Time Marches On, Chapter Five: Chase
Apr. 7th, 2008 11:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Time Marches On Chapter Five: Chase
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Length: About 23,500 words
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ever Change," fourth season.
Author's Note: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pwcorgigirl, silja_b and topaz_eyes for beta and feedback duties.
Previous chapters here: Chapter One: Cameron, Chapter Two: Taub, Chapter Three: Thirteen, Chapter Four: Foreman
Chase
“Special request for you.” Chase took the file from Parise’s hand. He put down his coffee and opened it, then came to a stop after reading the first few lines on the first page.
“House asked for me?” he asked.
“No,” Parise took the chair next to Chase and sat, slouching into the dark red cushions. “Murphy wants you to scrub in.”
“Why?”
Parise raised his eyebrows, looked at him as if he was stupid. “Because it’s House’s patient,” he said.
Chase knew that Parise didn’t like him. He had made it clear that he thought Chase had taken a spot that should have gone to another candidate, one who’d already gone through the traditional training for a surgical residency.
“I know,” Chase said, “but then why does Murphy want me there?”
Parise gave an exaggerated sigh and flung one leg over the arm of the chair. It was his favorite chair, the one that interns learned to vacate whenever he came in the room. He was in his third year of residency, and loved to flaunt his power, to intimidate anyone with less seniority. He hated the fact that Chase didn’t care about him or his power.
“Because you’re his pet.”
Chase snorted. “Pet? He fired me.”
“Right, he fired you,” Parise said, “then somehow a spot just happens to open for you, that should have gone to someone with real surgical experience...”
Chase rolled his eyes. It was Parise’s usual complaint. He’d made it clear that he thought Chase didn’t belong there.
“Then,” Parise continued, “you end up scrubbing in on every high profile surgery that comes in here.”
“I don’t have any control over that,” Chase said. “Neither does House.”
“No, but Cuddy does. And everybody knows that she does whatever House wants.”
Chase shook his head. The relationship between House and Cuddy was complex, insane. He didn’t understand it, and he’d witnessed it for nearly four years. There was no way that he could ever explain it.
“Besides,” Parise said, “House never barges into the OR when you’re in there.”
Sure he does, Chase almost wanted to say, but then stopped, thought about it. House had shown up when he’d been scrubbing in for surgery, had stopped him as he stepped out of the OR, had let Taub blackmail him. But he hadn’t actually walked in during a surgery.
Chase shrugged. “Not yet,” he finally said.
Parise shook his head. Chase could see that he didn’t believe him, thought he was lying, thought he was covering something up. Unlike House, though, he didn’t push the point, didn’t actually accuse him of anything. And if he wasn’t going to push the issue, then neither would Chase. It wasn’t worth trying to convince him he was wrong, when he’d never admit to being wrong about anything.
“Think what you want,” Chase said. He picked up the file, swallowed down the last of his coffee. “I’ve got work to do.”
Chase read over the report while he walked down the hall. He smiled when he noticed Cameron’s name as the referring physician. She’d caught another case, just as she’d said she could do back when she took Cuddy’s offer.
He’d never doubted it. He knew her choice didn’t make much sense from the outside, but then neither had his.
“I’m glad you want to stay,” Cuddy had said when he’d shown up in her office a week after House fired him. “I was hoping it would be in intensive care.”
She’d gestured at the papers spread across her desk. Chase had guessed that they were the ones she’d prepared with his name on them. “I’ve got a position ready for you in intensive care, if you want it,” she said.
He’d just shaken his head.
“Neonatal?” she’d asked. “You did good there before. It’s hard to impress NICU nurses, but you did.”
Chase hadn’t bothered answering. He knew he could fit in there, but every time he walked past those rooms, he saw Mikey’s body again, another child he couldn’t save.
“I did rotations in surgery back in Melbourne,” he’d said. It was true. He’d even considered surgery back then, but then was drawn into intensive care -- the rapid fire speed of it, the demands to think quickly, to act even faster.
Cuddy had nodded. “I know,” she’d said, “but you’d have to start over here. Residency, no fellowship, no special privileges.”
“I know.”
Cuddy had looked down at the papers, then up at him. “Can you at least tell me why?”
