as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

"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?"

"I wasn't planning on writing out a schedule." The loose shrug cuts the sting of the sarcasm. Cameron is a little nervous, now that it's been said; she crosses her arms, shifting a little as she does so.

If she regrets anything, it's only losing control of the situation. That first time-- it had its downsides, and in retrospect she wishes she hadn't been stoned. It was freeing, though; she had liked that, to her surprise-- the abandonment of rationality, of inhibitions. But coming down had been awful, sickening and shaming. Not something she wanted to remember. Not something she wanted him to remember.

That same sense of freedom, though, had played no small part in their subsequent arrangement. It had gotten as out of hand as a drug could-- stealing time when they should have been working, endangering lives they were supposed to save just for the rush of spontaneity. But (she reminds herself, out of habit;) Chase doesn't know. Which means she can be more careful, and maybe keep the balance.

His question gives her a moment's pause, though, and Cameron raises an eyebrow-- leaning more heavily on the counter, and with that shift, moving away a bit. "What do you mean by that?"

He can breathe a little better when she moves away; he clears his throat as though freeing it from the constriction. For all that he hasn't been through this with her before, there's the strangest feeling of deja-vu about this. "I mean, you don't want to date. You just want... to jump me. When it's convenient."

No schedule means her schedule, he's known enough women to get that part straight out. Picking up his wine glass with a ringing sound as it clashes against the counter, he takes a steadying sip, just making sure he's got this one figured out right. "Like an all-night grocery store."

There's no denying it's an interesting proposition. He's not quite managing to sound like any of this is a bad thing. "Why me, again? Rational and healthy, yes. Usually when someone's looking for no strings they go with people they don't know."

It doesn't sound nearly so sordid in her mind. "I don't mind going out for a drink now and then," she clarifies, though her tone manages to imply that anything outside the safe space of her apartment or his room will be done as colleagues, and nothing more. Nothing romantic. Not where others can see; keeping this quiet is important. She's not ready to take that step; and if House finds out, who knows what he'll let slip.

Or microwave pizza. The comparison makes her lips twitch into a brief smile. "Because you didn't get weird about it last time." Not even a pause. She doesn't want to discuss that. Because it doesn't suck. The laundry list of reasons she gave last time-- all rational and true-- seems a little weak, and lying has never been her strong point. "I've known you longer than anyone here. We work together, we spend time together anyway, and we get along well enough." That's accompanied by a little, innocent shrug. It's as close as she can stomach coming to saying she misses him, misses what they had. Will have, until he says what she's been quietly, contentedly ignoring.

"You can just say it, you know," he teases, already shoving down that quiet voice that wonders why this is all anyone seems to want from him. It's a ridiculous thought. What guy wouldn't kill for sex on demand, no complications? It's a fantasy straight out of the reader's stories pages of Playboy: maybe those things aren't written by overimaginative loners with their hands down their pants, after all.

A smirk, and he fills in her missing line, "You want me for my body. That's mercenary of you, Cameron. Almost sexist. I should be offended."

The smirk fades, but a gentle smile lingers around the corners of his mouth. Someone needs to give him a guide for situations like the one he's getting himself into, but just for the time being the navigation seems clear. He closes the gap she opened, hooking a finger into a belt loop at the waist on her pants, curled like a question mark. "Do you think you'll be wanting me for my body tonight?"

And that, as far as he's concerned, answers her proposal in the affirmative.

There's a moment of wild terror, a denial half-built in the back of her mind, before he finishes his sentence. Mercenary. She almost likes that interpretation, the illusion that there's nothing more between them. He should be offended, but he isn't. She knew he wouldn't be.

"I could pencil it in," is her lofty reply, the look in her eyes more than a little wicked as she leans into him, arms slipping comfortably up around his shoulders, hooking an ankle around his like a tango dancer.

Is it an illusion? Not to Chase. She's never given him much of a clue that there's anything more, even the potential for it between them. If anything, he'd hazard a guess that he made the prime pick for this experiment of hers because she knows him well enough to know she won't fall. Doesn't matter - she still picked him. And the mercenary part? That's just a turn-on.

Not unlike those long, long legs, one ankle catching him up like bait on a hook. She's shorter than him by only a couple of inches, but looking down it's like she could go on for miles.

"I'm going to need that signed for in triplicate," he comments, glancing around for an opportune space. Good as it looks in the movies to sweep everything to the floor, in real life it's not much more than a mess and a waste of money. Particularly when there's another counter free, just across the way. Twirling her - the obvious next step in the dance - he pulls her back with him against the cabinets.

It helps that she's relatively certain of success. And that, though she wouldn't want to admit it, she trusts him. And when he moves, she moves with him-- practiced and accustomed to the swing of his step, the reach of his arms around her.

"You'll have to wait on a notary," she nearly purrs in response. Wide-eyed through the dark screen of lashes, she smirks up at him. She doesn't mind letting him lead, in the piece; as long as it's her careful choreography of expectation. She leans up and forward, lips brushing his ear gently.

"Worry about it in the morning?"

☎ voicemail

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