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The diagnostics office was unusually quiet, the sterile hum of the fluorescent lights only interrupted by the rhythmic thwack of House’s tennis ball bouncing off the glass wall.
Thwack.
Pause.
Thwack.
It was driving Chase insane. The first hour, it had been background noise. The second hour, it had transformed into a relentless metronome, reminding him of how much time was passing without anything remotely interesting happening. The third hour? He was seriously debating if death by crossword puzzle was preferable to this purgatory.
He tapped his pen idly against the blank sheet of paper in front of him, glancing at the crossword tucked into the corner of his desk. The latest from the New York Times . He’d been holding off starting it, partly out of some misguided sense of professionalism and partly because it would mean admitting he’d given up on anything productive coming out of today.
“Are you actually working, or are you just staring at the paper like it’s going to solve itself?” Cameron’s voice cut through his thoughts without looking up from her own stack of paperwork.
“I’m thinking,” Chase said defensively, though his tone lacked conviction.
“Thinking about the crossword,” Foreman interjected from the other side of the room, where he was diligently filling out charts. “You’ve been staring at it for fifteen minutes. Just do it already. It’s not like we’re curing cancer today.”
“Or anything,” Chase muttered under his breath.
Thwack.
He glanced up at the sound, catching House’s shadow moving behind the glass. Their boss had been pacing his office for most of the morning, tossing the tennis ball off the glass with enough force to make the occasional vibration reverberate through the wall. It wasn’t even clear if House was aware of them, or if this was just another one of his usual attempts to fill the air with noise and chaos.
“Doesn’t he have clinic hours or something?” Cameron muttered, her annoyance leaking through despite her effort to sound composed.
Foreman chuckled. “House? You’re kidding, right? He’s probably waiting for Cuddy to show up so he can come up with a new excuse to get out of it.”
“Either that or he’s waiting for someone to walk by and give him a case,” Chase added, twirling his pen lazily. “This ball thing is him fishing for attention.”
“Worked on you,” Foreman said without missing a beat.
Chase sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Fine. If we’re going to sit here all day playing the who-can-be-more-boring game, I’m starting the crossword.”
“Just don’t ask me for help when you get stuck,” Foreman replied, his tone half-teasing, half-serious.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chase said, pulling the folded page from the corner of his desk. He grabbed a pen—not a pencil; he wasn’t a coward—and uncapped it with a flick. A small, smug smile played on his lips. At least the crossword wouldn’t bounce incessantly off the walls.
Thwack.
“Maybe I should go steal the ball,” he said aloud.
“Please,” Cameron said dryly, “be my guest.”
Chase was halfway through the crossword’s first clue— “Eternal city (5)” —when a strange sensation began to creep over him. It started as a vague light-headedness, a sort of buzzing behind his eyes that made it hard to focus on the words. He shook his head slightly and blinked a few times, trying to push past it.
“You okay over there?” Cameron’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
“I’m fine,” he said, though his stomach gave a faint lurch as if to disagree. He figured it was nothing—he’d skipped breakfast this morning in favor of sleeping in, and this was probably just his body’s way of protesting.
Deciding to nip it in the bud, he stood and walked over to the counter by the coffee machine, where a basket of snack bars sat. He rummaged through it, pulling out something labeled “Honey Almond Protein” that looked vaguely tolerable.
“Breakfast of champions,” Foreman quipped without looking up.
“Better than coffee and sarcasm,” Chase shot back, ripping open the wrapper.
He took a bite as he walked back to his seat, chewing mechanically. The sweetness of the honey hit him first, followed by a dense, chalky texture that stuck to his tongue. It was more like eating flavored sawdust than actual food, but he powered through it. Anything was better than the faint dizziness now spreading down to his chest.
But it didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse.
By the time he finished the bar, his stomach was churning like it had a grudge against him. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, and his mouth began to fill with the metallic tang of nausea.
“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, standing up abruptly. Cameron and Foreman both glanced up at him, their expressions flickering with mild concern.
“You sure you’re okay?” Cameron asked again.
“Yeah, just need a minute.” He waved them off, heading for the door before they could press further.
As he walked down the hallway, the nausea intensified, and a strange, woozy heaviness settled over him. His legs felt like lead, and he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself as he moved. The edges of his vision blurred, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he might pass out right there in the hallway.
Finally, he stumbled into the nearest bathroom, his hand slapping against the door to push it open. The cool, tiled air hit him like a wave, offering a fleeting moment of relief.
