[It's busy for 3am on a Sunday - must be the weekend for it - but the people still spilling out of The Coliseum give a wide berth to the figure huddled on the edge of the sidewalk
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[Should she? The honest answer is almost certainly that she shouldn't, that it would be easier not to say anything to him since certainly he'll be gone before Monday morning, but there are certain areas in which Cameron's legendary resolve tends to break down.]
Thanksgiving.
Can you tell me what year it is?
[The inflection suggests it's a comment on his intoxication, but really, she's trying to situate him.]
[And for a moment it's so obviously her that he laughs before the impossible hits.]
A-Allison? [He must have hit an automatic dial button when he dropped the phone - that quick access list he hasn't taken her off the top of, can't imagine--
It is funny. So stupid it's funny. It fits the image, then, of him crouched over the curb, talking down to a broken handset.] You can't be mad at me, you, you don't get to be mad at me about this when you're not here.
[It's so earnest. It's funny. He'd buy and sell his soul for this reprimand to be valid and not late night frustration at his drunken misdial. And so he takes it back. Maybe he can pretend.]
[A long, long pause; she's going through it in her mind, all the impossible visits and glimpses of curses. This drunk means-- nothing good, though it doesn't take any special knowledge to figure it out.]
[Hands and knees, his elbows scrape the tarmac, forehead dipped almost to it as he replies.]
I know how phones work.
[She's not here. She's in Chicago, or wherever else she's gone to escape the toxicity of his choices, but he points it out with only faint, half-amused acknowledgement that he might sound drunk enough to have forgotten. That he's been trying to see how possible that might be as a deliberate project.]
Did I wake you? I didn't mean to call. [There's a suddent rush of how that might sound.] Not that- just-
[Aren't you sleeping? is the first thing he wants to ask, and, either?
But he's too distracted by what she asks him, pausing for furrowed thought which only makes it clearer that he's not straight or sober enough to come up with a plausible lie.]
Yes.
[And he could leave it there, rather than explain he did the one thing (on top of everything) he knew she wouldn't approve of. Went where they know people. All week he's been backing off attention, and one drink pulls him about face and invites it. It's not for the sympathy. It's something small and spiteful she was never supposed to know.]
I went to Augustines. It was close I didn't - want to go far.
[The truth and then a little lie just to make himself sound more pathetic. His forehead does bump the road surface.]
[She says it softly, a little lost without the half of the conversation he assumes she knows, not trying to needle but to guide him to the realization that he's not where he wants to be. Or at least, where he was.
It's strange, now, that he wouldn't remember the City when he has so many times over... but she chalks it up to the alcohol.]
Do you need someone to come find you?
[Do you need me to come, she'd rather say, but under the circumstances she doesn't think it would do either of them any good.]
[As if she might be pleased with the effort. And having said it, he realises he can't kiss the tarmac much longer before someone will come and ask if he needs help, so the next minute is preoccupied with a struggle to find his feet. Some natural athleticism eventually wins through for him and he stumbles a few shaky steps, keeping the phone cradled like an alcoholic's last glass.]
I need- [He starts, and stops again, this inexplicable choke getting in the way and having to be rumbled and shaken out of his throat.] They put in a carousel for the holidays. It's Thanksgiving. Must be for that.
I can call Wilson for you. I don't think you should--
[be left alone.]
I don't think I can explain it all, not right now. [The years here and the ones between them, the things she shouldn't know, the things she still doesn't.]
Will you stay put, if I call someone to come get you?
[It's too much to think about. The sympathy tinged with faint disapproval usually reserved for a better candidate than him. Support tonight and, tomorrow, stern words from him. The inevitable tough love talk from Cuddy: she'll mention the problems in hiring a surgeon whose hands shake. They'll both say he should get help, and House - former champion of the concept - has only just given up advocating the same.
Help. Help didn't help. He'd turned to God. He'd turned to her. And standing up has never felt so exhausting before. The breath rushes out of him as he drops back against the wall. Exhale and inhale - high pitched and audible.]
