Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Written in response to the theme "Friends with Benefits" from enigma731. Also written in response to the song "Nothing Without You" by Vienna Teng, from which I pinched a line for dialogue. Also nabbed a line by Charlotte Martin for the narrative. Thanks to enigma731 for the wonderful beta! This pretty much follows the FWB arc in season 3, except it sort of . . . expands the timeline to give them more familiarity. And more sex (always more sex). Slightly AU-ish.

Make Believe

"I am nothing without you, but I don't know who you are."

~Vienna Teng

Just sex. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but then again, so did marrying a dying man.

And where did that leave her? With a box full of paperwork – medical records, letters and death certificates with no other place to go; with a dress of white satin she'd never wear again – her virtue sealed away forever in the smooth plastic of a garment bag. With tears that present themselves only in the dark hours of the morning, silent and dripping dangerously onto Chase's bare shoulder.

What a fine idea that had turned out to be.

Truth be told, the sex was good, and the concept of emotional detachment very appealing. But, being a scientist, she quickly saw the flaw in this deal of theirs – theory and reality rarely coincide. Sure, at firs, she'd kicked him out scarcely a minute after he'd managed to zip up his fly; and true, the first time he'd fallen asleep, nose nuzzled close into her neck, she'd prodded him awake and guided him gently to the door. And yes, when the weather was bad, and she was stranded at his apartment, she'd had the decency to insist upon sleeping on the couch (of course, always the gentleman, he'd relocated and left his bed to her). But somewhere along the way, she'd found herself dithering a little longer at his door, pulling him back to bed – fingers somehow tangling with his a little more naturally than she'd ever expected – when he moved to leave, and finding it just a little harder to resist kissing him goodbye. Before she knew it, she was packing an extra set of clothes and a toothbrush when leaving for what was supposed to be a simple hook-up.

It had gotten out of hand, this . . . whatever it was. Every day it seemed they were spiraling further and further into this little game. It really was a game, she realized, a game of make believe where they could live vicariously in a world where, maybe, neither of them was too fucked up to maintaina healthy relationship. Their kisses had become less frantic, betraying a tenderness neither of them thought themselves capable of anymore, and somewhere the pivot had turned, their actions no longer in pursuit of their own gratification, but the other's whole satisfaction. She couldn't remember when the sounds of his needy whimpers had started to send a flutter through her chest instead of her groin, but she felt the change regardless. And it terrified her – the way his hand gripped her side, almost possessively, as they laid in bed in the on-call room, waiting for Foreman to finish running samples. And maybe what scared her more was that her apprehensions and logical reasons for emotional detachment were melting away, lost in the soft fabric of Chase's shirt.

She woke one morning to the pitiful sounds of Chase whimpering in his sleep, and rolled over to find him clutching a pillow – her pillow – tightly to his chest, the remnants of tears still glistening on his cheeks. Somehow seeing him this way – weak, vulnerable – seemed so wrong; forbidden. It was there, watching him wrestling with his own demons, falling further and further into nightmare, that she realized she really didn't know him all that well.

She knew that his parents were dead, and that he grew up just outside of Melbourne. She knew that he had a reputation as a playboy, and that he'd had a short stint with a masochistic banker. She knew he was a surgeon and intensivist, and that he knew hypnosis. She knew he had blue eyes, and a light scar on his left hipbone that he liked to have tickled and kissed.

But that was all information, a set of facts accumulated through idle chat at work and needy, emotionless sex. She knew very little about who he really was, beneath the lab coat and pretty-boy appearance. In fact, she'd never expected him to be like this – so emotionally invested in . . . something. Anything.

He mumbled something, the words lost in the soft fabric of her pillowcase, and tensed, fingers clenching tightly.

He was a mystery to her, a puzzle. And in the diagnostics department, puzzles were always solved.

It only took a few more moments of watching him like this, miserable and lonely, before she could feel her heart breaking, and she couldn't help but reach over and gently extract the pillow from his grasp, settling herself instead within his embrace.

"Where did you get this?" she asked one evening, fingertips tracing the outline of that same faint scar on his hip.

Days had passed, and they had found themselves wrapped up in a particularly time consuming case, allowing only for short trysts in the janitor's closet and other scandalous locations throughout the hospital during 'coffee breaks'. It was only when the patient was diagnosed and stable that they were finally able to hole up in Chase's apartment, taking as much time as they so desired to reach their mutual satisfaction.

