Chapter Text
Robert Chase hurries across the lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, trying not to slip on the water-slick tile floor. It’s his first day back at work after a ten-day trip to Melbourne, and he’s running late.
The car had been buried under a mountain of snow that had fallen overnight, and by the time he’d shoveled it out, brushed it off, and warmed it up, Chase was both late and soaked.
His damp clothes do nothing for his mood, or for the cold he seems to be coming down with. It hasn’t come as a surprise; the combination of a 22-hour flight and jetlag is simply taking its toll. After crashing out and sleeping through the entire day and night before, he’d woken up with a stuffy nose and started sneezing.
As he passes the reception desk, a gaggle of nurses who are gathered there wave and try to beckon him over. He waves back, but rushes past with an apologetic watch-pointing gesture to indicate how late he is. He ducks into the elevator just as the doors are closing, nearly getting his bag stuck.
He spends the elevator ride battling a tickle in his sinuses and trying not to sneeze on the elderly, wheelchair-bound patient that he’s sharing the space with. The patient’s nurse still gives him a dirty look when he sniffles and wipes his nose.
He disembarks on the fourth floor and hastens toward the diagnostics office. He’s finally made it to the door of the conference room when the tickle returns, this time much stronger. Pausing halfway through the glass doors, Chase barely manages to cover his mouth before being overtaken by a massive sneeze.
Whatever conversation had been going on in the room pauses, and Chase is aware that he is now the center of attention. Bowing his head to avoid the curious looks of his colleagues, he enters and takes a seat at the end of the table nearest Cameron.
“Yikes,” House half-turns to look at him, cocking an eyebrow, “I hope you covered your mouth. The window cleaner doesn’t come until Monday, and Wilson borrowed my squeegee.”
“Bless you,” offers Cameron. With a smile she adds, “And welcome back. How was Australia?”
“Good,” Chase replies, grateful to change the subject. “Hot this time of year. Nice change from the snow.”
“Did you go somewhere?” House furrows his brow in faux confusion, “I hadn’t noticed. Oh, well. Since you’re here now, why don’t you make yourself useful and ask Foreman to stop presenting me with lame cases.”
Cameron’s eyes darken. “It’s not lame.”
Chase picks up a pencil and twirls it between his fingers, “What’s the case?”
“58-year-old female presenting with muscle weakness, slurred speech and double-vision,” Foreman says mechanically, not looking up from his newspaper.
“Boooring! Give me another one.”
“Why is it boring?” Cameron asks House, affronted. “Mrs. Hoople has done a 5K run for cancer research every year since the early nineties. She’s an incredibly fit woman for her age. Now she can barely walk!”
“I’m sure she also leads a girl-scout troop and plays piano at church on Sunday; that doesn’t make her interesting,” House steamrolls Cameron. "A blood test a monkey could do will reveal that she has ALS, probably first thing tomorrow morning. ER should have figured it out sooner. Tell her she can start doing the ice-bucket challenge instead of the 5K.” When Cameron’s only response is to pout, House turns back to Foreman. "What else have we got?”
“30-year-old male with severe constipation. He hasn’t had a bowel movement in almost two weeks,” Foreman continues, “The plot twist is that he’s a competitive eater who’d just won a hot dog eating contest.”
House winces, “How many hot dogs did he eat before he stopped pooping?”
“37.”
“Is that with or without the bun?”
A bit of commotion breaks out as House demands to know the weight and girth of the hot dogs in question, and Cameron makes another spirited attempt to champion Mrs. Hoople. Ignoring them, Foreman turns to the business section of his paper. Chase is about to jump in, intending to placate Cameron while actually siding with House, when he feels another sneeze coming. He groans inwardly.
Hoping to ward it off, he presses a finger beneath his nose but, instead of holding it in, the small touch has the opposite effect. Unable to stop himself, Chase swivels away from Cameron to sneeze violently, catching it against his sleeve.
House frowns at the loud interruption, but seems prepared to ignore it; unfortunately, Chase isn’t done yet. He tries slamming his nostrils shut between his fingers, but all that does is nearly burst his eardrums when he sneezes again, causing a small explosion of pain between his eyebrows.
