward her slightly to gesture enough before taking it in hand. She doesn't drink right away, regarding the glass nonchalantly, considering his question.

"I wasn't sure you remembered that," she replies. "You weren't quite yourself, after all." It's not quite an answer. She looks neither pleased nor displeased, meeting his glance.

"Of course I remember; there are computer records. I'm just glad somebody realises I wouldn't indiscriminately hit on an entire computer network." How he's managed to acquire a reputation in a place he's lived in less than three months is beyond him. Maybe, somehow, he just seems like the type. He clears his throat, ducking his head to hide the faint lingering traces of embarrassment, "I've been explaining that to a few people, this week."

Like, oh, at least two members of the police force. So far as he's aware it's not a crime to use beer adverts in a suggestive manner. So far as he's aware there's no such thing as a law in this city, so what the police do beyond doling out the disapproving looks is beyond him. Somehow, they're still intimidating. Particularly the women.

He takes a long sip of the wine and meets her eyes again. "Were you yourself?"

And how about that other time?

"I was under the impression that was an accident." It isn't her fault he'd mistyped. As it was, it was funny-- it would have been less amusing if the email hadn't ended up going public. Not that she would have held it against him; but it wouldn't have been as easy to laugh off.

"I don't actually have a magic 8-ball."

She takes a sip of her wine and softens a little.

"Maybe on a normal day. If one ever crops up." She gives him a sly little smirk.

"It was!" Innocent, guvnor. He holds up his hands in a plea that seems less convincing for the tofu and tamagoyaki roll used to emphasize the point. And it had indeed been an accident that he'd clicked the wrong 'All' in the recipient box - but he wouldn't have done his best to take advantage of the situation on any normal day.

Not as much, anyway.

If she really was making judgements based on what the 8-ball fortold, Chase would have had to worry that she'd learned a little too much of House's methodology. He'd taken it for a coy maybe, still an improvement on the standard brush off (even of curse days, some things never changed).

Nodding, he seems to accept her hinted possibility, then looks up with a clarification of his own. "City normal, or hospital normal? Bearing in mind the second version doesn't exist."

The Look she gives him is a caricature of suspicion, wholly amused. He doesn't really seem like the type to her; then again, at home their work lives make having personal lives difficult. Maybe he only makes passes at her because no one else would understand the things he puts up with. On his own terms, maybe he'd chase after someone less neurotic and less likely to shoot him down at every turn.

But Cameron doesn't even own a Magic 8-Ball, and a coy maybe is exactly what she'd intended. Pondering his question for a moment, she folds a slice of pickled ginger atop a piece of tuna.

"One where we're both in our right shapes and minds, and nothing's trying to eat us. Preferably no major medical emergencies, either."

It's not like she's the only thing catching his interest in their place of work. His attention has been known to wander when House's latest metaphor is leading them the long way round the halls, or when that 'masseuse' Wilson bought him pays a regular visit. It's almost enough to make Chase want to trap a nerve.

He's dated: quick, quiet relationships with administrators, lab techs and - at last count - one nurse from all but three of the wards. Which isn't an unhealthy amount, given the extra six months he has on his fellowship. He's not, after all, a priest. It's not something he's hidden, though given his lack of awkwardness on arriving at work late and freshly showered, it might have been less noticed than the distractions Foreman's gone in for.

He doesn't think he's broken too many hearts, but then he's never done much follow up after the quiet, always in-person conversation in which he lets them down. Keeping his words gentle and dishonest, he never mentions losing interest. Maybe it's payback. For all Cameron's disinterest in him, there's something about her he can't quite shake.

It's not the whole of why he's standing here, now, but it is part. He calls her a colleague, not a friend, but there's something more than work or friendship that only three of them share. Difficult as she can be, it makes her company easy.

"I'm not going to try and take you out the day I get turned into a dingo, Cameron." There's a wry smile as he follows the promise up with it's rationalisation, "No. Too bloody tricky to hold the glass."

If one of them is cloistered, it's certainly Cameron; even now, with all the years and the distance she finds it hard not to feel disloyal, in some measure. It's ridiculous, and she knows it-- but it's hard not to shy away from anything serious. And-- in spite of what she has said, what she may yet say-- she doesn't really want something that isn't. She can't stomach the thought of admitting that, though. You can't lose something you don't have.