Chase had looked down at the carpet. He wasn’t sure if he could explain it to himself yet, just felt something driving at him, wanting to know more, to do something more, to try new roads, new specialties. He’d told himself that the fact that House had two specialties beyond diagnostics didn’t have anything to do with his own desire to add another to his experience.
He’d looked up. Cuddy had still been waiting. Chase guessed she’d learned patience working with House for years.
“I can do more with surgery,” he’d finally said. “Something’s wrong, you go in and fix it.”
“I thought you’d done pretty well with the part about finding out what’s wrong in the first place,” she’d said.
“I can still do that in surgery,” he’d said, giving her the same answer he’d given Cameron earlier. It hadn’t been a lie, though it wasn’t the whole truth. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he even knew the whole truth now, more than six months later. “There are things you can only see in the O.R.” he said, and leaned forward, looked Cuddy in the eye. “It seems like you’d want someone in the O.R. who knows how to diagnose too.”
She’d stared at him, blue eyes that were darker than House’s, but with nearly the same intensity, the same ability to judge a person’s words and actions. She’d finally nodded.
“No promises,” she’d said, but three days later he’d had the offer: nearly the same money he’d made working for House, but part of the surgical staff.
Murphy had been the first one to get up and shake his hand the morning he’d shown up for the new job.
“House is an idiot,” he’d said. “I’m not.”
Chase had scrubbed in on some of Murphy’s surgeries back when he was still working for House, including one of Andie’s. Now he’d made it clear that he wanted to mentor him. Chase wasn’t complaining. Murphy was a good guy, a great surgeon. He wasn’t House -- no worldwide reputation, no high wire acts -- but that wasn’t a bad thing. He was stable. Comfortable. And Chase reminded himself again that was a good thing.
He wasn’t lying to himself, but still he had to admit that he missed the excitement of working with House. That feeling of being caught up in a whirlwind, of never knowing what would happen next. The satisfaction of knowing that they’d done something no one else could. Surgery didn’t have that. He hadn’t done anything yet that others on the staff couldn’t do.
But surgery had a kind of security that he’d never had with House, and security was a good thing.
He’d nearly laughed when one of the residents bragged about the work they did, comparing the surgeons to cowboys, saying that no other specialty had the same thrills. They didn’t know how much they were missing.
Murphy was already there when Chase walked into the scrub room, meticulously making his way with the soap and scrub brush up toward his elbows. “You do anything with livers yet?” he asked.
Chase turned on the faucet and reached for a soap packet, broke it open. “Observed a couple of transplants,” he said. He worked the soap into a lather between his fingers, under his nails.
“This won’t be that exciting. Three growths, all pretty close together,” Murphy said. “Nothing’s that simple in the liver, but it should be straightforward.” He put down the soap, started rinsing. “We’ll go in, cut them out and send a sample to pathology to confirm.”
“Pathology?” Chase asked.
Murphy nodded and began to rinse off the soap.
Chase scrubbed harder. If House wanted the growths biopsied, that meant that he still didn’t know what was going on. This wasn’t just a resection, it was a diagnostics test. He looked over at Murphy, wondering if he realized that, then wondered if he should mention it.
He didn’t.
“Hurry up,” Murphy said and toweled his hands dry. “I wouldn’t want to start without you.”
Chase nodded. It wouldn’t make any difference if Murphy knew that House was still looking for answers. House would still want it done anyway, and Murphy would still have to do it.
He finished scrubbing, then ran his hands and arms under the warm water. He took a sterile towel, then backed into the O.R.
Chase caught a glimpse of the patient as he put on his gloves. The man was fairly young, and looked pale under the bright lights. A bit of dark hair peeked out from under the surgical cap. He was already sedated, and the anesthesiologist was intubating him.
Murphy motioned to him from the table, and Chase walked over.
“Why don’t you get us started,” Murphy said.
Chase took a scalpel, placed it against the man’s skin. He applied pressure and the first few drops of blood appeared. He pushed past the skin, into a band of yellowish fat and finally into muscle.
“Good,” Murphy said, and took over, making steady progress toward the liver.
Chase remembered the first time he’d seen inside a human body, the way that everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, and yet nothing looked the same as any of the diagrams or photos he’d studied.
