001

[worksmart]

[Accidental Voice;]

I don't know what the problem is with the carpet, it's got a blood stain trapped in it not a fragment of his soul. Cuddy should tell him she incinerated it, see what he does then. In fact, why wasn't it incinerated?

Foreman? Foreman.Great. I shouldn't have switched my damn service. Can you hear me now? No, obviously not,

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[days go by, still i think of you]

[worksmart]

Of course he doesn't believe it. He doesn't believe anything about this place is what it claims to be, but he's picked up enough tricks from House over his four year fellowship. He's conversing with the problem and, at some point, he's going to catch it in a lie. For now, there's no harm in lulling it into a false sense of security.

"There's never any proof something is real. I don't mean to sound like something out of a Keanu Reeves movie, but there isn't. We all see colours, but our retinas perceive the spectrum slightly differently in every case. Blue through your eyes might not seem like real blue to me." He leans forward, hands on his knees, arguing the point as though it was competing for space on the whiteboard.

"We build our own reality based on our expectations. The trouble being that our subconscious knows that, too." Which is why, in an apparently random collection of the flotsam and jetsam from multiple universes, somehow he's sharing space with a work colleague. It's all about incorporating the familiar.

He's on his feet in a sudden burst of nervous energy, heading for what he expects to be her kitchen. "You've got coffee?"

[days go by, still i think of you]

[as_damaged]

"Exactly," she replies with a slight nod. When the City's suspect reality conforms to your expectations, it validates the theory that it doesn't exist; when it defies them, it's a manifestation of the deviance from expectation that you'd expect from a hallucination trying to convince you of its reality.

Cameron watches him leave, stands after a moment to trail after him. The kitchen is where he thinks it should be, but that's less a matter of dream logic than building logic-- there aren't that many reasonable ways to lay out an apartment, after all. "I do." It's hazelnut-spice, but beggars can't be choosers, Chase. She reaches into a cabinet to get the grounds, and hands him the bag.

[days go by, still i think of you]

[worksmart]

Sooner or later it will occur to him that he is a beggar, here. Homeless, penniless, not even a change of clothes on hand. He's been working on not resenting having to downsize the skiing holidays since his inheritance was summarily severed, but this is something else entirely. He's never had to start from scratch.

So he takes the bag, heats the kettle, rifles her cupboards without asking and sets out two mugs. So far, so mechanical.

As he waits for the water to boil, though, he finds himself stealing backward glances. It's not subtle, and so eventually he turns, leaning back against the counter to watch her. "Cameron-"

He's cut himself off almost before starting, because there isn't a way to phrase this. There's just movement, unexpectedly quick, and he's resting one hand on her shoulder, the other pressing two fingers firmly to the pulse at her throat. He doesn't drop his gaze as he times it, thinking how warm her skin is. Wondering if his hand will come away with fragments of her scent.

And then he's satisfied, or the urge is, and he turns away again. Pours two cups of something mingling bitter aroma with sweetness and spice. If he's lucky, maybe neither of them have to say a word.

[days go by, still i think of you]

[as_damaged]

Well, watched pots never boil. She's aware of his eyes and tries not to react, watching his hands, his actions, instead of meeting his gaze. This isn't so bad. It's just common City courtesy, generosity; Cameron knows she doesn't have to feel strange, that her motives are only suspect if she lets them seem that way. She stayed with House, and no one thought it odd.

She freezes as he touches her, spine straight and chin lifted slightly, surprised by the unexpected contact. For a second she's expecting something else; and in a way this is almost worse, because she's certain her body is betraying her, the beat of blood beneath his fingers no doubt faster than it ought to be, standing there with his hand on her shoulder.

Chase turns away. She places her hand on the counter, palm flat-- not steadying, but grounding herself. This is her kitchen, her home; she's on her own turf. The air is cool against her skin where his fingers lay, and Cameron resists the urge to raise her own hand to the spot. As though he'd left some mark she might brush away. Mere product of an overactive imagination.

But she understands; or at least, she can guess, and slides the sugar bowl across the counter without a word. No smile for him this time, but no reproach, either.