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,

Comments

[days go by, still i think of you]

[as_damaged]

She takes a breath as she unlocks her door, uneasy about sharing space. She hasn't lived with anyone in a long time; has spent the night with people-- with Chase, in fact-- but that isn't the same thing, because someone always leaves in the morning and the quiet sanctity of a one-person apartment returns. She likes having her distance; doesn't expect that she will ever be comfortable enough with anyone, again, to change that fact.

"She's pretty well trained. I don't have a roommate, and having a pet around helps with the ticking." Has he noticed that, yet? Probably, unless he's been lucky enough to stick to a crowd. She hates talking about it, because although she knows it's real, it still sounds like the product of a deranged mind. Cameron had considered finding someone to split the rent for that very reason-- in fact, her apartment has a second bedroom, though it's unfurnished, which is why Chase will be relegated to the couch anyway. But the possibilities of curses, combined with the inherent awkwardness of finding a stranger to move in with her, had caused her to abandon the idea.

The apartment is, in fact, surprisingly clean, though not to the point of sterility. It's perhaps more comfortable, more welcoming than he'd have expected from her living space. There is a little cat hair, here and there (and perhaps under the edges of the furniture traces of another kind of hair, missed in her cleaning, though that's a horror story for another day. The same goes for the bathroom door, which looks as though it's been recently replaced.)

She steps further in to the room, putting some space between them. "Here we are." Being on familiar ground doesn't do much to calm her nerves.

[days go by, still i think of you]

[worksmart]

Wheras Chase relaxes with the click of the latch. It's just an apartment, like any Princeton apartment, with nothing to scream at him that somewhere his proper senses have been mislaid. Sure, ignoring his problems isn't going to mean they're not still waiting outside the door, but he's damned if he's not glad to put all immediate reminders aside.

Though, he looks back over his shoulder at her as she mentions the clock. The ticking is almost imperceptible now, but still things are reminding him. "What do you think it's counting down to?"

He heads for the couch, making a cursory examination of the apartment's main room. True to form, it's near enough what he'd have imagined she'd pick, with enough echoes of the old place to suggest he could be embellishing on a memory. "Nice place. Does your cat have a name?"

He's caught a furry blur skitting between table legs, and crouches to call to it with that odd squeaking noise animals seem to like. "Here puss. Puss."

[days go by, still i think of you]

[as_damaged]

It's nice to have some familiarity in this insanity-- she was just thinking of that, the other day. The layout is different, but the style is in fact quite similar-- warm, subdued colors; pretty but somewhat abstract photos scattered on the walls, although there's one unobtrusive and unlikely old wedding photograph nestled on a shelf.

"She answers to Gray," replies Cameron with a wry little shrug. It's a rather uncreative choice, she knows; but the cat doesn't seem to mind. The white and gray animal slips out from beneath the furniture, walking slowly over to Chase with calculated feline arrogance to sniff his shoes and perhaps deign to be petted. Cameron has to admit it's hard not to be amused at her colleague right now, his careful airs forgotten as he bends to make friends. He can be unintentionally charming, when he's not being an intentional jackass.

"I think the clock is... there to scare us, honestly. To keep us guessing, and force us to be sociable."

[days go by, still i think of you]

[worksmart]

"You're obviously taking the sociability to heart. No time to clear up after the last wild party?" Sarcasm; why yes, he is starting to feel a little more like himself.

A softer tone is reserved for the little animal, scooped up easily and flipped onto her back in the crook of one of Chase's arms. He buries his fingers in the white fluff of her stomach and smiles to himself as the purr rises to a crescendo. Under his fingertips is warm, vibrant life. "Aren't you beautiful? Sorry, sweetheart, I think I've shown up to steal your sleeping space."

They let pets visit the pediatrics ward sometimes, for strict supervised play with the kids. Medical science hasn't gotten around to the whys and wherefores just yet, but there's clinical evidence that petting something cute and fluffy is better than beating the crap out of a stress ball to help the average person relax.

Chase exhales some of the tension from his shoulders and settles onto the couch, still cradling Cameron's unexpected pet.

[days go by, still i think of you]

[as_damaged]

"You have no idea," she replies with a smirk, though it's clearly at her own expense. So she's been a bit of a hermit; pleasing the Deities is hardly her number one priority. She has friends, even if she's not always out and about with them; she's as content with her situation as one can be, trapped in another universe.

Cameron settles in a chair, legs crossed at the ankles, watching Chase and the cat. She's surprised herself at how much she likes having a cat, really, in spite of the litterbox and the occasional claw-marks on the sofa. Even though her coworker is holding the cat, she feels more relaxed as well; whatever tension she might have anticipated is absent, at least for the moment. And it's nice to see Chase's softer side, even if he's being a smartass vocally.

"You two seem to be getting along well."

[days go by, still i think of you]

[worksmart]

Chase likes cats, likes animals in general. He's thought about getting one, except his schedule means he'd get to feed the thing maybe three days out of seven, and while felines have a reputation for independence he somehow doubts it extends to opening their own tins.

This one, almost on cue, picks the moment of Cameron's comment to wriggle out of his arms and claw its way up the arm of his suit jacket, stalking assertively along the back of the couch behind where they're sitting. He turns enough to narrow one eye at it. "We haven't had to fight each other for the best spot, yet."

There's a grin reserved for Cameron, and for once it's not smart, or smug, or knowing. He curls his hand against his chin, edging the tip of his little finger into the corner of his mouth and biting down thoughtfully.

"What do you wish someone would have told you, the day you got here?"

[days go by, still i think of you]

[as_damaged]

"I'm sure you'll come to some agreement."

She pauses to consider his question; it's a good one, and there's no simple answer. There's a certain amount of 'standard' advice one is given upon arriving; not that it isn't helpful, but there is no teacher like experience. And of course, the City thrives on subverting any sense of normality. Which is why it's so frustrating; becoming accustomed to something nearly guarantees a change.

"Not to form any expectations, maybe." She tilts her head a little, remembering her first days here. The misleading sense that she understood, based only on observation and hearsay, and how mortified she was to be proven wrong.

"I would have liked some proof that it was all real, but of course that's impossible." Since if it wasn't, if it was all in her head, she'd only be supplying her own evidence. Offhandedly she wonders whether he believes it, yet. It hardly seems real to her-- their conversation is far too comfortable.

[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.