as_damaged | ☤ twenty-five

[This noise isn't a knock, but something bouncing off her door. Audible both in person and on the recording.]

[The sigh might register over the line, distant as she sets the device down to answer the door. She does want to see him; though she can't quite shake the feeling that she shouldn't, that she's glimpsed too much of her own future already. For an uncertain second she lingers, fingertips on the knob of the top lock, before undoing them all in short succession, letting out a deep breath she wasn't conscious of holding and pulling the door open.]

[He's hunched against the door opposite, tennis ball in hand, a seat he might have taken up hours ago or in the last ten minutes. By the time the light from her apartment spills out into the hall he's already stumbling to his feet, trying to smooth down his crumpled shirt, if there's nothing else he can do to make himself presentable. The bottle's empty now, discarded.]

Allison.

[It's an almost physical shock, in person, to see how little she's changed.]

[Not as much of a shock as seeing how much he has, and in spite of herself she takes a halting step towards him. The door creaks and she stops herself. Locking herself out now would be perfect.]

Chase...

[The flat tone and the little crease in her brow speak volumes, even as she bites back her words. You look awful. Hurriedly she pushes the door back open, standing framed by light, leaving him enough space to pass her.]

Come in.

[He doesn't quite make it past, stopping opposite her, outlined in the doorframe he searches her face a moment and then looks down.]

I know you're not the same person.

[It's a reminder as much as an assurance. Pushing the hair back from his face, the ring on his wedding finger looks bright enough to have been polished that morning.]

[She nods, voice still catching in her throat. She believes that he hasn't slept in a week; it shows in the darkness around his eyes, the trace of stubble. The ring's gleam is incongruous, and it draws her eye for more than one reason. Maybe she's just practiced at this, separating the face from the man; maybe it's easier to remember he isn't who he is because he's falling apart. If she hadn't changed her hair, perhaps it would be easier for him.

But he is still who he is, and if anything one learns in the City can be believed, he's her husband. Or will be; and to an extent there isn't a great difference. It still hurts, now, to see him this way, and she leans forward slowly, cautiously, to embrace him if he'll let her. He looks like he needs a shoulder to lean on. She'd offer his younger self the same, even now.]

[He needs more than a shoulder, he needs someone to take the weight off his own. It wasn't Foreman, won't be House, and he can't let it be Cameron. She's the one person who still looks at him without seeing someone else's blood on his hands. Worse, he made her part of it. She can't ever know, not if he has to fight his way through a wave of nausea every time they have a patient in the ICU.

He flinches at the touch - last time he reached for her she pulled away, and he hasn't had the bravery to try again - then pulls her close, pressing his face against her shoulder and the smell of her hair. His shoulders shake but his eyes sting with stubbornly unshed tears. If he can spare her that one thing.]

It's going to get better. I promise, I'm going to get back.

[She'd desperately like to believe him, but really, he isn't making it easy. Cameron has never found it easy to believe in happy endings; she fell in love with a dying man, with a dying man's best friend-- with people she can't have, or at best, can't keep. But she wanted to believe they had a chance at happiness. It seems less likely every day.

She tightens her grasp, face turned away from his, lips still quirked in a frown. Chase is an absolute mess-- rumpled shirt, half drunk and trembling under her hands. Cameron can't conceive of what he could have done, torn between a certainty that nothing could be that awful to reduce him to this, and a terror that reality is worse than the worst thing she can imagine. After a moment--]

Come on. Sit down, I'll make you a coffee.

[She loosens her grasp a little, enough to turn to him. It might be good if he sobers up a bit.]

[Chase knows too well about her lack of faith in ever-afters. That fight's only four months old, and not quite forgotten, although a few weeks in the sun did their fair share to blot it out. He finds himself keeping hold of her sleeve as she moves him away from the door, letting himself be lead. Before he can be made to sit, however, his hand comes up to grasp her shoulder with sudden vehemence.]

We're going to be okay. [She has to know.] I did the right thing.

[He's not sacred, he's not clean, he's not forgiveable. But he was right.]

[She stiffens, not afraid but startled by the suddenness, the urgency of what he says. Meeting his eyes, she raises her hands to grasp his wrist, taking his hand between her own and lowering it slowly, never breaking the gaze.]

I trust you.

[And she means it, or at least she would like to. Cameron squeezes his fingers, trying to reassure him.]

