Chase was exhausted. The mostly sleepless night had been no aid. He clumsily rolled out of bed, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. He'd call her, just to check in. He flipped it open to a dark display. He hadn't plugged it in, had he? With a sigh, he stuck it on the charger, leaving it behind. She had probably already tried to call, already left for work without him.
The usual hustle and bustle of the hospital seemed diminished a bit, quieter, and when he stopped by the locker room, it was empty.
He slipped on his lab coat, shoving his things in his locker. He couldn't wait to see her. He was sure it would all be worth it when he could hold her in his arms, kiss her on the head.
But, as he speed-walked down the hall, his heart sank. He could already see through the glass wall of the diagnostics room that she wasn't there. Neither was House, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. Foreman was at the table, head bowed. But the person that made his heart stop was Cuddy, standing by the board with her hands clasped together. Her posture was off. He glanced quickly back to the man at the table. So was his. Something was wrong.
He walked into the room, hands clenched into fists in his pockets. Whatever it was, it couldn't be that bad. It couldn't be. He looked up at the dean of medicine. Her eyes were red, makeup splotchy. She'd been crying.
Oh, God. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know, but he had to. "Cameron's not here."
The woman was trembling now, blinking rapidly. She took a shaky breath, wiping her eyes quickly, trying to compose herself. "Chase, I'm so sorry..."
His heart pounded in his chest, so loud it rang through his ears. No. Don't say it. Don't say it. Please. If she didn't tell him, it couldn't be real. He would see her soon. They would hug, share stories. She'd laugh at him for opening a beer and not drinking it.
"Cameron's dead."
Whatever hope he was clinging on to shattered apart. No. It couldn't be. He had just seen her.
"She was found in House's apartment a few hours ago. They've already taken him into custody for the murder." She shook her head as she said it, in as much disbelief as everyone else in the room. "The police tried to call you, but they said they couldn't reach you."
His phone. He hadn't charged it. What if she had called him? Asked for help?
He stumbled back, grasping onto the door handle. She couldn't just be... gone. She couldn't be.
"No." He almost didn't realize the word had left his lips. "No..." he shook his head, looking up. His mouth was twisted into the semblance of a smile, the arm that grasped onto the handle shaking. "This is some sick joke, isn't it? She's not- she can't be-" His heart was racing, hand slipping from the door. His features fell, contorted by the sudden wall of grief. He was laughing, chest bobbing up and down unnaturally. "She's not dead," he choked, tears running freely now. "She's not dead."
He sat on the bench of the locker room some time later, staring a hole through the floor. Anyone who passed through could've easily mistaken him for a statue. A fountain, maybe. His whole body was numb. He felt like he couldn't move, couldn't get up if he tried. He didn't want to get up. He didn't want to have to go back into a world where she wasn't.
She was dead. House had killed her. The words kept echoing through his head, repeating themselves as if they were meant to torment him forever.
House had killed her. The statement seemed to ring a discordant bell. The way she had sounded, when she called him... whatever had been going on was bad. She had told him before that she had seen House at a low point. He didn't know the details. It hadn't been his business to pry. What could've been so bad, so horrible that he would-
It didn't make sense. None of this made sense. But here he was, with one dead wife and zero answers. And he didn't know if he cared enough to find them. Either way, she wasn't coming back to him anymore.
House hadn't expected anyone to visit, especially not so soon. He had thought that what he had done would cut ties with everyone permanently, that whoever might have cared about him before no longer did. But after laying his eyes on the visitor, he wished that they hadn't come.
Wilson was pacing around the small visitor's room, eyes frenzied. He kept shaking his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. After a moment, he sat, not meeting his eyes. "You've gone too far this time."
House didn't respond. What could he say? Anything would be too risky.
When he looked up, his eyes were shining with pain. "You killed Cameron!"
He hated the look on his face. The betrayed gaze of utter disbelief, shock that someone he trusted could dare do what he thought he had done. "It was an accident." He wasn't sure why he said that. That was wrong. He did know. He wanted to try and convince him he wasn't the monster he thought he was. He didn't want to lose him.
"She was stabbed 20 times," Wilson said, voice quivering. "I don't understand how you- do I even know you?"
Yes, you do, he thought desperately. You know I would never. I wouldn't! "I don't know."
A resolve came into the oncologist's eyes, one that he dreaded hearing the reason behind. He sighed, standing up. "I'm sorry, House. I don't- I don't think I'll be back." He turned and walked a few steps, stopping for the briefest moment to look back. "Good luck. God knows you need it." And with that, Wilson left the room, and, House suspected, his life as well.
