Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.

Author's Note: Written for the annual contest at house_of_fanfic on livejournal, for the theme "Five bible verses to which Chase can relate." Many thanks to enigma731 for the beta.

Sempiternam

Romans 6:7 – For he that is dead is free from sin.

The news of Kutner's death weighs harder on Chase than he's sure anyone realizes. The ride home from the funeral had been made in silence, the air too thick to breathe, let alone speak, heavy with regret too profound for words. Cameron had drawn him to bed, small fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders, and cried long and hard against his chest, naked and vulnerable and fragile in his arms.

"What are you thinking?" she'd asked after her tears had run dry.

"Nothing," he'd replied, the hitch in his voice nearly betraying his lie. "I don't know what to think."

She's asleep now, curled up tightly at his side with moonlight dancing across her face, and he remembers the ring, rolled up in a pair of thick socks, tucked safely in the corner of his drawer. It would be so easy just to slip out from under her, find it and slide it on her finger without her even waking, binding her to him so she'll never leave, so he'll never have to be alone again.

Chase and Kutner had never been close, and to this day, Chase doesn't regret having cashed in on Kutner's little internet scheme. Chase still hasn't cried, hasn't shown any real emotional response to the situation aside from soothing murmurs against Cameron's ear. He doesn't mean to be so distant, so cold now, but it's the only way he knows how to cope.

He extracts himself carefully from Cameron's arms, slipping a teddy bear – one she'd given him as a gag gift their first Valentine's Day together – into her embrace, before creeping out into the living room, nearly tripping over a pair of her heels. The old familiar envelope, folded and tucked neatly between the pages of his bible, is found easily, despite the shadows lurking along the walls as cars pass by outside.

Sometimes, you just can't see it coming, he thinks, words echoing from his past – from his therapist to his father. The letter, however, tells a different story – words of hate, anger and bitterness carved into every page, berating his father for every wrong he'd ever committed against his family; the reasons why a bright student, home from seminary, would try to take his own life.

Chase sinks into the couch, tapping the unopened letter against his knee.

"I don't care why you did it! I don't care that your mother's drinking finally did her in, and I don't care that I wasn't there to stop it! I just don't want you doing it again, do you hear me?" his father had screamed, throwing the page back at his face. "Is this what that damned seminary has been teaching you? You're starting in medical school as soon as the term starts, is that clear?"

He breaks down finally, scrubbing at his eyes with the backs of his fingers. Sometimes you just can't see it coming – sometimes they call out as loud as they can, shrieking from the prisons of their own mind and body, but sometimes – sometimes – they can't scream loud enough. Sometimes, the only penance for your past is the annihilation of your future.

He feels the letter slide from his hand and a familiar weight drop onto his lap. "It's okay, sweetheart," Cameron whispers, breath close to his ear, as she wraps him up in herself. "Come to bed. Let's talk about it."

"Don't wanna talk," he insists, sniffling.

"Come on, babe," she says. "I know this must be hard for you."

"I wish we'd been closer," he admits finally, fingers fisting in her shirt. "If I'd told him-"

"I know," she says, pulling him closer. "Come to bed?" she asks gently, once he's calmed down. He nods, and her fingers twine easily with his as she pulls him to his feet, dragging with her years of memories they'd both rather forget.

--

James 1:12 – Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love Him.

Chase retreats to the bedroom as soon as they get through the door, flinching like a wounded animal at the sound of it slamming shut. He slips into bed, barely having the mind to kick off his shoes before pulling the covers over his head and hugging Cameron's pillow close to his chest. The need to explain himself to his fiancée is strong, but quickly crushed by the overwhelming exhaustion and throbbing pain behind his eyes.

"I'm not angry," she says softly, when she sits on the edge of the bed a few minutes later. Her voice is soothing, and her hand is warm on his shoulder, even through the thick quilt he's hiding beneath.

He pulls the covers down enough to look at her, squinting against the dim light streaming through the curtains. "You're not?"

Her fingers thread carefully through his hair as she shakes her head. "Sit up?"

He does, and she's quick to press a glass of water and two aspirin into his hands. He takes them gratefully, and watches her over the rim of the glass as he sips.

"Tell me what happened?" she asks, resting a hand on his thigh.

"Strippers," he mumbles, looking away suddenly. Everything's so grey in daylight – the lines he'd drawn last night suddenly no longer as definitive as his alcohol-addled mind had thought – and he's not sure if his innocent actions had been as innocent as they'd seemed. The fuzz is probably the lingering effects of the liquor, he reasons, but it's getting in the way of justifying his actions, and weaving a safety net for this relationship he's worked so hard to build, now balancing unsteadily, high above the ground.

