as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

"Oh," he replies, meaning shit, his expression filtering down from feigned surprise to guilt, however reticent. And that answers that question.

"You knew he'd figure it out. I just filled in the name of the brand when he bothered me about it." Truth: House had been bothering him, just not about antidepressants. It's rare enough that any of them get to play the 'I know something you don't' game with their boss that it had been too tempting for Chase not to admit he was holding a trump card. He has a feeling the information bothered House more than he'd expected it to.

Working on unwrapping his sandwich, because at least it's not about to look disappointed in him, he adds, defensively, "Don't know what the big issue is, anyway. Half the country's on antidepressants. You can go in with the sniffles and walk out with three months of Prozac to get you through."

Chase is dependable, in an oddly unreliable way. She's making a bigger deal of this than she needs to; worrying about the medication instead of anything else. Nothing stays hidden here, not for long, but Wilson deserves his privacy. And in a funny way, she thinks it might not hurt House to have some things kept from him. After all, the oncologist is essentially his friend's conscience; it must be uncomfortable, at least a little, being reminded of exactly how human, how fallible, he is.

"I don't think it matters, why he didn't want anyone to know." She glances at the bed now, sparing Chase any expression of disappointment. She has to admit, it is a little odd; only slightly less so in light of what she knows. But really, the nuances of Wilson's friendship with House are a mystery. It seems to be one of the few things that holds their boss together, though; and as such it's worth working to preserve.

Chase has had enough of his dirty laundry aired both here and back home to win him the title of world's most resentful man. And he still keeps secrets, not knowing how to function with wide areas of who he is exposed. He understands the big issue. House doesn't like visiting patients because they stare at his cane. Doctors aren't supposed to be the ones needing help. That's why, if Wilson were awake right now, he'd more than likely keep to the stereotype of being the worst patient in the world.

"He could have used someone to advise him on a better course of drug. Paxil screws you up," he lowers his voice despite the shut door and comatose colleague, "sexually. Wilson's not too old to have given up on kids."

With a light huff of laughter she turns, fixes him with a mock glare. It's a little bit awful, making fun of Wilson when he's in the room, even unconscious.

"I think he's happier without." Or maybe that's only a practical concern, less difficult to divide lives when there aren't children to worry about. Cameron can't approve of cheating-- Wilson doesn't approve of it, though he's learned to live with himself-- but she'll admit he always seems to take responsibility for his actions.

Maybe some people just thrive in lonely lives.

"Do you think the meds helped him?"

"Yeah, he must be much happier." Chase flashes a sardonic smile of his own, spreading his arms expansively, "Not like there's any sign something could be missing in his life. But, if there was, what could be the clue?"

He shakes his head, turning his attention back to lunch and edging the displaced rows of lettuce and cheese back into straight lines between the bread before taking another bite. She's right, though, Wilson cares too much for his chemo kids and his last chancers, and House to have time for family. Maybe he's not happier without one, but he can't be happy with happiness or he might have made at least one marriage work. Bored without a crisis.

Examining the lump the older doctor's body forms under the sheets, Chase looks more contemplative. "He hasn't seemed any different to me. So I guess they did."

Back to picking through her treats, she follows his glance. "They can't have helped that much, or he'd want to stay on them." Less than ideal, that's what he said about the situation at home. Not for the first time, Cameron finds herself wondering whether Wilson knows something she doesn't.

"I'm sure House is more of a handful than any kid could be." In Wilson's place, she wouldn't even want to contemplate House's reaction to a new baby-- or any competition for Wilson's attention. She wouldn't put it past him to give in to his jealousy.

"But he doesn't look as cute in a onesie."

Yes, even as Chase says it he hopes he never, never finds out for sure. He leans over, quick fingers making a stealth raid of the goods on her lap and coming back with spoils, a piece of candy he tosses up and catches before popping into his mouth. It's not stealing when they were his first, right?

He chews and watches her, perhaps waiting for the rebuke or the smile, but considering other things. They don't talk much. "Did you ever take them? After..."

In fact that's a point they can agree on, it's a bizarre and disturbing mental image. Barring the oddest of curses, she thinks they're safe.