He barely made it into the nearest stall before his stomach gave up completely. Doubling over, he braced himself against the wall as the protein bar and whatever else was left in his stomach came up in a violent rush.
The nausea subsided momentarily, but he stayed where he was, gripping the edge of the stall for support. His head was swimming, and every muscle in his body felt like it was vibrating slightly, as if he were on the verge of collapsing.
“Great,” he muttered weakly to himself, his voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. “Should’ve just stuck to the crossword.”
Chase stayed hunched over for a few minutes, waiting for the queasiness to subside. The worst of it seemed to have passed, though his body still felt shaky, like he’d just run a marathon on an empty stomach.
Finally, he straightened up and pushed the stall door open, careful not to move too quickly. He shuffled to the sink, bracing himself against the counter as he leaned forward to inspect his reflection. His face was pale, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead and temples. Great—exactly what he needed: to look like he was on death’s door in front of House and the others.
Turning on the faucet, he cupped his hands under the water and brought it to his mouth, swishing it around to get rid of the acrid taste lingering at the back of his throat. He spat into the sink, then splashed some water on his face, letting the coolness refresh him.
“It’s fine,” he muttered to himself, wiping his face dry with a paper towel. “Just a one-off thing.”
He straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and forced his usual neutral expression back onto his face. No big deal. Just some bad luck or an empty stomach acting up. Nothing to worry about.
By the time he walked back into the diagnostics office, Cameron and Foreman barely looked up from their work. House, still stationed in his office, was now twirling his cane like a drum major’s baton, the tennis ball apparently abandoned.
Chase slid back into his seat, picking up his pen and the crossword where he’d left off.
“Everything okay?” Cameron asked, her tone polite but not overly concerned.
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, scribbling in the answer for “Eternal city (5)” . “Just needed some air.”
“Uh-huh,” Foreman said skeptically, but he didn’t press further.
Chase focused on the puzzle, letting the rhythm of clues and answers pull his mind away from the uncomfortable episode. “Sinister, as a warning (7)” . He tapped his pen against the paper, his focus sharpening. For now, it seemed, normalcy was within reach.
But his stomach still felt uneasy, and in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered that something wasn’t quite right.
Chase reached for the bottle of water on his desk, twisting the cap off with fingers that felt just a bit clumsier than usual. He took a small sip, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat, but it did little to settle his stomach.
The queasiness lingered, curling low in his gut like a sleeping serpent ready to strike again. A shiver ran through him, and he rubbed his arms absently. The office didn’t feel any colder than usual, but he was definitely chilled.
With a small sigh, he stood and grabbed his lab coat from the back of his chair, shrugging it on. The added layer helped, though not as much as he’d hoped. Still, he figured the cold might explain the nausea. Maybe he was just catching something—nothing serious. The kind of bug that would pass if he powered through it.
He sank back into his chair and picked up his pen again, forcing himself to focus on the crossword. “Sinister, as a warning (7).” He thought for a moment, then wrote down “ominous” in neat, deliberate letters.
Another sip of water.
The nausea began to swell again, a slow, insidious wave that left his stomach clenching painfully. Chase gritted his teeth, forcing his body to remain still as he tapped his pen against the edge of the desk. He wouldn’t give in to it this time. It was just a passing thing—he was sure of it.
“What’s the matter?” Cameron’s voice broke into his concentration. She’d noticed the slight tension in his posture, the way he was gripping the pen a little tighter than necessary.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “Just cold.” He gestured vaguely at his lab coat as if that explained everything.
She didn’t look convinced, but before she could press further, Foreman chimed in. “How’s that crossword coming along? Need help yet?”
Chase forced a small smirk, glad for the distraction. “Not even close. What’s the matter, Foreman? Bored already?”
“Just trying to keep my brain working, unlike some people,” Foreman shot back.
The banter drew the attention away from him, and Chase clung to that small victory. He glanced back down at the crossword, his stomach lurching again. This time, it was harder to ignore, but he kept his focus on the puzzle, determined not to let anyone see how bad he felt.
Chase stared at the next clue on the crossword, trying to focus through the rising queasiness. “Mythical bird reborn from ashes (7).” He knew the answer, but his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and the nausea gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, making it harder to think clearly.
“This one’s tricky,” he said aloud, hoping to redirect his discomfort. “Mythical bird reborn from ashes. Seven letters.”
Foreman looked up from his charts, immediately intrigued. “That’s not tricky. It’s phoenix. ”
Cameron frowned. “That’s too easy for a crossword. Maybe it’s a different word with the same meaning. Like…” She trailed off, clearly trying to think of synonyms.
