Week Six: Split Asunder
Chase lay down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying, with all his will, to ignore the fact that his alarm had just gone off. Another day, another case. Cuddy, in her infinite wisdom, had decided to reinstate House, as of three days ago.
He had written his resignation letter over and over in his head, but couldn't really commit it to paper. Maybe he was a masochist, maybe that was it. Maybe some deep-seated, fucked-up part of him enjoyed House tormenting him, leaving him, letting him gain the vaguest foothold of responsibility and then ripping it away.
It had to be that.
He walked into the bathroom, stripped, and stepped into the shower, trying not to be waylaid by thoughts of Cameron's return. Instead he thought of Thirteen – Remy – and her slim body, her "come hither" lips, the way she'd fought him that night that he'd caught her treating her former cell mate. Thirteen was dangerous, the anti-Cameron, dark and feisty where Cameron had been an irritating pillar of morality.
Yes, that's right, think of Thirteen.
He let his hands wander downward, as if to imprint the message further, that it wasn't Cameron he wanted and that if Cameron wanted to go fuck off with House, get pregnant by House, then what the hell did he care? She didn't even factor in, anymore.
The fingers interlaced over one another, pumped and prodded, stroked and manhandled. Chase would forget; he wouldn't remember. He'd know. He'd remember all the mistakes and wrong steps and remind himself that those were all the reasons why he and Cameron didn't belong together, had never belonged together.
He and Thirteen didn't belong together, either, not in a "true love" kind of sense. But for a time, for a distraction, until he forgot about Cameron and she forgot she was dying, maybe that was the answer. Maybe life was just a serious of distractions and it was all a matter of figuring out what the better, more worthwhile ones were.
He remembered House punching him in the face during the whole horrid Tritter debacle. He remembered every mocking comment, every time the knife was dug in that much deeper. He thought of how House had known Chase's father was dying when Chase himself didn't even know.
He stroked harder. He had to wash it away, every last vestige of wanting to hang on to Cameron.
How Cameron had forgiven House's every fault, even applauded it as vulnerability but couldn't forgive fault in Chase, couldn't give him another chance. Blamed House but still loved him, didn't blame Chase but left him.
Chase bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. He stroked one last time, felt the damn burst, felt himself give way. He tried to picture a new beginning as the mix of soap and come and sweat whirled around in his drain.
But he knew he'd only be fooling himself.
The case this week was some fifteen-year-old prostitute with what looked like skin cancer but apparently wasn't. If Cameron had been on the case, she'd have taken some time to put her hand on the girl's shoulder and cry with her.
But Cameron wasn't on the case.
A whole lot of compassion wasn't forthcoming from any of the other doctors on the case, either. Foreman had on the face he usually did regarding the down-and-outs, a kind of forced neutrality which seemed to cover a deep layer of resentment. Taub just seemed to want to get the whole thing over with. Thirteen was vaguely sympathetic but, as usual, guarded, and House had just used his third "Pretty Woman" joke.
Chase was probably going to stab himself in the face by the end of the day.
He ran the tests with a forced nonchalance, gave a few suggestions in the differential that House didn't mock entirely, and kept his comments to himself for the most part. The more focused he was on the case, the less his thoughts would run to Cameron and how the whole thing was fucked beyond belief.
At least House hadn't mentioned it, yet, which led Chase to wonder if he actually didn't know yet, somehow, or if the whole situation made him even more uncomfortable than it made Chase.
Either way, Chase didn't particularly care. He just wanted to do his job, save the girl and go home. Drowning his sorrows in alcohol was, as usual, out, but he could always turn on a mindless comedy (no romantic comedies, not that he ever watched them anyway) and sleep to the dim light of the TV screen. Alternatively, he could dig up some fairly depraved internet porn and try to undo any of the karmic goodwill he might have inherited during his time in the seminary.
That idea worked, too.
Unfortunately for Chase, the patient – Diana Rodriguez, her name was, apparently dubbed "Lady Di" by a couple "friends" who were probably fellow prostitutes – decided that of all the doctors to unburden her heart on, he should be the one.
And so he spent the better part of the evening listening to her tale.
It left him feeling guilty for being so angry at Cameron. Not guilty enough to forgive her, or to forgive House.
But guilty enough to make him want to stop dwelling on it.
Maybe he would just forget, and the forgiveness could come later.
He hoped so. It was like a rock in his heart that he was carrying around, and it was weighing him down. Or a burning ember, maybe. Some part of a volcano that broke off. The volcano named Dr. House, that crashed into and erupted over everything in its path.
Diana Rodriguez looked up at him with a sad smile.
"You look like you've got your secrets, too," she said.
She was the first person to see right through him in all of this. Chase sighed.
"It's a part of being human," he said simply. "I need to draw some more blood, now."