He stepped aside as one of the nurses suctioned blood from the incision. He sensed movement from somewhere above them and he looked up, past Murphy to the observation deck. The lights were bright in his eyes and he couldn’t make out any details, but recognized the silhouette: tall and slender, with the right shoulder raised slightly over the left, the right elbow locked tightly against his side, the hand on a cane that Chase couldn’t see, but knew was there.
“He hasn’t said anything yet,” Murphy said. His eyes above his mask were bright -- maybe with amusement, maybe with anger. Chase didn’t know him well enough yet to know what Murphy was thinking. “Maybe House really does trust you.”
Chase shook his head. “House doesn’t trust anyone,” he said.
“Well then, let’s hurry up and get this done, before he remembers that.”
Chase took the familiar steps out from the O.R., past concrete walls and into the dark wood, glass and chrome facade that covered the walls in the public areas of the hospital. The patient was in post-op now, and he was taking the same path he had walked so many times before.
It felt a little like going home, though Chase knew that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but him. Or maybe Cameron. He stepped into the elevator and leaned back against the dark walls and remembered his father’s study in Melbourne with its heavy bookshelves, the garden that Mum had loved, his own bedroom on the second floor with windows that looked out over the hills and toward the ocean.
But that was gone now -- had been for years. They’d sold the house three months after Mum died. He hadn’t even bothered to drive past it once he left. It didn’t mean anything.
Somehow, though, those two rooms upstairs still held him, kept bringing him back. He used to find excuses to go upstairs, to walk past the glass walls. Sometimes he’d tell himself that he was just checking up on the new fellowship candidates. Sometimes he’d convince himself to go check on a patient who happened to be on the same floor. Sometimes he’d just happen to need the bathroom that was just down the hall.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Usually the rooms were empty, just the familiar layout of the table and chairs, all empty, House’s team -- or the people who might someday be his team -- gathered in one of the lecture halls. But sometimes he’d see House in his office, bent over his desk as he read something, or tossing and catching his ball again and again, or sometimes just staring out into space, at something only he could see.
He stopped making excuses for checking on House the day after House jammed a knife into an electrical socket. He’d rushed to House’s room, knowing that he was stable, knowing that there was nothing that he could do, but knowing he had to be there.
“Why ...” He couldn’t even get the question out, and Wilson hadn’t seemed to know what to say. He’d just shaken his head, keeping his eyes on House as he lay there.
A day later, Wilson had found him in the lounge. “Because he’s an idiot,” he’d said, finally answering the question Chase hadn’t been able to ask.
He’d sat next to Chase in the nearly empty room. “He wanted to prove that there was no afterlife.”
Chase had felt his eyebrows raise. “You’re ... you’re joking, right?”
Wilson had leaned back, rubbed at his eyes. “He’s an idiot,” he repeated.
Chase had only nodded. After Wilson left, he’d started to wonder if there had been any signs that House was about to do something stupid, something he or Cameron would have seen if they’d been there. The new candidates wouldn’t know what to look out for, wouldn’t be able to see that moment when House’s curiosity slipped over into obsession.
He went by House’s office more often, stopping outside to watch him, if only for a few minutes. He’d make sure to take a break when he knew House would be in the cafeteria, or he’d arrange to meet Cameron in the lobby when he knew House would be passing through on his way home.
One day House waved him in as Chase paused outside the office door.
“I’ve got a deal for you,” House had said. “It’s a sure thing.”
Chase had found himself nodding as House spoke, explaining how they could both make money from the pool. He found it easy to picture how it would happen, felt how easy it was to once again slide so easily into House’s circle.
“It’s perfect,” House had said. “They’ll never suspect you. They think you hate me.”
“Who says I don’t?” Chase had asked.
House had just leaned back in is chair, the hint of a smile still in his eyes.
The elevator doors opened and Chase shook off the memories, walked out and around the corner. Familiar steps. Just like coming home.
Except.
He came to a stop in the hallway. This wasn’t familiar. The blinds were open, but nothing was where it belonged.
He opened the door, walked in. The shelves that should be against the far wall were at his left. The table was next to the window, its surface piled high with books.
