Work Text:
Every day when Chase got out of bed, the first thing he saw was the mirror on the wall next to his bed.
Above it were numerous pieces of important papers, with his name printed out all proudly. Robert R. Chase. Diplomas, awards, everything you could think of was either on that wall or on the shelf bolted to it. An outsider would see that and think about how proud Chase must be to see so many achievements in his name. But whenever Chase looked at them, he felt nothing akin to pride.
He averted his gaze from that wall whenever he was in his room like it was the plague. He felt weird looking at it, like he was living in someone else's house, sleeping in someone else's bedroom next to someone else's stuff. He knew he was supposed to be proud of what he did to earn those awards, and he was in a sense, but seeing his name on those stupid commemorative pieces of paper just felt wrong.
And the mirror. Almost every day he wanted to take it off the wall and put it into the attic where he'd never have to look at it ever again. Sometimes he could make eye contact with himself in the mirrors at work and not feel like an imposter, but he'd go back home and feel wrong all over again.
It was that "wrong feeling" that set Chase's day off on a bad note. He woke up early Saturday morning on his day off to a text from House that they had a case and he would need to come in, so he reluctantly got out of bed only to find he had nothing to wear.
"How long has it been since I did laundry?" Chase muttered to himself as he searched his dresser. It was full of socks, gym shorts, and everything but his work clothes. Finally, he gave up and grabbed the same outfit he'd worn the day before. It wasn't like he'd slept in it, he would be fine.
He walked up to the mirror to fix his tie and it hit him. This isn't me, he thought upon seeing his reflection. He quickly discarded the tie and decided he'd be better off without it, but that didn't stop the feeling in his gut that something was wrong. He was wrong. This body he was in was wrong.
He drove to the bakery across from the hospital to grab breakfast with half a mind to turn around and stay home. He didn't want people to see him like this. He knew nobody could hear what was going on in his head, but he had a feeling that people would be able to tell he was acting off because of it. He decided he would blame it on being tired, and arriving late with coffee on what was supposed to be his day off would probably be enough to not arouse suspicion.
"Name, sir?" the worker asked.
"You can put it under Chase, spelt C-H-A-S-E," he replied. He hated when people called him Robert. It felt too formal for him. Usually people he knew well called him Robbie, or everyone else just called him Chase. Today, it just felt wrong to tell the worker anything to call him—but he supposed Chase was the least personal of all the names he was known by. He didn't like people to see him when he felt like this, much less know who he was.
He got his coffee and donut and left the café with five minutes left until his shift was supposed to start. Once he made it to the office, everyone else was there waiting for him.
"Well, pretty boy, finally decided to show up?"
"I'm only three minutes late," Chase said rolling his eyes. He wasn't in the mood for this today.
"Your coffee seems more important to you than this little girl's life, huh? That's three minutes we could've spent diagnosing this patient so I can go home and get Cuddy off my ass." House seemed to be in a mood this morning.
"Jeez, it won't happen again. This was supposed to be my day off."
"You work in healthcare. There is no time off."
House went on to explain the case. 8-year-old female with unexplained fever, rash, cough, and respiratory issues. Apparently her single mother, who was also a doctor, had been trying to find out what was wrong for a week, with none of the usual illnesses testing positive and none of the treatments helping, which is why she came to House. House sent Cameron off to go run a blood test and a urine sample to check for anything the other doctors might have missed, and sent Foreman off with Chase to give her a chest scan for pneumonia.
"Don't you think her mom would've ruled this stuff out before resorting to House?" Chase asked while they started the scan. "I mean, he doesn't exactly have the nicest reputation, and a doctor like herself would probably know that."
"If this is about what House was saying to you this morning, just ignore it. He thrives off attention; if you don't give him any he'll stop bothering you." Foreman looked up from the patient's chart and made eye contact with Chase. "But yes, she probably ruled it out. House just likes to cover the bases, that's all."
"I never said it was about House himself, I said his reputation." Chase paused for a moment before continuing. "And that's a lie, you know that. House won't stop being House just because I ignore him."
"If House calling you pretty boy bothers you, just tell him," Foreman replied.
