Work Text:
Chase wakes with a start. His body jerks in the cool night air, apartment quiet and lonely. Turning his head, the digital clock by his bedside reads ‘3:10 AM’, so he shuts his eyes and burrows back into the warm covers, hoping for sleep to come quickly. It doesn’t. Instead, the doctor lays there, anxiety forming in his stomach and knotting uncomfortably. The doctor can remember a time where anxiety was just due to med school, or what House may say about his shirt and tie choice. Now it’s divorce, murder, thoughts of the unknown.
When the clock hits ‘5:15AM’, Chase decides he’s laid in bed long enough, and that sleep isn’t going to come. The thirty one year old man gets up, exhaustion clinging to him as he shuffles over to the shower and lets the spray hit him, the heat of the water making his skin pink. He wonders what Allison is doing as he soaps his hair up with the generic brand 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner he uses, then berates himself. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing, they’re not married anymore. She’s moved on, and he needs to as well.
The coffee he makes sits uneasy in his stomach, and after a moment of debate, Chase leaves his travel mug behind, instead slipping on his shoes and grabbing his bag. As he locks his door, the Australian sighs and stands there, letting his arm drop. He feels off , his body feels heavy and the exhaustion hasn’t worn off like it usually does. Though he’s in no way a morning person, Chase is usually able to become less of a zombie and more of a human by the time he’s on his way to work. Today, as he slides into his car, his whole body groans in protest and the urge to crank the heat washes over him, even though it’s barely September.
Stopping at a stoplight, the intensivist swipes at his face and moves his right hand over his stomach gingerly. Maybe he’s eaten something bad, he thinks, starting to move again as the light turns green. He’d had leftover Chinese last night, a couple days old- certainly enough time to harbor some strain of clostridium or other bacteria. Chase lets out a puff of breath, at least it means he’s not contagious, and the symptoms should be gone within twenty four hours.
Last he’s heard, they don’t have a case, which means today shouldn’t be too taxing. Small miracles, Chase reminds himself, as he unfolds himself from the small space of his car. The movement must do something to whatever’s going on in his stomach, because a sharp pain jolts through him. The middle of his abdomen starts aching; as he’s expected it to, and a small noise escapes from his throat, something between a whine and an annoyed groan. Fantastic .
Putting it all aside, the man reminds himself that this is work, and whining about some silly stomach ache isn’t going to get himself anywhere. He greets the receptionists at the front, clocking in and making small talk, friendly as always.
“Morning Doctor Chase,” Rebecca nods at him, and Chase smiles back, signing the little roster.
“Morning Rebecca, morning Julie,” he directs the second part of the sentence to the brunette on the opposite side of the table, who’s engrossed in some kind of paper work.
“Good morning!”
“House have you doing anything crazy today?”
“We can hope not,” the Aussie shakes his head and gives her a roguish look before setting the pen back down. “Hope it’s not too crazy for you all today.”
With a wave, Chase heads toward the elevators and clicks the button. Two minutes later, he’s walking into the empty Diagnostics room, flipping on half the lights, not wanting to be subjected to the full force of the fluorescents just yet. The clock reads ‘6:38’, which means no one will be in for at least another half hour. Setting his bag down, the blonde sighs and forgoes making coffee, not wanting it to be cold for the others, but also unsure of if he can handle the intense smell.
Pulling out his little book of crosswords, Chase turns to the first new one and stares at the page, words slowly blurring together. The exhaustion that’s been momentarily forgotten slams into him again, making him move his arm to prop his chin up. It’s times like these he regrets cutting his hair so short, unable to shield his face from everything the outside world has to offer. Chase hadn’t realized how comforting it was to be able to hide behind the blonde curtain and allow himself a moment to drop the mask.
Blinking, the doctor shifts and rubs his eyes, rolling his neck a bit to work out the ache from his sleepless night. Another wave of pain rolls through his stomach as he inhales, the deep ache that’s been radiating from his navel outwards intensifying. A sharp pain an inch or so to the right makes its presence known, only backing down once he exhales and shifts again, trying to get comfortable. He hears the glass door open and turns his head, nodding his head in greeting as Foreman walks through the door.
“No coffee?”
Chase huffs and rolls his eyes, looking young.
“No, sorry . I got here too early, didn’t want it to be cold.” There’s an edge he tries to keep out of his voice, not wanting to start the day off with his colleague on a bad note. He knows from experience it’ll only make everything feel longer, especially when there’s no case.