“The ANA was negative,” came a voice. Thirteen. “I ran it twice.”
“It’s got to be cancer,” another voice. Taub. “Paraneoplastic syndrome would explain the effusion.”
The words were familiar, even if the voices weren’t. The give and take of the DDX.
He stepped out from behind the shelves. “It’s not cancer.”
“Who asked you?” House was sitting on the chair closest to the white board, his right hand gripping his leg just above the knee.
“You did, when you asked for the surgery.” Chase crossed his arms over his chest. “We removed the growths and sent a sample down to path, but I took a look. I’m willing to bet you whatever you want that it’s not cancer. They’re cysts. Benign.”
House nodded toward Taub. “Go take a look,” he said. Taub looked at House, then at Chase. He dumped out his coffee and walked away.
Chase stared at the board, his eyes moving along the list of symptoms, then to the possible diagnoses. “Infection” was already crossed out. So was “post-MI.” Chase found himself studying the words as well, trying to think of what else would fit.
“It’s autoimmune,” House said, and took a drink of coffee.
“But the ANA ....” Thirteen said.
“ANA isn’t perfect,” Foreman said. “Some diseases don’t respond to it, and depending on what you’re looking for, up to 20 percent of the time you get a false negative.”
“So why run the tests at all?” Kutner muttered.
“Because up to 80 percent of the time, you get the right answer,” Chase said.
House leaned back. “Run it again,” he said to Thirteen. “Run them all again. Check everything.” He pointed to Kutner, “and take him with you.”
Kutner groaned, but got up and followed Thirteen.
House held out a marker to Chase. “Take cancer off the list,” he said.
Chase paused for just a moment before taking the marker. He uncapped it and stepped up to the board, remembering every time House told him he wasn’t ready for it yet. He put the felt tip against the white surface, then drew a steady mark through the word.
He stared at it for a moment longer, then backed away.
Foreman drew his attention away as he pushed himself back from the table, walked to the coffee maker. House held up his mug and Foreman grabbed it on his way. He held out the pot to Chase, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
Chase waited for House to object, to tell him to go back to surgery. He didn’t.
“Sure,” he said, and pulled out a chair. He leaned back, the top of the chair hitting him in that familiar spot between the T3 and T4 vertebra. He stared at the window, the skies a dark gray beyond the blinds, the wind banging against something loose somewhere beyond the glass making a steel-on-steel rattle. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound, hearing the way the heater blew out hot air into the room.
“I love what you’ve done with the place.” Chase didn’t even have to open his eyes to know it was Wilson’s voice.
He turned and saw Wilson standing in the middle of the room, just past the shelves. He was still wearing his coat, his briefcase in one hand, the other hand on his left hip.
“Better feng shui,” House said.
Wilson looked at the shelves, looked at House. He shook his head and walked further into the room. “I thought I was going to give you a ride in this morning if it was still snowing,” he said.
“Something came up,” House said.
Foreman poured coffee into two cups, put one in front of House, handed the other to Chase.
Wilson put his briefcase on the floor next to a pile of books. He took of his coat, draped it over the back of a chair. “They plowed in the snow around your car,” he said. “You’re going to have to dig it out.”
“Why do you think I kept Kutner around?”
Wilson chuckled, walked over to the coffee maker. Foreman poured him a cup, then poured the rest into his own cup. There was just a little left in the pot when he put it down.
House took a drink. “You forgot sugar,” he said.
Foreman shrugged, took a seat and leaned back. “Get it yourself,” he said.
House didn’t bother, just winced and took another drink.
Wilson took the last empty seat. “Seriously,” he said, “why’d you change everything?”
“Better privacy,” he said. “This way, no one can see in.”
“It would’ve been easier just to close the blinds,” Chase pointed out.
House ignored him. Chase took a drink, let the taste of the coffee linger on his tongue, rich and bitter. It felt good here, somehow still familiar despite all the changes. Or maybe it felt familiar because of the changes. He knew he needed to get back downstairs. He had reports to finish. The emergency room would be backing up, which meant more emergency surgeries.
He took another drink.
“House!” Cuddy’s voice was already raised when she walked into the room. “You forged my signature just to have the janitorial staff rearrange your office?” She was holding out a single sheet of paper. “At time-and-a-half?”