"It's not just that," muttered Chase, mostly to himself. Part of him wanted to confide in someone, honestly anyone (other than House), about how he felt. But he couldn't. If everyone felt like this then there was no point in outing himself as unable to deal with it. But if this wasn't normal, if he could fix this, he wanted to know. He just couldn't bring himself to ask.
"Well then what is it? If it's interfering with your ability to work, then you should deal with it sooner rather than later." Chase didn't say anything. He hadn't really wanted Foreman to hear him, he more just wanted to be able to say he tried talking about it. "Well, if you want to get your mind off it, I'm going out to that new bar tonight. I can pick you up at your place around 8, if you're up for it."
"Sure, I'm free." Chase was mortified. He really should not have said anything.
~~~
One unforeseen issue with the patient (named Abby M.) wasn't a health complication. Instead, it was the fact she would not stop talking about birds.
Chase was trying to listen to her lungs, but she kept rattling off bird facts so excitedly Chase couldn't hear them properly.
"Hey, I'm gonna need you to calm down, alright? Why don't we talk about something else." Abby looked at him, as if deciding whether or not to comply.
"Fine. What does the R on your name tag mean? Doctor R Chase. Does it stand for rude?"
He looked around the room quickly and said the first thing that came to his mind.
"Uhh, R- uhm, Robin."
"Like the bird!"
Fuck. Chase stood dejectedly while Abby started a new rant about robins. That was stupid. I should've just told her my name is Robert. But part of him knew it wasn't. It had never truly been his name.
Finally, he finished the physical exam (after much difficulty) and returned to the office. House wasn't there, but Foreman and Cameron were, so he told them a theory he had concocted while tuning out Abby's bird rant.
"I think it's psittacosis. Y'know, from birds? She wouldn't shut up about them. If she had been around a lot of birds, there's a chance she could have inhaled infected bird droppings."
"If it's psittacosis, she needs treatment fast. I'll run some tests." Cameron hurried out of the room, leaving Foreman with Chase.
"I hope you're right," Foreman confessed. "If you are, this will be the fastest we've solved a case for months. And we won't have to break into anyone's house."
Chase nodded in agreement before taking a seat, looking through her chart again. He wanted to see if there was anything about birds in there.
Eventually, he heard the door open behind him to find House with that look on his face that meant he was up to something.
"Good thinking on the psittacosis, birdbrain," House said with a smirk, "just saw Cameron picking up the scan. Mom's requesting that Dr. Robin delivers the CT scan results." Shit, thought Chase, shit shit shit.
"Who's Dr. Robin?" Cameron asked as she made her way behind House to the whiteboard with the scan results.
"I'll let pretty boy answer that. Wilson just paged me, I'd be remiss not to visit." Everyone could tell it was a lie, but it didn't matter. House was already on his way down the hall.
"Who's Dr. Robin?" Cameron repeated, directed at Chase now.
"The patient saw my name tag and assumed the R stood for Robin," Chase lied. He could feel himself blushing from embarrassment, but he looked down and went back to reviewing her chart. In reality, he had already gone through it twice (there wasn't much on there at all), but a third time couldn't hurt.
"She must really likes birds," Cameron remarked, "I can see where you got the idea for psittacosis."
"Yeah, she does." Chase exhaled in relief that Cameron had seemed to have bought it. He didn't need everyone knowing how much he hated his own name. "Er, what'd the scans show?"
"Pneumonia, which supports your theory of psittacosis."
"Perfect, I'll run along and tell the family."
Chase walked over to the patient's room and saw House talking to Foreman at the end of the hallway. He had a sneaking suspicion of what House was telling him, but he tried to ignore it and entered the room holding the results.
"Robin!" Abby cheered as Chase walked into the room.
"I've got the scan results back, it looks like you have pneumonia." Chase ignored her, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that he hadn't told her his real name. She'd probably find out sooner or later, but it was nice to be someone other than Robert for now.
"Pneumonia? How could she have gotten that? She's homeschooled, you know, can't have gotten it from other kids…" Abby's mom looked at her daughter nervously and rubbed her back. Abby was holding onto a stuffed bird she got at the gift shop and looked like she couldn't care less about pneumonia.
"Well, we believe that she might have contracted an illness called psittacosis from inhaling infected bird droppings, which can cause all of these symptoms plus the pneumonia."