“I’ll do it,” Foreman gripes, but there’s no true heat behind the words, and though Chase doesn’t say thank you, he thinks maybe the other man can guess he’s thinking it. Slowly, he wraps an arm around his stomach, praying that the smell of coffee doesn’t set him off. He knows it’s just a matter of time till he starts throwing up, but he’d like to not deal with it for as long as he can. Chase has always hated throwing up, can remember his mum giving him drinks to help him sleep and him waking up in the early hours of the morning doubled over vomiting, the room spinning. It makes his skin crawl.
Soon enough though, the coffee is percolating and his stomach starts flipping. He holds out as long as he can; getting through Thirteen arriving and Foreman bringing his mug over to the table, before sweat starts accumulating on his upper lip and his whole body feels like it’s burning.
“Excuse me,” he manages in what he feels is a mostly-controlled voice, getting up and walking calmly from the room. He doesn’t need gossip about being hung over starting.
The walk to the men's bathroom is agonizing, as he feels bile rise in his upper stomach and throat. The second he gets into the tiled room and his knees hit the ground, Chase audibly gags. He’s dimly aware that the stall door isn’t shut, but he doesn’t care, not while he’s throwing up everything he’s consumed in the past day or so. After a few more times, Chase finally sits back, shivering and weak. Somehow, by the grace of God, no one’s walked in or out, the bathroom abandoned.
Spitting into the toilet, the acrid taste still burning in his mouth, Chase gets up and dusts himself off after flushing, limbs feeling like jelly. His head hurts from the pressure and force of vomiting, and his stomach is throbbing, from the middle of his abdomen down to the right. The intensivist shivers as he washes his hands with lukewarm water, spitting again, this time into the sink. He looks up and into the mirror, checking to see if he looks as ill as he feels.
He’s a shade paler, but nothing noticeable. His cheeks are slightly flushed, but barely enough that an explanation is easy- he’s been leaning his hand against his cheek, his body’s a bit warm from his sweater or the heat they’ve started back in the building. Running a hand through his hair, Chase straightens and takes another second to compose himself. It seems to help, the nausea backs off from a ten to a six, the stomach pain dulls enough that moving isn’t as painful. He can do this. It’s silly food poisoning. If he were to leave, House would make fun of him for weeks on end.
The only thing that hasn’t seemed to stop is how chilled he feels. Though not outright shivering, he feels like the temperature has dropped a few degrees, making him pull his sweater a bit tighter as he makes the walk back to Diagnostics. Taub’s at the glass table now, and all three of his colleagues have mugs of coffee, a few bagels are sitting out in a box from the deli nearby. Steeling himself, Chase walks in and heads back to his seat, hoping his abrupt exit isn’t mentioned.
“Thank you for joining , Chase. Almost sent a search party out for you.” House walks out from his office, and Chase looks up, giving him an unbothered look.
“Mm, didn’t know you cared that much,” he volleys, taking out his notebook.
House watches him calculatingly, and it makes nausea swirl in his stomach. When the staring doesn’t stop, the doctor finally gives in.
“ What ?”
“No coffee? No bagel? Seems a little odd for a growing boy like you, don’t you think?”
“I already had some at home.” Chase keeps his voice neutral, swallowing and ignoring the smell of the coffee across from him. Taub and Thirteen look curiously at him, while Foreman looks uninterested.
“Riiiight. Well. Obviously something is up, but if you’d rather I not know…I’ll find out one way or another.”
“There’s nothing to know. I had breakfast before I came. It’s not a crime.”
“Whatever you say, mate .”
Not wanting to bother with a reply, Chase rolls his eyes but turns back to his notebook. Seconds later, Cuddy opens the door, popping her head in. Five navy blue folders are in her hand, signaling a new case.
“Thanks honey buns, we’ll get right on it,” House sends her way, as he sets up a hangman drawing on the board.
Taub reaches over and takes the folders from the Dean, offering a somewhat embarrassed smile.
“We’ll get right on it.”
+ + +
As they sit at a red light, Chase contemplates whether getting put with Foreman for a B&E is a blessing or a curse. The man doesn’t care enough about Chase to voice any worries like Thirteen might, which is a plus. Sure they’ve managed to rise above ‘barely talking colleagues’ over the years, and they’ve gone out for drinks more than a few times, but Chase is still fairly certain that he’s not on Foreman’s list of things to worry or care about.