“Bless you!” Cameron exclaims.
Chase would have thanked her, but his disobedient nose won’t let him. He fumbles in his pocket for a tissue, retrieving one just in time to muffle three more sneezes.
When he’s finally finished, Chase opens his watering eyes to find that everyone is staring at him. Sniffling, he lowers the soggy tissue, feeling his cheeks flame red with embarrassment. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” Cameron asks, studying him with concern.
“I’m fine,” he replies, wanting to sink through the floor. House is watching him like he’s just done something fascinating. Foreman gives him a look of disapproval and resumes his paper-reading with a slightly aggressive page-flip.
For an uncomfortably long moment, House doesn’t say anything. Then he turns to the whiteboard.
“How about this one,” House says, scribbling symptoms, “Patient is a 28-year-old male. Symptoms include a runny nose and incessant sneezing. Differential diagnosis?”
“Sounds like a cold,” supplies Foreman.
“Excellent suggestion!” House claps his hands. “This is why Foreman gets paid more than the rest of you. But wait, Doctor Foreman – aren’t those highly contagious?”
“I’m fine,” Chase repeats stubbornly. “Just a bit run down from traveling is all. I always pick up some little bug on the flight. It’s not a big deal.”
In response, House throws a Kleenex box at him. Reflexively, he catches it.
“Tell the patient he’s an idiot for coming into work when he’s sick. Treatment is bed rest, chicken soup and an industrial-sized box of tissues.”
“I’m not -”
“Oh yes, you are,” House assures him. “Chase, go home. Come back when you can breathe through your nose.”
“But-”
“Out! Scram! Shoo!”
Feeling dejected and hoping for support, Chase turns to his colleagues. Cameron offers him a sympathetic look but says nothing; Foreman’s eyes continue to bore holes through his newspaper.
Too embarrassed to object any further, there’s nothing for Chase to do but stand and gather up his things. He feels silly and stupid, like a kid being sent home from school for forgetting to wear pants. He puts on his coat and his messenger bag and wordlessly heads for the door.
“Feel better, Chase,” Cameron says kindly. He gives her a small nod of thanks, touched by her concern.
House goes back to the board and his marker-pens, carrying on as though Chase is already gone. On his way out the door, he hears House utter,
“So, Hot Dog Guy it is. Alright, Foreman – let’s discuss toppings!”
*
The following afternoon, Chase lays sprawled across his living room sofa, watching daytime TV. He’s been staring listlessly at the screen through several morning talk-shows and an episode of Judge Judy. Now, one of House’s soaps is on.
His brief stint at work the day before seems long ago. He’d been angry with House for sending him home, but now has little doubt that his boss had made the right call. His cold had grown progressively worse since his expulsion from the hospital, as early as the car ride home. He’d shivered throughout the drive, even with the heater blasting. After making it back to his apartment, he’d changed out of his damp clothes and crawled sulkily into bed, burying himself beneath the comforter. He’d spent the rest of the day sneezing his way through an entire box of tissues, followed by a sleepless night of trying not to drown in his own mucus.
Today hasn’t been much of an improvement, but at least Chase has resigned himself to the fact that he’s sick. Within easy reach of the couch, the coffee table is laden with food (a box of Saltine crackers), medicine, and half-drunk cups of water and herbal tea. His legs are draped in a green waffle-weave hospital blanket that he’d borrowed from work a year ago and forgot to bring back, with a box of tissues balanced on his lap. He’s as comfortable as he can be, given the circumstances. He just needs to ride it out a few more days until he’s no longer contagious.
Chase’s eyelids are drooping when he hears the unexpected tapping sound of someone knocking at the door. Rubbing his eyes awake, he hauls himself up to answer it and is surprised to find Allison Cameron standing in the hallway, clutching a bagful of groceries.
“Hey. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Chase asks as he ushers her in.
“I am. Technically, this is a work-related errand.”
Cameron sets down the brown paper bag on the counter after Chase has shown her to the kitchen. She begins unloading cans of soup and bottles of milk and orange juice. “I brought a few things. I figured I’d save you a trip to the grocery store.”