"She got sick from breathing in bird shit?" Abby's mom quickly covered her mouth with her hand. "Excuse my language. I- er, didn't know that could happen."
Isn't she a doctor? Thought Chase as he explained the disease and course of treatment they would use after it was confirmed.
"Of course, we won't start any treatment until we know it's psittacosis," Chase confirmed. Abby's mom nodded along, looking mortified.
"I swear I tell her all the time to stay away from the birds outside for this very reason, I don't want her getting sick."
Chase assured her that it would be alright, that if it was psittacosis they could treat it and Abby would be fine.
"Thank you so much, I knew House's team could figure it out."
"No problem miss. It's our job after all, figuring stuff out."
~~~
After work, Chase decided to stop by a coffee shop and grab a latte. They had some good coffee, and he thought he should treat himself after everything that happened that day. When the barista asked for his name, he told her the only thing he could think of.
"Put it under Robin."
"Is that spelt with an I or a Y?" she asked. Chase's mind went blank.
"Er- Why-?" Chase was going to ask why it mattered, or anything he could ask to buy time to think, but the barista heard "why" and wrote it down. Chase sat at the table waiting for his drink, fidgeting with his receipt nervously. What if House decided today was a nice day for a coffee after work? What if the barista happened to know Cuddy and told her about this in passing? Nothing bad was likely to happen of course, but he couldn't help but worry.
"Coffee for Robyn?" the barista called out. Chase grabbed it and left as quickly as he could.
Robyn Chase. It was a very nice name, much nicer than Robert had ever been. Not only that, but it felt more like who he was than any other name had. He kept reading the name on the cup over and over again while he drank it, something he had never done. Usually he turned the cup the other way so he didn't have to read the name. I could really get used to being Robyn.
As soon as he got home, he turned on his computer and opened Google. He was going to figure this out. He had to. He'd waited for answers for so long, he was done waiting for them to come to him.
-why do i hate my name
The first result read, 'You might hate your name because it's hard to spell, pronounced weird, or just boring.'
Chase rolled his eyes. Robert was boring, yes, but that's not why he hated it. It was just wrong. It wasn't his name. Maybe he searched up the wrong thing.
-can you be born in the wrong body
This time, he was given resources for a condition called Gender Identity Disorder.
"What does that even mean?" Chase muttered, but he clicked on a link to a website to learn about it anyways. It couldn't hurt to look and see.
'Gender Identity Disorder is a condition in which individual's internal sense of gender does not match their biological sex.'
Chase looked at the screen for a moment, thinking. After all, Robyn was a girls name. Maybe if his internal sense of gender was female-
"Fuck. Fuck!" Chase put his head in his hands. "I'm so fired."
He'd heard horror stories from his patients about this stuff, even so much as being gay being enough for them to be disowned and shunned by everyone around them. Maybe there's a way to fix this.
-how to cure gender identity disorder
'There is no "cure" for Gender Identity Disorder, but people can get gender reassignment surgery to align the body with the brain.'
"There goes that idea…"
He clicked on a link and continued his research for what felt like hours. By the time he was done, he was both relieved and terrified. On one hand, he wasn't alone in feeling like this. There was a word for it, transgender, and there were other people out there who felt like he did. But on the other hand, it wasn't likely he would ever be able to do anything about it. Typically, transgender people underwent a medical and/or social "transition" into their preferred gender. He risked losing his job, his friends, and everything he had if he were to do this. So all he could really do about it was pretend he hadn't just figured out who he really was and pretend that Robyn Chase was merely a mistake that never should have happened. He felt worse than he had before; now not only did he feel like he was stuck as an imposter in his own body, but he knew now that there could be solution—just not one he could have.
Chase spent the next few hours in his room, somewhere he rarely spent time willingly. He was waiting for Foreman to come pick him up, considering it was too late to change plans now. He felt like crying, but there was no way he was going to right before he went out with his coworker. There was one good part of getting out of the apartment, and it was that he could go out, get wasted, then maybe he'd wake up tomorrow and this would all be a weird dream.