Shifting for the third time, Chase stares out the window, the pain in his stomach slowly becoming worse. At the hospital it had been manageable, but riding in a car is making it harder to ignore. All the bumps and potholes aren’t helping.
“Can you maybe drive a little less insane?” Chase asks, right hand discreetly holding on to the black leather seat near his thigh.
“I’m driving just fine. Quit being a side seat driver.” Foreman rolls his eyes and then smirks when he purposefully hits a small pothole.
Chase bites his lip hard enough he’s surprised he doesn’t draw blood.
“It’s not funny,” he grits out, stomach clenching. He’d hoped that getting sick earlier would have helped get out whatever bacteria was making him sick, but if anything he just feels worse.
“What? Can’t handle rough roads? I thought you were from the Outback.”
“Melbourne isn- pull over .” Chase cuts himself off when a wave of nausea hits him. When Foreman looks at him but doesn’t seem to understand, or maybe just ignores him, Chase speaks more forcefully.
“Foreman, pull over now or I’m going to throw up all over your leather seats.”
That seems to get the neurologist's attention, and two seconds later Chase is fumbling for the passenger door, pushing it open and barely making it out enough to not get sick inside the detailed car. It takes a moment to stop, and the only sound after the sound of sick hitting pavement is Chase’s labored breathing.
“….you alright?” Foreman’s voice is a mixture of concern and disgust. If he wasn’t so nauseous, Chase might call him out for the caring part.
“Jesus, s-sorry.” The blonde leans back inside the car after spitting a few times, throat burning. His stomach is aching, and for the first time, Chase wonders if he’s running a fever. He feels colder than he had at the hospital, but his face feels oddly warm.
“Do you still think you can do the break in?”
“Yeah, s’just food poisoning. Ate some bad Chinese last night. I’ll be fine.”
+ + +
Foreman grimaces for the second time in half an hour. Chase is decidedly not fine. They’re at the patient's house, and while he’s in the kitchen, his coworker is in the bedroom, checking for toxins. Except, it doesn’t sound like he’s in the bedroom, not with all the gagging going on. He has to hand it to the man, he’s surprisingly quiet, but the house is empty and small.
By the time he’s finishing up swabbing window sills and bagging a few bottles, Chase walks out with a small bag full of meds and a couple of cigarette packs. He’s paler than he’s been, cheeks flushed and eyes unmistakably glassy. Even sick, Robert Chase is attractive, and Foreman wonders why the universe is so unfair.
“If I put you back in my car, are you going to shit yourself?“ He’s only half joking.
“No!” The scoff that comes after making Foreman almost laugh. Almost. “It’s not…I’ve only been throwing up.”
“Thank god for that.”
They get back in the car and Chase stays quiet. Now that Foreman knows he’s got food poisoning, he’s able to pick up on the slightly uncomfortable stance, how he’s swallowing convulsively, and notes the oddly placed arm around his stomach. The doctors are four minutes away when Chase coughs, but Foreman can tell what it means.
“Gimme a sec…” the neurologist pulls to the side and sighs when Chase gets sick again. He’s surprised he has much left in his stomach.
“Couldn’t have waited five minutes?”
Chase sits back and looks at him, and Foreman’s struck with how young the other looks. He feels transported back in time to six years ago, meeting the Australian and wondering how some pretty boy like him had even gotten into med school.
“Sorry. I’m done, let’s go.” The words are quiet and hoarse, so unlike Chase it makes Foreman uneasy. The man next to him is usually blasé and able to keep his composure in most situations, closed off enough that he’s still mysterious even after all this time. But now he looks young and unguarded, and sounds like a lost puppy. The man is aware the blonde doesn’t get sick often, he’s not sure he’s ever seen him sick, if he’s honest.
Driving, Foreman glances over as they get into the parking lot, when Chase makes an annoyed noise. He spots a bit of sick on the god awful blue plaid shirt underneath the gray sweater, making him wrinkle his nose.
“You should shower. I’ll cover for you. Say you dropped something on yourself at the patients place.”
Chase looks grateful as he nods. “…thanks. Say it was orange juice, I was checking to see if it was bad. You know he’ll ask.”
“Got it.”
They go their separate ways. Chase heads down to the staff locker room, and Foreman goes back to Diagnostics. He has half a mind to make sure Chase actually makes it to the shower, but then shakes his head. He’s a big boy and it’s food poisoning, he can take care of himself.
“Where’s Chase?”