“Or maybe it’s just phoenix, ” Foreman countered. “Not every clue has to be a mind-bender.”
“Let me see it,” Cameron said, reaching for the paper.
“Hands off,” Chase said with a weak smirk, pulling it back before she could grab it. “I didn’t ask for help. I just thought you’d like to try.”
Foreman leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s phoenix . No need to overthink it.”
Cameron rolled her eyes. “Fine, but if it’s not, you owe me coffee for wasting my time.”
“Deal.”
Chase barely heard the exchange as he gripped the edge of his desk, his stomach twisting in protest. He was grateful when the conversation was interrupted by House’s voice, sharp and loud, cutting through the air like a whip.
“Hey! Crossword nerds!” House’s cane tapped against the glass wall of his office. “Go bond over your boring puzzles somewhere else. Or better yet, do your clinic hours. Shoo!”
Cameron groaned. “I don’t have clinic hours today.”
“You do now,” House called back, smirking.
Foreman sighed as he gathered his paperwork. “Of course we do. Guess your crossword will have to wait, Chase.”
Chase nodded, his mouth dry. “Yeah, guess so.” He tucked the paper into his pocket and stood, his stomach lurching again as he moved. He hoped the distraction of clinic work would help him forget how awful he felt, but first, he needed another minute alone.
As soon as he was out of sight of the others, he ducked into the nearest bathroom. The nausea had reached a crescendo, and he barely made it to the stall before his stomach rebelled again. He gripped the edge of the divider, doubling over as his body forced out whatever was left.
When it was over, he leaned heavily against the wall, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His head was pounding, and he felt completely wrung out. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He rinsed his mouth and splashed water on his face again, glaring at his pale reflection in the mirror. “Get it together,” he said under his breath. He couldn’t afford to look sick—not here, not with House watching.
Straightening his lab coat, he took a deep breath and forced himself to walk out of the bathroom like nothing had happened. Whatever this was, he’d deal with it later. For now, he had clinic duty.
By the time Chase reached the clinic, his stomach was in open rebellion. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright, the antiseptic smell too sharp. The nausea, which had momentarily eased on the walk down, surged back with a vengeance as he approached the desk to sign in.
He barely managed to mumble something about needing a minute before veering into the nearest bathroom. The moment he pushed open the stall door, his stomach heaved again. It was as if his body was determined to rid itself of everything, even though there was nothing left to lose.
He sank down on the closed toilet lid for a moment, letting the dizziness wash over him. His limbs felt heavy, his skin clammy. There was no way he could treat patients like this. He couldn’t even stand for five minutes without feeling like he was going to collapse.
Gathering what little strength he had, Chase splashed his face with cold water and left the bathroom, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Instead of heading back to the clinic desk, he turned and made his way toward the elevator. He needed to regroup, to rest. Maybe he could sit in the diagnostics office for a while and hope no one noticed.
When the elevator doors opened, he trudged back into the office, only to stop in his tracks. House was still there, lounging in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, twirling his cane lazily.
“Well, well,” House said without looking up. “Back so soon? What, did the clinic patients revolt and chase you out?”
Chase hesitated, trying to come up with an excuse. “Forgot… something,” he muttered weakly, not even sure what he was claiming to have forgotten.
“Forgot your ability to lie convincingly,” House shot back, finally glancing at him. His sharp blue eyes narrowed as he took in Chase’s appearance.
Chase walked past him and slumped into his chair, resting his head on his folded arms atop the desk. He closed his eyes, willing the nausea to subside.
“Interesting tactic,” House mused, standing up and making his way over. “I didn’t know naps were part of clinic duty. Did Cuddy approve this?”
“House, I’m fine,” Chase said, though his voice was muffled and weak.
“Yeah, you look fine. Pale, sweaty, and moving like a zombie.” House leaned on his cane, tilting his head. “Lift your head up.”
“I’m—”
“Lift. Your. Head,” House interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Reluctantly, Chase obeyed, raising his head just enough to meet House’s gaze. House stepped closer and reached out, pressing the back of his hand to Chase’s forehead before Chase could pull away.
“Hmm,” House said, his brow furrowing. “That’s definitely a fever.”
Chase tried to wave him off. “I’m fine—”
“No, you’re not,” House interrupted again, his voice sharp. “You’re sweating through your lab coat and probably throwing up everything you’ve eaten in the past twelve hours. And here I thought you just hated clinic duty as much as I do.”
Chase slumped back in his chair, his energy completely sapped. He knew better than to argue with House when he was in full observation mode.