“You didn’t have to-” Chase starts, but Cameron’s already opened the fridge, which is empty apart from takeout leftovers, a jar of mayonnaise, a few bottles of Fosters and an old lemon. He changes tack. “You’re a lifesaver. Thanks.”
As Cameron puts away the groceries, Chase decides to do what he does best: he sits down and shuts up, giving Cameron room to take charge and silently judge him for his evident lack of preparation and overall uselessness. Cameron is the sort of person who probably has a pantry stocked with enough nonperishable food items to get her through a nuclear winter. Chase eats most of his meals at work.
While unpacking, Cameron tidies up a bit. Chase feels guilty when she starts loading the dishwasher.
“Sorry it’s a bit of a tip in here,” he apologizes, “I just got back the day before yesterday, and all I did was sleep. Now I have this stupid cold.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not that bad. Just a few dishes,” she reassures him.
Finally finished, Cameron sits down across from him at the kitchen table.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the company,” Chase ventures after a moment, “But to what do I owe the house-call?”
Smiling slightly at the pun, Cameron reaches into her purse. Her hand emerges with a folder. “House wants you to have a look at the patient’s file.”
“Huh. I thought I was banished.” Chase takes it and flips it open, fanning through the photo-copied pages.
“You are – from the hospital. But hopefully, you’ll be back on your feet in a few days, and this way you’ll be up to speed with the case.”
Opening the file between them on the table, Cameron starts telling him about the case.
“The patient is 30-year-old Andrew Stevenson, a pizza delivery man and professional competitive eater from Trenton. He visited the clinic two days ago complaining of lethargy, nausea, and weight gain. He was diagnosed with dehydration and told to drink Gatorade and eat a banana. His doorknob question was to ask if it was bad not to poop for two weeks.
“The patient was admitted after an abdominal x-ray showed a large mass in his colon, which is almost completely impacted.”
Chase raises an eyebrow in contemplation. “He’s not overweight. How many pounds has he put on?”
“Ten pounds in two weeks is what he approximated.”
“Maybe he’s allergic to dairy,” Chase throws out. “Eating all those pizzas at work could be what’s blocking him up.”
“He claims that he follows a strict healthy diet between eating contests. Vegetables and high fiber, low gluten, no dairy.”
“Low gluten probably rules out celiac, then,” Chase frowns. “How about hypothyroidism?”
"We’re running a check on his thyroid. We should have results back within a couple of hours.”
“What treatments has he been given?”
“Oral laxatives, anal suppositories, and a fleet enema. Nothing seems to be making a difference, so far.”
They read through the file and bat around ideas for a while. Cameron is breaking down the blood-panel results when Chase starts to feel a sneeze coming on. Not wanting to interrupt her, he wriggles his nose and sniffs. She glances up.
“Sorry, itchy nose.”
“Oh, okay,” she says and carries on reading. “Low iron levels indicate mild anemia. Hemoglobin levels were slightly abnormal…”
Chase listens distractedly, putting a hand up in front of his face and letting it hover there when his sinuses start rebelling again. Cameron is still talking, but it’s hard for him to focus. He flaps his free hand to get her attention.
“White cell count is normal, which means it’s not infection…” Cameron looks up to find him gesturing and frowns in confusion.”Chase? Are you -”
Chase responds by sneezing loudly enough to make Cameron jump in her seat.
“Ugh… sorry,” he groans miserably, “I feel awful.”
“You sound pretty awful,” Cameron agrees. “And you look…” She trails off, squinting at him with a frown.
He sniffles, “What?”
Moving in for a closer inspection, she leans forward and stares at him with enough intensity to make him a bit uncomfortable.
“Are your eyes bothering you?” she asks, brow creasing slightly.
“A little. I’ve been staring at the television all day,” Chase blinks a few times experimentally, feeling a slight soreness at the movement. “Why, are they bloodshot?”
“They look irritated,” Cameron replies. “Do you have eye drops? If not, I can write a script and pick them up for you at the pharmacy.”
