Drenched
Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.
Disclaimer: -sings- If I were a rich man! Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum! All day long I'd biddy biddy bum! If I were a wealthy man I would own House and not have to write disclaimers ever. –ends singing abruptly- But I'm not. –pout- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's. Because, alas, I am not a wealthy man.
Author's Note: I have noticed that this chapter, in its entirety, will be long. I have also noticed that, as of late, chapters to this fic have been very large. Hard-to-read large. It seemed like a good idea to cut this one in half. (This will be the shortest update since chapter three, people!) Unfortunately, I am not yet done with the entire chapter. However, it seemed silly not to post this bit up if I had it done. So, we've still got a while left, but here's something to tide you guys over until the New Year.
LastScorpion goddess of the written word. Many thanks to her, again, for all of her hard work! Remember: Every sentence you read that doesn't make your eyes fall out is thanks to her. I'm thinking of fashioning a statue of her in her honor… Any of you guys happen to know how to wield metal?
This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep." (AKA: Ignore cannon! Ignore!)
Reviews/Reviewers are loved.
Thank you and enjoy!
---
Chapter Eleven: To Believe Everything You Say, Part One
I
want your strength in my soul
And
I want your soul in my eyes.
I
want to believe everything you say.
And
I do.
And
I want you to tell me what's best for me
When
I don't know.
-Nicole
Burdette
---
Cameron was absolutely fine.
She had been attempting to brush off all claims to the contrary for the last week and a half, almost becoming hostile in her efforts to reassure everyone that she was, in fact, perfectly all right. Had she not been so irritated by the irrational concern of her colleagues, she might have been amused. When Clara died people were concerned, worried, but they weren't frantic. They didn't harass her constantly, didn't give her second glances when passing her in the hallway, didn't send her troubled gazes when they thought she wasn't looking. But given little more than a week without Wilson, and suddenly her coworkers and family were truly nervous about her mental state.
His presence alone couldn't have warranted such a drastic change in her emotional well-being, and any other motive for their sudden unease was beyond her. Whatever the reason, her frustration, doubt and uncertainty had been mounting (she tried to ignore the possibility that the reason for these changes was the fact that he was gone), matters not helped by Wilson's fairly consistent behavior.
No one asked him if he was doing all right. No one gave him suspicious stares or spoke to him in worried tones. In fact, had anyone glanced at him they would have assumed that all was well with the oncologist. And perhaps it was. Hopefully it was. Because if he was fine it meant that he hadn't been truly hurt by what she had done, and if he hadn't been hurt maybe she really had meant nothing of importance to him. Maybe the look he had sent her right before he walked out her door was nothing more than instinctual, a proper reaction for the way he was supposed to feel. Maybe she had imagined the betrayal she had seen in his eyes when he looked at her. Maybe her decision was as justified as she thought it was.
She had only been trying to protect herself.
However, James Wilson had an ability to wear sorrow so well that a person would be incapable of seeing the emotion on him if he didn't want them to. And Wilson certainly wouldn't want anyone to see his sorrow about this.
He hadn't been avoiding her. Hadn't been acting odd in her presence or done anything abnormal to indicate that they were on anything except for friendly, if impersonal, terms. Although they didn't eat lunch together anymore and he came by Diagnostics less, that simply implied that his workload had gotten heavier, that he no longer had the time to grab a meal before seeing the next grieving family or to baby-sit House and make sure he didn't get arrested for annoying his latest patient. Everyone was convinced by his act, if it was one. No one doubted his pleasant demeanor.
Wilson could deceive anyone.
Cameron, it seemed, wasn't so skilled.
She was mulling this fact over, internally grumbling, as she made her way to the lab, planning on meeting Chase who was already going over the blood work of their latest patient.
The grumbling abruptly stopped when she saw Chase's slumped frame. She walked closer and then nearly backed up a step when she was able to see the details of his appearance more clearly.
The man was obviously a wreck. Hair disheveled, hollows under his eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping, tie loose and hand shaking around the pen he was using to mark the patient files in front of him.
Not to mention that he had obviously lost the ability to create outfits that didn't make even the blind shudder at the sight of them.
Grey dress-pants, dark blue shirt and a orange plaid tie.
It was the audacity of the tie (and the fact that she had been lacking sleep herself), more than anything else that compelled Cameron to say, "You look horrible."
Chase jerked up, nearly upsetting his coffee mug on the counter beside him (which, technically shouldn't have been in the lab, but Cameron thought if there was any time to bend the rules, it was now), and gave his colleague a startled look.
Cameron resisted the urge to laugh. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She leaned against the counter-top, observing Chase's struggles with more amusement than she probably should have.
It was nice to see someone else falling apart at the seams, for a change.
Chase sent her a mild glare, more for show than anything else, before lightly shaking himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. He gestured vaguely in her direction. "You're no ray of sunshine yourself."
She knew she must've look like a mess, with her lack of makeup, unironed clothes and the crinkles she could all but feel permanently etched into her forehead.
She gave a weak grin. "I suppose we do make for a sad sight."
"It would seem so. I guess Foreman's stuck with being House's eye-candy for the day."
"Foreman's not going to like that much."
Chase smirked, bringing the pen back to paper and scribbling another note on the chart. "Nope. Maybe through sheer intimidation he'll be able to get House to stop having sexual fantasies in the middle of diagnosing though." He paused, letting out a hopeful breath. "Wouldn't that be nice?"
