All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me. Chronic stands alone in his darkened office, nibbling distractedly on his thumb. He senses some off-camera presence and lifts his head to find Phoebe standing in the gloom of the doorway, silently watching him. "You stay away!" he blurts, crossing to hide behind his desk. "We have to talk," she begins, entering the room, but Chronic cuts her off with a bit of spluttering before finally babbling, "This is so far beyond my reality, I'm just still trying to figure out how you could…" He trails off before howling an accusatory, "Fifteen months, I didn't know!" Not hardly, Chronic. Try again. Douche. Phoebe insists she wanted to tell him, but couldn't. "But you know now," she pleads, "so could we just talk about this?" Fine, Chronic sneers, snatching up an old newspaper from his desk. "What about this?" he demands, waving the thing in her face. "The Godiva Girls -- was this magic?" No. It was ass. But I suppose that's not the point here. "What about that funny looking cousin of yours -- Cousin Seamus? Was he one of the Seven Dwarves?" Not so much, Phoebe admits, informing Chronic that the stoopid magikal kreature in question was actually a leprechaun. Wow. Chronic's been around for some really shitty episodes, hasn't he? Maybe that's why I hate him so much. Not. "I know how you feel," Phoebe murmurs. "How do I feel, Phoebe?" he spits. "Tell me, because I don't know, and you always seem to know, so tell me -- how's it gonna feel when I crash? 'Cause I see one coming. Is it gonna feel like when you said, 'I love you, too'? Because that was magic, wasn't it?" "But I do love you," Phoebe whispers, her voice cracking and tears welling up in her eyes. "I didn't want you to find out like this," she vows, coming perilously close to weeping openly. "Believe me." Chronic ignores this to natter something about his speech to the French shareholders the next day before brushing past her to flee the building. Phoebe bites her lower lip, wrecked.