WARNINGS: major character death; season six spoilers; addiction; sex; violence
NOTES: My playlist for this fic is now posted at my LJ and the link can be found in my profile here. Also, if you happened to miss the last chapter in the holiday rush last week, I suggest you read it before this one. Hope everyone had a great holiday!
Chapter Twenty-One
A week passes in a haze of pain, misery, and panic, Dibala's face merging with the car crash in Chase's mind to form a whole new set of nightmare images and haunting flashbacks. The windshield shattering. The sounds of cardiac alarms. The metallic smell of blood. The sickly yellow tinge of House's eyes just before the end.
Day bleeds into night and then morning again, and he loses track of time, space, everything but the excruciating craving, the all-encompassing need for the feel of the bottle in his hand, the subtle burn of alcohol at the back of his throat. His thoughts seem to be moving much too fast without it, so that he can't make sense of anything. It's like falling headlong into an endless chasm, blind and oblivious but for the air rushing by on either side.
He's vaguely aware of Cameron's presence, sometimes silent and sometimes murmuring words of empty comfort that he can't quite follow. Sometimes she stays away—at the far end of the couch, or even across the room in the recliner—and others, when it's all he can do to squeeze her hands or lean against her shoulder, she is right there.
On the morning of what Chase's cell phone tells him is the eighth day since leaving the hospital, he wakes lucid enough to be aware both that the pain has quieted to a point where his thoughts once again make sense, and that Cameron is perched on the edge of the couch, looking down at him with concern.
"Hey," she says softly, reaching out to finger the sleeve of his t-shirt in a way that makes Chase fairly certain she's not aware of what she's doing. "How are you feeling?"
Chase swallows hard, momentarily unable to come up with any reply at all. Slowly, he attempts to take stock of his body. The pain in his injured foot has receded to a dull ache, and though his head feels much heavier than it ought to, it doesn't hurt anymore either. His skin is sticky with too many days of fever, the ache still present but the chills gone. The cravings are the only thing just as strong as before, screaming in his ear and eating away at his soul. But he's gotten good at enduring torment, and in the absence of everything else, manages to push them to the back of his mind for now.
"Sort of hungry," he manages at last, surprising himself.
Cameron smiles, and Chase notices suddenly that she already has a plate of toast and a mug of tea on the coffee table. "I was hoping you'd say that."
It takes considerable effort to sit up, and he lets Cameron help wordlessly, taking the plate when she offers it. The toast is completely dry, but it's the first real food he's been able to tolerate in days, and he exhales a breath of relief when the taste doesn't turn his stomach. Cameron is still watching him, he realizes, as he slowly finishes one piece and then some of the tea as well. He wants to thank her despite himself, to tell her that in the light of this morning, he's beginning to see some tiny, fragile shred of hope. But the past is still present, memory stretched between them so that the length of the couch might as well be the seven hundred miles from Princeton to Chicago, and words won't come.
"You look much better," says Cameron, and he can tell it's just to break the silence. She opens her mouth as if to say something further, but the doorbell rings.
Chase jumps instinctively, and can't think of anything to say. He feels immediately both vulnerable and ashamed of that reaction; the last thing he wants right now is for anyone he even vaguely knows to see him in this condition. His past has taught him the value of self control, of independence, of being able to do it all alone.
"That's Foreman," says Cameron, biting her lip like she knows this will be upsetting to Chase. "I didn't invite him over. He called to say he needs help with a case. I'm sorry. I still have to do my job, or Cuddy's going to close the department."
"Okay," says Chase, because there really isn't any other response.
"I'll be right back. If you need anything…" Cameron gets to her feet, then hesitates, looking back at him as though something terrible might happen if she leaves to answer the door. She's only half-dressed herself, Chase realizes, in sweats and a jogging top, and he wonders suddenly what's happened to her treadmill. It isn't in this new apartment.
"I'm fine," he says quickly, when the quiet between them has begun to shift into discomfort, and her face into worry. He takes a large bite of the second piece of toast to prove the point, though he's not really hungry anymore. As soon as Cameron is out of sight, he pulls the heaviest blanket from the pile over himself, wishing he could hide beneath it entirely.
"Hi," Cameron greets Foreman in the hallway, but there's a strange tension in her voice belying her attempt at casualness. When she speaks again it's muffled, indicating that they've stepped out into the hall. But she's left the door open, and Chase can still hear everything clearly, unsure whether to feel relieved or ironically betrayed that she's confirmed his shame at being seen. "You have a case?"
"We have a case," corrects Foreman. "And we're not going to run a differential in the hall. Patient information is confidential."
"Chase is asleep," Cameron lies, sounding unconvincing even from a distance.