"I know that much," Cameron smiles, and shifts so he can pillow his head in her lap. She smells good, he notes, even after spending all night curled up in a chair by his hospital bed. "I told you I'm not angry, babe. I just want you to tell me what happened."

"I told you," he insists, getting whiny. "At the hospital. I told you about the girl and the body shot and the strawberries."

"And that was about . . . oh . . . two minutes at the end of your bachelor party," she says, stroking his hair back from his forehead. "I want to hear about the rest." He shrugs uncomfortably, and she raises an eyebrow. "I talked to Foreman."

His entire body stiffens, and he peeks one eye open to look at her, gauging her reaction. "What did he tell you?"

"Well, I was thinking everything, but now I'm not so sure." She sighs, and helps pull the quilt back over his shoulders. "You know I trust you, right?"

He makes a little noise in response, and curls tighter, feeling lower than dirt.

"Hey," she says, obviously struggling to keep her voice as gentle as she is. "You can tell me things, okay? Is this how our marriage is going to be – with you hiding things from me because you're afraid I'll leave?"

"'s not like that," he insists, curling his fingers in her pant leg.

"Then tell me?"

He shifts, looking up at her with bloodshot eyes, feeling intensely vulnerable. "I guess that was about it," he admits quietly. "Lotsa drinking," he adds and she snorts in response.

"What about the other girls?" she says, brushing her fingers against his stubbly cheek. "Any fun?"

He shrugs again, leaning his cheek into her hand. "Served liquor ice cream . . . stuff. And danced. There was a kangaroo."

She smiles broadly and leans down to kiss his forehead. "Yeah?"

"Named him Skippy," he elaborates, too tired and distracted to remind her about the reference to that jerk of a kid they had as one of their last patients under House. "Girls licked me," he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Their breath smelled like alcohol."

Cameron snorts again, in an effort to keep from bursting into giggles entirely. "Wonder why."

Chase snuggles closer and rolls over to hide his face in her tummy. "You're really not angry?" he asks at last, in a small voice.

"No," she says, gently moving his head so she can lie down beside him. "I kind of assumed it would happen. Not the anaphylaxis, though. I'm not very happy about that."

He frowns, remembering her long rants and lectures about House throwing the party, and how she wished Wilson was still doing it instead. "Then why'd you put up such a big fight about it?" he asks, curling a lock of her hair round his fingers.

An impish grin ghosts across her lips, as if somehow last night's wild adventure and this morning's misery have all been part of her plan from the very beginning. "Would it really have been as much fun if I'd said I was okay with it?" He smiles and she kisses him, slowly and thoroughly. "I'm proud of you," she says when she finally pulls away.

"Yeah?" he says, gazing at her hopefully, his life-long yearning for some semblance of approval slipping out from behind the wall of confidence he's spent so long building.

She nods, and brushes her nose alongside his. "Did you at least have fun?"

He grins, a little embarrassed, and admits, "Yeah, until the whole strawberry thing."

She nestles close, tucking her head beneath his chin to hug him tightly. "Good."

Cameron's hand is quick to find his, fingers twining naturally, the pressure of her ring a pleasant reminder that this is real, and that everything promised him by fairytales and love stories – stashed hastily beneath his mattress at school – is finally his to keep; the doubts and misunderstandings, secrets and fights – their own dragons to duel, and witches and demons to overcome. And even if the handsome prince (or rugged cattle driver, in the case of his mother's long adored romances) had screwed up this close to the end, his happily ever after was still waiting for him, just over the horizon.

Cameron slips from his arms, like a dream upon waking, and meanders toward the bathroom. "You coming?" she calls back to him, over her shoulder. "You look smell like something the cat dragged in." Her shirt pulls smoothly over her head as she stops in the doorway, her hair – ruffled and tangled from the night before – glimmering in the dull morning light.

--

I Corinthians 7:4 – The wife hath not power of her own body, but the husband; and likewise also the husband hath not power of his own body, but the wife.

Married life suits them well. Domesticity has always been a staple for them – some semblance of normalcy in their lives when they're still struggling to break free of House's hold on them – but it's different now, richer and more honest. Whereas they once spoiled the kitten with catnip and tuna, playing at being doting parents, they're now discussing colors for a nursery, and – hypothetically, of course – how they would arrange work to stay at home with a child. They're not trying yet, but Chase has begun to notice Cameron being a little lax with her pills, and he doesn't really mind.

