She folds her arms, shrugging back and stretching her shoulders. It's not defensiven, for once; just a product of weariness.
"The juice machine's still half crystallized."
The look she shoots him is more concern than disapproval. She doesn't need to disapprove, at this juncture; she knows he knows better, even if she can't trust that he'll choose better. For the moment, at least, she has the choice not to offer him a choice, so she steps away to get him a cup of water. If he doesn't take it she'll set it in easy reach.
The water is welcome, honestly. Anything with flavour, let alone an alcohol content, would do a dead-cat bounce on impact with his ragged stomach lining. Reaching for it hurts, though - moving hurts - and as he straightens his legs and twists to look up at her the job he's doing of hiding it slips. Breakbone fever, they call it. For good reason.
A minute's short, shallow breaths and he stutters out,
"House is... probably having the best time since his last hooker. Could I... Acetaminophen?"
As much as House likes a puzzle, Cameron has a hard time imagining anyone enjoying the situation, but any comment she might make dies unspoken after a look at Chase's expression.
"Give me a moment," she says with a slight smile, an attempt at reassurance that comes off as more of a sympathetic wince as she steps back from the bed, to head out and get his painkillers, which she will hand over immediately when she returns.
House likes a puzzle and House likes feeling alive. Chase can't help thinking that adventures in the desert have to appeal to the old part of him that studied Egyptology and daydreams about paddling down the Amazon. But it's hard to conjure up images of the desert now.
His hand is cold and clammy when he reaches to palm the pills with a soft note of thanks before knocking them back and gulping water. Someone's turned his internal thermostat to rollercoaster.
"I'm waiting for it to turn to ice," he says, a wondering thought, and manages to focus on her properly for the first time. "I was worried about you."
As if the torn hands don't give it away. The last thing a surgeon needs.
His hands are the one thing she hasn't been looking at, after the initial assessment. Torn nails and abraded skin would be bad enough, but coupled with the garbled reports from the other City... Looking at the damage she can't keep the memories at bay. Chase casually snapping his own bones, alternately teasing and threatening.
"I think I've been safer than anyone," she murmurs back, the frown in her voice directed at the results of his concern, more than the urge. She likes knowing he cares, but worry isn't the same. She's the only one who hasn't been out there with sand and slugs and monsters. Honestly, Cameron feels a little guilty about that.
"Don't make yourself miserable because you haven't suffered enough." he smiles but it's pain-sharpened and he closes sore, too-hot eyes reluctantly. "Needed... someone here."
He needed someone to be here. And if it hadn't been her then all his efforts in the desert would have been put into fighting her over it. This situation, those first few hours aside, is the preferable one. The fever will die out and he'll find a way to bypass the following weeks of infirmity, if it takes a cheap deal with something unsavory in the underground to accomplish it.
"Saved me having to club you. You never... never went for the caveman thing."
Those are plans he shouldn't share, or she'll have to look into restraints. In all fairness she's hovering more than she has to be; with half of the home team still absent, the worry's redirected to the only situation she can affect.
"Isn't it awful, when you can't convince people to do what's best for them?"
It's not as sharp a comment as it might be, if he weren't so obviously miserable. Small comfort.
Wrong name, but she can play dual roles for the moment, while his eyes are closed. The question is simply weary, hopeless. For this brief moment it's too much effort to be bitter.
The hand resting on his forehead might as well be Allison's, not his doctor's. Easier to let her guard down when no one's looking, as ever.
"Right now, this is what you need."
Bed rest and fluids and (most important but least likely, maybe,) to stop fighting against taking a break. Doctors are always the worst patients, though there's always more to it than that.
"You could stay here tonight." red-eyed and earnest, a corner of one eye twitches. It's a sign she'll learn (will have learned) that he knows he's pushing his luck and chancing it anyway. "Just in case."
He's always pushed; sometimes too far, others not far enough. Right now she takes it as a good sign; lately the closest he's come is showing up drunk on her doorstep, whether invited or not.
"We do have night staff on call, you know." A pause, and a slight downward tilt of her chin. "I haven't eaten yet." Which is a very good reason not to stay, though not necessarily one that would prevent her from coming back.
He still labours under the illusion that he somehow keeps the worst of himself from her. The drunkenness. The bitterness. For the few times he's laid it at her feet he's spent more nights alone with it and that seems like a reasonable ratio. He can, if he tries, pretend she can still think he's fine.
"Oh. Right," likewise he keeps the frown to himself and the bedsheets, all too easily accepting. "Of course."
The best he can hope for-- and so far, he's succeeded, mostly-- is to keep her from realizing how bad it is. But fine, that he can't fake.
She's looking down, gaze a little unfocused.