“No need. I have some in the medicine cabinet. But thanks,” He’s only half-sure that he’s telling the truth, but he’s not about to let Cameron run more errands for him. “It’s really kind of you to offer.”
Not entirely convinced, Cameron holds his gaze a few more seconds before her expression relaxes.
“Alright. I guess I should go back to the hospital. You can finish reading through the file whenever you feel like it." Standing, she hooks her purse strap over her shoulder and buttons her coat. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything from the pharmacy. Seriously, it’s not a problem. I pass by here on my way home.”
“I promise,” Chase assures her.
Like House says: everybody lies.
*
After Cameron leaves, Chase switches the television off and spends the afternoon reading through the patient file with morbid fascination. He’d been vaguely aware that competitive eating was a thing that existed, but was nonetheless unprepared for the information that a human being was capable of devouring 62 tacos in one sitting.
He dozes off at some point, eventually waking himself up with a sneeze. He winces at the sharp pain that lances through his head, and lets out a small moan.
Instead of restoring him in any way, the nap has left him feeling exponentially worse. He takes a quick inventory of his symptoms: his sinuses feel like they’ve been filled with red ants and cement, his head throbs, even opening his eyes hurts - his eyelashes are so crusted together with sleep that it requires scraping off with his fingers. His mouth is dry, and he feels slightly disoriented. He should probably go drink some water.
Chase forces himself up and stumbles over to the kitchen sink, filling a glass with tap water and swallowing it in one long gulp. He refills it and downs a second glass before leaning heavily against the counter.
Now that he’s fully awake, it begins to dawn on him that the crust on his eyelashes may have been a cause for concern: his eyes feel gummy and sore. He massages his closed eyelids and hisses in pain – it feels like he’s rubbing grains of sand in.
His sluggish mind calls up his earlier conversation with Cameron. He thinks to himself: bollocks.
In a perfectly predictable turn of events, Cameron had been right and Chase had been an idiot who thought he knew better. Now he can only pray that he wasn’t lying when he told her he had eye drops.
A glance at his bathroom mirror informs him that he has a double eye infection; every bit of sclera is inflamed. Inside the medicine cabinet, he finds over-the-counter antihistamine drops that work fine for his hay fever, but might as well be water for all the effect they’ll have now. He applies them anyway.
Ten minutes go by and Chase is practically clawing at his eyes in discomfort. He curses himself for not listening to Cameron. He’d refused her offer of help, and now his eyeballs are on fire and it was probably too late to call her, her shift had ended hours ago –
Although…
The digital clock on his stove reads 8:45 PM. He feels a glimmer of hope – it’s late, but there’s a chance that she might still be at the hospital working overtime. He pages her and waits.
Only a few minutes later, his phone rings. Chase almost cries with relief when he sees House’s office number on the caller ID.
He answers, “Cameron?”
There’s a slight pause before a distinctly male voice says, “No. She’s gone home for the night. She left her pager.” The voice belongs to Foreman.
“Oh…” Chase can’t help how crestfallen he sounds.
There’s another, longer pause before Foreman clears his throat. “Are you… alright?”
“I’m…I… ” Chase falters, feeling idiotic at how wobbly his voice sounds, “I have an eye infection. Cameron said she’d write me a script.”
“For what – eye drops? What kind?”
Feeling even stupider, Chase realizes he doesn’t know. “Dexamethasone, I think.”
Foreman huffs out a sharp breath, “Well, I can call in a script for you, but you need to give me more information. What are your symptoms?”
My eyes hurt, Chase’s mind answers petulantly.
Aloud he says, “There’s redness and pain in both eyes – it feels like there’s sand in them. They’re watering a lot, and there might be some discharge. It’s probably infective conjunctivitis.”
“Probably,” Foreman agrees. “Any light sensitivity? Blurred vision?”
“A bit of light sensitivity. Vision’s fine.”
“Do you have any allergies?”
“Strawberries. Cat hair. Bog-standard hay fever. Nothing else that I know of.”
“So probably not an allergic reaction – I take it you don’t have any cats.”
“God, no.”
“Okay. Are you running a fever?”
Chase pauses, blinking dumbly, “I… don’t know.”