It's been a long day at work – lost two patients, one a young boy no older than ten – and Chase finds himself stretched out on the couch, medical journal open against his chest. He'd been five pages into the article before he realized he hadn't really been paying attention, and given up, deciding a short nap is a much better way to spend the evening, waiting for Cameron to come home from her shift.

He feels the journal slide from his chest, and blinks, trying to see past the darkness. Familiar thighs straddle his hips, and his fingers curl instinctively into Cameron's hair as she leans down to kiss him; she tastes of stale break room coffee as she parts his lips deftly with her tongue. He feels the shift – the sudden tightness in his chest and groin – and rolls his hips against hers.

"Missed you," she murmurs close to his ear, and runs her fingertips against the light stubble on his cheek.

"'s only been a few hours," he says, voice ragged from sleep.

"Too long," she insists, stroking her hands over his arms, down the tops and back up the underside. She kisses his jaw, slowly and sensually, coaxing him from his dream world. Her hands glide back down his arms, urging them above his head until she's able to grasp his wrists tightly, holding him at her mercy. "You're mine now," she tells him, rocking against him. He groans softly, wriggling beneath her to find a more satisfying position. "Don't move," she adds, and kisses him again, teeth clamping lightly onto his lip.

Cameron releases him, but he daren't move, merely swallowing as he watches her pull her scrub top over her head. She tosses it across the room, where it lands on top of the sleeping kitten – which mews indignantly upon being woken, and stalks off to commandeer their bed in search of some much needed beauty sleep – and leans forward, resting her upper body against his as she shimmies out of her pants as well.

Chase bends to kiss her, humming in approval when her hands grasp his wrists again, holding him in place. She moves slowly at first, adjusting her hips until his erection – enhanced by the ridged denim of his fly – is pressing in all the right places, drawing a needy whimper from her lips. He rolls his head back into the arm of the couch, neck twisting uncomfortably as he tries to brace himself to grind against her. Their eyes meet, and his initial suspicions are confirmed – she's blinking back tears, and it's clear that her day has been just as heartbreaking as his own. The boy, even – the one who'd died – had been sent up by the ER in those few hours where their shifts overlap and they're able to work together again, even if just for a fleeting moment. His job is easier sometimes, he thinks. He can only have so many patients a day, and at once they have his full attention. Cameron, on the other hand, is forced to spend her time torn between a handful of patients, some who may die before she's even able to reach them.

"Touch me," she chokes, and pulls his hand to her breast, sliding it under her bra and guiding him to roll her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The fingers of their other hands lace together, and she uses them to brace herself as she grinds roughly against him, gasping as each stroke sends a shock of pleasure racing to her core.

She falls against him, kissing him messily as her movements become frantic, now pressing against his hipbone instead, just desperate to feel. He moves faster anyway, angling to give her the best possible contact – wanting to give her everything she needs, regardless of his own satisfaction.

"It's okay," he says, groping her rear to help her move faster, when he hears her whimper against his mouth. "It's okay."

Cameron cries out moments later, body going rigid in his grasp before falling limp against him. She sobs softly into his neck, limbs curling possessively around him.

"It's okay," he says again, fingers combing carefully through her hair. "It's okay," he whispers and presses his lips to her forehead.

"Don't leave," she pleads. "You're mine. Don't let anyone take you from me."

"Shhh," he soothes. "I'm right here."

They lay this way for a long while, tangled up in each other on the couch, their breathing falling in and out of rhyme. Chase pauses for a moment to untangle her hair from his wedding band – this light piece of metal that binds him to her forever. He's vowed to do everything in his power to ensure her happiness, and he likes to think he's doing a good job of it, but on nights like tonight – having grown in frequency since House was committed – he feels utterly helpless, at a loss for what to do for her.

"Come on," he says finally, nudging her. "We should get you into bed."

She's reluctant to move, but eventually slides off of him, shivering in her underwear as he stands up and scoops her into his arms. She's mostly asleep by the time he's carried her to their bedroom, and stripped her of her bra. Lately, she's taken to stealing his clothes for pajamas – he can't remember the last time he actually got to wear his silk boxers – and he digs out a pair along with an undershirt, before gently helping her into them.

Cameron whines a little, fighting him. "What about you?" she murmurs, kicking his hand as he tries to thread her legs through the shorts.