"I can..." She hesitates. The truth is it's not such a bad prospect; the one luxury of crashing at the hospital is it's always full of people, day and night.
And she's afraid, in that apartment on her own. He knows that, now (and with the sugar of the candy heart still clinging to his teeth it felt like something he'd always knows) but how to change things for the better, for her?
He's not the one good at telling what's best for someone.
(He can't be what's best for her).
He'll show up, when he can. If it takes alcohol as an excuse well, maybe in a way that's to make the both of them more comfortable. But for now, he can pretend he wants her to stay here for her sake, and know it's for his.
"I won't be going anywhere," and that's oddly hopeful.
For once in his life it's the right answer; indirect but affirming. Whether she can accommodate it is a different question. Stopping by after grabbing dinner, at least, she can manage. Staying over-- giving up the luxury of a little time alone, and it is a luxury here-- might be too much to ask.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
☞ but we're always in repair
"The juice machine's still half crystallized."
The look she shoots him is more concern than disapproval. She doesn't need to disapprove, at this juncture; she knows he knows better, even if she can't trust that he'll choose better. For the moment, at least, she has the choice not to offer him a choice, so she steps away to get him a cup of water. If he doesn't take it she'll set it in easy reach.
"Wilson and House haven't come through yet."
☞ but we're always in repair
A minute's short, shallow breaths and he stutters out,
"House is... probably having the best time since his last hooker. Could I... Acetaminophen?"
☞ but we're always in repair
"Give me a moment," she says with a slight smile, an attempt at reassurance that comes off as more of a sympathetic wince as she steps back from the bed, to head out and get his painkillers, which she will hand over immediately when she returns.
☞ but we're always in repair
His hand is cold and clammy when he reaches to palm the pills with a soft note of thanks before knocking them back and gulping water. Someone's turned his internal thermostat to rollercoaster.
"I'm waiting for it to turn to ice," he says, a wondering thought, and manages to focus on her properly for the first time. "I was worried about you."
As if the torn hands don't give it away. The last thing a surgeon needs.
☞ but we're always in repair
"I think I've been safer than anyone," she murmurs back, the frown in her voice directed at the results of his concern, more than the urge. She likes knowing he cares, but worry isn't the same. She's the only one who hasn't been out there with sand and slugs and monsters. Honestly, Cameron feels a little guilty about that.
☞ but we're always in repair
He needed someone to be here. And if it hadn't been her then all his efforts in the desert would have been put into fighting her over it. This situation, those first few hours aside, is the preferable one. The fever will die out and he'll find a way to bypass the following weeks of infirmity, if it takes a cheap deal with something unsavory in the underground to accomplish it.
"Saved me having to club you. You never... never went for the caveman thing."
☞ but we're always in repair
"Isn't it awful, when you can't convince people to do what's best for them?"
It's not as sharp a comment as it might be, if he weren't so obviously miserable. Small comfort.
☞ but we're always in repair
Wrong name, but she can play dual roles for the moment, while his eyes are closed. The question is simply weary, hopeless. For this brief moment it's too much effort to be bitter.
"I thought... thought I had it. It's so cold"
☞ but we're always in repair
"Right now, this is what you need."
Bed rest and fluids and (most important but least likely, maybe,) to stop fighting against taking a break. Doctors are always the worst patients, though there's always more to it than that.
☞ but we're always in repair
"Right now I don't have much of a choice."
He looks up.
"Is your apartment glass?"
☞ but we're always in repair
She pulls her hand back, but slowly.
☞ but we're always in repair
☞ but we're always in repair
"We do have night staff on call, you know." A pause, and a slight downward tilt of her chin. "I haven't eaten yet." Which is a very good reason not to stay, though not necessarily one that would prevent her from coming back.
☞ but we're always in repair
"Oh. Right," likewise he keeps the frown to himself and the bedsheets, all too easily accepting. "Of course."
☞ but we're always in repair
She's looking down, gaze a little unfocused.
"I can..." She hesitates. The truth is it's not such a bad prospect; the one luxury of crashing at the hospital is it's always full of people, day and night.
"I could come back, and check in later on."
☞ but we're always in repair
He's not the one good at telling what's best for someone.
(He can't be what's best for her).
He'll show up, when he can. If it takes alcohol as an excuse well, maybe in a way that's to make the both of them more comfortable. But for now, he can pretend he wants her to stay here for her sake, and know it's for his.
"I won't be going anywhere," and that's oddly hopeful.
☞ but we're always in repair
For once in his life it's the right answer; indirect but affirming. Whether she can accommodate it is a different question. Stopping by after grabbing dinner, at least, she can manage. Staying over-- giving up the luxury of a little time alone, and it is a luxury here-- might be too much to ask.
"I'll be back."
At least for a little while.