Foreman pauses, looking at House almost amazed. He’s been here for half a second, maybe not even that long.
“What, did you watch us come in?”
“Nope. But you’re here and he’s not. Ergo , where’s Chase? Though maybe I should start watching,” House says in mock contemplation.
“He’s showering. He spilled juice on him.”
House stares at him and Foreman raises an eyebrow.
“What, you think I’m lying ?”
House smirks.
“I think you’re trying to cover something up. So the question is what. And , why would you do it, of all people, when you don’t give a crap about our resident wombat.”
Foreman blinks back, feeling affronted. He cares about Chase…doesn’t he? Sure, he doesn’t care about most things, but even he cares a little when his coworker is puking in his car….right?
“He spilled juice on himself, that’s it.”
“Why would he take a shower for that?” Taub interjects, and Foreman wants to glare at him.
“Look, I don’t care what you guys believe. But he spilled possibly contaminated orange juice all over himself, so he went to shower.”
House hums, then grabs his cane from where it’s hanging on the board, then starts to walk out the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m in need of a shower.”
Foreman rolls his eyes and the three start to follow their boss. He’s not sure why he cares so much about all of this, it would be easier just to tell House that Chase is sick, but instead he’s covering for the guy. Maybe he needs to go home and sleep.
+ + +
Chase lets out a shuddery breath as he leans against the shower tile, hand resting on the lower right area of his abdomen. He’s starting to think that maybe this isn’t food poisoning. He’s gotten sick over half a dozen times, but feels no better. He definitely has a fever, and his stomach feels oddly full even though he’s got nothing left in it. The sharp pain in his lower right abdomen has intensified, leaving the aching around his belly button all but forgotten. Shivering even under the hot spray, the doctor gags again, letting out what he’s sure is a pathetic noise. Nothing comes up this time, but he coughs and splutters all the same.
A minute later, as he’s drying his skin off with a towel, the distinct cadence of someone with a cane walking gets louder and louder. Chase clenches the towel and then tries to relax, wrapping it around his waist.
“Ohhh sunshine , I know you’re here.” House’s voice rings out and Chase is grateful there’s only one or two other employees in the locker room. Swallowing, the Australian steps out of the shower, hair wet. House stares at him a moment, fake-ogling him.
“Sorry, wow. I forget how pretty you are sometimes.”
“What do you want House, I was about to come up.”
“Why are you showering?”
He furrows his brow and chances a look at Foreman, who looks exasperated, giving a look of ‘I tried…’.
“I spilled juice on myself.”
“ Likely story, what kind.”
“Orange Juice. Now if you’d excuse me, I’d like to change.”
When House doesn’t move, Chase shifts, his patience wearing thin. His stomach is throbbing, and it takes everything in him not to fold in half just to try and make the pain go away. His hand inches towards his stomach, wrapping protectively around it, trying to make it look like he’s just holding his towel up. House tracks his movements like a predator and his prey.
“ House ..”
“Fine.” The words come after a beat of silence. “Come back up when you’re finished making yourself pretty, so we can focus on the patient.”
With that, the team leaves, and Chase deflates. His stomach gives a timely throb of intense pain and Chase grits his teeth. Maybe he should have stayed home.
Getting back to Diagnostics feels like it takes a year, but really it’s only ten minutes. With his new, clean scrubs on, the intensivist makes his way to the large room, where everyone is sitting and waiting for him. House spies him through the glass and once again keeps his eyes trained on him. Not in the mood for his boss's antics, Chase walks in, sits down, then busies himself with the blue folder, hand guarding his lower stomach unconsciously. He gets ten minutes in when another chill hits him. The man trembles, once again ignoring House, at least as much as he can, until he walks over, frowning.
“You’re sick.”
“I have food poisoning.”
Taub and Thirteen grimace in sympathy.
“No, you don’t .”
Chase stops himself from scoffing, but winces as his stomach throbs again.
“Yes I do. I ate bad Chinese,” the blonde retorts. This time, House glances at him and then gets that determined look on his face.
“Stand up.”
“What?”
“I said stand up , you moron.”
The moment he’s upright, House hits the blonde straight in the lower abdomen. Chase Finally, Chase stands. The second he does, House is slamming his cane directly into his stomach, the middle of the wooden stick connecting across his abdomen.
“ House !”
“ Oh my god! ”
“ What the hell is your problem !?”
“…oops!”
The Australian doctor is white, almost a translucent gray, skin clammy. His cheeks are dusted red, his eyes are glassy, and the look of pure agonizing pain sweeps over his features, his body tense.