Foreman huffs again, not bothering to hide his aggravation this time, “Can you go take your temperature and find out?”
Obediently, Chase goes to the medicine cabinet and retrieves a thermometer, uncapping it and sticking it under his tongue. Staring at his reflection in the mirror while he waits, he can see how flushed his cheeks look against his otherwise pale skin. He honestly looks quite ill.
The thermometer sounds, rousing Chase – he’d almost forgotten what he was doing. He reads the result into the phone. “101.8.”
Foreman sighs dejectedly, “You’re too sick to drive, aren’t you?” It’s not really a question, and he doesn’t wait for Chase to answer. “Alright, I’ll order the scripts and bring them over. I should be there in less than an hour. You… go lay down. And don’t touch your eyes.”
*
In the nearly three years that they’ve worked together, Chase can honestly say that he’s never been so happy to see Eric Foreman.
Chase isn’t sure if it had been an hour or less since Foreman had volunteered to come over and when he hears the knock at the door, but it feels like ten. His eyes are in agony, ablaze with the intolerable sensation of grit being lodged in them.
Foreman’s instructions be damned, he’d touched them; he’d been unable to stop touching them. Try as he might, he couldn’t leave them alone for more than a minute or two at a time, and the more he rubbed them, the more inflamed and painful they became. The constant flow of tears from his eyes had set off a chain reaction with his nose, and both are now streaming uncontrollably.
He mops his face with a tissue and blows his nose a few times before answering the door. Still, Foreman looks at him with an expression of alarm and mild disgust upon setting eyes on him.
“I told you not to touch them,” he grumbles, brushing past Chase without waiting for an invitation.
Tucked under one arm, Foreman is carrying a little white pharmacy bag. Chase fights a strong urge to rip it away from him and tear it open with his teeth.
“You’re lucky I decided to stay late and wait for labs to come back,” Foreman remarks, taking a glance around Chase’s living room. Chase realizes that this is the first time Foreman’s ever set foot in his apartment, although he’d dropped him off here once or twice when Chase’s car had been in the shop.
“I know. Thank you for doing this. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” Chase says, meaning every word. He eyes the pharmacy bag, hoping to convey that while he is indeed extremely grateful, he’d be even more so if Foreman would hurry the hell up and give him his meds.
Foreman grimaces at the sight of a used tissue under the tip of his leather shoe. He carefully toes it away. “You’re welcome.”
Too desperate to be embarrassed at this point, Chase politely clears his throat.
“Would it be alright if I take those drops now? My eyes are killing me.”
Foreman shrugs and holds out the bag; Chase tries not to actually grab it from him. Ripping it open, he dumps a small bottle of Dexair onto the coffee table. He wastes no time in prizing the cap off and aiming it at his right eye.
To Chase’s immense frustration, the combination of his burning eyes and shaky hands is making it difficult. He squeezes the bottle and at first, nothing comes out. He squeezes harder and squirts his closed eyelid instead of his eye.
“Slow down,” Foreman advises.
Chase tries again, and once again he misses, spilling precious fluid down his cheek. He actually whines in frustration.
“Oh, for christ’s sake, let me do it!” Foreman snaps, snatching the bottle away. With a firm hand on Chase’s forehead, he tilts his head back and deftly peels one eyelid back to apply several drops - then, the other. The whole process takes about fifteen seconds.
Almost immediately, Chase feels a relieving coolness wash over both of his eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes out, letting his eyes slip shut as the worst of the irritation ebbs away.
“You need to learn some patience,” Foreman scolds in a tone of consternation, but there’s not much bite to it. His palm lingers on Chase’s forehead a few more seconds before drawing away.
“Have you got anything to eat? I’m starving,” Foreman announces, crossing the room into the kitchen.
“Mm,” Chase murmurs. “Cameron brought food.”
Chase hears the refrigerator door opening and shutting, then the cabinets.
“Have you eaten?” Foreman calls.
Chase shakes his head no, though Foreman can’t see him. It doesn’t matter – he isn’t hungry, anyway.