She couldn't hold it against him-- not really-- at home; it isn't as though she holds any claim on his time, his attention. Things here are different, and if she had any clue she'd be displeased to say the least-- but, pleasantly oblivious, she's beginning to consider the possibilities offered by the lack of consequences. To wonder whether the same sequence of events might unfold differently, given the different surroundings and circumstances. At worst, he won't remember to hate her for taking advantage of the time difference, in reality.

She can't even try to keep her composure in light of that mental image, a canid Chase fumbling with a shot glass. She breaks out in a grin.

"Thumbs are a necessity," she agrees laughingly. She still hasn't said yes, but she hasn't said no. Though truth be told she'd rather stay in for a drink, away from prying eyes.

She's beautiful when she laughs - something he'd say to any girl but her (yet, his mind fills in quietly). Every time it catches him off guard enough that he has to stop and watch, smiling in return but quiet.

He knows about her dead husband, just like she knows about his seminary past, and his parents. None of it through normal channels: closeness, smalltalk, shared experience. No, their deepest secrets are thrown around like currency whenever House wants to broker a response. In some ways it makes the revealing curses the city throws at them all feel like something he's done before. A manifestation of the same. And he can't say he understands that kind of loss, but he does know the ways in which pain changes you. The walls you learn to put up. He keeps himself closed, too, but there's something in him that still believes in love and trust.

"I've got thumbs right now," he observes, wiggling one as he feeds himself the last mouthful of sushi roll. "I was hoping the same condition might go along with talking about what happened the other night."

She glances down, sipping her wine, a little subdued. Not embarrassed; not upset-- simply more serious. As necessary as this conversation is, she doesn't want to have it. Laying out the offer-- what she wants, what she's willing to give-- opens the possibility of refusal. Still. As much as she might prefer to linger in the unspoken uncertainty, a night here there, better to get it out in the open. Anything less is an invitation to confusion, at best.

"Regret it?" The question is to the point, and though she doesn't say whether she does, he may well guess from her tone that she doesn't. Not in the least. Beyond that he'll have to draw his own conclusions as to her motivation.

"I wouldn't have done it if I was going to regret it."

Not quite true, but 'no' as a word or concept becomes almost unthinkable in the face of temptation. There are circumstances where he could regret it. If it hurt her, or if she expresses regret herself. The actual act, being with her? No. He's mixed up about that, but not regretful. As he sets his glass down, he meets her eyes, likewise not wanting to brook any doubt about enjoying the time together. Would he even be here, otherwise?

Drawing his own conclusions, though, would be a mistake. Never assume. God knows he's had that truth beaten into him by the job, and if he's slipped up enough there, he can learn from it now. Cameron, predictable Cameron, is off pattern right now. It's a new scenario. He has no idea where it's going to go.

"It was a little unexpected," he admits, the soft 'but enjoyable', present in his voice if not explicit in his words. "I don't know exactly what you want."

They slept together. Now she's still being coy over getting a drink?

She doesn't look away, though she'd like to. It's difficult not to think of the other conversation-- one he hasn't had yet-- and the deja vu is dissonant. Not unpleasant, not exactly, but confusing. As if it wasn't difficult enough already to decide what she wanted from him.

"Exactly that," she answers evenly, voice low, with a shrug of her shoulders. She shifts a little, leaning in almost imperceptibly, a faint smile on her lips. "It happened once, at home, without becoming a big deal," she reminds him. "I don't think it's unhealthy to enjoy ourselves. We're both adults, both rational and healthy-- we work together, we've known each other longer than we've known anyone here."

It's not quite imperceptible, that lean in. Chase might almost call it dangerous, given the territory of this conversation. "You want... casual sex," he ventures, voice soft, half expecting to be slapped for a suggestion that doesn't even seem to be his. As a guess, it feels an outrageous one. "With me. Regularly?"

He has to figure out exactly where he stands, especially when it feels this much like the ground could give way any minute. Tectonic plates are shifting somewhere, changing the layout of what was familiar ground. It happened before, yes, and that particular experience is one he has regretted, not for the act itself, but the circumstances. The circumstances, and their entire workplace finding out about them.

It didn't become a big deal perhaps because they'd both avoided the issue after agreeing it wouldn't - shouldn't - happen again. Now the arrangement seems to be edging in exactly the opposite direction.

He clears his throat, quirking an eyebrow at the idea, "Completely casual?"

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