I just need you. I know you can't- you're not here. [This time he forces words past the tightening of his throat.] Please don't ask me what I need.
[There's a long, heavy silence, concealing the bitter roil of her uncertainty. It's always all wrong-- one of them needing and the other leaving, constant and always out of sync. She's always felt a little safer with a Chase more removed from the City, a little more willing to forgive and to trust. Maybe House would say it's just an instinctive draw to something damaged.]
Do you want me to come? [She only asks anticipating that he'll say no; at least then, honestly, she'll have tried. Maybe Angela; she could call Angela, but Chase won't know who she is, if he's so far removed.] I could.
[It's doubtful, obviously, but he's never managed to keep the hope out of his voice with her. Even if it was a pity mission, and he's not an idiot, he knows how prone to them she can be, it might be another chance.]
I've been drunk before. You weren't... sympathetic.
I don't want you to stumble into the fountain and drown.
[It's much sharper than she means it to be, the echo of a hurt she still isn't over, and she immediately regrets not biting it back quickly enough. Trying to cover, she continues-]
I'm not-- not so far away. But I can get someone else if that would be better. Someone you don't work with.
[Perhaps there have been so many sharp words between them that he's immune, or the alcohol has managed to dull his senses just enough, but he doesn't flinch]
You wouldn't want me dead. Guess I should have known that much.
[It's a joke, one he doesn't expect to find appreciated.]
And I don't want you calling our friends to take me home.
[He'd hate it, and he'd hate having made her do it, knowing the kind of explanations it would necessitate. The rest of what she says filters through more slowly. Falling in the fountain - though there is one just beyond the carousel, he doesn't remember and suddenly feels like he must have been turned around on himself somewhere and walked the wrong way. And then the most important thing. The thing that makes the least sense.]
[She can think of any number of reasons why she'd be in Chicago. Without him, past the point where she'd ever be with him. None of them are good.]
We're both somewhere-- else. I guess you don't remember. [There's a long hesitation-- is it even worth explaining? But she doesn't want him getting in trouble, so long as he's here.]
I'll buy you a coffee. [Sober him up a little, she doesn't need to add. The sentiment might as well echo.]
[He's quiet. The somewhere else may as well not have been said for all it registers. All the cryptic clues (as much as gaudy coloured carnival rides can be considered cryptic), too complicated to deal ith are set aside for the stomach lurching possibility of something solid.]
You could do that.
[It's not just the Australian inflection that lifts that into something questioning.]
Thanksgiving.
Can you tell me what year it is?
[The inflection suggests it's a comment on his intoxication, but really, she's trying to situate him.]
Reply
A-Allison? [He must have hit an automatic dial button when he dropped the phone - that quick access list he hasn't taken her off the top of, can't imagine--
It is funny. So stupid it's funny. It fits the image, then, of him crouched over the curb, talking down to a broken handset.] You can't be mad at me, you, you don't get to be mad at me about this when you're not here.
[It's so earnest. It's funny. He'd buy and sell his soul for this reprimand to be valid and not late night frustration at his drunken misdial. And so he takes it back. Maybe he can pretend.]
I'm sorry.
Reply
[A long, long pause; she's going through it in her mind, all the impossible visits and glimpses of curses. This drunk means-- nothing good, though it doesn't take any special knowledge to figure it out.]
Do you know where you are?
Reply
I know how phones work.
[She's not here. She's in Chicago, or wherever else she's gone to escape the toxicity of his choices, but he points it out with only faint, half-amused acknowledgement that he might sound drunk enough to have forgotten. That he's been trying to see how possible that might be as a deliberate project.]
Did I wake you? I didn't mean to call. [There's a suddent rush of how that might sound.] Not that- just-
If you were asleep.
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[There's a trace of a sigh alongside her words, which can't come as a surprise to him, though he'd misjudge the reasons.]
I'd like you to answer my question, though. Look around you. Do you know where you are?
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But he's too distracted by what she asks him, pausing for furrowed thought which only makes it clearer that he's not straight or sober enough to come up with a plausible lie.]