His voice was pleasantly warm and hazy when he answered, still dulled by the release of his climax. "Bone marrow transplant."

She pushed herself up on her elbows to look at him, the lines of his face soft, blissfully relaxed in his afterglow. "Chase," she breathed, and felt her voice catch, all logic lost in her momentary panic. Did she really know that little about him? "Did you-?"

"No," he said, cracking one eye open to look at her. "My brother. I was the donor."

"Oh," she sighed, relieved despite herself, and settled down against him, head pillowed on his bare shoulder. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"Yeah." He swallowed, bringing one hand up to carefully comb his fingers through her hair. "His name was Aiden," he said slowly.

Cameron sucked in a breath, the reason she'd never before heard of his brother suddenly apparent. "I'm sorry," she said in a small voice. Her hand quickly found his, trembling within her grasp. She marveled at it – how perfectly his hand seemed to encompass hers, and how delightfully warm his skin was against her own, always so cool to the touch from poor circulation.

She brought his knuckles to her lips, and heard him choke a little in response.

The light was dim on the horizon, and Cameron could feel the night closing in around her. It was raining; it always rained on this day, she thought. Or at the very least, every year that she took the time to look outside. It was habit, to save vacation time for this day, so she wouldn't have to deal with snotty patients who thought their sniffles were the end of the world, or colleagues who, though just trying to help, always seemed to make everything so much worse.

It eluded her then, why she'd called Chase. Now, looking back on it, it seemed sacrilege. Their relationship was exclusively sex, and that's exactly what he'd be expecting.

But how could she have sex with him tonight? Tonight – the anniversary of her husband's death?

She was reaching for her phone, to call him and tell him to turn around and go back home, when she heard him knocking on her door, and was surprised to find him, when she answered it, holding a bottle of wine and a tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. The combination seemed ridiculous at first, and she could only stare dumbly at him.

"Can I come in?" he asked hopefully, shifting and balancing his various belongings.

Frowning, she stepped aside to let him in. He quickly made his way to the couch and set about retrieving plastic bowls, spoons, an ice cream scooper, a corkscrew and two plastic wine glasses from his bag.

"What are you- How did you-" she stuttered, sort of touched at what was obviously supposed to be a friendly gesture, but mostly confused as to how he knew. "Why?" she finally managed.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, busy scooping large clumps of ice cream – chocolate chip cookie dough, her favorite – into each bowl. "We've worked together for three years. And every year you take the same day off."

It was a very House thing to observe, she thought, and, though not beyond Chase's capacity, it was hard to believe he'd come to this conclusion on his own. She took a step back, arms folding themselves defensively over her chest. "Then maybe I want to be alone."

He ignored this, of course, and procured a small bottle of sprinkle topping from his bag. "When you called me, you sounded upset, so I checked the date."

"But I never told you-"

"No," he admitted, and snapped the lid back on the bottle. "Last year, House realized you'd missed the same day two years in a row, and had me do an obituary search for the name 'Cameron' and today's date."

She eyed him cautiously, before sitting on the opposite end of the couch and accepting the proffered ice cream. She remained silent, still, as he opened the bottle of wine and poured her a glass, setting it on the table in front of her. "I have no intention of having sex with you tonight," he said gently, pouring himself a glass as well. "I just thought you could use a friend."

It was strange, not having to mourn alone. Her parents had all but abandoned her when she'd decided to 'throw her life away' by marrying a dying man, and Joe . . . oh, Joe. She'd pushed him as far away as possible, after the funeral, afraid she'd finally lose her self-control and do the unthinkable. And now, here was Chase, not so much a friend as a bed-buddy, offering her wallowing food and alcohol, with no ulterior motives, looking sweet and hopeful, and maybe – maybe – just as lonely as she was. Could she really turn him away?

She smiled faintly, and set into her ice cream.

Hours later, the wine was very nearly gone, and together they'd managed to clean out an entire gallon of ice cream. Chase was still there, having only left his spot on the couch to clean up their mess. She looked at him, her vision softened by the alcohol, and saw that he'd been watching her over his wineglass.

"What?" she said suddenly.

"Nothing."

"You're staring at me," she countered.

"I'm worried about you," he whispered, and set his glass on the table.

She frowned, having to let that process for a moment. Worry meant caring, and that was not part of their deal. In fact, it violated the terms she'd set out quite explicitly. She opened her mouth to protest, and was more than a little surprised to find a voice – not hers, because it couldn't be her, though it sounded oddly similar – saying, "Tell me about your brother?"