Realistically, he knew he should tell Foreman. He felt like he had to tell someone, and Foreman seemed the easiest candidate. But it was dangerous. He couldn't just tell anyone what was going on. He didn't know who he could trust with something like that. And what if he wasn't transgender? What if he was just overreacting to a normal thing everybody felt? There were too many variables for it to be safe to tell anyone, no matter how much it hurt to stay quiet.
"Chase? Are you here?" Chase shot up out of bed as he heard Foreman's voice from the hallway. The clock read 7:58 PM, and Chase hadn't even picked out what to wear.
"I'm in here!" Chase yelled, hoping the volume of his voice would distract from the shakiness of it. Foreman entered the room to see Chase rifling through his dresser as fast as he could, unable to find any clean clothes that looked good. "Sorry, I lost track of time."
"Let me help," Foreman said, shuffling through a few of Chase's things. He went to clear some space on the top of the dresser, his eyes lingering for a moment too long on a particular coffee cup Chase hadn't thrown away.
"That- my friend left that here- I'll go take care of it-" Chase snatched the cup off the dresser with shaking hands and hurried into the kitchen. Once he was sure Foreman was out of direct eyeshot, he quietly placed it into a cabinet behind some other cups. It was stupid, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. He stayed out of the room for a minute, catching his breath. When he re-entered, Foreman handed him an outfit he'd found for Chase to wear.
"C'mon, loosen up Chase. We're going to have fun." The tone in Foreman's voice was the exact same one he used during work and did not suggest "fun", but Chase knew he was trying. Just for that, he smiled a bit, and after Chase changed into his clothes for the night the two hit the town.
~~~
The dread in his stomach did not let up when they arrived at the bar like Chase had hoped. Even after a few drinks, he was still visibly anxious, something the bartender commented on when he ordered another one.
"Hard day or what?"
"Something like that," Chase replied. He looked off into the distance, the bar sliding in and out of focus. He didn't know where Foreman went, or maybe he just didn't remember, but either way he was alone. He wanted to leave; coming out here tonight was a mistake. All he could think about was Robyn, and how badly he wanted to be her. He was tired of living like this, feeling wrong all the time and not truly living.
"You're gonna regret that tomorrow, Chase." Foreman appeared seemingly out of nowhere, making Chase jump a bit.
"I know." Chase's words slurred, obviously under the influence of the drink in his hand.
"I'll drive you home, I've only had a Shirley Temple and some fries since we got here. I don't trust you to get home on your own, no offense."
"Whatever."
Chase downed the rest of his drink quickly and sat at the bar staring at nothing. His eyes stung, while the rest of his face made no acknowledgment of the tears streaming down it. He hated this feeling so much it almost made him sick. A better person than he was wouldn't be hiding something like this to the people they care about, they would've told everyone already and asked for help. But he wasn't a good person anyways, he'd made that obvious. Foreman was chatting with someone he knew from somewhere, and Chase had maxed out on the number of drinks they were allowed to serve him, so he had nothing to do except for sit there and cry about his own selfish cowardice.
The knots in his stomach tightened uncomfortably, his body threatening to reject everything he had to drink that night. His hands shook as he grabbed the wall for support, feeling miles outside of his own body. He stumbled over to the bathroom by himself, clutching his stomach over the toilet while his vision doubled. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, the cold tile pressing into his palms while he tried to keep his head over the toilet bowl in case he actually threw up.
"Chase, is that you in there? We're leaving in a minute. Chase?" Foreman knocked a few times before opening the door to find Chase shaking on the floor, looking about ready to vomit. "Fuck. Chase?"
The bathroom was a only single stall and definitely not the largest, but Foreman quickly kneeled next to him and went to help him up. Chase drunkenly leaned into Foreman, who looked simultaneously worried and concerned.
"'m sorry- I just- I- sorry-" Chase's words were near incomprehensible as he burst out sobbing.
"Shut up, I'm bringing you back to mine." Foreman was practically carrying Chase out of the bar, trying to avoid the people around staring at them. "Just how you managed to get so shitfaced is beyond me-"
Chase was still crying when Foreman got him into the car, his words incoherent despite his efforts. I have to tell him, I have to. I can't take it anymore. I can't.
"Chase, what were you thinking? You're going to get alcohol poisoning or something. What the hell has been going on with you?"
