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Empathy
by Flywoman
DISCLAIMER: Do you see my name when the House M.D. credits roll? Didn't think so.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A sort of companion piece to "Smokescreen" by lit_luminary.
***
Once he'd made the decision, executing it was easy enough.
He started with Thirteen, who found him attractive and surely understood this impulse to
drown one's self in another for a night. It seemed even more logical when he learned that
she was leaving, and thus a more convenient target for a hit-and-run, a physical release
with no strings attached. But still, he was secretly relieved when she turned him down,
knowing that 1) she didn't deserve to be used by him like this, and 2) Foreman still had a
protective streak a mile wide when it came to Remy, and he would have found ways, both
subtle and overt, to make Chase pay.
Next it was the bars, where he noticed how women's eyes widened at his approach, now
that he knew enough to look for it. He rarely had to buy more than one drink to get
somebody to go home with him, although sometimes he did anyway, allowing himself
the luxury of joining in. It didn't seem to matter whether or not he told her that he was a
doctor, whether he turned on the charm or treated her like she was lucky to be blessed by
his attention. He'd become accustomed to this in the seminary when he was the new boy
with an angel's face, but he was truly sorry to see that women had no more sense.
***
Taub was one-fourth right. Not because, as Chase allowed him to believe, he was
currently seeing four women simultaneously. No, he had been with each one once, then
extricated himself as quickly and painlessly as possible.
He was one-fourth right because this was not making him happy.
And yet, he wouldn't be doing it if it didn't allow him to feel marginally better than he
would have otherwise, at least for a little while.
***
This one's name was Liz. Chase had no idea what had possessed House to relieve him for
the evening, and if he let himself think about it for too long, he might be worried. But
then again, maybe it was just newfound generosity, part and parcel of House's happiness
along with the dress shirts in pastel candy colors and occasional outbursts of song. Chase
handed her the posy, already wilting, wondering whether she realized that it was a portent
and not a promise.
Back at her apartment, Liz uncorked a bottle of Cab and arranged herself on the couch,
showing her long, slim legs to best advantage. He didn't want to get too comfortable,
didn't want to hear her slur about her hopes, dreams, and aspirations, so it was a relief
when they both gulped their glasses down and then reached for each other.
She unbuttoned his shirt with practiced hands, ran her palms over his ribs and down past
the plane of his stomach. She smelled like smoke and jasmine, a field of flowers that had
been burned to the ground, and she tasted like ashes below the brightness of the wine.
Chase wasn't surprised to find that she wasn't wearing anything underneath the skintight
skirt. She made a throaty growl of triumph when he came.
Liz didn't comment when he slid away and tucked himself into his trousers, just reached
for the pack on the coffee table and lit up, a transient flare in the dim light. He poured
them each another glass, emptying the bottle, and drank his down.
"Call me?" she asked coquettishly, taking a drag on her cigarette.
He didn't make any commitments that he wouldn't keep, just said "Thanks for the wine,"
as he pulled on his coat, and left.
He was sober enough to stumble home, but buzzed enough to fumble for the phone and
dial her when he got there.
It rang four times before Cameron answered, sounding groggy and disgruntled. "Hello?"
"'s me," he said.
"Robert?" Her voice was suddenly sharp, unnaturally alert. "It's two in the morning. Are
you all right?"
"Yeah," he said, and then, "no. Actually, no."
"You're drunk," Cameron said - those familiar words; that flat, disappointed tone.
"I just got home," he said wretchedly. "I was with someone tonight. I don't even know
her last name."
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked slowly, voice taut with what he suspected were
unshed tears. "What, did you think that the threat of competition would convince me to
take you back? Or..." and now contempt crept in with a sudden viciousness that surprised
him, "did you need me to know just how pathetic you've become?"
He laughed, harsh and low, closing his eyes against the dizziness for a moment, then
replied, truthfully, "No. I just wanted you to know that... I think I finally understand."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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