He had said something kind. Despite the fact he thought his, well he supposed ex-best friend, was a murderer. It brought him no comfort. In fact, it twisted an invisible blade deeper into his heart. Wilson would never end a relationship by saying something hurtful. It wasn't in his nature. Him being kind meant... he really wasn't ever coming back.
Chase was on autopilot. He had somehow made his way home, drank the beer he had opened, drank a few more, smashed his face in his pillow, lay unmoving for hours.
He didn't feel anything, couldn't feel anything. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he wouldn't notice the fact that he'd never feel her arms around him again.
The doorbell went off, the two chimes echoing through the otherwise silent home. He didn't want visitors, didn't want anyone unless it was her, but that wasn't possible. The bell rang again, and reluctantly, he pulled himself up, moving to the door.
He didn't know what he had been expecting, but Wilson had to be one of the last people he thought he would see on the other side of the door. He didn't know the man well, didn't really even talk to him often.
He was attempting a sympathetic smile, a corner of his mouth turning a fraction of an inch upwards as he offered out a large, foil covered dish. "It's lasagna."
He nodded, accepting it. He didn't want to be pitied, didn't want to see eyes looking down on him like a kicked puppy. He just wanted her back.
Wilson sighed, fidgeting with his hands. "Look... when Amber died..."
He should've seen this coming. He was going to compare the losses, say he knew what he was feeling, tell him it was going to be okay. He couldn't care less, didn't want to sit through condescending sympathy.
"Cameron was there for me. I wanted to return the favor."
Chase blinked. He hadn't been expecting that at all. "...Thanks." His voice was raspy, hoarse, and he hated that he had said anything at all, lest he trigger more concern.
The oncologist nodded. "I get that you probably don't want to talk right now. But if you do... my door is always open." And with that, he walked down the path, disappearing from sight.
Prison life was surprisingly easy to adjust to. Everything was on a schedule, similarly to the psych hospital, and if he didn't bother anyone, no one would bother him. He was fine with that. He couldn't even imagine the average intelligence of the people around him.
The first day someone had tried to talk to him, though. A black man in his thirties, short cropped hair and bright eyes. He had almost mistaken him for Foreman at first.
He had asked what he was in here for.
Murder, he had said, but he didn't do it. It was cathartic, in a way, to tell someone the truth. Even if that someone was a man who couldn't have cared less.
That's what they all say, he had said, before getting up, continuing to interrogate everyone else in the lunchroom.
He was in pain. He wouldn't be surprised if that's what they had planned all along. He had thrown up a meal due to withdrawal, and as a result was starving. His leg hurt, each step sending shockwaves up his body. They wouldn't let him keep the cane. Figures. It could easily become a weapon, after all. And so he limped. No matter the distance, no matter for how long.
But the physical pain was familiar to him. The emotional, on the other hand, was an obstacle he had not been well equipped to face. He kept seeing her face, lifeless, on the ground. He hadn't stopped them. Hadn't even tried. He thought of Wilson, who had been by his side through everything before, who was finally sick of him. Who had given up on him.
But he had done it so he could live. He didn't care about his own life. It wasn't one worth saving when it came down to it. But his... he was the one that mattered most to him. And they had known.
He had to know, right? Had to know somewhere, deep down, that he hadn't done it. That he wasn't a killer. It was a hollow wish for redemption. He knew he deserved all of the consequences delivered.
Because... If they had given him the knife, if they had told him to kill her... he wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't have.
Foreman opened his door to a strangely familiar scene that night, and also an entirely unexpected one. A solemn echo of the day when Kutner died. Thirteen stood a little off-balance on the other side of the door, her strikingly green eyes boring into his, brown hair swooping over a shoulder. He didn't think that she, or anyone, for that matter, would have stopped by. Least of all her, especially given that the last time they had met he had fired her.
Her hands were clasped together, fingers fiddling with one another. "Hey." He didn't return the greeting, so she continued. "I know you want to be alone, but..." she paused, eyes lingering a moment, "I just want to tell you I'm sorry." With that, she turned to leave, but he felt compelled to reach out, to apologize. He had sent her away when Kutner had died. He had sent her away two days ago.
"Wait."
She stopped, turning back, curious.
He held the door open wider, taking a quick glance at the apartment behind him. "Come in."
They sat on the couch, neither of them really knowing what to do. She hadn't left, though, which he took as a good sign. She had never wanted to leave. He'd pushed her away. He sighed, looking down. He hadn't been a very good boyfriend, had he? He'd tricked himself into thinking he had made the right decision in letting her go. He knew he had hurt her. And yet, his pride hadn't let him admit it.
It was ridiculous, but, what had happened to Cameron... it had reminded him that life was too short to hold onto grudges. He looked at her, wondering if she would even forgive him. At the very least, he wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't say anything.
"I shouldn't have fired you."