"You're- gonna hate- me-" Chase managed between breaths, still sobbing. He had to say something before the feeling killed him.
"I'll hate you more if you throw up in my car," Foreman told him.
"I- I feel like- not a guy. Like a girl... I dunno." Whatever Foreman had been expecting, it wasn't that. He looked shocked for a second, but the expression was gone as fast as it came. He didn't say anything else at first, just kept driving while Chase rambled on, words barely distinguishable through the layers of alcohol in his system.
"Chase, I don't hate you. I mean- you are who you are, y'know?" Foreman was trying to be supportive, but Chase didn't get it. He doesn't understand, thought Chase worriedly.
"House is gonna… fucking… fire me!"
"House will not fire you. Make fun of you, maybe, but not fire you."
"Everyone'll hate me..!"
"We won't hate you."
Chase was fucked. Foreman doesn't understand and he's gonna tell everyone and I'm gonna have to leave New Jersey, he thought while Foreman drove through town. When he got home he was going to start packing—maybe he could get out before everyone knew.
Foreman pulled into the driveway; Chase got out and immediately ate shit. Foreman rushed over to help pull Chase off the gravel, who nearly fell over again on his way inside. For a moment he forgot Foreman was bringing him to his house and wondered why all the furniture was different.
"You take the couch, I'll take the recliner." Foreman brought Chase a pillow and some blankets. Chase didn't even bother taking his clothes off before he found himself on Foreman's couch, world spinning around him. The living room faded to black and his erratic breathing calmed, temporary peace coming over him in the form of sleep.
~~~
What day is it?
Chase woke up to the grating sound of traffic outside. He tried sitting up, but was immediately hit with a pounding headache that forced him back down. Momentarily, he forgot everything that happened the previous night, and briefly wondered why he felt like shit.
"Chase, are you up?" Foreman called from the kitchen.
It suddenly hit him like a sack of bricks where he was and what happened. He said nothing, merely pulled a pillow over his eyes and groaned in discomfort. His entire body radiated with pain and even Foreman's dimly lit living room was too bright. The events of the previous night unfolded in his head in fragments, hazy and scattered.
He flinched as he heard footsteps approaching, the subtle noise too much for his ears. His stomach ached with regret and anxiety, and the smell of food wafting in from the kitchen made it worse.
"I brought you a glass of water, I'm guessing after last night you're going to need it. I don't know if you remember, but I had to basically carry you to my car."
"I remember." Chase's voice was strained due to a mix of dehydration and fear. I can't stay here. He couldn't stand to face Foreman after last night, after what he'd told him.
"…Chase, please," Foreman said, "I promise it doesn't change anything."
"It changes plenty," Chase replied, "and you know it."
"I'm not going to leave you over it, Chase. I don't think anyone will."
Chase listened to Foreman's footsteps as he walked away, wishing he'd never agreed to go out last night. His heart was pounding so loud he could almost hear it. This was bad. He took the pillow off his face and saw the glass of water on the coffee table next to a bottle of acetaminophen. He considered taking some, but his throat was drier than sand and he didn't know if he could keep anything down anyways.
Foreman knew. He had told him everything. Well, probably not everything, considering he had been too drunk to form many coherent sentences, but enough that he was planning how he would explain this to the team after Foreman told them. Maybe he could play it off as some sort of bit, but he knew that wouldn't work with House. He didn't want to lose them, even if they were only his coworkers they still meant something to him.
Chase sat up on the couch, heart still racing. I have to get out of here. He could go home, sleep this godawful hangover off, and make a plan from there. He did his best to think of anything but his splitting headache and body pains as he pulled himself off the couch and upright. His visioned darkened at the edges as he regained balance, adjusting to the room he was in. He'd never seen Foreman's house before, nor did he remember entering it last night, so he had no idea where the front door was. After searching around for a minute, he found it.
As soon as he opened the door he took a step back in shock. He felt like his eyes were being stabbed despite them having snapped shut as the sun made its way inside. He was overwhelmed by the sudden shock of sunlight and so he closed the door as quickly as he'd opened it, quietly sinking to the floor in front of it. There goes that plan. He was in too much pain to try and stand back up, so he buried his face in his hands and sat with his knees to his chest in front of his only escape back home.
