Chapter Text
"Your blood came back normal," House announced without looking up from the chart he held.
Chase sighed and rolled his eyes. "I told you, I've had all the tests. Nothing's wrong with me."
House didn't acknowledge him. Just like he hadn't acknowledged Chase when he'd said there was no point in testing the first, second, and third times.
House could have said he just wanted to be safe, but he just didn't believe Chase. He didn't believe he wasn't lying to get out of a blood test or to get House off his ass.
But House was on his ass like every nurse's eyes were.
"Oh, there's something wrong with you." House slammed the door behind him. Chase, now forcibly clad in a hospital gown, flinched. His cheeks turned the slightest bit pink.
"Save yourself the trouble and skip whatever insults you're planning on throwing at me."
House ignored him. "What's wrong with you is the way you dress, your accent, your ties, your shirts, the way you smell, and the way you dress."
"What's wrong with the way I smell?" Chase's cheeks flushed a deeper red.
House scrunched up his nose. "Too floral. Too girly." Chase glared at him. House smiled.
"What's next?" House asked, pulling up a chair and sitting next to Chase. His eyes widened and he stared, unblinking.
"Why are you asking me?" Chase asked, genuinely confused.
"You're a doctor. You're in a fellowship for diagnostics. This is your job." House stated simply. Chase shook his head, smiling with disbelief. It was a little creepy how long he could keep his eyes that wide for.
"I'm in the hospital," Chase countered. House looked him up and down. He shrugged.
"Don't care." Chase took in a deep breath. "Next steps, wombat. Don't make me fire your while you're in the hospital."
Chase's eyes widened in alarm. His brows furrowed like he wasn't sure if he should take House seriously.
"Everything's been done," Chase stressed. "I've had this for years. I'm fine. Can I please have my clothes back and be discharged?"
House shook his head. "You get your clothes back when you're not fainting anymore, mister." Chase groaned, face flushing again. It was funny how red his cheeks could go directly under the white lights of the hospital.
"I'm not fainting anymore. I feel fine."
House shook his head. "If you knew yourself so well, you wouldn't have fallen over earlier. You gave yourself a concussion."
"Minor." Chase retorted. "And I knew I was going to pass out."
House's gaze narrowed. He leaned forward. Chase's face fell and he stiffened, realizing what he admitted.
"You knew you were going to faint?" House asked.
"I can always tell." Chase spoke quietly as if he were hoping House would just forget what he'd said.
"Let me get this straight." House caught Chase's gaze. He saw his lips part to allow a gasp to enter his lungs. "You knew you were going to faint, so you accompanied the team to see a patient having a seizure, remained standing, let yourself fall over and hit your head, and not once did you think to tell anyone? To sit down?"
Chase shrugged. House stood up, Chase's gaze followed. House didn't know how pissed he appeared, but he must have seemed threatening at the way Chase cowered.
"That's irresponsible as shit, Chase. It's unprofessional. You might think you're only putting your dumb self at risk, but you're not. You have patients to look after, a team who needs you. People need you besides yourself. I can't have a doctor who can't fucking take care of himself on hand while we're treating patients," House lectured. His chest heaved as all his air was expelled in his scolding.
The air went still. The room fell silent.
Chase stared up at House, lips parted, eyes blown wide.
House sighed. He could feel his anger calming. Not disappearing, but being tamed. Becoming less explosive.
He sat down in his chair. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I didn't want to make a big deal," Chase murmered. House looked up, brows pinching together.
"That's your excuse?" Chase didn't reply. He stared down at his lap. "Your excuse for compromising the case, putting our patient at risk is because you didn't want attention? You didn't want to be embarrassed?"
Chase drew in a shuddering breath. House didn't stop.
"Not everything's about you, Chase. No one cares if you pass out or if you hit your head, no one cares. It's your job to take care of yourself. Whether you do or not? That's not my business. That's not anyone's business. What is my business is your job. It's the work you do. If you can't do it? If you can't put diagnosing our patients above all else?
"I'm not sure what you want me to say, because I'm not going to sit here and beg for you to take better care of yourself because I want you to feel better. I'm going to force you to take better care of yourself because I need you. The team needs you. Patients need you, but I can't justify keeping you on if you're going to behave like this."
Chase looked up at House. He wished he hadn't. His eyes were shining with tears. His bottom lip was wobbly. He looked pathetic.
"What do you mean?" He sounded like a child. His voice was trembling and unsteady. House wished he hadn't been the one at Chase's side when he woke up. He wished he took Cameron up on her offer to hold Chase's hand and braid his hair or whatever Cameron did in situations like these.
House didn't know what to do in situations like these. At least Cameron had some idea.
"What do you mean?" House echoed. Chase blinked rapidly. House could see the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over.
He was definitely concussed.
"You're going to fire me?" Chase asked. His voice sounded far too small. House would have felt bad for the kid if he knew it wasn't the head injury talking.