He hears some clunking sounds that are probably pots and pans, and curls in on himself on the couch. For the first time since he’d woken from his nap, he feels comfortable enough to relax. Even the incongruous presence of Foreman banging around in his kitchen is oddly reassuring.
A few minutes later, Foreman emerges holding two steaming bowls, one in each hand. He sets one down on the coffee table in front of Chase. It’s filled with chicken noodle soup.
“Here,” he says gruffly, taking a seat on the other end of the couch, “You should eat something.”
Chase feels rather touched. He can hardly remember the last time anyone had brought him soup when he was sick. “Thanks,” he says, picking up the spoon.
Foreman grunts and seizes the remote, wriggling it out from under Chase’s foot. He turns on the television and switches over to ESPN.
They eat together in silence, watching basketball. Chase isn’t really paying attention to the game, but it’s nice to have something on in the background. Once he starts eating, he feels hungry enough to continue. The hot soup makes him feel a bit better and eventually he finishes it, which is the most he’s eaten in two days.
Feeling sleepy, he yawns hugely and curls into a ball, head resting on the arm of the couch. When his eyes close, the empty bowl is still clutched loosely in his hands.
Sometime later, he feels the weight of it disappear. Then he hears the creak of the door, and a soft click as it shuts.
*
Snow is falling softly over Princeton, New Jersey. Little white flurries dance in the light of a bright clear morning.
With fat, fluffy snowflakes accumulating on the shoulders of his black wool overcoat, Gregory House raps on the door of Chase's first-floor apartment with his cane.
Chase answers the door in a pair of striped pajama pants and a grey cotton t-shirt, his improbable hair fetchingly tousled from lying in bed. His severely bloodshot eyes widen at the sight of House on his doorstep.
“Chase!” House greets him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. No, wait – maybe it’s the other way around.”
"Hi, House," is all he can think to say as he opens the door.
"Two little birdies told me you keep getting sicker. Just wanted to make sure you're not dying," House says conversationally, entering the apartment. He drops his black medical bag down on the cluttered coffee table and parks himself on the couch.
“It’s just pinkeye. It’s uncomfortable, but I’ll live," Chase offers with a small shrug. "Can I get you a coffee or something?"
“I’ll take a whisky. Or you could shake me up a Martini. Isn’t that what you blue bloods drink?”
Chase rolls his eyes. “Sorry. I’m all out of olives. And it’s ten in the morning.”
Taking in Chase’s living room, House notes that it’s nothing at all like what he’d pictured (he’d always imagined Chase living like a student in a glorified dorm-room, heaped with empty pizza-boxes and dirty laundry). The room is clean but somewhat cluttered, with stacks of books and piles of papers on most of the surface tops. There’s an abstract watercolor painting on the wall that looks vaguely like the ocean, and a plant-stand beneath the window housing several small cactuses, a trailing fichus, and a large aloe plant. The beige sofa he’s sitting on faces a widescreen TV and video game console on a low table, and a tall bookshelf heaving with books and DVDs.
The TV is on pause. “Are you watching Lord of the Rings?”
“I can’t watch daytime TV anymore,” Chase explains off-handedly, “I don’t know how you can stand those god-awful soaps.”
“You pick your poison, I’ll pick my distinctly less nerdy one.”
“I’m making tea,” Chase decides, walking off into another room that House assumes is the kitchen. “There’s coffee, regular black tea, and some herbal ones. Peppermint, chamomile, and green, I think.”
"Don’t bother!” House calls, “I’m not ingesting anything you’ve had your germy hands on.”
While he waits, he picks up a book from the coffee table: Top Knife: The Art & Craft of Trauma Surgery. Flipping through it he sees that Chase, the heathen, has dog-eared the pages.
“You’re a book abuser,” he calls out.
“I like books,” Chase returns holding two mugs, setting one down on the coffee table in front of House. A combined smell of coffee and peppermint tea wafts from the steam in the air. “I prefer mine broken in.”
“I told you I’m not drinking that,” House nods at the coffee.
“I washed my hands before I made it. Don’t drink it if you don’t want to.”
Chase takes a seat at the other end of the three-seater sofa and takes a long sip of his tea. For a moment, they sit together in silence.