Yes.
[And he could leave it there, rather than explain he did the one thing (on top of everything) he knew she wouldn't approve of. Went where they know people. All week he's been backing off attention, and one drink pulls him about face and invites it. It's not for the sympathy. It's something small and spiteful she was never supposed to know.]
I went to Augustines. It was close I didn't - want to go far.
[The truth and then a little lie just to make himself sound more pathetic. His forehead does bump the road surface.]
Reply
[She says it softly, a little lost without the half of the conversation he assumes she knows, not trying to needle but to guide him to the realization that he's not where he wants to be. Or at least, where he was.
It's strange, now, that he wouldn't remember the City when he has so many times over... but she chalks it up to the alcohol.]
Do you need someone to come find you?
[Do you need me to come, she'd rather say, but under the circumstances she doesn't think it would do either of them any good.]
Reply
[As if she might be pleased with the effort. And having said it, he realises he can't kiss the tarmac much longer before someone will come and ask if he needs help, so the next minute is preoccupied with a struggle to find his feet. Some natural athleticism eventually wins through for him and he stumbles a few shaky steps, keeping the phone cradled like an alcoholic's last glass.]
I need- [He starts, and stops again, this inexplicable choke getting in the way and having to be rumbled and shaken out of his throat.] They put in a carousel for the holidays. It's Thanksgiving. Must be for that.
[The day never meant anything to him before.]
Reply
[be left alone.]
I don't think I can explain it all, not right now. [The years here and the ones between them, the things she shouldn't know, the things she still doesn't.]
Will you stay put, if I call someone to come get you?
Reply
[It's too much to think about. The sympathy tinged with faint disapproval usually reserved for a better candidate than him. Support tonight and, tomorrow, stern words from him. The inevitable tough love talk from Cuddy: she'll mention the problems in hiring a surgeon whose hands shake. They'll both say he should get help, and House - former champion of the concept - has only just given up advocating the same.
Help. Help didn't help. He'd turned to God. He'd turned to her. And standing up has never felt so exhausting before. The breath rushes out of him as he drops back against the wall. Exhale and inhale - high pitched and audible.]
I just need you. I know you can't- you're not here. [This time he forces words past the tightening of his throat.] Please don't ask me what I need.
Reply
Do you want me to come? [She only asks anticipating that he'll say no; at least then, honestly, she'll have tried. Maybe Angela; she could call Angela, but Chase won't know who she is, if he's so far removed.] I could.
Reply
[It's doubtful, obviously, but he's never managed to keep the hope out of his voice with her. Even if it was a pity mission, and he's not an idiot, he knows how prone to them she can be, it might be another chance.]
I've been drunk before. You weren't... sympathetic.
Reply
[It's much sharper than she means it to be, the echo of a hurt she still isn't over, and she immediately regrets not biting it back quickly enough. Trying to cover, she continues-]
I'm not-- not so far away. But I can get someone else if that would be better. Someone you don't work with.
Reply
You wouldn't want me dead. Guess I should have known that much.
[It's a joke, one he doesn't expect to find appreciated.]
And I don't want you calling our friends to take me home.
[He'd hate it, and he'd hate having made her do it, knowing the kind of explanations it would necessitate. The rest of what she says filters through more slowly. Falling in the fountain - though there is one just beyond the carousel, he doesn't remember and suddenly feels like he must have been turned around on himself somewhere and walked the wrong way. And then the most important thing. The thing that makes the least sense.]
You're not in Chicago?
Reply
[She can think of any number of reasons why she'd be in Chicago. Without him, past the point where she'd ever be with him. None of them are good.]
We're both somewhere-- else. I guess you don't remember. [There's a long hesitation-- is it even worth explaining? But she doesn't want him getting in trouble, so long as he's here.]
I'll buy you a coffee. [Sober him up a little, she doesn't need to add. The sentiment might as well echo.]
Reply
You could do that.
[It's not just the Australian inflection that lifts that into something questioning.]
Reply
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