She grinned. "It only bothers you because he includes you in them."
He gave a vigorous nod. "Well yeah. If you were in my situation-"
"I am in your situation."
Chase paused, frowning briefly. "Okay, so you may be right."
Cameron smiled smugly.
"But at least he doesn't have a morbid fascination with your hair."
She inclined her head slightly. "You have a point."
"Think Foreman will put a stop to the madness?"
"He'll certainly try but…" She restrained a smile. "Doubtful. House is far too determined to annoy all of us when the opportunity presents itself. More likely than not, Foreman will just encourage him."
Chase deflated, looking away from the charts and up to her helplessly. "You're right." A sigh. "This is going to be a long week." He turned his attention back to the charts, expression losing some of its playful edge. "Well," he amended. "Longer than it was already shaping up to be."
There was a silence, Chase biting on his pen before bringing it back to patient file, the man serious and focused once more.
Cameron frowned thoughtfully.
Something was off. More than Chase's suddenly sober mood. She eyed him carefully, noting again the dejected set of his shoulders, the slope of his back, the calm and somewhat bored way in which he dully marked 'x's on the patient history.
He was obviously tired, miserable and clearly in need of a personal dresser, but he was comfortable.
And he was still there.
"Why aren't you bolting out of the room?"
Chase raised an eyebrow without looking away from his work. "Hm?"
Cameron turned to face him fully, staring at him quizzically. "For nearly a year you've been scampering off when I got within ten feet of you."
"Right." Chase looked up, bringing up his pen to his mouth. "Could we just pretend I went running off?" A grin. "I don't have enough energy to scamper properly."
"Sounds fine by me." She smiled. "I could use the company."
And she really could.
"Excellent."
There was a comfortable silence as Cameron dragged a chair over, sitting down next to Chase and waiting for results from the blood work to come in as he scribbled away.
She had missed this.
Cameron had forgotten that she and Chase, not too long ago, had been friends. That they had hung out, talked to each other, if only about trivial things. They had been comfortable with one another. Somewhere along the way (about a month or two after her charming meth experience), that comfort had been lost. Which was unfortunate, because Chase was a good friend to have, even on a casual level.
For almost a year there had been a gaping void between them, an unseen line that neither could cross and that Chase had seemed content to avoid entirely. And now, just as suddenly as it had appeared, that line was gone, and Cameron allowed herself to remember how much she had enjoyed Chase's company.
Her friends were in short supply these days. It would be the utmost foolishness to dismiss the ones she had left.
There was an awkward cough from Chase, interrupting her thoughts.
"I dated your sister-in-law," he said to the paper he was writing on, shifting in his seat.
Cameron frowned, noting something off at the declaration but unable to place it. "I know."
"I figured," he muttered. "But I'm telling you. I dated her." He took another bite at his pen, finally looking at her. "Sorry."
She raised a puzzled brow. "Sorry?"
"For not mentioning it sooner. For going out with her at all, for infringing on your turf, for sleeping with you when you were high." He let out a bitter laugh, quickly running a hand through his hair. "Really, I think I have reason to apologize for just about everything I've done in the past year and a half."
Cameron gave her head a small shake, marveling. "Chase, you don't need to be sorry for any of that."
Another false laugh. "I'm pretty sure I do."
"Is that why you've been this way?"
"What way?"
She paused briefly, pondering how best to describe it. "The scampering?"
"Ah." He gave a small nod. "Pretty much."
She shook her head again. A year after the fact and he was still agonizing over one stupid night when she wasn't in her right mind and he was just trying to help a friend.
Sex, she had learned throughout the past months, ruined the best friendships.
If it weren't unbelievably fun, she would have become celibate long ago.
Cameron leaned forward in her seat, staring at Chase intently. "Chase, that night, it was a silly mistake. If any one of us should apologize it should be me for putting you in that situation to begin with." She gave a humorless grin, thinking of Wilson. "I have a tendency to do this kind of thing."
He gave his head a firm and immediate shake. "Doesn't excuse what I did or what I've done."
"Chase, there's nothing to excuse." She looked at him earnestly, confusion evident on her face. "I thought you knew that."
He heaved a sigh. "So did I. And then a month went by and I realized I didn't." He gave her a sardonic glance, throwing the pen on the table. "Hindsight sucks." He softened his expression. "But I am sorry."
She returned the glance, staring seriously. "Me too." She paused smirking. "We've already agreed on no more sex, right?"
He raised an eyebrow. "In general or with each other?"
Cameron rolled her eyes.
He grinned. "Yes." A nod. "Too complicated."
She mimicked the gesture. "Good. Now can we go back to being friends?"
"Yes." He grinned. "Especially if it means that you'll let me have some of the coffee you make for yourself every morning."
Cameron eyed his cup of coffee suspiciously. "You're not so skilled at it, then?"
Chase shuddered violently, all but glaring at the offending liquid. "No, no I am not. Sammy used to make some for me in the morning, but now…" He paused, biting at a nail. "But now I'm stuck with my own stuff."
Cameron sat up straighter in her seat, finally realizing what had seemed so off earlier in the conversation. "Speaking of Sammy, since we are friends again," she gave a sweet smile that Chase returned with a glare. "I was wondering if you could clarify a point of confusion for me?"
"You say it as if I actually have a choice," he muttered.