House stepped back, tapping his cane on the floor as he regarded Chase. “So, what’s the plan, Dr. Chase? Pretend you’re fine until you pass out? Or admit you’re sick and save us all the drama?”
“I’m fine,” Chase mumbled, though his voice lacked conviction. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his stomach. “I just need to eat something. Keep it down, and I’ll be fine.”
House raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smug smile. “Ah, so the puking theory is confirmed. Thanks for making that easy for me.”
Chase grimaced, realizing he’d walked straight into that one. He let out a weary sigh, not even bothering to argue further.
“Stay,” House said, pointing at Chase like he was an unruly puppy. House limped out of the room, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor, and returned a minute later with a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Chase.
“Sip. Slowly. If you hurl on my carpet, I’ll make you clean it up.”
Chase took the bottle reluctantly, taking a tentative sip. The cool water felt good against his dry throat, but his stomach gave a warning twist, reminding him not to push his luck.
House stood there for a moment, watching him like a hawk. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he gestured toward his office. “Come on. You’re useless at your desk. Might as well be useless somewhere more comfortable.”
Chase hesitated, but House didn’t wait for him to agree. He strode—well, hobbled—toward his office, holding the door open with exaggerated impatience.
“Chop chop, Dr. Vomit. Time’s wasting.”
Reluctantly, Chase stood and followed him into the office. The dizziness was worse now, and he was grateful when House pointed to the armchair in the corner. He sank into it, letting his head fall back against the cushion.
House grabbed the trash can from beside his desk and placed it next to Chase, patting it as if introducing an old friend. “Your new best friend. Use it wisely.”
Chase shot him a tired glare but didn’t respond. He took another small sip of water, hoping it would settle his stomach.
House leaned against his desk, his cane resting across his lap. “So, what’s the plan now? Drink water, puke water, repeat until dehydration lands you in the hospital? Or are you finally going to admit you need a break?”
“I don’t need a break,” Chase muttered, though he didn’t sound convincing even to himself.
House smirked. “Right. Because you’re the picture of health right now. Pale, sweaty, and looking like you’ve been run over by a bus. Twice.”
Chase closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the chair. “I’ll be fine.”
“Famous last words,” House quipped. He tilted his head, studying Chase more closely. “Whatever’s going on with you, it’s not just skipping breakfast. You look like death warmed over.”
Chase didn’t respond. He felt too drained to argue, too nauseous to care. For now, the armchair was the only thing keeping him upright, and he wasn’t about to give it up.
Chase shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, holding the water bottle in one hand and staring at it as if sheer willpower could force his stomach to cooperate. The queasiness rose with alarming speed, and before he could stop it, his stomach clenched violently.
Without a word, Chase leaned forward and grabbed the trash can, barely managing to get it into position before he threw up. The small amount of water he’d managed to drink came back up immediately, leaving him coughing and spitting, his face flushed with exertion and embarrassment.
“Impressive,” House said dryly, leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed. “You’ve mastered the art of reverse hydration.”
Chase wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and glared at House. “Not helping,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He sat back against the chair, his head pounding, his stomach churning angrily at the slightest movement.
House sighed, his usual sarcasm softening. “Take it easy, Chase. You’re not going to fix this by forcing it. You’ll just make it worse.”
As if on cue, another wave of nausea hit. Chase clutched the trash can again, his body wracked with dry heaves. Nothing came up this time—there was nothing left—but the retching left his throat raw and his chest aching. He groaned, his frustration bubbling over. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, his voice strained.
House stepped closer, resting a hand on Chase’s back, rubbing slow, firm circles between his shoulder blades. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture, one that stood in stark contrast to House’s usual cutting demeanor.
“Ridiculous? Sure. But it’s also what happens when you keep ignoring your body screaming at you,” House said, his voice unusually calm.
Chase clenched his eyes shut, his face buried in the crook of his arm as the dry heaves subsided. His throat burned, his stomach ached, and he felt utterly defeated. “Why can’t I keep anything down?” he muttered, more to himself than to House.
“Because you’re sick,” House replied matter-of-factly, still rubbing Chase’s back. “And being stubborn about it isn’t going to change that. So how about we stop playing the ‘I’m fine’ game and figure out what’s actually going on?”
Chase didn’t respond, too exhausted to argue. He let his head rest against the arm of the chair, his breathing ragged as he tried to recover.
House pulled his hand away, grabbing a fresh tissue from the box on his desk and handing it to Chase. “Wipe your face. You’re starting to look even worse, which I didn’t think was possible.”