[He nods, not finding the word for thank you, and takes his hand back after a moment, holding it against himself. When he sits, he sits unnaturally straight, hands folded across his lap like a small child newly dedicated to obedience after a scolding.

It's a few moments before he starts to look around, take in vague memories that might not be his at all, of three years ago and being stuck here for an age that ended up being an instant.]

You still live alone.

[Halfway to the kitchen she pauses, having moved away as soon as she was certain he would sit. Her lips quirk into a curve that isn't quite a smile.]

Just me and the cat.

[The cat who recognizes a semi-familiar smell, and jumps up with an inquisitive little noise to see if he's still as good a toy to play with. Cameron looks down and continues on to put on the promised coffee.]

[Petting Gray is an automatic response, they've got a cat of their own at home, after all. A few minutes and a purring furball nested against his thigh later and perhaps Chase's shoulders have relaxed an infinite amount. The side of his jeans are being worked through by razor sharp claws, but that doesn't seem to matter.]

I wish you wouldn't. [He calls, voice raised to be heard in the next room. It's easier to talk about her. He knows secrets she doesn't know she's told him, and even the remembered awkwardness is comfortable and fond.]

I know, [she calls back, shaking her head unseen. It's an old argument, even older for him, and somehow that's stranger than anything else about this evening. The similarities are stranger than the differences.]

I haven't found anyone I'd be comfortable with, yet. [Coming back into the living room, she leans against the wall to watch him. Gray doesn't seem to mind the hint of desperation in his demeanor, and she's a little relieved that the cat's attention looks to have helped a bit.] It hasn't been a problem, lately.

[He worries. That's the familiar feeling biting at the hollow of his chest when he looks around at the empty room. Those feelings, sharp and gnawing, stayed with him and come back fresh. Chase turns his head to look up at her with eyes that threaten to stay closed on every blink and wonders if she's keeping her distance on purpose, the way he's pushed her into doing at home.]

I'll still call. [He sounds young, but tired, hopelessly hopeful] Every curse.

[She shouldn't worry he'll ever not be there for her. Not until it becomes the better option that he stay away.]

I know. [She smiles at that, inclining her head and rubbing at the back of her neck. She's keeping her distance, a little, because it feels dishonest to be too close to him. And because the coffee shouldn't take too long to brew.] I'm glad you do.

[Even with everything laid open between them it's an embarrassing admission, and she hurries back into the kitchen when the machine beeps, coming out a few moments after with a cup for him. She hands it over carefully-- not too full, because he's swaying enough that she doesn't entirely trust him not to spill it-- and takes a seat beside him.]

Though I'm not entirely helpless.

I'm not entirely use-useful. [He stumbles over his words, trying a smile along with the admission. It's a fleeting glimpse of something awkward but warm, chased away all too quickly by dark clouds in the sea-storm of his eyes.] But no one's going to touch you.

[Sometimes it feels like he's mouthing along with his own script. The him of three years ago wouldn't dream of how far he'd go to make sure no one harmed her, or the hand on her wrist that made his choice for him. How many other people's wives had there been, how many husbands less able to keep that promise?

He shudders, closing his eyes and finding the images are there anyway. Flat green line on the monitor and blood, blood everywhere. The coffee in his mouth tastes acrid but he swallows it down before gasping for clean air.]

I don't want to go back.

[There's something artless in that brief smile that wrings her heart. As earnest as Chase has ever been in his attempts to win her over, the few times she's seen him as he will be, she's been touched by the startling openness of his affection. Something that's not missing, now, but subdued; buried by whatever grief or guilt it is that he can't share with her. It's frightening; she isn't scared of him, but for him.

And for a second-- though not much more-- she wishes he didn't have to. Never mind that it would cause more problems and solve none. She reaches out for his free hand, clasping it between her own.]

I don't want to lose you.

[Here or there, now or then. What she means isn't entirely clear, not even to her. But there's nothing more she can do; she can only tell him to talk to her, and hope it makes a difference. And try to calm him down, for as long as he's here.]

[The coffee is too bitter to drink, even with whatever mixes she likes in it, and by now he's used to those. He's terrified of her judgement, so clear and so black and white, still. There's a reason House hadn't brought her or Foreman down to pack their patient off with fake pills. And maybe House is right, he's not getting help on purpose. But he needs to do something, if he has to go back. Something needs to change.

He rests his other hand, warm from the cup, over the one clasped in his, focusing dully on the interlock of his tan skin, her pale.]