"I'm fine," he lies, running cold shower scenarios – a Wilson-House-Foreman threesome, a Wilson-House-Foreman-Taub orgy, that time over Christmas when he walked in on Cameron's parents – through his head to calm down enough to take care of her.

"You sure?" she sighs, finally letting him pull the shirt over her head.

"I'm sure," he says, and arranges her on her side of the bed, pulling the covers up over her. She reaches out for him, and he's quick to strip down to his underwear and slide in beside her, drawing her close.

"I'll make it up to you later," she promises, pillowing her head on his shoulder. Chase opens his mouth to reply, but the soft sound of her snoring tells him she's already asleep, and he settles for pulling her closer, arms wrapped possessively around her, the gentle pulse of her heart beneath his hand lulling him to sleep.

--

Matthew 4:24 - And his fame went throughout all Syria: and they brought unto him all sick people that were taken with divers diseases and torments, and those which were possessed with devils, and those which were lunatick, and those that had the palsy; and he healed them.

"Why are you here?" House asks, hardly looking up from his GameBoy. "You still haven't told me." He looks well, Chase reckons. They've cut his hair, and stripped him of his cane, but he's hardly the wreck Chase had expected. "Shut up!" House mutters to the empty chair beside him, quickly putting a crack in Chase's optimism. "You tried to kill him, shut up!"

"Allison came to visit you," Chase says, leaning back in his chair, forcing himself to ignore what he's been told to expect.

House smirks. "Finally on a first name basis with your wife? I'm impressed. You move fast, wombat."

Chase rolls his eyes and turns the letter over in his hands again, smoothing out the wrinkled envelope, careful not to smudge the date – December 25, 1993. "She came home upset, and she wouldn't say why."

"Ah," House breathes, defeating a space monkey. "So you came to get info on your wife. You guys have a great sense of trust, you know that?"

Chase bites back the rush of anger and jealousy that comment sends through him, crumpling the envelope in his hand. "No," he replies tightly. "I came to tell you to stop fucking with her. She's trying to help you, and you do nothing but mock her!"

"Who said I was mocking her?" House asks, raising an eyebrow and glancing up from his game. "You said she wouldn't tell you anything. He's a terrible liar."

Chase sighs, relaxing his hand. "She would have told me if she were just upset about you being . . ." he trails off, using the edge of the table to flatten the rumpled envelope. "She would have told me otherwise."

"Right," House says, and sets his GameBoy aside, fingers twitching at his pockets, but coming back empty-handed.

Teeth clenched, Chase slides the envelope across the table. He'd known this would be hard, even from the moment he'd asked for the afternoon off, but it had to be done. House had been a huge part of his and Cameron's life, and, as much as he loathed admitting it, they owed him. Chase owed him. "I'm taking over the diagnostics department," he says abruptly.

"I know." Chase frowns, and House rolls his eyes, elaborating, "Don't you think I know what's going on in my own department? Of course I do!"

"I'm only filling in until you get your license back."

"And the point of this conversation is . . . ?"

"Cameron's pregnant," Chase replies simply. "She doesn't want to leave the ER, so I would do better to have a job that's not going to have me on call constantly. Cuddy said 'department head' on my resume would put me as a shoe-in for an administrative position."

"I know."

Chase rolls his eyes again. "Obviously. You probably had her figured out from the moment she left here crying."

"Actually, when she bit my head off for claiming she was PMS-ing. But I get your point." House's fingers tap lightly over the weathered envelope before him, and his eyes glint with a curiosity Chase has grown long accustomed to. "What's this?"

Chase doesn't hesitate, his tone un-faltering as he replies, "A suicide note."

House flinches visibly, sending his videogame sliding down the length of the table. Chase sees now how Cameron had been so upset at first – their mentor, once a truly infallible and obnoxiously confident man, has fallen. There is little left of the Gregory House they both once knew, dissolved to a shell of carefully constructed indifference that is betrayed with each nervous glance he makes to his side; where Chase knows he sees Amber, laughing and mocking him.

"Kutner?" House asks, composing himself once more, before muttering another one-sided battle with himself, head bowed and tilted to one side.

"Mine."

House stares at him for a moment, for once lost for words, before melting into that familiar, sarcastic smile. He shakes a finger at the younger doctor. "That's funny," he says, and Chase dares to call it a laugh. "Real funny."