Chase managed a weak glare but took the tissue, wiping his mouth and chin before slumping back in the chair.
House studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re not leaving this office until we figure out what’s wrong. And if you puke again, aim for the trash can. I’m not cleaning up after you.”
House sat back on the edge of his desk, his cane resting across his lap as he studied Chase with an intensity that made the younger doctor squirm—metaphorically, at least, since he was too exhausted to do so physically.
“So, you think this is just a stomach bug,” House said, his voice dripping with skepticism.
Chase nodded weakly, clutching his lab coat tightly around himself like it was a blanket. “It is. Probably something I ate. It’ll pass.”
House tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Yeah, because the typical stomach bug makes you pale, shaky, and cold while running a fever. Sounds super normal.”
“It is normal,” Chase muttered, but his tone lacked conviction. He adjusted his lab coat again, trying to ward off the persistent chill that had settled into his bones.
House raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his cane. “You do realize the coat isn’t a magic blanket, right? It’s polyester. Pretty sure you’re still freezing because your body’s telling me—and you—that something’s wrong.”
Chase sighed, closing his eyes briefly as a wave of dizziness hit him. “House, it’s fine. People get sick all the time. It doesn’t mean it’s something serious.”
“People get sick all the time,” House repeated mockingly. “That’s deep. Really insightful. Next, you’ll tell me water is wet. The thing is, most people don’t come to work with a fever, puke their guts out, and try to power through it like they’re auditioning for a survival show.”
Chase didn’t respond, too tired to argue. He focused instead on the sensation of his stomach settling—just slightly—and the ache in his limbs that seemed to be growing worse by the minute.
House sighed dramatically, clearly unimpressed with the lack of a response. “Let’s see,” he said, standing and leaning heavily on his cane as he began to pace. “Fever, nausea, chills, and general stubbornness. Sounds like… half the patients in the clinic on any given day.”
“Exactly,” Chase murmured, his voice barely audible.
“But,” House continued, ignoring him, “you’re not just any patient, are you? You’re Chase. Which means you’re not telling me everything.” He spun on his heel to face Chase again, pointing his cane at him like a weapon. “When did this start? And don’t give me the ‘just this morning’ answer. I’m smarter than that.”
Chase hesitated, reluctant to admit it. “A couple of days ago,” he said finally, his voice low.
House smirked triumphantly. “Aha! And yet you came to work, pretending nothing was wrong. Why? Afraid Cuddy would dock your pay if you took a sick day?”
“I thought it would go away,” Chase admitted, shivering again and pulling his lab coat tighter around himself.
“And it didn’t,” House said bluntly. He stepped closer, leaning down slightly to peer into Chase’s face. “Cold despite a fever. That’s interesting. Chills usually mean an infection, but they’re not specific. What else? Abdominal pain?”
“Not really,” Chase mumbled.
“Liar,” House said immediately, standing upright again. “If you’re throwing up this much, your stomach’s got to be killing you.”
Chase didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
House’s expression shifted slightly, the smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Any other symptoms you’d like to share, or should I just start poking you until you scream?”
“House…” Chase groaned, leaning his head back against the chair. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Right. Because you always look like death warmed over for fun.” House tapped his cane on the floor, his expression hardening. “This isn’t going away, Chase. And until we figure out what’s going on, you’re staying right here. You’re too stubborn to be trusted with yourself.”
Chase didn’t argue. He simply pulled his lab coat tighter and closed his eyes, hoping the chill and nausea would subside.
House, meanwhile, began to pace again, his mind clearly working through the possibilities.
Chase shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, trying to find a position that didn’t make the dull ache in his stomach worse. But the ache was evolving, twisting into sharper, more defined cramps. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, his other arm wrapping instinctively around himself as he pulled his knees up slightly, curling in on himself as best he could.
House didn’t miss a thing. From his vantage point near the desk, he saw the subtle grimace Chase was trying to hide, the way he tucked himself tighter like a wounded animal.
“Ah,” House said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. “And here comes the fun part. Stomach cramps.”
Chase didn’t respond, keeping his eyes closed and his head resting against the arm of the chair. He was too focused on riding out the pain, willing it to subside.
“You know,” House continued, opening a drawer in his desk and rummaging around, “throwing up and stomach cramps are way more dramatic on an empty stomach. Kind of like a concert without the band—just a lot of noise and no substance.”
Chase cracked one eye open, his face pale and drawn. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered.