Her head jerked up a little, a shadow of confusion passing over her face, wondering why he would bring it up now. When her eyes met his, however, realization clicked behind them. Relaxing her posture a bit, she moved a little closer to him, and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her tightly to his side.
Chase opened his eyes, rolling over instinctively, hand grabbing nothing but air. She wasn't there. Maybe she was in the kitchen, making coffee, getting ready for work. But he was already dressed for the day, the untucked dress shirt wrinkled from being slept in. He looked at the clock through puffy eyes, trying to see what time it was. It was nearly five in the afternoon.
It hadn't been a dream. She was really gone. He sighed, up at the ceiling. He was tired, defeated. Sleeping hadn't helped. He wandered outside, taking the lasagna out of the fridge, cutting off a serving to heat up.
He had put two plates down. He hadn't even realized. He reached out for the extra one, hand freezing in the air. He didn't want to put it back. It felt like acceptance, complacency. He retracted his hand slowly, sitting down, leaving the plate be.
Picking up a fork, he speared a bite, strings of cheese stretching from the rest of the dish to his mouth. The tomatoey flavor flooded his senses, and he chewed slowly before swallowing. It was good. He glanced over at the empty plate, the empty chair. She would've liked it. A wave of guilt. He was enjoying something she would never get the chance to. Standing up, he crudely wrapped the plate, sticking it back in the fridge. Maybe he wasn't hungry after all.
Foreman had spent the last few hours reminiscing in silence. Six years. He had known her for six years. They had grown apart a little, after she was no longer on the team. But he knew if he had needed anything, all he had needed to do was ask and she would be there.
She had saved his life once, a favor that he'd never be able to return. He still remembered what it was like to be dying. He had been desperate, afraid, nearing the point of insanity. He had almost dragged her down with him. It almost felt like cruel irony, that she had died from a stabbing. As if he hadn't stabbed her with a syringe with the intent of infecting her with a deadly disease.
And yet... she had stayed by his side through the whole ordeal. She was always caring, always putting herself out there for other people.
She was the last person he thought would be taken too soon.
Thirteen suddenly shifted under his arm, glancing at her watch before getting up. "Sorry. I've got a job interview to go to," she said, gathering her things. "I'm actually already a little late."
He nodded, eyes following her to the door. He wanted her back, wanted to hire her again. But things were in such a state of disarray at the moment. He couldn't make her part of this. "Thanks for coming."
Surprise flitted across her gaze, a slight smile turning up her lips as she stopped at the door. "Any time."
Chase didn't know how he found himself here, didn't know how the guards let him in, but the unanswered questions were going to tear his head apart if he stayed still any longer. He could recognize his shape from a distance, and his heart beat faster, rage boiling in his chest. His pace quickened as he made his way down the hall, turning into the visitor's booth.
The man was looking down. What, did he not think this was serious? Did he not give a damn that he had killed someone? Look at me, dammit. Look at me!
He slammed a fist into the bulletproof glass, the loud bang startling the man behind it. "What the hell have you done?" Pain shot through his wrist, but he didn't care, just wanted answers.
House looked back down, shaking his head wordlessly.
"How could you?! She cared about you, you bastard! She cared about you! She came to check on you and you killed her?!"
He took a seat, chest heaving. The energy had drained out of him in an instant, the pain in his wrist suddenly much more noticeable. He sighed, shaking his head. "I just wanna know why. Why is my wife gone, can you answer me that?" He looked at the man, waiting for an answer.
His head had tipped back down, daring not to meet eyes with the accuser. He didn't move, didn't speak, and Chase had half the mind to just get up and leave.
"I'm sorry."
The words hung in the air, almost suffocatingly so. He was sorry? If he had cared, he wouldn't have... she would still be here. He blinked. No... the statement had seemed significant for a different reason. He hadn't given a reason.
If he had a lapse of judgment, if he'd lost control, he would've said so. If he'd completely lost it, he would've gloated. If he didn't know, he would've admitted that as well. Which meant...
"You didn't do it."
House looked up in surprise before averting his gaze, only solidifying the theory. "Yes, I did."
Chase shook his head adamantly. "No, you didn't. Why are you covering this up? You think it'll all just be better if you take the fall?"
He was still avoiding him, refusing to look at him. "You don't want to get involved. This isn't your business."
Business? He had the right to know. "My wife is dead." He looked down at his hands, his right wrist already starting to swell up. He'd probably fractured it, he realized, wrinkling his eyebrows. "My wife is dead, and I didn't do anything to stop it." His eyes trailed up, landing on the other man's head. "You didn't let me. Why didn't you let me do anything?"
"I can't tell you."
Chase got up, kicking the metal chair back. "Then I'll just have to find out for myself."