Liberties have been taken.

"I died, that day."

There it was again, that accent of his. She remembered him once saying that he liked his accents to be messy - a complete mix of everything. "It shows where you've been and gone," he had told her.

It took her a moment to try to understand exactly what he meant - not that she actually did understand after taking the time to digest his words. No, she didn't understand, but she could pretend that she did. At least that way she could take his words lightly; of course, they were in no way intended to be as such, but she didn't want to think about the real intention.

I can't breathe in here.

She took a deep breath and held it for a time. It was all that she could think to do afterwards, after he said something so damned...weighty. She knew he didn't expect a proper response - hell, he didn't expect any response - so he never looked once to her to see why she was so silent. She hated when he became dark suddenly. She couldn't quite place why he did that - not him, anyway. It was the same way with his jokes. They made no sense to her. She could process them, even comprehend them only as literal meaning, to the point of over-analysis - it was said and that was why it was said - but she couldn't place them. When House was being cynical, when House was being dark, it was perfectly acceptable and it was perfectly logical.

He wasn't, however.

And nothing he ever said seemed to make any sense to her as of late. Yesterday he was staring out of the window of a patient's room and he whispered so softly, "When I was younger I remember how it was like - being raised with ghosts." It probably had something to do with the patient and his own childhood, but she just didn't understand.

Perhaps something was bothering him... But it wasn't like she knew him very well. Actually, she knew him, she just didn't know him.

It's too damned hot.

She felt stupid suddenly and the room almost seemed alien to her. He seemed alien to her. Who was he? Why was he looking at her like that? He hadn't been before, when he murmured something so ludicrous, but now he was watching her like he was mentally trying to drill a hole through her forehead. She couldn't place his expression and she felt her cheeks grow hot.

He looked away, seeming nearly uninterested.

"What?" She let it slip past her lips without thinking, most likely because he caught her unexpectedly off-guard.

He shook his head; it was more of an obtuse gesture than a dismissal. "Nothing." His light colored hair was in his face again and she got the urge to brush away those persistent strands. Every so often they would fall over his eyes or against his cheeks and he wouldn't bother himself to move them out of his line of vision.

She felt her fingers twitch.

The lack of fresh air is making me feel funny, that's all.

Logical, always logical. She could make every situation logical, she just couldn't seem to make him logical anymore. They were just sitting there doing nothing - how long had it been? Twenty minutes? Thirty? - but it was as if they couldn't stop doing nothing for fear of doing something, so they continued on as such. Her fingers twitched again.

Move... Just move your hair... out of your eyes...

He scratched the back of his head absently. The end of his pen was pressed gently between his teeth and his lips opened, only just barely. If he heard her silent pleas he sure as hell didn't seem to give a damn about appeasing them. He leaned back on his chair; more hair in his eyes, more hair splashing against his cheeks like raindrops, more hair pressing like feathers to his lips.

She thought better the change the subject. Why was the lab work taking so long, anyway? "What did you mean... when you said that?"

He didn't look at her. He didn't even so much as moved at the sound of her voice suddenly. She would have imagined that perhaps he didn't know what she meant - after all, he had spoken it minutes ago - but then the pen left his mouth and his hand hit it on the desk and he turned almost too quickly to look at her without really having to look at her.

More hair in his eyes.

"You always have to fix everyone." It was nearly like an accusation.

What did that have to do with...? Her mouth opened wordlessly. Perhaps waiting for so long in the small space was driving him crazy. And she would have assumed as much, too, because-

"It's not like House, though." He mused lazily, more to himself than to her. "He has to fix the physical. You have to fix the emotional. I've always wondered why." He wasn't looking at her anymore, simply tapping the bottom of his pen idly against his teeth. "Me... Me..." There was that thoughtful tone again. "I always have to break things." There was no remorse there, no guilt; it was said for the sole purpose of finality, nearly like a conclusion that had been reached simply because it had to be.

She was utterly lost again. "What?"

"I was thinking about what we do here, that's all. I break, you and House fix... What the hell does Foreman do?"

"He's a neurologist," she said flatly.

He laughed; it was completely devoid of any mirth. "No - what he really does here."

She stared at him, wondering if this was a joke. Sometimes she just couldn't tell which with him. But wasn't that the problem to begin with? When she finally came to the realization that he was actually being serious, he had already gotten out of his seat and walked over to the sink.

He looked beautiful for a moment. It was quick and it was dark and she saw it only when he turned his head away from her; the blinds were sifting out most of the sunlight and the lights of the room were turned off, but for what reason she did not remember - something about the heat, wasn't it? It was a clouded and grim beauty that she hadn't noticed about him before. It was gone, however, a moment later when he turned his head and the shadows overtook his face entirely.

There was an imperfection about him, something that was nearly incomplete. He wasn't real; for just a minute, he was absolutely everywhere and nowhere. And he was fragile. It didn't last long - a few more moments and he was distant and solid and undetectable once again. Everything about him, she realized, was almost completely undetectable.

And...falling.

He started tapping his fingers on either side of the sink. Waiting. Waiting. Always waiting.

I fix. You break.

It almost made sense, but it wouldn't have on any other day, at any other time.

"That day," there was a sharp intake of air, "I died and I'm certain of it."

He almost looked like he was dying, too. But for only just a moment, almost always for just a split second.

Something to do with his childhood, something to do with his past. She didn't know him, anyway, so she didn't bother to ask him again. He was musing - not to her, but to himself when she just happened to be there with him. (He wasn't making sense, either, but she assumed then that when one thinks they hardly ever make sense to anyone who might simply overhear.) She wondered if perhaps he hated hospitals and he never wanted to be a doctor to begin with.

"Yes," she finally said. "Yes, I fix things."

"You can't fix everything."

No, I can't. Maybe that's the problem, Chase.

She made everything logical. There was a dilemma, so there must be a solution; there was pain, so naturally there must be something to quell it; there were things that were broken, so there had to be someone to mend them. Wasn't that it?

She just couldn't make him seem logical.