He froze instantly, looking at her in clear disbelief.

"You don't have to," she quickly amended, softening her voice. "I'm just curious."

She could see him deliberating, the muscles in his hands tensing and relaxing, painful memories flitting across his face, until finally, "Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He was five."

"How old were you?" she whispered, moving a little closer to him on the couch.

"Thirteen," he said, staring straight ahead, gazing past her. He lowered his voice, "Transplant didn't take. There was nothing they could do."

Somehow, seeing him in such pain offset the effects of the alcohol, and she found herself sobering up. "Chase," she said firmly, "It wasn't your fault."

He blinked a few times and offered her a rueful smile. "Yeah, I know that now." He was silent for awhile, busying himself by adjusting the time on his watch. It was a connection she'd never quite realized before – that he'd lost so much of his life to cancer in the way she'd lost her husband. Only, he didn't have a choice. He looked at her finally, hesitation lingering beyond his eyes. "Tell me about your husband?"

Instinctively, she wanted to kick him out. That was generally her response, after all, when someone asked about her disaster of a marriage. But somehow, he looked so sincere and not at all judgmental, and maybe the alcohol made her feel a little lonelier than usual; she found herself blinking back tears. "I still miss him," she managed, sounding small and fragile.

His voice was gentle, and he inclined his head toward hers, his hand warm against her shoulder. "I know."

"I really did love him," she managed, her own voice breaking. No-one had ever really cared – not like this – how his death had affected her. Everyone had always assumed she was strong enough, stubborn enough, to push through this on her own, with only polite reminders of their sympathy for her. The years collapsed to nothing in that moment, and the pain was fresh, as real as the chilling feeling of his skin on her lips as she kissed him at the wake. "Maybe . . . maybe not at first, but when he died, I . . . I loved him."

"C'mere," Chase murmured, and pulled her into his arms. It seemed only natural to clamber into his lap and hold on tight, allowing the alcohol to free her from her inhibitions so she could just cry, long and hard, fingers twisted in the starched fabric of his shirt. His lips were near her ear, soothing. "It's okay, love. It's okay to cry." And she couldn't do much other than comply.

"Tell me," she said at last, the words muffled against his shoulder, sounding pitiful and broken. "Tell me it won't always be this hard?"

He surprised her one night, showing up on her doorstep, hair wet and falling in his eyes from the evening thunderstorm. His hands and lips were cold as he grasped her by the shoulders and pushed her against the wall, tongue sliding along hers.

It was later, lying contentedly naked on her couch, a light blanket protecting them both from the storm's chill, that she thought to reach up behind herself and move the picture frame on the end table so the photograph was facing down. "What're you doing?" he murmured, feeling her move in his arms.

"Nothing," she replied, and brushed her lips against his forehead. "Go back to sleep." She settled against him again, tucking her head beneath his chin, and drifted off, thinking of him glowing, and wondering if he would ever smile like that for her.

Life continued on as it always had. They continued to pull all-nighters at work, scrambling for a few moments' rest (or sometimes something a little less restful) in the on-call room. Chase continued to amaze Cameron with the ease with which he dealt with children in the clinic, and she couldn't help but smile at the thought of him with a child of his own. Foreman continued to throw fits whenever they agreed, and House continued to walk in on them when they were trying to squeeze in a quickie between tests. Somehow they'd fallen into rhythm together.

It amazed her, how natural it was to be sitting up with Chase in bed, he in his boxers and she wearing only his shirt, picking at takeout with chopsticks. Her legs were tangled with his, and somehow eating seemed so much more intimate than she'd ever before considered. "Thanks for dinner," she said, setting empty boxes on the floor.

"Of course," he mumbled around a mouthful of chicken and she grimaced, wondering if boys ever really outgrew that habit. "Sorry for answering your phone earlier," he said finally, awkwardly. "I . . . thought it might be House. I never considered it might be your parents."

She shrugged, albeit uncomfortably. "They were delighted. They seem to think I have a boyfriend now."

"Sorry," he offered again, meekly.

Sighing, she stretched out on her side and watched him devour the remainder of their dinner. "I told them I worked with you," which wasn't a lie, she reminded herself. "I don't think they believed me, but it should blow over if you make sure you don't pick up my phone again."

"They seem nice," he said, changing the subject.

"Yeah," she agreed, plucking lint off of what was really his shirt.