On the couch, Chase tenses, unsure why her excuse bothers him so much. He wants to tell himself that she's being considerate, that she understands he doesn't want anyone's pity right now, and that Foreman has never been good at offering comfort in personal matters anyway. And yet it feels like a slight, like she agrees with his utter self-loathing. He thinks he can't blame her, but it stings all the same, and he tears the toast into pieces just to do something with his hands, anger bubbling up in the pit of his stomach.
"So, we'll be quiet," says Foreman.
"It's a small apartment," Cameron hedges. "You were here when you helped me unpack. You know how sound carries."
"Then Chase can be awake for twenty minutes while we talk about the case," Foreman insists. "Maybe he could even help."
"I don't think that's a good idea." There's that oddness in Cameron's voice again, and Chase puts the plate down, frowning. He can't really disagree with her decision to have fired him, after the way he's treated her. But this has nothing to do with that, no watchful administrative eye here to know whether he's participating in the case. If she doesn't want him to take part now, it's because of her own opinion, her own distrust in his medical judgment. Suddenly he finds himself wondering if she's thought he was competent at all since being back, being in charge of the department. That seems a worse betrayal, somehow, than anything else she's said or done recently.
"Why not?" Foreman pushes, voice growing louder as he apparently moves closer to the doorway again. "You said he was doing better when I called."
"He was," says Cameron, sounding uncomfortable. "I mean, he is. I just—I don't think it's a good idea to push him right now."
"Allison." Foreman sighs audibly, so that even Chase can hear it from inside the living room. "It's a good thing that you're doing, helping him. But it's also stupid. He's an addict. He's a long-time addict. And he has no social support network. You're not doing him a favor, protecting him from the world. You keep him in a nice little bubble, and he'll start drinking again the second he leaves here. Let me talk to him. Let him work. He needs those things to get on with his life. And don't get too involved, either. You can try to save his life, but that's not going to get your marriage back."
What Cameron answers is inaudible, and Chase tenses further, pulling the blanket up again. He's grateful for what Foreman is saying, yet it's nothing short of humiliating that anyone is in a position to be having this kind of conversation about him. Moreover, Chase is fairly certain that Foreman is right, that he won't be able to abstain once he leaves the forced environment of Cameron's apartment. That revelation sends resentment churning hotly through his stomach, and suddenly he wants to hate them both. It's safer that way, less risky than letting them know they've read his weaknesses perfectly.
"I can hear you, you know!" Chase calls loudly, without giving himself time to think about that decision. Shoving all of the blankets off in a rush, he swings his legs over the side of the couch and sits up, ignoring the pain that shoots up his leg from his foot. "And I don't appreciate being treated like a child!"
Cameron practically slams the door, and then she and Foreman are in the living room before Chase has even realized exactly what he's said. He regrets it instantly, because really he isn't ready to work, isn't ready to be seen even by Foreman. But Cameron's words have broken something inside him, crushed some emotional dam, and now he can't stop the anger from spilling over into everything, growing more and more out of control.
"Well?" he snaps in their general direction, because it's easier to be rude than contrite. "Are you going to present the case?"
Foreman looks back and forth uneasily between the two of them, then clears his throat. "Fourteen-year-old female. Heart murmur noted by her pediatrician during an annual physical ordered by her school. No other current symptoms, and she is otherwise in good health. Medical history is insignificant, with the exception of a seven-day illness several months ago during which the patient experienced sore throat and very high fevers. She did not see a doctor at that time."
"Are you serious?" For a moment Chase can only gape at Foreman, trying to see another possibility beyond the obvious insult of this presentation. Cameron comes to sit next to him again on the couch, and he flinches away reflexively, wanting suddenly to have them both as far from himself as possible.
"Yeah?" Foreman's face is all condescension. "Pretty sure I drove over here to have you two help me with this case. Or maybe you'd rather I go back and tell Cuddy she actually can close the department. Then we could play cards. Have family game night. It'd be fun."
"This isn't a case!" Chase explodes, not even trying to control himself anymore. They both obviously think he is incompetent, and regardless of his past behavior, it feels like the ultimate injury, the last straw in the utter destruction of his self-worth. "She had untreated strep and it damaged her heart. Refer her to Cardiology. What did you do, stick your hand into the ER filing cabinet and pick up the first chart you could grab? You didn't want our help with a differential. You wanted an excuse to come over here and gawk at me. Get out. I don't need your pity."
"Chase!" Cameron interrupts disapprovingly.
"Shut up!" Chase yells, rounding on her. The room is spinning and his head is pounding again, and it seems suddenly impossibly like he's lost everything again, unaware the hope even existed until it's been snuffed out. "Don't pretend you're better than him! I'm not your plaything! The only reason you're doing this is out of your sick obsession with House! He's dead. Just because I remind you of him now doesn't mean you can save him by trying to help me!"
"I'm not dignifying that with a response," Cameron says coldly, then gets to her feet, turning back to Foreman. "This obviously isn't a good time. I'll walk you out."
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