Want
It's only natural, you've told yourself. After all, you convinced her (and yourself) that you only hired because she looks good(lobby art, you called her). Two years have passed since she'd huffed indignantly out of your office, clearly offended (you'd meant it as a compliment) – two years in which she was able to get over her infatuation with you. Two years in which you were able to stop pining over Stacy. Now, she stands, flushed, in the conference room between Chase and Foreman curious as to why you pulled the three of them from the party downstairs. And it takes you a full minute to get your jaw up off the floor. The lovely red dress she is wearing has torn all rational thought away from your patient (who you've decided is dying). For the rest of the evening, she's got a smug little smile plastered across her delicate features.
After the party – after Wilson has proclaimed himself poker champion, after you managed to save the dying boy just in time – you challenge Wilson (you have slowly begun speaking to one another, though you're sure he'll never be Jimmy to you ever again) to a quick game, just so he doesn't strut around for the next month, completely full of himself. You've cracked another inappropriate barnacle joke, and it's almost like a scene from years before. Then you see Cameron heading to the coatroom on her way out. Her hair has fallen from its earlier curled form, and hangs limply against her bare shoulders. The heels she'd worn all evening are held loosely in her hands, and she looks so exhausted that you're tempted to go after her and take her home. But you still can't get her voice out of your head. Because even though they were provoked by absolute fury, her words (I hate you, okay?) will forever haunt you.
And you're sure you won't be able to work up enough courage to make a liar out of her.
Welcome to the first level of the third and final circle. Because in life you let yourself lust after her with no reward, in death you'll be tormented without reward. Trapped in a thick blanket of ice from the waist down, the object of your current desire (whatever it may be) will cross in front of you, just beyond your reach. And you'll have to relearn how to suffer.
Need
You've been thinking about it for the last few minutes, and you honestly cannot figure out just how you came to be standing outside her apartment door. The moonlight is illuminating the hallway from the tiny window beside the door. You really can't remember your logic behind coming over here in the middle of the night, and you're beginning to wonder if there ever was any (that would be a first). Your cane has been poised at the ready to knock more than once, but every time you've withdrawn it, overcome with second-thoughts. This is seriously ridiculous. You've finally talked yourself into just knocking, when the door is swung open, and Cameron is standing there in sweats and a t-shirt, eyebrows raised in challenge. She asks you just how long you've been standing there and you shrug and say 'not long,' though you're pretty sure she can tell you're lying (she's gotten too good at reading you).
"It hurts." she says simply. You don't need her to clarify; you know she isn't thinking about your leg. Still, a hand flies to your right thigh, and even through the thick denim you can feel the pronounced scar. Cameron catches the (nearly) subtle gesture, and moves to usher you inside. But you step away, because suddenly you've figured out why you came here.
And you're already dependent on your pills. You don't need another addiction.
You've reached the deepest level, one reserved for those driven by need. You've allowed yourself to become dependent on another, setting yourself up for inevitable pain. Eternity will see that you are hurt by everyone you trust, continuously. Because, of anyone, you should know that everybody lies.
"Do you remember when we first met and everything was still a bet?"