Maybe you'd be better off.

[Is he going to make her stay with him when the only way he can keep the panic down is by drowning it in gin? Or wait out however many years of prison visits? If he could just stay here, it would be easier to be crazy than make the choices, answer the questions she's not going to give up on.]

I love you. [Something that starts as a laugh turns into a groan, his head dipping to come to rest against her shoulder.] I'm drunk; you're going to kill me.

Shouldn't I get a say in that? [She's chiding but soft, the way one would remind a child of his manners. This is what worries her more than anything; he's shutting her out completely, to keep her safe. Cameron likes that he calls during the bad curses, that he'll walk her home if it's late-- even if it takes him out of his way, even if she tells him he doesn't have to. She even appreciates the sentiment that drives him to nag her about finding someone for that second bedroom, though not enough to give in. But this is different; some wild extreme, his idea of what's best for her blurred by a selfish self-hatred. No wonder she's worried. No wonder she's finding it hard to trust him, since she doubts he's told her older self even this much.]

I won't like it, [she agrees, leaning back against him, her cheek against his hair.]

You called the cops on me. [He reminds, as though it could be an oversight not to remember the last time. Climbing out of a cab at 2am with the driver only glad he hadn't vomited on the upholstery, and her spelling his name on the phone like it was czech or something.]

They're not going to start dredging the river after eight hours, babe. [Might be something he told her, unhelpfully, before, too. This time it's quiet, muffled against her shoulder and the sleep in his voice.]

[He might as well be talking to himself, at this rate, and it doesn't seem worth the effort to correct him. Or even to remind him that she has the right to worry. At least, she will. A certain amount of concern isn't unreasonable. She's been widowed once. Things go wrong without any warning; it's a fact of life.]

Don't stay away and I won't have to.

[Fingers knit with his, she shuts her eyes, lips set in a soft frown. She can't help but feel this is awfully unfair-- losing something she doesn't have to begin with. Maybe she should focus on the thought that she won't remember any of this (or so they say) when she finally leaves the City.]

[Even at a school like his they were taught the facts of life. Shit happens could have been his motto at one point, still is with regard to the cases he can't get off his operating table in one piece. It has to be, you can't hang on to hope too hard because sooner or later it's always going to drop you.

Except with one thing. The one thing he's never been able to let go of, no matter how hard he fell or how much it kicked him while he was down. Love is supposed to be the greatest of the virtues, and no matter how flawed or hopeless it's seemed, he's always operated with the dogged determination that it's the one to which he can aspire. He's got wedding pictures in his wallet he could show her, they feel like proof that in that moment they were perfect.

If they're not now, it's his fault. He'll try harder.

Lifting his head, he studies her face in profile for a long moment. Presses his lips chastely against the rise of her cheek.]

Allison?

[Two days, and this time he can feel there won't be another.]

Mmn?

[She's too caught up in this, too emotionally exhausted, to manage more than that curious noise, turning so they rest face to face, touching at the temple. It's amazing, how close two people can come and still be utter strangers.

She has pictures, too; old photographs of a man he'll never meet. Silent, impossible proof that while love is real, love endures, it isn't perfect. It isn't enough to save a life. Maybe not enough to save a marriage.

But she's done this before, investing herself in something doomed from the start; and even if knowing hurts... Chase has chided her more than once for letting the fear of something ending put her off starting anything. She's only just begun to weigh the risk against the gain, to consider giving in-- now that her chances are tenuous at best. Loss, at least, is a known quantity. If she knows one thing, it's that she'd like to see him smile at her again, with that incredulous warmth.

She's never really been well-adjusted.]

[He knows he shouldn't have come, that it wasn't fair to put this weight on her without telling why he's been carrying it. Bottled bravery brought him here, or bottled recklessness. Without it he might have circled her building a few more times and chosen, rationally, to wait it out. Known that he was no one she should see.

He's always been selfish in his impulses.

Holding her hand tight between his, he breathes her in. All the words they haven't said yet. Things change in ways neither of them, now, then, ever expected. They can change again. Let her think this is a moment of pain, a bad time. Please.]

I promise, next time it'll be better.

[Whatever he's got to do.]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

as_damaged - 2009-11-03 18:05 (UTC) - Expand

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

cushylife.livejournal.com - 2009-11-04 04:40 (UTC) - Expand

☤ twenty-five

[Private; Audio]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]

[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]