Then Chase puts his mug down and grabs a tissue from a nearby box. His face slackens into a far-off look that means he’s about to sneeze (Chase with a cold always meant relentless sneezing); sure enough, he brings the tissue to his face and sneezes hugely four times in a row. Finally he stops, still panting shakily.
“Finished?” House asks, hopeful. On cue, another sneeze explodes from Chase. His knee bumps the coffee table, sloshing tea.
“Ugh… God...” he mutters, with a long, congested noseblow, “Enough already.”
“Christ. Have you thought about hurricane-proofing this place from the inside?”
“Oh, shut up House,” he sniffs, grabbing himself a fresh tissue.
“You first. Can you try and keep a lid on that until after I leave?”
Chase shakes his head, “You’re the one who decided to come here, and see all the fun I’m having,” he blows his nose again, “If you get sick, it’s your own fault.”
“Maybe I am tempting fate. At least I’m not the one with snot on my shirt.”
Chase frowns down at himself, then abruptly changes gears and begins to cough. It’s not some wimpy little cough, either; there’s fluid rattling around his lungs trying to escape, making unpleasant noises. House is almost tempted to start whacking him on the back. By the time he finishes, his face is bright red.
"Sorry," he wheezes, “I’m not actually doing this on purpose.”
"That's a nasty cough,” House remarks, “How long has that been going on?"
“Since the middle of last night," Chase replies, still catching his breath. House notes the sweat beading on his brow.
"Any trouble breathing?"
"A little. Only when I’m lying down."
House opens up his medical bag to retrieve his stethoscope. He beckons Chase over. "Let me listen to your chest. Take off your shirt."
Obviously reluctant but doing it anyway, Chase clumsily removes his shirt and moves closer to House.
House pretends to ogle him.
“Geez, if I’d known it would be this easy to get you to take your clothes off, I would have been offering daily chest exams since the day you were hired,” He places the bell of the stethoscope against Chase’s lower back, “Inhale. Deep breath.”
At House’s command, Chase attempts a series of breaths while he performs the requisite tests. It makes him cough, which means House keeps having to stop and wait for him to finish.
"How's it sound?" Chase ventures after a while.
"Like Rice Krispies. Your lungs are snapping, crackling, and popping. Hold still- I’m going to check your respiratory rate."
House takes Chase’s radial pulse and listens to his chest through the stethoscope, counting respirations. Through Chase’s pulse-point, he can feel the unnatural warmth of a fever.
Putting away the stethoscope, he finds a thermometer and takes aim at Chase’s mouth. When Chase hesitates slightly he says, “Oh, come on. We both know you love sticking things in your mouth. Open up.”
Chase parts his lips and does as he’s told. When it beeps, House extracts the thermometer and tuts at the reading.
He holds it up to Chase’s face. “Is this better or worse than yesterday?”
“About the same.”
“Right. What are you taking for the cough?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“What are you taking?”
“Uh… Tylenol. The eye drops,” Chase coughs pitifully.
“You’re a doctor. Are you really this inept at taking care of yourself?” House asks frankly. Instead of replying, Chase attempts to stifle another sneeze, failing miserably.
Pushing the box of Kleenex at him, House is experiencing a dilemma. There are few things he hates more than the nagging feeling that he’s missed something in a diagnosis and, for reasons unknown to him, Chase’s stupid little runny nose and cough is bothering him.
He could do the sensible thing and ignore it - chalk it up to personal ties and boredom. Or he could do… something else.
“Get dressed,” he decides. “We’re going for a ride. I’m going to run some tests.”
Chase groans through a tissue, "Oh, God. Do I have to?"
“Yes. And take a shower before we leave. You’re a mess.”
“I don’t need one.”
“You smell.”
“No I don’t!” Chase objects, offended. “I took a shower earlier!”
“Can you smell yourself? That was a rhetorical question; of course you can’t. You’re too congested to smell anything," House prods him with his cane, “Shower. Now.”
Exasperated, Chase bats the cane away and storms off.
Hearing the shower blast on a moment later, House shouts,
“And don’t take too long conditioning your hair!"