She continued on as if she hadn't heard him. "You said you 'dated' Sammy?"
He picked up his pen again. "Yeah."
When nothing further appeared forthcoming, she scowled. "Chase."
He sighed, taking another swipe at his hair before letting out, "I broke up with her."
Cameron sent him a disapproving and mildly confused frown.
Chase obviously sensed the displeasure and jumped to his own defense. "It was going to happen at some point anyway. I was just speeding up the process."
She folded her arms across her chest, staring at him sadly. "That's a shame."
"Yes." He snorted. "I'm a grave loss to the family dynamic, I'm sure."
Cameron shrugged off his sarcasm. "You were good for each other."
"Right," he said disbelievingly, sending her a sideways look. "Well, it's over now. Which is for the best, really. All things considered."
He seemed more like he was trying to convince himself than her.
"Do you really believe that?"
"Yes." He gave a self-affirming nod. "Yes, I do." He bit on his thumbnail. "I have to."
Cameron stared in muted shock. Maybe it was because he was tired, but Chase had just revealed a hint of uncertainty, voluntarily offered a piece of his internal workings without her having to interrogate him in order to get.
This sort of thing, from Chase, was a big deal.
Cameron felt the need to return the gesture of trust, least he think upon what he said too much.
In a rush, she began. "Wilson and I-"
"I know."
She blinked. "You know?" A scowl overtook her features. "Did House-"
"No, I'm just not blind." He sent her an amused look. "Might want to work on the uncontrollable grin you get whenever you see him." The expression morphed, his brow furrowing. "Except you haven't had those recently. Not for the past few days. In fact, I haven't seen you around Wilson at all." He leaned forward in his seat. "Something happened. Something bad. Something you caused."
She glared. "Why do you assume-"
"Because if you didn't think it was your fault, you wouldn't want to talk about it. It wouldn't matter to you; you'd accept what Wilson did. Not like it, but accept it, because that's what you do." He tilted his head, smirking. "But you're trying to absolve yourself."
Cameron scowled, slumping slightly. "You've been around House too long."
Chase gave a careless shrug. "It's been four years, I ought to have learned something from the man." He nudged her gently. "What happened?"
Cameron had just opened her mouth to respond when Foreman strode into the lab, grasping onto a piece of paper and smiling eagerly as he entered the room.
"Hey guys, look at these res-" He halted mid-word, no doubt noting that his two colleagues who hadn't spoken in many months were suddenly buddies. "What did I interrupt?"
Cameron sighed, sitting up and shaking her head. "Nothing."
"Details about Cameron's love-life." Cameron promptly hit Chase upside the head. "Ow!"
Foreman folded his hands over his chest, nodding knowingly. "Right. Something happened with you and Wilson."
She raised her hands up in the air. "How does everyone know about this?"
"Did you talk to your brother?" Foreman asked, coming further into the room.
Cameron frowned, eyeing the man suspiciously. "Yes."
"Did you ignore him like any sane person would have?"
Cameron shifted her feet, locking her eyes to the ground.
Chase was looking from one person to the other, obviously lost. "Her brother?"
"Was convinced Wilson, and you, were scum." Foreman offered helpfully. "House, however, was a charming guy."
The intensivist gave an exaggerated nod. "Right, well. How could Wilson and I expect to compete?"
Foreman hadn't moved his eyes away from Cameron. "He got to you, didn't he?"
"He didn't get to me." Cameron muttered, still staring at her shoes. "I just saw his point."
Chase turned to Foreman pleadingly, still confused.
Foreman indulged him. "He said Wilson just wanted to sleep around and would drop Cameron when he was through."
The younger man gave another nod. "Right."
Cameron turned to the neurologist accusingly, amazed that he knew so many of the intimate details of her life. "How do you know…?"
"He talked to me a few weeks ago, trying to weed out information."
"Well there's further proof of his idiocy," Chase remarked blandly, picking up his pen once more and jotting down some notes on the patient file. "Never go to Foreman for the gossip."
Cameron scowled. "My brother's not an idiot." Even if he did have an amazing ability to act like one at times.
Foreman shrugged. "Well he can't be the most intelligent guy, if he trusts House unquestioningly but feels the need to interrogate people about Wilson."
She sighed, glaring at the two men. "You both watch Wilson around here."
Chase took another bit on the pen. "He flirts, but that's no reason-"
She shook her head. "Not the flirting."
The two other doctors stared at her with interest, obviously intrigued.
Cameron sighed. "He gets overly attached to everyone. He loves everyone. And he can't stop. Why do you think he's been around House so long? He can't cease to care about the man, even when common sense says he should."
Chase looked unimpressed. "So?"
"So I'm just another mistress! But instead of taking him from one woman, I'm taking him from everybody. And you know Wilson." She deflated, clutching at her waist. "It's never the mistress that he goes home to."
There was a dramatic moment of silence.
Which Chase abruptly ended with, "That's crap, Cameron."
She glared at him. "You broke up with Sammy and are, therefore, in no position to criticize."
Foreman's head snapped up and he joined Cameron at glaring at the man. "You what?"
"This isn't about me. We're talking about Cameron's love-life." He pointed to her for emphasis. "Cameron."
Without warning Foreman let out a large huff of air, storming off to the exit of the room.
Chase and Cameron exchanged a worried glance.
"Foreman?" Chase asked hesitantly.