“ Fuck… .you b-bastard,” is all he manages to get out before he’s reaching a tiny amount of bile onto the rooms old carpet. He feels woozy and the pain in his abdomen is unlike anything he’s ever experienced in his lift. It’s as if a white hot knife is tearing through him. He can feel sticky tear tracks on his face but he doesn’t care.
“What the hell is going on here?!”
Everyone but Chase; and Thirteen who’s trying to talk to him, momentarily swing their head up, seeing Cuddy looking alarmed.
“I was just proving to our resident wombat here that food poisoning doesn’t cause appendicitis.”
“Appendicitis? Why is he not being admitted if he has appendicitis?!”
House shrugs, but then hums. “Guess I’ll play the good doctor and go get him a wheelchair. Oh wait, I can’t, cane . Taub, go get Sir Pukes A Lot here a wheelchair will you?”
Taub rolls his eyes but goes quickly, knowing that appendicitis isn’t something to joke around about.
“Chase, hey, talk to us,” Thirteen tries for the third time. Finally, he looks up, tears still swimming in his eyes.
“I f-feel like m’dying…”
Everyone goes quiet. They know Chase isn’t one to be dramatic, if anything he’ll be reserved and hide things away. The man lets out what might be described as something between a sob and a gasp, and he curls into himself more, body shaking.
“S-Somethin’s not right..” his words slur together, slow and feeling like cotton. The pain keeps going, unrelenting. It’s as if Michael Myers is stabbing him over and over and won’t stop, twisting the knife deeper and deeper.
It’s hazy from there. Somehow, he gets onto a gurney, where he curls up instantly, trying to shield his stomach away. Chase feels his shirt sleeve being rolled up and a pinch, and then warmth spreads through his body twenty seconds later, coming over him in a wave of relief. There’s still discomfort but the knife is no longer twisting. He hears his coworkers and boss talking, but doesn’t bother to try and keep up with whatever they’re saying. The intensivist keeps his eyes shut and then he’s asleep.
Chase wakes up slowly, dulled senses ever so sluggishly becoming aware of everything around him. It smells like antiseptic, and the sheets below him are scratchy and rough. There’s beeping to his right, and it’s freezing. He’s cold enough his teeth are chattering, his body spawning in hopes to rid itself of the medicine still flowing through his veins. Shifting, still barely awake, a dull ache tugs near his lower abdomen. Chase groans and forces his eyes open, seeing a nurse from the PACU putting light blue blankets over him. Eyes darting around, he realizes he’s in the PACU, though what for he’s not sure. Swallowing and coughing, throat dry and sore, he finally notices Foreman, Taub and Thirteen in chairs.
“W-What..” he means to ask more, but the words trail off and Chase tries to keep his eyes open.
“Hey bud, you made it. You’re in the PACU. You had an emergency appendectomy.” Taub offers him explanation and the younger doctor nods, though really it’s mostly a head loll to the side.
“Who..who did it?” Chase clears his throat and is thankful when Thirteen holds a straw up to his lips, allowing him to take a sip of water.
“Doctor Jacobson. But I stayed to make sure he didn’t take any extra organs out,” the woman jokes playfully, which makes Chase give a tiny smile. His eyes slip closed again, and the next time he’s awake, House is sitting in the chair in the corner, and the other three are gone.
“You’re an idiot.”
Chase blinks, feeling too disoriented to come up with a comeback.
“What doctor can’t even recognize appendicitis on themselves. You learn that in week one of med school.”
“…I don’t know.”
“Well your stupidity cost me six weeks of only three team members and shit coffee in the mornings.”
“We used to only have three members.” Chase’s voice is hoarse and comes out croaky from the breathing tube out in for surgery. He wishes Thirteen were here to help him drink more water. Tiredly, the doctor moves his hand that’s got an IV taped in place on top, clumsily reaching for the plastic cup. House sighs.
“Hold on, hold on . This is worse than watching Bambi. Pathetic really.”
The older man shuffles over and carefully holds the cup close to the blonde, letting him take a few sips before pulling it away, ignoring the noise of protest.
“Can’t drink too much or you’ll puke. And you’ve done enough of that for the rest of the year.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and then-
“Did you hit me with your cane?” Chase isn’t sure if the scene in his head is a memory or just something his psyche has conjured up. House levels a look at him.
“Now why would I do that? That’s completely idiotic.”