Chase opened his eyes, realizing he was in his own apartment on his own couch, with Cameron lying beside him crying softly. He panicked and sat up, "What happened?" he shook her slightly to get her attention.
"Chase?" she saw him looking at her with worry etched on his face. "Are you okay?"
He was unsure. "I don't know," he answered slowly. He tried to remember how they wound up like this. Something like an electrical shock surged through him as he remembered kissing Cameron. He moved to push the ghosts of Joe's hands away from his stomach, but realized it was only a memory he felt.
Cameron moved so that they could sit face to face. She observed his reaction, as if he was fighting a phantom. The body sometimes held memories the mind did not. She believed that was what Chase was experiencing at the moment.
He remembered that kissing Cameron had somehow become convoluted with the harrowing memories of what Joe had done to him. Her hands became his hands; her words triggered memories of his words. He felt sick at the thought. How did I get so confused? Now Cameron had been crying and he had no idea why. "Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?" He took her forearm in his hand and rubbed it gently.
This only brought fresh tears for her. "No," she told him between ragged breaths. She could not shake away the image of him with his eyes shut, his head turned, shaking, his body locked in tension, and barely breathing. She wondered if he had been quivering in fear when the man attacked him and how anyone could see another person that terrified and still act on their despicable desires. She realized that Chase had been treated no better than an object by the two men who came into the clinic. They could not have had any grasp of him as a person and still been able to do whatever they did. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep from sobbing as she thought. She saw Chase's expressive blue eyes and the curve of his jaw and the full lips that could make her smile if they smiled. She saw his skillful hands that saved lives. How could anyone willfully hurt you? she asked silently. And here he was, concerned that he had done something to hurt her. "I hurt you," she admitted. "I didn't mean to, Chase."
"I don't really remember," Chase frowned, confused, trying to recall more about what had happened. "I went away, didn't I?" he asked. He realized the same sort of thing had happened when he felt threatened by Foreman. With Foreman, he was bombarded with memories. With Cameron, it was like time had stopped. He was not sure which was a worse reaction, but the idea that this behavior could become a pattern concerned him. How could he expect other people to respect him if he questioned his own competence?
"I think so," Cameron answered. When she first realized he was not being responsive, she thought he had only been afraid--of her, of sex. Knowing he was not ready for that step made her feel guilty. Then she realized he had shut down, unable to respond to her even when she stopped trying to seduce him. He had separated himself from the experience. Causing someone fear was bad. Causing someone so much terror that they resorted to a dissociative defense mechanism was even worse. She thought she should drop to her knees and beg his forgiveness, but wanted to put her own guilt aside long enough to make sure he was better.
"Oh god," Chase exclaimed, closing his eyes. "You wanted to… and I couldn't." He buried his face in both hands, hiding from her. "I'm sorry," he told her in a muffled voice. This only added to his shame.
"Don't be sorry. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot." Cameron tried to tug his hands away from his face, but could not.
"Oh god," he groaned. He had never failed to perform for a woman before this.
"Chase, it's okay. You're just not ready yet. I should have known better. It's too soon."
He uncovered his face and looked at her. "Are you kidding? You're beautiful and you wanted to make love and I couldn't do it. I should have focused on you and all I could think about was another man. A man, Cameron! How can I have a beautiful woman kissing me and touching me and manage to see and hear and feel a damn man instead?" He slapped his open palms against his forehead in several quick motions. "I want it out of my head!"
Cameron grabbed his wrists, "Don't!" she ordered, though she was not too surprised by his actions. Colleen, her friend from college, had once banged her own head against a wall trying to make the memories stop. Her greater concern was this kind of self-injurious behavior sometimes precipitated suicide attempts. She loathed the idea of Foreman being right, especially when she was the reason Chase had gotten so upset. She was disgusted with herself. She had seen Colleen destroy herself. Why did she think that Chase would be receptive to sex? She wondered how she would feel if she had been raped and less than a month later Chase had his hands down her pants trying to seduce her. She would hate him.
"I want him out of my head," Chase sounded mournful and desperate.
"It will take time," Cameron told him, still holding onto his wrists. "Don't hurt yourself," she told him in a calm, low voice. "Stop." She pushed his arms down. "That's not going to help anything."
"I'm not going to hurt myself. I don't need a babysitter to keep me from slitting my wrists if that's what you and Foreman and House are worried about. I can't commit suicide. I can't become like my mother. I'm not going to let something bad make me hurt everyone around me. I'm not that selfish."
Cameron just kept her hold on his wrists, keeping his arms still while he talked. "Your mother committed suicide?" she gasped.