“Doesn’t matter,” House replied, pulling a simple breakfast bar out of the drawer. He limped over and dropped it unceremoniously into Chase’s lap. “Eat.”
Chase stared at the breakfast bar as if it were a bomb about to go off. “House, I can’t—”
“You can ,” House interrupted firmly, sitting back on his desk and folding his arms. “And you will. Because if you don’t, the next round of puking is going to feel like you’re being gutted from the inside out.”
Chase hesitated, the nausea swirling ominously in his stomach. He didn’t believe for a second that he’d be able to keep anything down, but House’s tone left no room for argument. Slowly, he unwrapped the breakfast bar, breaking off a small piece and nibbling at it cautiously.
House watched him like a hawk, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “Tiny bites. Good. Don’t inhale it all at once and then blame me when it comes back up. We’re aiming for survival here, not a Michelin star.”
Chase gave him a weak glare but didn’t respond. He took another small bite, chewing slowly, the taste of oats and dried fruit almost too much for his queasy stomach.
“See? Progress,” House said, smirking. “You’re not dead yet. And if you manage to keep that down, I might even let you graduate to crackers.”
Chase rolled his eyes faintly but kept eating, the small bites easier to manage than he’d expected. His stomach protested every morsel, the cramps still clawing at him, but he forced himself to keep going.
House stayed quiet for once, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and something that might have been concern. When Chase finally set the half-eaten bar on the armrest, House raised an eyebrow.
“Done already?”
“I don’t want to push it,” Chase murmured, his voice hoarse.
“Fair enough,” House said, though his tone lacked its usual sarcasm. “Sip some water. Slowly. And don’t puke on my floor.”
Chase picked up the bottle of water again, taking a tentative sip. He was barely holding it together. The cramps in his stomach had intensified, each one twisting deeper, sharper, like a knife being twisted with cruel precision. He tightened his grip on his knees, his body curling in on itself as though that might shield him from the pain.
The nausea that had been lurking in the background surged suddenly, violently. Chase clenched his jaw, breathing shallowly through his nose, desperate to keep it at bay. But it was a losing battle. His stomach clenched, and he barely managed to grab the trash can before he was heaving again.
“Damn it,” he muttered between retches, his voice thick with frustration.
House watched silently from his perch on the desk, his cane resting across his lap. He leaned forward slightly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as Chase’s body trembled with effort.
When the retching finally stopped, Chase sat back in the chair, his face pale and clammy, his breathing ragged. The cramps showed no mercy, though, and another wave of pain hit. He let out a quiet, involuntary whine, clutching his stomach as he curled up even more.
House let out a long sigh, the kind that signaled he was annoyed but not entirely unsympathetic. He got up from the desk and crouched slightly, resting a hand on Chase’s back. He started rubbing slow circles, the movement steady and soothing, even as his gaze remained sharp and calculating.
“Not exactly winning any points for stoicism here, Chase,” House said softly, his tone more observational than mocking.
Chase didn’t respond. He didn’t even lift his head.
House’s lips pressed into a thin line, and with his free hand, he reached for the pager clipped to his belt. He tapped out a message quickly, summoning Cameron and Foreman back up from the clinic.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” House said, his voice calm but firm. “So let’s hope they’re faster than usual. I’m not about to spend my afternoon playing nursemaid while you puke your guts out.”
Chase shifted slightly, the motion drawing another small groan from his lips. He was shaking now, the combination of nausea, pain, and chills making his whole body feel weak and unsteady.
“Just breathe,” House said, still rubbing his back. His voice softened just slightly, enough to hint at the concern he wasn’t voicing outright. “And if you’re going to keep throwing up, try not to miss the trash can. It’s my favorite one.”
Chase gave a faint huff of laughter, though it quickly dissolved into a grimace as another cramp hit. He tightened his grip on his knees, curling in further.
House stayed quiet after that, his hand steady on Chase’s back as they waited for the rest of the team to arrive.
“Drink,” House ordered, holding the water bottle out to Chase again.
Chase hesitated, his hand trembling as he took the bottle. “What’s the point?” he muttered, though he tipped it to his lips and took a small sip anyway.
“The point,” House said, his voice sharp, “is to keep you from passing out on my floor. Tiny sips. And stop whining.”
Chase took another small sip, his stomach protesting immediately. The nausea hit hard and fast, and before he could stop himself, he was hunched over the trash can again, his body wracked with violent retches.
“Impressive timing,” House muttered, stepping back just as the door to the office opened.
Cameron and Foreman walked in, both of them immediately taking in the scene: Chase pale and trembling in the armchair, clutching the trash can as he threw up, and House standing nearby, looking simultaneously irritated and concerned.