"How is your head?" House asked, ignoring Chase's question.
Chase's brows scruffed up in confusion. House rolled his eyes.
"You hit your head. How is it feeling."
Chase shrugged. He looked down at his lap, taking deep breaths. "Hurts a little, I guess. I don't know. Is it bad?"
House shook his head. "Hard to tell. Everything is saying no except for you repeated syncopes."
Chase rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. That happens all the time, not because I hit my head."
House, despite the hit his pride took, nodded. "I agree. Your vitals are fine and your only symptoms are passing out which can be debated, headache, and mood changes."
Chase crossed his arms. "Mood changes?"
House nodded. "You've been crying a lot."
Chase's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
"I guess we can add memory loss to that list." Chase smiled and shook his head as if he thought House wasn't being serious.
Silence fell over the room. Somewhat awkward silence. It was only awkward if someone decided it would be, but House couldn't determine if Chase thought it was awkward.
He broke the silence before he could decide.
"Regardless of the list, you're being held for observation for twenty-four hours."
Chase shot up, eyes blown wide and jaw dropped. "What?"
"You experienced a head injury and passed out repeatedly," House stated simply. Chase stared at him, wide-eyed and offended.
"Close your mouth," House instructed with a wave and a grimace.
"I can't be held for a day!" Chase yelled.
House shrugged. "It's protocol." Chase scoffed and flopped backward onto the bed dramatically.
"Since when do you care about protocol?"
"Since it pisses you off."
Chase groaned and flopped back onto the bed. "You've got to be joking."
House shrugged. "Serious injury can't be ruled out. Passing out is a big no-no when it comes to head injuries."
"I'm pretty sure I was told this head injury was mild." Chase's scowl was comparable to an angry kitten. He was too visibly exhausted to seem threatening. He looked too small in his hospital bed and hospital gown for House to take seriously.
"It's likely mild, but you're giving the doctors a mix of confusing signals. We have too many lawsuits on our record to risk letting you go when you have one of the hallmarks signs of a serious head injury."
Chase sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. House couldn't help but crack a smile at the sight. He looked pathetic.
Still, it was difficult to enjoy seeing Chase in this state. Not impossible, but it took effort.
He looked weak.
He was weak.
He was sick. Deeply sick.
Passing out several times in a row with a head injury would be concerning on its own, but coupled with his lack of concern and his general attitude toward his condition was jarring. It was terrifying.
It made House sick.
Chase was in the hospital thanks to his own negligence. He was dressed in a thin blue gown and paler than a ghost under sterile lighting, serenaded by the steady beeping of machines in the hospital bed he made and now lay in.
House watched Chase as the seconds ticked by.
He watched his scowl slowly melt away. He watched the expression crafted by childish resistance fade to reveal the fatigue that lay beneath.
If someone told House he were staring at a cadaver, he'd believe them.
He'd realise after a second that he wasn't, but if he let his eyes go a little out of focus, Chase appeared dead.
He was pale. It wasn't just the lighting. His skin was devoid of its usual hues, replaced by pure neutrality.
His eyes were hollow and sunken in as if someone had painted them that way.
The way he sunk into the bed, allowing his gown and the thin sheet the hospital called a blanket to envelop his body. His frail, exhausted body.
This wasn't a man with a momentary illness. This wasn't a temporary lapse in health.
Whatever this was, it was chronic. It was sucking the life out of Chase and had been doing so for a while.
House was staring at a man running on empty. Chase was deeply sick.
He felt a pain in his chest, a mix of guilt and nausea.
He took a deep breath. It startled him how much it shuddered.
He watched as Chase breathed, the steady rising and falling of his chest reminding him he was truly alive.
How long had this been going on? How long had it been this bad?
There was no telling how many times Chase had fallen and injured himself before.
Maybe he had hit his head before. Was that why he didn't care?
Maybe he'd had worse. He'd been injured far worse, been in far more dangerous situations.
House couldn't help but wonder about the questions that mattered, the medical history.
But he also couldn't get the trivial questions out of his mind.
Had he ever been alone? Had he ever lost conciousness as he had today, waking up disoriented, confused, and terrified with the fear of a small child unable to find his parents in his eyes, and had no one to help?
House, Foreman, and Cameron had been at Chase's side. Foreman had stepped in to physically stabilize Chase, gently guiding him down to the ground each time he lost consciousness. Cameron had been there, holding his hand and speaking comforting words, reminders of where and who he was.
With how fearful Chase had been even with all the support he'd gotten, what would have happened if he was alone? Beyond the medical risks of passing out with no one around to check the time, prevent and assess injuries, how would he have felt?
House couldn't feel sympathy. He refused to feel sympathy.
He felt rage. He felt a burning in his chest, a motivation to fix Chase. To diagnose him.
To do what he did best.