"Chase?" Foreman's voice was far away, like if he was separated from Chase with a layer of fog. Chase made a small utterance of acknowledgment, not able to focus much due to the throbbing in his skull that had been made infinitely worse by the light.
He took his hands off his face and looked up at Foreman. He couldn't even begin to try and convey the amount of emotional turmoil he'd been through the past 24 hours, not to mention the hangover pain he was currently in. He thought of a million words he could say, but nothing came out. He thought of his father, and how many times as a child Chase had tried to talk to him, only to be unable to convey how he felt. He thought about all the times he'd wished he could say something, but couldn't. He looked Foreman in the eyes, wishing his tears could magically make Foreman understand. He put his head back down after a moment, his body shaking with silent sobs. After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Foreman sit down next to him.
"Nobody was supposed to know." Chase's voice quavered. "I don't know how I'll- what will House think? I can't lose my job. I can't- what if I'm not even actually-"
"Forget House. Why does it matter what he thinks? You're still you, even if you're called Robyn instead of Robert." Foreman locked eyes with Robyn, who was no longer crying and was instead wondering how Foreman knew her name. "We can chat later, you need to drink some water and rest, or I'm going to have to bring you to the ER."
~~~
Robyn woke up to find herself in someone else's bed. It took her a minute to realize it was Foreman's, and that she was still at his house. What time is it? she wondered vaguely before deciding it didn't matter and rolling over. The painkillers had kicked in by now, which helped a surprising amount. She felt a lot less like she was dying now that she had actually drank water and slept properly, but she still felt a sense of profound shame that stopped her from returning to her slumber.
I shouldn't have told him. I don't even know- I might not even really be transgender. But the feeling she'd felt when he called her Robyn—it was unparalleled. Having someone look at her and actually see her was so exhilarating. She felt like she'd been liberated from the disguise she'd worn her whole life, freed from the tiresome role she'd been playing for years. She never wanted to go back.
Foreman came to check on her and saw that she was awake, so he sat on the bed next to her. Robyn noticed the box in his hands and sat up to see what was inside it.
"It's not much, but these were my mom's from high school. I don't need them." Inside the box was an assortment of clothes, mostly just shirts and a few dresses, with pretty floral patterns and bright colors. "I don't know if you want them, but if you do, take them."
"Maybe," she mumbled. "I'll try them on, see if I like them I guess." She felt herself blushing with embarrassment, so she turned her focus to the blanket she was sitting on.
Foreman left the room and Robyn sat there with the box of clothes next to her. She waited for a minute, then pulled out a shirt that was pink and white with stripes and pretty bows at the ends of the sleeves. It had a gorgeous satin-like texture Robyn had never felt in men's clothing, and she felt a sense of awe holding it in her hands. She removed the plain green t-shirt she was wearing and slipped into the other one, the fabric smelling faintly of vanilla and old perfume.
Oh wow, she thought, standing up and admiring the shirt in Foreman's mirror. The shirt was beautiful- Robyn was beautiful. It felt weird to see herself in the mirror and not feel—well, weird. This was a new kind of weird, a good kind. She started going through the box, trying on different pieces and appreciating their beauty in the mirror. Eventually, she made it through the whole box and decided she wanted nothing more than to keep it.
It felt weird, thanking Foreman as he dropped her off back at her apartment. She didn't know what to say. Thanks for not hating me and stuff, I hope you don't think I'm stupid and dumb. It sounded pathetic even in her head.
"Thank you for everything," she said instead as she exited the car.
"It's no problem. Just—lay off the alcohol next time."
"No need to tell me twice."
Robyn entered her apartment and went straight to her room, looking for a place in her dresser to put her new clothes.
"I still have to do laundry…" she realized, rolling her eyes. It wasn't like she could wear that pink striped shirt around House, or at least not anytime soon. Maybe one day, she looked at the box longingly as she grabbed her dirty laundry to bring to the washer.
That night, she slept sounder than she had in a long time. Maybe it was leftover tiredness from the night out, or maybe it was because the weight on her chest had been partially lifted, but either way she slept well.
When she woke up the next day, the first thing she saw was the mirror next to her.
And this time, she smiled.