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Chase’s life had always been tainted by guilt.
Religious guilt was what she was first introduced to. She was always told that her life wasn’t truly hers, that everything was up to God. She would cry in confessionals, guilty about doubting God’s goodness—because if her life was in His hands, why did her mother drink so much, and why didn’t her father care about them, and why did Chase want to break down in tears every time she looked in the mirror?
The older she got, the more she grew into a male body; wide shoulders, tall and scrawny and male. The first time she noticed the fine, blonde hair growing on her face, she nearly sliced her cheek with a scissor trying to scrape it off. A year later, her father left her alone with her mother who always seemed more interested in her next drink than what her child was doing. This meant she could sometimes dress up in her mother's clothes when she was passed out after a day of constant drinking. The dresses always fit her way too big, but made her feel less confused and disturbed about her own body.
Chase felt guilty the first time her mother called her “daughter,” because of how much it made her stomach flutter and her lips curl into a smile. She grew out her hair—long and blonde and easy to cover up the angles of her jaw—and in her drunken haze, her mother saw a girl and not what Chase was born as.
She kept the instance from confessions, instead writing it in her journal and hiding it beneath her bed. When her sister tried to correct their mother on the reality of her “son,” Chase told her it was alright and to let it go. She didn’t bring it up again, either figuring it out or just realizing it was unwise to argue with the sibling making her meals.
The guilt only grew when her mother died—the feeling that she could have saved her, even when deep down she knew she couldn’t, haunted her. Her skin crawled every time her father called her his son, a boy, a brother to his sister.
Chase vowed to herself then that she would do anything for her guilt to fade away. She went by her last name all through school, and medical school. She disliked the feeling of needles in her skin, but the effects of estrogen made the pinch of pain worth it. By the time she started working for Dr. House, she had already heard all the disrespectful and disgusting comments made towards her and her identity. She was prepared to hear uniquely hurtful things from the man.
Thankfully, House seemed more interested in her issues with religion and her childhood trauma than her transness. In fact, he said it was boring in comparison.
Chase had never been happy to hear that she was boring until then.
“Your dose is scheduled for today,” Foreman said, quirking up his eyebrow as if she wasn’t aware of the date. “Isn’t it?”
Chase swirled her coffee and pretended to think hard.
“Hmmm…no, I think it’s next week.”
“Chase.”
“I forgot one time!” Chase laughed at Foreman’s face that lacked a trace of amusement. “That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of remembering to take my estrogen shots.”
Foreman leaned back in his chair and took a drink of his coffee. House hadn’t gotten the office yet, and Cameron was checking up on the patient’s progress.
“Maybe I can do it for you,” Foreman said suddenly, and Chase almost dropped her notebook. “I know you hate shots.”
Chase gaped at him for a few seconds, moving it like a fish stuck on the sandy shores. Foreman just keeps his eyes trained on hers.
“I’ve…gotten used to them,” Chase replied, unable to come up with a reply to the suggestion of help with the shots.
Foreman shrugged.
“Sure, but it’s a lot different stabbing yourself with a needle than it is having someone else administer it. For example: a fellow doctor,” his eyebrow is raised and he seems deadset on the offer. Chase finds herself nodding without even thinking about it critically.
Foreman putting a needle in her thigh giving her her estrogen dose on the day it should be taken because he’s so neurotic about being on time and doing things correctly. Foreman, who would probably be more careful than Chase who still closes her eyes when she slides in the needle because she hates it so badly. The estrogen bottle in her bag between Foreman’s fingers.
“Alright, let’s do it now.”
“Now?!” Chase whips her head around, feeling strands of hair swipe the back of her neck. “We don’t have to do it now, House might—”
“It’s quick and he wouldn’t care anyways, plus he usually comes in a half hour from now,” Foreman replies and stands up, his hand outstretched. Chase rolled her eyes and fumbled around her bag until she found the glass bottle. She placed it in his hand and stood up.
She had chosen to wear a black dress skirt that morning that ended a few inches above her knee. Foreman points to the table and Chase hops up on it, shimmying the skirt up until it was bunched up above her thighs. She shivered (from the cold metal of the table, of course, and not having anything to do with the fact that her coworker (who she could admit to herself was attractive) was about to put his hand on her thigh). Sure, it was to put a needle in her, but what’s it matter?
Foreman’s dark skin contrasted sharply against her pale thighs (she doesn’t get a lot of time to get a tan at the beach these days). He tilts her thigh softly to the side and tells her to not to look. He disinfects the site with a small alcohol wipe.
She looks up at the ceiling and bites the inside of her cheek, tasting the copper at the same time the thin metal pushes through her skin. Foreman makes quick work of pushing the syringe in and takes it out within a few seconds.
“All good?” He asks. She nods and sighs. It was definitely easier and faster than when she does it herself.
“I usually have to hype myself up for a few hours before doing it,” Chase shakes her head. “Something about needles.”
“You chose an interesting profession, then,” Foreman laughed. Chase laughed too.
“The pros outweigh the cons.”
House limps through the door a second later, gasping dramatically at Chase’s exposed thighs. Chase starts to push her skirt down, but House throws a small bandage at her before she can.
“I thought ‘don’t stain your clothes with blood’ was rule number one of womanhood,” House joked, and Chase couldn’t help but quirk her lip up.
Before she could reply, Cameron rushes into the room with a new symptom to add to the whiteboard.
It takes three more injections for Chase to break.
This time it was in an on-call room in the middle of the day, when rarely anybody needs to sleep. Chase waits until the needle is out of her thigh to grab Foreman’s tie and pull him in for a kiss, damning it all to hell. For once, she isn’t consumed with guilt. Instead, a giddy feeling fills her chest and she smiles against his lips. His fingertips grip her waist and he kisses back just as enthusiastically.
When they break apart for a moment, and Chase’s blue eyes shine in the fluorescent lights.
“I still don’t really like you,” Foreman clarifies. His face is a bit flushed and his voice sounds deeper than ever, the bass vibrating against the hand pressed against his cheek.
“That’s alright,” Chase chuckles, and moves to kiss Foreman’s neck. Her lipstick leaves slight marks that she wipes off. “You’re still kissing me, though…so.”
“Unfortunately, you’re cute,” Foreman laments. “And grabbing a woman’s thigh is sort of like catnip for a man.”
“Understood,” Chase says before kissing him again.