"What are they like?" he asked, and leaned back against the headboard, reaching over to thread his fingers carefully through her hair.

Cameron whined a little, because his hands were still sticky with sauce and now so was her hair. She wrinkled her nose. "Like parents, I guess."

He seemed to consider this a moment, picking apart tangles with sticky fingertips. "Do they get along?"

Her lips pursed tightly as she looked up at him. "With each other?" He nodded in response. "Well, yeah. They've been married for over thirty years." Her relationship with them, however, was not so fairy-tale-like. The first time she'd heard from them since getting married had been three years ago, when her brother had been in a car accident. He was fine, of course, but the accident had served to bring their family back together, in a way. But that wasn't what Chase had wanted to know.

It wasn't what she wanted Chase to know.

"What about yours?" she asked before she could think twice. "What were they like?"

"Like parents," he shrugged, suddenly very interested in scraping the last bits of rice from a takeout container.

"You don't have to tell me." Her voice suddenly sounded much softer than she'd intended, and she could practically feel the sadness radiating from him, taste it with every breath. She remembered the time she'd asked what had happened between him and his dad, and how quickly he'd shut her out. Really, nothing should have changed since then, and he should have slammed the proverbial door in her face. And she shouldn't have pressed further. But all the same, they shouldn't be doing this – whatever it was they were doing – at all. "But . . . you have to talk to someone about this, if you haven't. Before it destroys you."

He seemed to consider for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling as if it could somehow turn his thoughts and tell her a happier story than he had in mind. "I wasn't a full match," he said finally, eyes still fixed on a spot near the corner. "For the bone marrow transplant. But I was the closest they could find." He finally met her eyes. "That's when I first suspected that Aiden was probably only my half-brother."

Her mouth formed the shape, "Oh," but there was no sound. Pieces were falling into place, and it was easy to see why he'd always been so reluctant to talk about his past.

"They never got along great," he explained. "I'm pretty sure they only got married because of me. And when Aiden died," he paused. "I don't know. I guess it was just reason enough for them to stop pretending. The fighting got worse, and my mum started drinking." He twisted the sheet in his hands, thoughtful. "My dad left. A few years later, my mum drank herself to death while I was away at seminary school." His face was lined with pain, tears concealed just beyond her view. He swallowed, then whispered, "All because the transplant didn't take."

"Chase," she breathed, and felt her heart swell with sympathy for him. "It wasn't your fault."

He smiled faintly, but his voice broke. "I know."

She could see his lip trembling between his teeth, and that his knuckles had turned white, fisted in the bedspread. It was all she could do to sit up and kiss him, to take away his pain.

He snored, she noted, when he slept on his back. Not very loudly though; in fact, it was kind of endearing and very him – almost as tangible as his hand on her waist, holding tight even while he slept. He whispered her name in his sleep, and she realized – though the fact that they were cuddled up in the on-call room, fully clothed, should have been enough indication – that this wasn't just sex. Not anymore.

Something had changed, she realized, and was horrified to learn that the thought itself didn't horrify her. Somehow, her life had begun to revolve around spending time with Chase. True, it wasn't much of a change – they worked together, so they had the same time off – but she found herself moving her morning runs to the evenings, between getting home from work and meeting up with Chase, and picking up a six-pack of Keystone Light (the fact that he preferred cheap college beer never ceased to confuse her) at the supermarket. Now, going back to the way things were just seemed wrong.

He wasn't her boyfriend. He was never going to be her boyfriend. Things were easier this way, pretending, so that if anything ever happened – his family history of cancer terrified her almost as much as it made her sympathize with him – they'd be okay. She wasn't about to cause him any more heartache, and he wouldn't force her to bury a second husband.

Husband?

Never.

But the thought of running in the mornings and stocking her fridge with fruity chick beer was just too depressing to imagine. She couldn't lose him, and she couldn't have him. She'd live and die by make believe to keep him with her, hiding behind her lab coat and transparent excuses, labeling him as a colleague with cooking skills that almost matched his talents in bed. They had a good thing going, and she wasn't about to ruin it by breaking her own foolish rules.

She needed him.

"Allison," he breathed, and tightened his arms about her, nose nuzzled close into her neck. He was waking, but she wasn't quite ready to leave.

"Go back to sleep, babe," she whispered, fingertips brushing his hair from his forehead. "Foreman's going to be awhile still."

He complied, of course, and she stayed awake, watching as he smiled warmly in his sleep, and wondered if he was dreaming about her.