“Wow,” Foreman said dryly, crossing his arms. “What’s going on here?”
“Chase has decided to audition for The Exorcist reboot,” House said, nodding toward the trash can. “Unfortunately, he’s method acting.”
Cameron’s expression softened with concern as she stepped closer. “Chase, are you okay?”
Chase sat back in the chair, his face pale and glistening with sweat. He groaned softly, leaning his head back against the armrest. “Do I look okay?” he muttered hoarsely.
“Points for self-awareness,” House quipped. He turned to Cameron, gesturing with his cane. “Go to the clinic. Get anti-nausea pills, something for his fever, and a heating pad.”
Cameron nodded quickly and left without another word.
House turned to Foreman, who was already grimacing. “Foreman, congratulations. You’ve just been promoted to sanitation specialist.” He held out the trash can.
Foreman frowned, making no move to take it. “Seriously? That’s not my job.”
“Do you think it’s my job?” House shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He shoved the trash can closer. “Clean it. Now. Unless you want him puking in your favorite chair next time.”
Foreman rolled his eyes but took the trash can, muttering under his breath as he carried it out.
Chase shifted uncomfortably in the chair, his hands pressing against his cramping stomach. “I can’t keep anything down,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration and defeat. “This is pointless.”
House leaned against the desk, his cane resting beside him. “No, what’s pointless is you whining about something you can’t control. Your stomach’s being an idiot. That doesn’t mean you have to be one, too.”
Chase shot him a weak glare. “Not helpful.”
“Not supposed to be,” House replied, his tone softening just slightly. “Look, it sucks. I get that. But it’s not your fault, and it’s not forever. We’ll figure this out. Until then, you just sit there, sip water, and aim for the trash can.”
Chase sighed, closing his eyes. His frustration hadn’t ebbed, but House’s words—blunt as they were—offered some small comfort.
Moments later, Cameron returned with a small bag of supplies, and Foreman followed, carrying the now-clean trash can.
“Alright,” House said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
House motioned for Chase to sit up slightly as Cameron handed him the anti-nausea pills.
“Swallow these,” House instructed, watching closely. “And for the love of god, don’t spit them out, or I’ll make you take them again .”
Chase shot him a glare, but he obediently took the pills, swallowing them slowly. His stomach twisted painfully at the motion, and for a few long moments, he thought he might fail the simple task. The nausea surged, but somehow, he managed to keep the pills down, his throat dry and tight as he did.
“Good job,” House said dryly, leaning down to plug in the heating pad. He held it up for a moment, making sure it was on the lowest setting before tossing it gently onto Chase’s lap. “Put it on your stomach. You’ll get some relief from the cramps.”
Chase hesitated for a second, but the thought of relief was too tempting. He pulled the heating pad onto his abdomen, wincing slightly as it warmed up. The heat spread quickly, soaking into his muscles, and after a few moments, he felt a welcome wave of comfort.
The sharp, biting pain in his stomach began to dull. Slowly, gradually, the cramps eased off, allowing him to exhale with relief. He sank deeper into the armchair, the warmth of the pad making him feel almost weightless. His body, which had been trembling and tight with pain just moments before, finally seemed to relax.
Chase let out a soft sigh, his eyelids fluttering closed for just a moment as his body began to reclaim some semblance of normalcy. The nausea was still lingering, but it no longer felt like it was overwhelming him.
“Better?” House asked, his voice a little more even now.
Chase nodded weakly, not trusting himself to speak yet. He still felt shaky, but the heat from the pad and the slight relief from the cramps made it a little easier to bear.
House observed him for a few moments longer before turning to Foreman and Cameron. “Alright, his stomach’s not trying to self-destruct for now. Let’s figure out what’s going on before he falls asleep in my office and makes a mess.”
Cameron moved to the desk, pulling out her notebook. “We should run some tests. It could still be viral, but with the fever and persistent pain, there’s definitely something more going on.”
Foreman nodded. “Yeah, we’ll need blood work, maybe an ultrasound—”
“Don’t overcomplicate things yet,” House interjected, raising a hand. “He’s not going anywhere for the next hour. Start with some basic labs—cbc, liver, kidneys, maybe some electrolytes—and let’s see where we’re at. Don’t get fancy.”
“Right,” Cameron said, nodding as she jotted down the orders.
Chase’s voice was soft but laced with frustration as he spoke up. “I’m not a kid. I can’t even keep down a breakfast bar. You really think you’re gonna get blood out of me?”