"I just remembered why I chose to know nothing about your personal lives," Foreman muttered as he reached the door.
Cameron grinned. "And why's that?"
The neurologist sent them a longsuffering look. "Because Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital contains the largest concentration of intelligent stupid people in the whole of the universe."
With that he flung open the door and strode out of the lab, leaving the two other doctors to stare after him.
After a few moments of silence Chase looked over to Cameron, a mildly insulted look on his face. "I think he just called us morons."
---
"You're moping."
"I don't mope."
"You haven't been out of your office all week except to deliver death sentences. You're moping."
"House, I'm not moping."
"Right. You've just become quiet and introspective and worthless as a source of entertainment."
"I'm sorry to have failed you so."
House sighed, resisting the urge to throw the large tennis ball he was currently playing with against the other doctor's head. Ultimately, he decided against such actions, knowing that should he throw the ball he would just have to get up in order to retrieve it again. So, instead, he contented himself to muttering an annoyed, "You're pathetic."
"Says the guy who hid from Cuddy for four hours in a storage room."
They were in Wilson's office, House doing his best to distract his friend from the mountain of paperwork on top of his desk, all of which the Head of Oncology seemed determined to tackle. Now was not the time for paperwork. Now was the time for Wilson the Boy Wonder to indulge House's curiosity and tell him what the hell had gone wrong.
Because something had obviously gone wrong.
It was nothing a casual observer would have thought of as odd. The sudden reclusion, the added wrinkles to his face, the tired lines around his eyes and the slightest shortening of his normally infinite fuse. All easy signs to recognize, but all equally easy to dismiss. He had a lot of work on his plate, hadn't been sleeping enough, was too strained by his patient load. All serious problems, but nothing that Wilson wasn't more than capable of handling on his own.
These were all perfectly reasonable and neat explanations for Wilson's current behavior. Reasonable, neat and wrong explanations, but House appreciated the effort that others had put into concocting them.
Wilson could deceive everyone except for House. Most of the time, anyway.
And even though Wilson had kept the act up admirably, the angry red expanse of skin under his right ear, his passive avoidance of Diagnostics and Miss, 'look at my face and you'll know my life story,' Cameron all gave him away.
House really did need to teach his immunologist to lie better. It almost embarrassing, how transparent she could be, especially when the diagnostician prided himself on his role as an excellent mentor in the ways of the world. That one of his minions failed at the basic and necessary skill of deception was a humiliation House really couldn't tolerate. After all, if everyone lied they had a certain obligation to lie well, or else what was the point of his nifty catchphrase?
But he was getting off track.
Currently, House's mission was to figure out what had gotten his sidekick and lackey (number two) into such a large tizzy.
House put his hands behind his head, stretching out further on Wilson's couch. "I'll have you know that the storage room was quite spacious. I was just thinking about making it an addition to the office. Put some paperwork in there."
"And if it wasn't on the other side of the hospital, that would almost be convincing," Wilson muttered, scribbling on a patient file at his desk. "I can picture you putting important documents in another room just so you wouldn't have to look at them, thereby making it easier to ignore them."
"Yeah. Just think how easy it's going to be when they're across the building."
He raised his eyebrows without looking away from his work. "Funny."
House sighed, carefully adjusting himself so he was sitting up in the couch. He promptly adopted a glare and fixed it on the man behind the desk. "What happened?"
Wilson frowned, still writing furiously. "What do you mean 'what happened'?"
"Between you and Cameron."
He looked up, a quick startled expression passing over his features before he turned back to his files. "Nothing."
House smirked. Nice try, Jimmy, but not good enough. "Something happened." He studied Wilson curiously. "What did you do?"
Wilson stopped writing and glared. "Why am I always the one that did something wrong?"
"Because wandering hands and eyes do nothing but get a man bitch slapped. Did it hurt?"
Wilson frowned. "What?"
House made a slapping gesture in the air.
"No!" Wilson responded instantly. He scowled and kneaded the skin on the back of his neck. "There was no slapping."
House noted the action suspiciously, eyes narrowing. "But you did do something."
He rubbed at the spot some more, shifting in his seat. "I had lunch with Julie."
House blinked, tone incredulous and utterly confused. "Why?"
The only reasonable explanation House could have for Wilson seeing that harpy again involved a shotgun and shovel.
The oncologist threw his hands into the air, shouting. "Because she asked! Because I felt sorry for her, I don't know." He exhaled loudly, bringing his hands down and resting his head in them. "It doesn't matter."
House observed the antics with interest, waiting until they were through before dryly commenting, "Of course it doesn't matter. If it did you'd be agonizing over the whole thing far more ardently. You, however, aren't agonizing. You're sulking."
"Just leave it alone, House," Wilson mumbled into his hands.
House frowned. That was far too dejected of a tone to indicate Jimmy's normal, mild, self-pity. No, this was the big kind of pity. The kind that only got broken out during times of intense personal suffering and no small amount of guilt, because Wilson's hedonism always involved a large portion of culpability.
And although Wilson had plenty of things, imagined or not, to regret and be ashamed of, there was only one type of guilt that caused him to become incapable of looking at House.
"It was me, wasn't it?"
"No." He was still speaking into his hands.
"You're lying."
Wilson let out a groan, removing his hands from his face and staring at his friend gravely. "House, it doesn't matter, it really doesn't. The only thing that's important is that whatever Cameron and I might have had is over." He stood up from behind his desk, moving in front of his the large piece of furniture and leaning against it. "We were scratching at the bottom of our collective barrel and we've both decided that we're through." He stared at his friend seriously. "Completely."
