On Fixing

By: Lycoris Calantha

When a doctor saves a life and the patients are reunited with their loved ones, the doctor usually averts his eyes from the scene, feeling out of place, like intruding. It could have both ways, and the doctor knows it.

You drink in every moment.

How tears fall and it's happy. Not sad and -gone- and dead. How what was broken was fixed, how the ill was cured.

Your relationships are with the broken.

It was odd, you think, that the most intimate relationship since her husband (who was broken, as well), was Chase. Robert, you amend and you're not used to calling him by his first name yet, who probably has to look like the least broken person in the hospital.

You provided your late husband with some kind of comfort, and even though you weren't really his -medicine-, you slowed it down, prolonged his life. At least, you liked to think of it that way. Less pain, maybe a little bit longer.

You like to think that his life was maybe better since you've entered it.

You like to think you've helped, maybe saved a life.

You knew you wore a mourning veil on your wedding day, you could accept that.

And you drank in the moment of a -miracle- because what you did there, what you helped achieve, you saved a patient's life.

Something you couldn't do for your own loved one.

Something you might fail at next time.

Chase was broken, though he did not look it. He was broken though he has witty retorts and teasing and flirting.

You could fix him. You could fix yourself. He didn't have some chronic, terminal illness and he wasn't going to die.

He'd be good for you: he knows what you go through at work, and he can be with you, -help- you, even, when the days are tough and people -die-, die because you couldn't save them.

Maybe you'd fix him.

Maybe he'd fix you.

They entered the relationship knowing what it would be. You knew what it was supposed to be, noncommital. You didn't think he'd get hurt.

Damnit, when you started your job, when -both- of you started your jobs, you didn't expect this. Hell, you were practically biting each others heads off for a while. And cooperating occasionally. Nothing more -colleagueal- than that. Maybe it wasn't as bad as the beginning, maybe there was some tension from the very beginning.

The two of you talk. You know his life, he knew yours. Well, maybe he knew your life more than you did his. But you two worked together, a lot.

And everything coalesced that one night in desperation and drugs. You couldn't remember much, but you think he was concerned of your dignity. A bit.

You used him, you knew that you might have been infected, you knew you could have been dying and that was why you took the damn drugs. You got high, you had sex with him. Night in a nutshell.

It didn't suck, he said.

You didn't know if you should be flattered.

You worried about House's moral stand on things, but sometines you worried about Chase, too. Kissing a nine year old girl. Taking advantage of a drugged, high, colleague. You.

It was fine, you had thought, if you started this with him. You felt -nothing- for each other. You handled that one night stand and the aftermath thing okay. He probably wouldn't be -hurt-.

And you could still work with him if worse comes to worst. You wouldn't fall in love with him.

You should have known it was a lie.

Sure, it was fine for a while. Maybe for the first few weeks. Cuddy spoke to you. She said that it was all well and good if you got married and all, but if it ended, they'd be unable to work together, also, she knew Chase would not be the one hurt.

(You knew he'd be hurt, you knew.)

He bared himself to you, though he hid the implications. That he loved you. He'd -break- more, maybe shatter, if this ended badly.

Irreparably.

Chase wanted more, you put your foot down. It's in your being to be 'unselfish', and you... you could help more people, and you know that Chase could take care of himself, even if he was imperfect. Even if he was a little broken.

Maybe he was bitter.

He was hurt, after all, when no one expected him to be. He was supposed to be the worldly skirt-chaser. He wasn't supposed to fall for her. He was supposed to be... unaffected. Laugh it off, as always.

He tried to not care, to be normal. Some guy hitting on you, sure, no problem. Getting too close, on the other hand, and even the stranger can tell what had gone on. Little kid infatuated? Sure, no problem, but if that kid goes too far, you can obviously tell he's not over you.

It's Tuesday. I like you.

Each week, he reminds you of that thing in the past that should stay in the past. Without fail, even if he was annoyed at you for accusing him.

You should hate him, you thought. Hate him for wrecking your working relationship and everyone could still sense the tension. Which had only gotten worse in that time.

He sent you flowers, and you liked flowers. They were beautiful, and not stolen.

You laughed at that.

He wasn't supposed to care and he wasn't supposed to be so involved.

He broke more. You gave the wrong diagnosis and you were not his medicine, or so you thought.

Whatever the case, you failed to fix him.

He knew that if he was an emotional wreck you'd care more, but he tried to keep things the same. He was hiding his hurts, like he did when he supported his mother all those years ago and knew she was dying.

When he got fired, you realized that you didn't know he -mattered- so much. You didn't realize how important it was to you to be working with him, if only because he was there even when you started your job. And then you resigned and bared everything to him.

He could've rejected you...

He'd smiled and kissed you.

"You're broken too, you know," he'd told you one day.

"What do you mean?"

"You die a little more each time a patient dies. You break a little more because you're too involved."

"That's a bad thing?"

"No," he says, tucking a few loose strands behind your ear tenderly. "No, it's you. It's what makes you Allison Cameron. You care."

"Someone has to care. Someone..."

"It doesn't always have to be you."

"Who'll it be," she smiles. "You?"

"No, of course not me," he rolls his eyes. "I'm very comforting and comfortable." He sobers up. "You go care for everybody else. I'm occupied."

"With what? Or who? Anyone I know?"

"You, of course," he pauses. "... Do you think I could do it?"

"Do what?"

"Fix you."

"Well, you suck at playing 'insensitive jerk', if it helps."

He laughs. "It fools people."

"Does not," you inform him flatly. "Adolescent girls -fawn- over you. Nine year old girls manipulate you."

"That was once!"

"Well... maybe you could."

"Huh?"

"Fix me." You smile, hugging him. "Maybe... maybe you already did."

"You... are -my- medicine, you know," he says softly, his arms settling around you.

"Yes," you say sarcastically. "You can obviously tell with how you were after I broke it off."

"No, you're my medicine. It's just that... it's one of those treatments where you need to take the medicine for life."

You smile. "That's sweet," you say, eyes slowly fluttering shut. "You know, I really do think that you fixed me."