"Yes. No. I don't know. If she didn't, she may as well have," Chase answered, too emotional to engage his own censors. "It doesn't matter. I'm not like her. I'm not going to be like her, like either one of them."
"Of course it matters," Cameron told him. "Tell me what happened," she urged.
He had let the cat out of the bag now. There was no reason to not tell her. "Middle of Year 12, I found her dead in her bedroom. I was so sick of it, of her. I was tired of going straight home from school, cleaning up her vomit, wrestling bottles away from her, and sneaking around trying to pour out at least half of whatever she was drinking so I could water down the rest. I was tired of trying to make her eat something so she wouldn't pass out, only to have her throw up whatever I made for her. She had been in and out of treatment facilities, but it never worked. I was too young to have her committed. My father had nothing to do with her, with either of us. If I tried to do anything on my own, I would have been taken away and put in some state home or something then she wouldn't have had anyone."
Cameron wanted to ask why he would have been put in a shelter instead of being placed with his father, but did not want to interrupt him while he was being open about his past.
"I remember that day because I got to the front door and couldn't make myself go inside. She had just left some high priced detox center after two days. She went right back to her routine of drinking herself into oblivion and to hell with the rest of the world. I was tired of the sight of her, the smell of her. I was tired of her fighting against me when I was trying to help her. So I sat down outside and did my homework. I didn't think it mattered. What difference did it make if I cleaned her puke then or an hour later? At least I'd have my homework done early one night. I thought I would beat the system that way. Get the work done, then it wouldn't matter which mood she was in that day. Once I was done with her, I could actually rest. I was tired. So, do you know what difference an hour makes, Cameron?"
Cameron felt sympathetic tears welling in her eyes as she shook her head.
"Death." He shrugged one shoulder absently. "She was still warm. If I'd just gone inside, maybe I could have saved her. Dad made me learn CPR when I was twelve. I tried to get her to breathe again, but when the ambulance got there, the paramedics pulled me away and told me to stop--I was wasting my time. One of them patted me on the shoulder and said, You did all you could do, son." He imitated the man's voice and gave a half-hearted laugh. "Except unlocking the damn door and checking to see if she was still alive. I did it every other day, but not that day."
"Chase, you couldn't have known," Cameron told him.
"You don't get it, do you?" Chase asked softly. "I did know. I always knew. Every day could have been the day, the day I came home and found her close to death's door. Even though she never finished a rehab program, she would be better for a few days. She'd drink a little less, not break as many things, maybe not get sick on her bed or the carpet. I thought a had a respite. I thought, Today will be a good day. She'll be drunk, but I'll be able to get her to take a bath and eat a sandwich. Then I'm going to bed. That's how selfish I was. She died because I wanted to take a nap, because I was too caught up in me to go in and take care of her like I was supposed to, because I broke the routine."
Cameron shook her head, saddened by what he was saying and shocked that he was saying it at all. "You did the best you could." She echoed the paramedic's words. She wondered if that constituted a good day, exactly what was a bad day? Though she had an entirely new understanding of why Chase resented his father so much.
"You know what I wonder sometimes--if she was hoping that it would look like a suicide attempt so that she could be committed so that she wouldn't have the option to leave the hospital on her own. You know how they say women are often making a cry for help if they try to kill themselves. I couldn't force her to stay, but maybe she wanted someone to force her to stay in treatment. Maybe she didn't mean to kill herself. Maybe she wanted to get better and I didn't play my part right. I let her lay there and die so I could finish my calculus homework."
She rubbed his hand softly. "You can't beat yourself up about that. You just can't."
"I don't… much… anymore," he told her. "I'm only telling you this because I want you to know that when I say I wouldn't kill myself, I mean it. Cameron, this, this… being raped… it's not the worst thing that I've ever had to deal with. I think it's harder to watch someone you love suffer than it is to be the one suffering. It's worse to be powerless to help someone you love than it is to be powerless to help yourself." He touched her face lightly, brushing away tears. "But you know that, don't you? You went through it with your husband."
She nodded as her throat tightened, fighting back a sob. "I had no idea you knew what it was like to watch someone you love die."
Chase pulled her to him in a hug. There was no need to speak. He patted her back, offering her comfort.
She thought about what he said, how it was harder to watch someone else suffer. It pained her to watch him suffer this way. She wanted to tell him that, but could not quite find the right way to say it. She pulled away after a few moments. "I'm so sorry," she started. "I should have known you weren't ready."
"Let it go," he whispered. "Please, can we not talk about that?"
"Don't be embarrassed," she tried to console him.
"You're talking about it," he replied, inconsolable.
"Chase, I understand. I don't think you're--"
He put his fingers in his ears, closed his eyes, and sang loudly, "La la, la, la."