House eyed Wilson suspiciously, knowing that earnest look.
He hated that look. It meant that Jimmy had done something stupidly sacrificial, had laid himself on the altar, as it were. It meant that Wilson was playing the martyr again. And frankly, House firmly believed that in this particular instance such an act of blatant idiocy shouldn't be allowed.
Because House was supposed to be the sacrificial one this time, had snagged the opportunity long before his friend have even contemplated it. Wilson wasn't supposed to steal the glory away from him, rob him of his first, and possibly last, attempt to be a 'decent person.'
House had done a good, honorable thing. He had stopped being a selfish ass just long enough to give up something that was his.
As much as Cameron belonged to anyone, at that point, she belonged to House.
Not to say that he had signed a pink slip or anything, but House was well aware that his possessive nature gave off an impression of ownership. He had the suspicion that this impression took on the form of large, neon signs flashing the words, "PROPERTY OF GREGORY HOUSE. BACK OFF OR RISK DEATH BY CANE," over anything and anyone he viewed as his own.
He really should have just such a sign made for his desk. And Gameboy.
Reluctantly, House had internally acknowledged that from the moment he had hired Cameron he had seen her as his. And maybe, in whatever small way, Cameron thought she belonged to him as well.
Or at least she had, not so long ago. Back when she had blushed when he stepped too close to her, when she would boldly ask him if he liked her with a vulnerable expression on her face. When they shared truck rallies and cotton candy, when they had a meal in a fancy place and she stated in a tone that broke no argument that House liked her, despite what he might have said to imply otherwise. Back when she had accepted his judgment without reservation, found no reason to question his motives or intentions.
Then, at least, she had seen herself as his.
But things had changed. She had grown cautious, almost fearful, of him and House found that he really had no reason to have his immunologist at all. Beyond his basic desire to lay claim to anything he came in contact with, there were no grounds for this compulsion to possess her in any way.
After all, House didn't like Cameron (House didn't like people). She was too nice, too innocent. She infuriated him, with her vulnerability and her all but desperate, twisted desire to make people hurt her. She was stupid in her need to aid the helpless, in her caring and empathy, her reaching out to those who would only cause her pain. And willful stupidity had never been something House could tolerate.
And, most importantly, Cameron was fragile in ways that made him nervous. That made him acutely aware of all the ways in which he could crush her, carefully deconstruct her and then recreate her in his own image. The potential was there, to undertake such a reshaping. To make her smarter, wiser, less trusting and more suspicious, less caring and more self-serving.
And House knew that, should he have her in the way he would never admit he wanted, such an opportunity would present itself, and he would be incapable letting it pass him by. He would crush her, or at least all the important parts of her. He would make her more distrustful, exploitive and miserable, make her smarter and less likely to be hurt by people like him, because he would simply be powerless to passing up the chance to do so. Because he would be convinced it was for her own good.
And if Cameron changed, was reshaped, she would lose those infuriating qualities that made her worth having in the first place.
No, House didn't want Cameron.
But Wilson did, and he would protect the fragile bits of her. Nurture them, help them grow. Wilson, by his very nature, would be incapable of crushing her.
So House, for the first time, had done the noble thing. (Despite the fact that the noble ones missed out on all of the fun.) He had given up the girl to his friend, convinced that the gesture would not only provide the two parties involved with a small measure of happiness, but also restore some balance to his karmic meter.
House had always been a, 'one stone, two birds' type of guy.
But he had forgotten that his friend was an exceptional breed of altruistic imbecile.
House shot up from seat, glaring. "Jimmy, you moron! Did you think I was lying when I said I didn't want her? Thought I was just testing your loyalty by seeing how unbelievably stupid you could be?" House fumed, stalking angrily towards his friend until he was a mere foot from him, shouting into his face.
"Right!" Wilson said, standing up as well, yelling.
House found himself unconsciously taking a step back.
A hostile Wilson was not something House had dealt with on a consistent enough basis to judge what he was capable of.
"Because you always say what you mean! Because you would never test our friendship in such an unreasonable manner!" He snorted. "Sorry if I stepped out of line, House. A reaction like mine came out of nowhere, didn't it?"
In an instant all of the times House had lied to Wilson flashed through his head. All of the money he had borrowed and stole, all of the times he had called him in times in strife with no regard to Wilson's own schedule, the times he'd had come to House's without being called. House was reminded of all the ways he had pushed and strained the friendship, of all the reasons Wilson had to doubt his motives.
They were almost enough to cool his temper.
Almost.
"You know, forget me. I just find it amazing that you have all of the women, and some of the men, in this hospital wrapped around your finger but you can't managed to stay with the woman you actually want for more than a month!"
And just as quickly as Wilson's rage had entered, it left, leaving the man deflated. He rubbed at his neck and shook his head, looking at the diagnostician tiredly. "House, leave it."
House grumbled internally. Exhausted acceptance was not what he was aiming for, wasn't what would make Wilson stop spewing crap and start telling the truth.
"Did you literally beat her away with a stick? Because I don't know how else you could've pushed that clinging ball of fluff away."
"She didn't like my cologne," Wilson snapped as he began to make his away around his desk. "Now go away and let me work."