She just watches him as he swipes the treat, drawing back the mouth of the bag as though to keep him from taking anything more, though it's held in a loose grasp and she doesn't really mind. These odd little moments of peace between their fights are nice, and she's glad things haven't become too complicated between them to allow it.

Though she doesn't expect the question, it doesn't freeze her up. Glancing away at nothing in particular, she shrugs lightly. "I didn't. It was--"

Shifting, she looks at him again, her expression one of concentration, trying to pick the words she wants. "I wasn't depressed. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't depressed."

"You'd have every reason to be," he tells her, not arguing that she should have been but aware of the curious ways grief can change you. "Most people medicate sadness somehow. Drugs, chocolate, alcohol. Those terrible Hallmark movies. You just waited to come out the other side?"

It's a genuine curiosity. He's only known her as a bright if try-too-hard fellow Fellow, someone with a history that started when she walked into the diagnostic's office to find him slightly put out at the thought that he couldn't cope with House on his own. The fragments of who she used to be came later, like being handed the symptoms with a diagnosis already on file. He knew what she was, just not how she'd gotten there.

Bright. Try-too-hard. Way too ready to sign herself up for things that are going to hurt.

"I had people. Family. Friends." And when that failed to help, she had an escape route. Distance helped, a little, though not as much as she'd hoped. When the support of others failed, she'd turned to solitude. Self-reliance. The side effects were more subtle than the other treatments; she didn't get fat, wreck her liver, drown her braincells in bad, sappy writing. Slowly but surely, though, she shut herself off from others, caring passionately but with an odd detachment. Falling in love with anyone who couldn't threaten her by loving her in return.

"Time helped, more than anything. I think... maybe I was better prepared, because we knew ahead of time. Not that it didn't..." She pauses, swallows. "Hurt. But it wasn't a shock."

She can't help but think it would have been harder, having him taken away without warning. At least as things were, she knew to treasure what time she did have.

Maybe that makes the difference. Family, friends. When his mother died Chase had flown back from England, with no friends on either side of the globe solid enough to risk leaning on. His father had sent a card, money, a referral letter. He took the second two and used them to build his own support, alone. When his father died Chase drank something bitter and kept it quiet. Solitude less of a choice than an expectation, a habit formed.

Expectation also changes things from someone ripped away in their prime. Wilson's patients, their families, talk about the relief of the end coming. Chase doesn't operate like that. Giving up is impossible, faith implausible. Medicine has been his last resort.

His mouth twitches at the corners, the beginnings of a tremble or a grimace, and he shakes his head, shakes off whatever is coming. "Sorry, not much of a holiday conversation."

It might; leaving didn't mean she lost that support, only that she wasn't constantly reminded of how much she needed it. After a while, knowing she could call home for a shoulder to cry on was more comforting than being at home had been, and not being surrounded by sympathy and markers of loss made it easier to believe that her life wasn't over. She couldn't have gotten to the point where she was able to live alone without her family. But it was being alone that really pushed her past the raw edge of her grieving.

More or less.

Sometimes it still catches up with her.

"It's all right. I don't mind talking about it," she replies quietly, with the slightest of smiles. It's a distant expression, not really meant for him.

"It's not something I need to hear about," he says simply, discounting the idea that she might want, or need to. In his experience the people who want to talk about their loss will do it regardless, and the people who need to stumble over their attempts far more than she has. Not that he isn't interested; it feels like a more intimate conversation than whatever hangs between them currently allows.

Besides, listen too long and people expect you to talk.

Short work made of his food, he rubs crumbs from his hands back into the plastic food wrapper, tossing that back into the bag with a disinterested sweep of his gaze over the magazines he's brought along. There's a crossword puzzle in the back of one; he picks it out and flicks through. "God I hope everybody's sane again soon."

Cameron shrugs it off, giving him an odd glance before lapsing into silence. She hasn't needed to talk about it in years. But she can't shake the sense that it might help; that maybe the things she can't say are hidden just past the things she doesn't. Maybe there wouldn't have been so much hurt between them if she could have made herself comprehensible. But it's too late to change that.

"It can't last forever." Probably. It's difficult to feel hopeful under the circumstances, having drugged a colleague to keep him from going insane if he isn't already.

☎ voicemail

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone

☞ and they won't pretend that they're too busy or that they're not alone