She sighed. Chase ventured to open one eye and saw her sitting quietly. He smiled. She smiled. They both started to laugh.
"How can you go from pouring your heart out to being such a goof?" she asked, realizing her tears had subsided.
"I'm just special that way," he joked.
"You're special, all right," she said, picking up a forgotten throw pillow from the floor and whacking his arm with it.
He grabbed the pillow, but she held on tight. They tussled with it and each other until they fell in a tangled heap onto the floor.
Cameron was pinned under Chase, but he quickly got to his feet and offered her a hand to help her stand.
"Oww," she whined. "I landed right on my ass. Your floor is too hard."
"I guess we should go back to House's," Chase told her. "I want to pick up a few things. He's going to get tired of me having so much stuff. I need my own jacket though. I'm going to get a few things out of my closet. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Cameron noted that he did not invite her to come into his bedroom with him. She sat idly on the couch until he returned, carrying a small navy blue duffle bag.
"I should probably be moving stuff back here instead of taking more stuff there," he said.
"But, they haven't caught those men yet and they know where you live," Cameron argued.
"They'll never be caught," Chase told her, disheartened. He had been forced to make a formal statement that would never be used, but would be forever on record. His case was not a priority. Rapists were all too elusive, no matter what gender the victim or how much news the crime generated.
"But they've been here," Cameron reminded him. The idea of him being here alone scared her.
"So, I'm not supposed to ever move back home?" he asked. "I can't very well stay with House forever. I don't want to stay with House forever. I'm not sure why I'm staying with House now," he said. He knew that last statement was a lie though. He was still with House because he was not nearly as close to being healed as he would have liked any of them to believe. He knew it and House knew it too. "I'm going to get a couple of books," he said to change the subject.
Cameron followed him to the spare bedroom that served as his office.
"I wish I could take my guitar," Chase said wistfully, running a hand over the smooth surface of the custom-designed Maton. He had spent a small fortune having it made to his unique specifications. He had seen House's guitars and thought House might actually like to see this one. He would even consider letting House play a song or two on it. He regretted leaving it out of it's case the last time he played. It had, undoubtedly, had dust settle inside while he was away.
"How long have you played?" Cameron asked. She started to say, "I didn't know you played," but that would have been a lie since she had found out by walking into this room not too long ago.
"I guess since I was about twelve or so," he shrugged. "I'm so out of practice," he lamented. "I think I'm going to take the guitar and leave my clothes," he decided. "Letting House see it" was as good of a justification as he needed to take it with him. He picked up the instrument, wiped it down with a dusting cloth that he kept handy for just that purpose, and put it back in the case where it should have been, vowing to never leave it out again.
Cameron laughed. Men and their toys, she thought, rolling her eyes. She glanced at the computer and wanted to ask Chase about the article he was writing and exactly why he wrote with a pseudonym. But then he would know that she had snooped through his papers in the first place and that might be a sore subject.
He looked through his bookshelf and took two books down. One was called Heaven. The other was Freakonomics.
"You still read theological stuff?" Cameron asked, noting the first book.
"Yeah. It's interesting," he said, not volunteering any more information. He knew she was a self-proclaimed atheist and he did not want to have to justify his own weird belief system. He sighed without realizing it. Faith shouldn't be so hard, he thought. What Cameron had not noticed was that Heaven was the book on the shelf next to When Bad Things Happen to Good People. That was the one he wanted to take, but he did not want her to know that he wanted it. He was not sure why he did not want her to see him pick that book. He supposed he was not quite sure that she considered him "good people."
Cameron took the guitar case. "I'll carry this. You get the duffle bag," she said.
Chase had a momentary urge to protect his guitar from someone else touching it, but let it go. It was not her fault that she did not understand the bond between a man and his six-string. "Thanks," he said. "If you're still not in a hurry, I should probably go by the market and pick up a few things to cook tonight. Maybe you could stay for dinner," he offered. "Wilson comes by a few nights a week. I don't think they'd mind if you joined us."
"Oh, I better not impose," Cameron answered. She was afraid House would somehow see right through them and realize that she had tried to seduce Chase. He would never let her live that down if he ever found out.
"Oh, okay," Chase said. He sounded disappointed. "In that case, let's just go back to House's. I'll order something. I actually have some money now so I can buy their food for a change." He put the books in his bag before they left his apartment.
"You want to pick up something on the way back?" Cameron asked. Chase cringed when she let the guitar case bump the coffee table as she walked past it.
"Yeah, that would be good," he said as he locked his door. "Thanks for today. I had a nice time."
"I'm sorry--"
"La, la, la," Chase interrupted as the door to the elevator closed.