"Women love your cologne, and thank God for it, with the money you spend on the crap."
All House had to do was keep talking. To get Wilson angry enough or irritated enough to give him the truth if only to get rid of him. House hobbled forward, snatching away the file that Wilson had just grabbed. "What happened?"
Wilson glared. "Don't you have patients to see?"
"Nope. I'm free to annoy you at my leisure." House stared at the man intently. "Tell me."
Wilson let out a sigh. "Fine, House," he said dismally, scratching at his neck. He glanced up at House. "She wants you."
House let out a grumble. "I thought we went over this."
Wilson locked his gaze. "We did. You were wrong. Will you let me work now, please?"
Without waiting for an answer Wilson snatched the file from House's suddenly limp fingers, grabbing his formerly discarded pen and beginning to write.
That was unexpected.
House shook himself, scowling at the oncologist. "Why are you in here doing paper work? Go ravage her against a wall or something. Do the Jimmy thing and seduce her."
"I think I'll stay with the files, thanks."
"Wilson, you love her." House made a shooing gesture. "Go forth and," he adopted a sickeningly sweet tone, "follow your heart."
Wilson shook his head, letting out a bitter smile as he continued to write. "I don't, House."
"Stop being an idiot and just g-"
"House!" Wilson screamed at last, staring at House with a deadly serious look. "I don't love her." A small pause and a barely noticeable exhalation as he locked his gaze to his desk. "There's no point in loving someone who won't love you back." He glanced up again. "She does, however, love you. And she has far more persistence than I." The serious look was back. "Take advantage of it before it's too late."
House resisted the blinding urge reach across the desk and strangle the man.
He had already given Cameron up. The decision had been made and there was no going back, no changing his mind. House had never been a fan of indecision, of questioning himself when he was certain of the soundness of his choices. He might not like the choice, might not think that it would bring the most personal pleasure or that there wasn't a possibility of regretting it later. But it was, nonetheless, the right one.
House had, after all, become an expert at driving away the women he loved for their own good.
Now was no exception.
Uncertainty wouldn't be helpful, wouldn't do anything except for make the situation seem much more complicated than it actually was. There was always a right and best choice, and once it was found any alternative was just a poor substitution. House had made the best choice, and now any doubts were to be disproved or mocked until they lost all validity.
But he knew that Wilson was far past the point of listening to any arguments House had to give. It was like quarrelling with a brick wall; House could yell all he wanted, the only way to get that damn thing to break was to take a sledgehammer to it. Wilson was just too stubborn for any other method to have any hope at being effective.
Unfortunately, House was fresh out of emotional sledgehammers and Wilson didn't look as if he was in the mood to wait around for him to go dig one up.
Throwing one last disgusted look into the office, ignoring the self-righteous expression on Wilson's face, House slammed the door and stalked to his own department, fuming.
Wilson was an idiot past reason. Any attempts to see his master plan through to completion would have to be carried out on a different front.
So, House would just have to attack this problem from another angle. One more vulnerable to his particular brand of sledgehammer.
He opened the door to Diagnostics, grinning in satisfaction as he made his way to the sole comfortable chair in the office, temper cooling as a plan of action began to form. Not tonight (Cameron had already gone home), but tomorrow would do nicely.
Feeling smug, House whipped out his Gameboy, smiling as prepared to face the final level of his game. Success, he felt certain, was guaranteed.
---
Physical exhaustion was not Chase's largest problem, although it certainly wasn't helping the unfortunate state he had found himself in for the past week.
Each night he would lie awake in bed for hours on end, staring at the ceiling and doing his best not to think. This then caused him to stay up from all this effort exerted in the task of not thinking, only drifting off into a restless sleep an hour or two before work.
No. That didn't help at all.
But that wasn't the real problem. That was the intense bone-weariness that had seemed to overtake Chase completely in the past weeks. A sense of hopelessness, futility and worthlessness greeted him each morning upon waking, traveling with him throughout his day like a dark cloud. He tried not to let it show, tried to keep this exhaustion a private matter, something personal and untouchable to the rest of the world.
He had been failing, obviously, which surprised him. Chase had very rarely been unsuccessful at hiding his personal life from those around him. It was a point of pride, really. In the past twenty years he had only been ineffective at concealing his personal strife twice. Once, when his father died, resulting in the death of a good woman. And now, resulting in the unwanted attention of one Allison Cameron.
The consequences weren't quite as dire this time. After all, he had, somehow, through their exchange earlier in the day, managed to regain a friend. That was a rather nice upside to having Cameron's renewed and constant concern.
Now he just had to deal with her renewed and constant concern.
He had no idea why he had let the newest intimate details of his life slip. Didn't know how he could have let such a point of interest, especially to Cameron, get by his defenses. He assumed it was testament to his exhaustion, more than anything else. That lack of sleep had made his thinking hazy, had made him lose a small measure of his senses.
It never occurred to him to admit that it was because he missed Sammy enough so that every thought was tainted with her. That the reason he couldn't help himself from mentioning her, when partaking in a conversation with a friend, was because he had ceased to be able to separate her from any other part of his life. That her absence became a nearly physical force, one that made each aspect of his existence a little less without her in it.
He couldn't acknowledge that deprived of her, he had become a little emptier.
Of course, there was nothing to admit. Chase didn't care about her, and any effect she might have had on his life, at one point or another, was diminutive at best. Her loss meant nothing to him. His new mood was likely inspired by an increased workload in Diagnostics, the fervor with which Cuddy was now forcing him into clinic duty and his inability to sleep, caused by stress.
