as_damaged | ☤ twenty-five

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.]

[She'd like to smile for him, if she could. Instead she meets his eyes with a stubborn look. If he regrets coming, he can redeem himself by making good on his words. Whether he knows how... she doesn't want to speculate. Her fingers curled in his, her soft tone takes most of the sting out of the words.]

I'll hold you to that.

[An empty threat, maybe, since he seems intent on making sure there's nothing she can do, taking all the responsibility on his shoulders without telling her why. She can't dream of the things he's endured for her sake, the things he's done to feel like he's keeping her safe. The unwritten pages of their history that make their current drama pale and petty. But she believes-- or at least, she'd like to-- that he'll fight to keep her.

It's a realization that scares her a little, because she hasn't been able to bring herself to fight for him. She'd really like to know what changes, what tips the balance and pushes her into his arms, but a clear view of the future so far has only muddled the present more. So she won't ask. Maybe it wouldn't hurt her to find a little faith in something.]

[Those stubborn looks are one of the reasons he married her. Days after he gave up on her, finding a girl on his doorstep too impatient for Tuesday had been his first real sign that she could be as stubborn as him when it came to letting go.

He won't tell.]

I'm going to put this back. Get some water. Don't get up.

[He nods to the cooling, barely-touched coffee cup and starts to rise, gently extricating his fingers from hers with a delicacy that suggests he's worried who he might break. That fighting for her and keeping her might be two different things is a realisation already threatening to make him shatter.

There's no goodbye. Unsteady but determined he looks back at her once as he heads through into the kitchen. He did the wrong thing coming here, he can at least spare her the leaving. The cup hits the counter a little too heavily to have been set down on purpose, and her apartment, but for Cameron and the cat, is empty again.]

☤ twenty-five

[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]