A bottle of pills lands on the table, pressed firmly down by Chase's hand. "Antidepressants," he explains. "Took two every day I worked for you. You never noticed." He whisks the drugs away as House's hand comes sweeping out for them. "You're not as observant as you think, House. People are smart, they can hide things from you if they try. Did you ever even consider that?" His voice is raising, and he's not really sure he cares. "You can't always win! People fall through the cracks, sometimes because of the system and sometimes because they want to."

"But I should have seen it!" House yells and slams his hands onto the table. "I should have- Shut the fuck up!"

"Do you think it's any easier when you expect it?" Chase counters, standing to lean over the table, towering over him. "Do you think it was any easier for my father to find me in a pool of vomit with an empty bottle of whiskey in my hand? Death sucks, and you can't always beat it. So suck it up and stop talking to a goddamned ghost!" He stands abruptly, and shoves the table toward House, sending the videogame sliding off the edge, before turning on his heel and heading out.

"Why did you come here?" House asks, once he's regained his composure.

Chase stops, but doesn't even bother looking over his shoulder. "I came to give you a little perspective," he says evenly, and leaves.

--

I Peter 1:7 - That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ.

"I was wondering where that went."

Chase startles and looks up from the single burning candle on the altar, relaxing when he sees Cameron maneuver into the pew beside him, letting out a soft groan as she sits. "How'd you know where I was?" he asks, letting the envelope drop to his lap as he wraps one arm around her shoulders and rests his other on her swollen stomach. It's a silly question, he knows – he's spent most of his breaks here, in the hospital chapel, since she's taken leave from the ER, just as he'd spent them when they fought before.

She shrugs and leans into him. "Guess you could call it a hunch." He brushes his lips lightly over her temple and she smiles. "Really, where did you find it?"

"My desk. I guess House must have left it," he says, stroking her belly in slow circles. "I'm glad he's back to terrorizing his team."

She snorts softly, "Me too," and pauses, covering his hand with her own. "We should go, or we'll be late for the appointment."

"You go ahead," he says. "I'll catch up."

She gives him a reproving look, but concedes, and leans in to kiss him. "Don't turn into an absentee father on me now," she teases, and stands.

"I'll work on it." Chase half-smiles, and kisses her tummy as she leaves.

Once, Chase had thought his life was ruined, that the tarnished love he had for God had been his only redemption, and without it, nothing would ever really matter again. Admittedly, the moment Cameron walked into his life had seemed insignificant at the time, peering at her – this awkward, nervous girl – over the top of a crossword, and lamenting having to give her tours and babysit her until she'd proven her worth. Then, he'd never thought his life was changing, that the process of healing had finally begun.

Once, Chase had thought true forgiveness was a thing of fairytales and bedtime stories. He'd never forgiven his father, hiding behind the blame and bitterness that his father had never forgiven him. With every patient's death, and every time he'd conspired to do something he knew Cameron would disapprove of, he'd felt the impending fallout in his gut, only to find acquittal and love in its place.

Once, he'd thought his attempt at suicide – that insatiable need for pain and oblivion – had been his punishment; his punishment for letting his father leave, his punishment for leaving his mother for school. His punishment for seeing her drunk every evening and hungover every morning, and never saying a word. And maybe Kutner's death had been a punishment too, for being unable to stop something so close to his heart and life. But his strength in having been there, having known the words and the thoughts and the memories flashing through Kutner's mind, has forged him into something greater than he'd been before – a support, not just for Cameron, but for House's team, as well, and for Cuddy and Wilson. And ultimately House, too, even though Chase knows he'll never admit it.

It's heresy, Chase thinks, to liken God to a surgeon – ripping off limbs and reattaching them in a way that better fits His mold, leaving out the bits we don't need, or the ones that were never intended to be there at all; letting the five-car pile-ups and cancers do their damage so He can fix the hurts, taking something imperfect and bringing it into perfection.

Chase stands at the altar now, the letter – a memoir of a trial failed – heavy in his hands. The Lord works in mysterious ways, is what everyone says. That from tragedy, He molds us into the person we were meant to be, and uses every roadblock to forge a new path to our destination. It's corny, and it's lame, and it's an easy answer for a question too difficult to fathom, but now Chase thinks it might be true. This isn't a puzzle to be solved, a riddle with clues in the form of symptoms and tests – it's something he'll never be able to see, or reason, or understand. But it is something he's come to accept – that his role as doctor, friend, husband and even father, is right where he was meant to be all along.

He reaches forward, until the letter – the few scraps of paper that have for so long held his every sorrow and regret – is caught by the candle flame, and slowly dissolves to ash.

Dona eis requiem sempiternam.