That was all it was.
These were Chase's thoughts as he slumped in front of his television, a bowl of oatmeal in his hands, and prepared to enjoy his meal while watching his latest purchased DVD.
This was his life. Television, exercise, sleep (when he could get it) and then work. Some nights he'd go barhopping, some nights he would stay home. It was a reassuring system that made it possible for Chase to live his life like 'a leaf on the wind.' He had obligations to no one except for himself. He could empathize with his fellow man without particularly caring about him, and his emotions were in a fierce hold that no one could penetrate.
Chase's mouth contorted into a frown as he flicked on his TV. But at some point, that had stopped being enough. He took less joy in the acquaintances he had made, the girls he picked up, the life he was leading. He wanted more, something deeper, meaningful and significant.
For the first time, Chase was dissatisfied with the superficial life he had masterfully created for himself.
And thinking like that was stupid, dangerous and inspired by ridiculous notions he had thought he had outgrown many years ago.
He shook himself, focusing on the TV once more.
Chase was a leaf on the wind. And he liked it, dammit.
Having firmly reached this conclusion and determined to stop thinking entirely, Chase turned up the volume and slouched further into his couch, ready to enjoy he mind-numbing wonders of action movies.
Five minutes later, his doorbell rang.
Chase groaned. He had a particularly annoying neighbor who often came by, asking for food, appliances and physical labor. Despite Chase's many attempts to subtly hint that he had no desire to 'lend him a cup of sugar,' the man kept coming back, willfully ignorant of Chase's annoyance.
Subtlety, apparently, was lost upon most.
Grumbling, Chase stood up, walked to the door and flung it open, ready to send the guy a message that would be impossible to decipher incorrectly, only to be stopped short.
He felt his body lighten, felt a smile forming on his lips and a warm greeting ready to burst forth from his throat.
Instead, he stifled such compulsions instantly and allowed himself one small gulp as he viewed the figure in his doorway.
"You."
Sammy smiled nervously, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears before straightening herself, staring at him directly. "Me."
Chase closed his eyes, counted to three and opened them again.
Still there.
He was tempted to try it again, but with the way she was looking at him (like he was a lunatic), he had a feeling that she was not, in fact, a figment of his imagination.
"What are you doing here?"
Perhaps not the most tactful of questions, but it was Chase's most pressing.
This was not how these things went. He broke up with a woman, he stopped thinking about her, she mourned for a month, badmouthed him to all of her friends and relatives, and they never saw each other again.
That was how things worked.
Or at least it had been.
Sammy pushed herself past him and into his apartment, Chase incapable of stopping her from the sheer shock of the situation. His jaw was still gaping open, after all. Thwarting her from entering his home was obviously beyond him.
"I'm preventing you from destroying your life completely," she said levelly, glancing around his apartment with interest.
He had only brought her back to his home a handful of times, none of the visits lasting longer than half an hour.
Now he was annoyed at himself for having brought her at all. Had she never visited, she never would have gotten the address and the current fiasco of Chase having to see her again wouldn't be happening.
Regaining himself, he quickly closed his door, shooting after her as she started to walk down the hallway, studying the various posters on his walls with interest.
She had no place snooping around when she would be leaving shortly.
Getting himself in front of her and blocking her progress, Chase sent her an indulgent grin. "Sammy, my life won't fall apart without you in it."
She locked her gaze with his, sending him a mirror image of his smile. "Yes it will."
Chase simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed and mildly amused by her conviction. Still shocked by her presence, of course, but he thought he was doing a mighty fine job at faking nonchalance.
"Maybe not right now. Not in a few weeks, you might even be able to get through a couple of months just fine. But eventually your regret is going to catch up to you." She narrowed her eyes, squinting at him in the sparse light, examining him critically. "And from the look of you, it already has."
Chase ran a hand through his hair, finding himself at an utter loss as to what to say.
He hadn't expected to see her again. Had started to, tried to, erase all feelings connected to her completely. Having her standing in his hallway and forcing him to confront more than just the memory of her was too much. She didn't belong here, with him. She was supposed to be gone, leaving him in peace with only his recollections of her left to haunt him.
Her coming back was not helping this master plan, which Chase found downright irritating. He had spent his life creating this method, crafting the flawless guide to meaningless, casual and shallow relationships. She didn't have the right to change it, to try and defy the system.
She had to realize that she wasn't nearly as special as she thought she was.
As Chase was starting to believe she was.
He bit on his nail, glaring at her and readjusting his stance, eyeing the stubborn jut of her chin shrewdly.
He would make her understand.
"Sammy-"
"No, Rob."
Chase found himself snapping his mouth shut, intimidated by the certainty of her tone.
"I'm not going to let you try to convince yourself and me that I shouldn't be here." She shook her head firmly. "That's not important." She took a step forward, staring at him intently. "What is important is that I forgive you."
Chase blinked repeatedly at her. "You forgive me?"
"Yes," she said with a grin. "I forgive you for pretending that you don't love me."
Chase resisted the urge to snort. "Look, Sammy-"
She brought a hand to his lips, and he was silenced instantly.
He had forgotten how much he loved the feel of those rough fingertips against his skin.