House didn’t even glance at him. “You’ll manage. It’s not that complicated, unless you’ve forgotten how to not be an idiot.”
Chase closed his eyes again, letting the warmth of the heating pad soothe him further. “This sucks,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for House to hear.
House, though, had heard it. He shot Chase a glance, though there was no sarcasm in his response. “Yeah, I know. You’ll live through it. But let’s get you through the worst of it first, alright?”
Chase nodded, feeling the edges of exhaustion pulling at him as the pain continued to ease away. He was still cold, still weak, but now that his stomach wasn’t in a constant state of revolt, he allowed himself a moment of peace. The heating pad, the pills, the water—everything was helping, even if just a little.
"Just don't puke in my chair," House added, a wry smile tugging at his lips, but his tone held no malice.
“I’ll try not to,” Chase said quietly, too tired to muster any more energy for argument.
For the first time in what felt like forever, his body was allowing him to rest. And that was, for now, enough.
Chase felt his body slowly giving in to exhaustion. The warmth of the heating pad, combined with the faint relief from the medication, dulled the edges of his pain just enough to let his eyelids grow heavier. He shifted slightly in the armchair, pulling his legs up closer, and let out a soft sigh.
House, ever the opportunist, noticed Chase’s sluggish movements and took it as his cue. He stood, grabbed the small tray of blood-drawing supplies Cameron had left on the desk, and approached quietly.
“You’re not running anywhere, so let’s make this quick,” House muttered as he crouched next to Chase, setting the tray on the arm of the chair.
Chase barely opened one eye, groaning softly. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” House replied. “Unless you’ve developed a sudden fear of needles. In which case, I’m happy to add ‘irrational phobia’ to your chart.”
Chase sighed but didn’t argue. He was too tired to fight back and knew there was no point in trying. He let his arm fall limp to his side, allowing House to position it as needed.
House worked efficiently, tying the tourniquet and swabbing the inside of Chase’s elbow with alcohol. “Stay still, and don’t puke on me while I’m doing this,” House said, his voice laced with dry humor.
Chase gave a weak, half-hearted glare, but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed the hint of a smirk.
The needle slipped in smoothly, and House quickly filled a few vials of blood. “Done,” House said, removing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the site. He taped it down with a practiced motion. “See? You survived.”
“Barely,” Chase muttered, leaning back into the chair again.
House stood, pocketing the vials and turning to Cameron and Foreman. “Go. Run the labs. Liver panel, kidneys, electrolytes, and whatever else you think is useful. If anything’s interesting, let me know.”
Cameron nodded, taking the vials from House and heading toward the door. Foreman hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Chase before following her.
With the two of them gone, the office fell quiet again. Chase closed his eyes, assuming House would take this as his chance to leave and go entertain himself elsewhere. But instead, he heard the familiar sound of House’s cane tapping against the floor as the man moved back toward the desk.
“Why are you still here?” Chase mumbled, his voice muffled by his arm.
House didn’t respond immediately. He settled into his chair, spinning it slightly to face Chase. “Because you’re a fascinating case of self-inflicted misery,” he said, his tone casual. “And because I want to see if you’ll actually let yourself rest for once, or if you’ll insist on being stubborn and making this worse.”
Chase groaned softly, his frustration bubbling back up. “I’m not making this worse. My body’s just being... stupid,” he muttered, his words trailing off as he adjusted the heating pad slightly.
“Exactly,” House replied, leaning back in his chair. “So stop fighting it. You’re tired, you’re sick, and—newsflash—you’re not invincible. Get some sleep. Maybe when you wake up, we’ll actually know what’s wrong with you.”
Chase wanted to argue, to voice how annoyed he was at himself for being so incapable of doing something as simple as keeping water down. But the words didn’t come. His body was too exhausted to summon the energy.
Instead, he sighed, shifting slightly in the chair again. The warmth of the heating pad and the lingering hand of exhaustion were pulling him under, and he couldn’t fight it anymore.
“Fine,” he muttered, barely audible as his eyes slipped closed.
House watched him closely, his expression unreadable as Chase finally gave in to sleep. For all his sarcastic remarks and sharp jabs, there was a flicker of something softer in House’s gaze—a quiet acknowledgment that Chase was more than just a puzzle to solve.
“About time,” House murmured to himself, his voice low enough not to disturb the silence. He leaned back in his chair, still watching Chase with the practiced eye of a diagnostician.
Now, all he could do was wait—for the tests, for the symptoms, for the next clue to reveal itself.