"It's not self-loathing," Chase corrects, and there's a sharpness in his eyes and his voice that isn't deception as he looks at House with blues on blue. He doesn't hate himself. He's not sure if he's somehow proving one of House's little tests, but he can't be bothered to care.

"I don't regret the choice that I made, or what I did. If I had to, I'd still do the same thing over again, just better." His voice is soft, raw, alcohol making him a little too honest. He does, however, seem to fold to House's needling about the whiskey that he's drinking and instead of just downing the second half of his shot, this time he sips at it. "That doesn't mean I don't feel anything."

"And there is no next. I stay here until I can't put one foot in front of the other, and then I go home, and Cameron yells at me for not calling, even though that's not actually what she's pissed about." There is deception there. Something he's trying to hide, obscure. He's committed to staying at the bar, but it's not what he wants. There is a next, something that Chase has dismissed, and is doing his best not to think about.

Mired in the pain, there's also temptation.