"I understand why you did it." She kept her hand over his mouth, her eyes wide and sympathetic as she spoke. "You're afraid that if you love me you're going to have to give up something. That I'm going to take it from you and make you weak, make you vulnerable. And Rob, I hate to say it, but you're right."
Chase narrowed his eyes, frowning under her hand.
"If you love me I am going to take something from you, and you are weaker without it. It does make you vulnerable and it makes it so much easier for other people, especially me, to hurt you."
This was not the proper way to win an argument. Did she think that agreeing with him would earn her some points? That she could acquiesce until he changed his mind?
She took in a deep breath, her hand still covering his mouth. "So I understand why you wouldn't want to feel the way you do." She paused. "There's only one problem."
He raised an eyebrow, his ability to question her obviously limited.
She grinned at him, leaning forward until she was only inches away. "That little piece of yourself that you're trying to desperately to protect? The one you're torturing both of us in order to keep safe?" She brought her mouth to his ear, Chase able to feel her hair against his neck as she whispered, "I already have it."
Chase shivered, studying her when she pulled away.
It was the looking at her that did it. Looking at her, feeling her hands, hearing her voice as it scolded him gently. It was the fact that his entire being seemed to let out a relieved sigh at her nearness, that as long as she was here, with him, he knew he would be able to sleep, peacefully, for the first time in weeks.
It was the combination of those facts that forced him to contemplate the possibility that she could be right.
Maybe.
Sammy removed her hand from his mouth. "And I'm not giving it back." She gave a sideways grin. "The only way you're going to keep an eye on it is to stay close to me." She took a small step backwards, giving a small nod. "So that's what you're going to do."
She was a woman on a mission, and Chase had known within a week of meeting her that the objectives of Sammy's missions were always met. The smartest thing for Chase to do would be to sit back and let her have her way.
This time, her goal was Chase. And she was going to reach it, consequences be damned.
She obviously didn't have a clear conception of what she was getting herself into.
"Sammy, we can't do this. Not seriously."
She scoffed, coming forward once more and wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her forehead against his and smiling.
Sammy, he was quickly learning, always got her way.
"Of course we can. You just don't want to try, because if we try and fail you'll get hurt."
"That's not why-"
"Yes it is," she interrupted smoothly.
Chase let out a huff of air, annoyed. But he still brought his hands to the small of her back, still took a large breath, still savored her smell.
They both knew his annoyance was for show.
"And that's okay," she reassured him quickly, brining her head away from his. "But you know what, Rob? If you're not willing to get hurt on occasion you'll never achieve anything worth having." She smiled widely. "And this, us." She let out a small, satisfied, sigh as she brought her forehead back to his. "We're worth having."
She really had no idea what she dooming herself to.
Because this wasn't a 'let's keep dating for a few months' sort of declaration. This was the big kind of declaration that made mothers get teary-eyed and fathers clench their fists in warning. That led to two names on the apartment lease, to having someone to wake up to and go to sleep with. That guaranteed arguments and fights, to sticking it out even when it would be infinitely easier to throw in the towel. It led to a future that spanned beyond the next season, hinted at possibilities that were years, generations, away.
Sammy's pronouncement stated that this was going to be for keeps. It wasn't going to be just for fun.
And that scared the crap out of Chase.
Unfortunately, he had run out of reasons to push her away.
She probably had just been ignoring the reasons to run screaming from him.
Now would be an apt time to remind her of these.
He extracted himself from her grip, staring at her seriously. "Sammy, I can't give anything to you. I have money and a good job, but that's not enough. That's not what a person really needs."
She just grinned. "They certainly help."
He glared. "I'm trying to be serious."
"So am I. With all the problems I get myself into I have no doubt that dating a doctor will be a plus."
"Sammy, I'm can't-" He paused, biting on a nail as he attempted to find a delicate way to say what he meant.
He quickly determined that there wasn't one.
"I'm not good, with relationships. I don't like them and they certainly have never been kind to me."
Sammy looked at him seriously. "I know." She came forward and kissed him on the cheek shrugging. "But we love each other and that will be enough."
She brought her arms around him again, forcing him to do the same as he rolled his eyes at her naivety.
She seemed to sense his disbelief. "Besides, to keep you around I'm more than willing to be patient with your emotional immaturity."
"You say that, but when I do something stupid you'll change your mind."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Chase frowned.
She had a point.
Sammy smirked. "Rob, accept it. I'm not letting you leave me."
Chase sighed, running out of things to scare her with. Finally, he pulled away from her slightly, stared at her and resorted to a stern, "This is a bad idea."
"No it's not, it's the best idea I've had in a long time," she responded cheerfully, hugging him again. "And you too, I'm certain."
He let out a small laugh, shaking his head.
Sammy always got her way.
Accepting defeat, Chase muttered, "How is it that you seem to believe that you know everything?"
"I don't," she replied. "You only think I do because you seem to know so little."
Chase glared, trying to erase the smile on his lips. "You take sadistic pleasure in being cruel to me."
"Only because I love you."
She really needed to stop saying that word. It made him nervous.
"This is such a bad idea," he said aloud to the room at large, almost wishing there were witnesses to mark down his words. When things fell apart he wanted the world to know that he had been against this from the outset.
Sammy just smiled. "Rob, you obviously have no idea what's best for you."
He raised a brow in question. "And you do?"
"Yes," she said resolutely, kissing him firmly on the lips. "I'm what's best for you."
---