“It was Foreman’s idea,” House said.
Foreman shook his head. Cuddy didn’t even bother looking at him, just tossed the paper onto the table. “I doubt it,” she said.
“I wanted to have Kutner do it,” House said, “but Foreman said that wasn’t a good use of resources.”
“This little stunt of yours is going to cost us more than two hundred dollars,” Cuddy said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re have two choices in how you’ll pay it back: playing nice with some donors, or more clinic hours.”
“Cash isn’t good enough?”
Cuddy held out two fingers. “Donors or clinic,” she said. “There is no third option.”
She turned and left the room, the door swinging shut behind her. House stared at the spot where she’d been, one eyebrow cocked up as he considered his choices.
“I found a flaw in your feng shui,” Wilson said. “No early warning system for visitors. They can’t see you in here, but you can’t see them coming either.”
House rolled his eyes.
Chase took smiled as he took another drink. Just like home. There were just a few sips left. He wanted to stay, but he knew he didn’t belong here. Not anymore.
He swallowed the coffee down, put the empty mug on the table and stood.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. He took one last look in the room on his way out, at the table, at the white board, at House. “Thanks,” he said, and walked out.
Chapter Six: Kutner
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Length: About 23,500 words
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ever Change," fourth season.
Author's Note: Thanks to
pwcorgigirl, silja_b and topaz_eyes for beta and feedback duties.Previous chapters here: Chapter One: Cameron, Chapter Two: Taub, Chapter Three: Thirteen, Chapter Four: Foreman
Chase
“Special request for you.” Chase took the file from Parise’s hand. He put down his coffee and opened it, then came to a stop after reading the first few lines on the first page.
“House asked for me?” he asked.
“No,” Parise took the chair next to Chase and sat, slouching into the dark red cushions. “Murphy wants you to scrub in.”
“Why?”
Parise raised his eyebrows, looked at him as if he was stupid. “Because it’s House’s patient,” he said.
Chase knew that Parise didn’t like him. He had made it clear that he thought Chase had taken a spot that should have gone to another candidate, one who’d already gone through the traditional training for a surgical residency.
“I know,” Chase said, “but then why does Murphy want me there?”
Parise gave an exaggerated sigh and flung one leg over the arm of the chair. It was his favorite chair, the one that interns learned to vacate whenever he came in the room. He was in his third year of residency, and loved to flaunt his power, to intimidate anyone with less seniority. He hated the fact that Chase didn’t care about him or his power.
“Because you’re his pet.”
Chase snorted. “Pet? He fired me.”
“Right, he fired you,” Parise said, “then somehow a spot just happens to open for you, that should have gone to someone with real surgical experience...”
Chase rolled his eyes. It was Parise’s usual complaint. He’d made it clear that he thought Chase didn’t belong there.
“Then,” Parise continued, “you end up scrubbing in on every high profile surgery that comes in here.”
“I don’t have any control over that,” Chase said. “Neither does House.”
“No, but Cuddy does. And everybody knows that she does whatever House wants.”
Chase shook his head. The relationship between House and Cuddy was complex, insane. He didn’t understand it, and he’d witnessed it for nearly four years. There was no way that he could ever explain it.
“Besides,” Parise said, “House never barges into the OR when you’re in there.”
Sure he does, Chase almost wanted to say, but then stopped, thought about it. House had shown up when he’d been scrubbing in for surgery, had stopped him as he stepped out of the OR, had let Taub blackmail him. But he hadn’t actually walked in during a surgery.
Chase shrugged. “Not yet,” he finally said.
Parise shook his head. Chase could see that he didn’t believe him, thought he was lying, thought he was covering something up. Unlike House, though, he didn’t push the point, didn’t actually accuse him of anything. And if he wasn’t going to push the issue, then neither would Chase. It wasn’t worth trying to convince him he was wrong, when he’d never admit to being wrong about anything.
“Think what you want,” Chase said. He picked up the file, swallowed down the last of his coffee. “I’ve got work to do.”
Chase read over the report while he walked down the hall. He smiled when he noticed Cameron’s name as the referring physician. She’d caught another case, just as she’d said she could do back when she took Cuddy’s offer.
He’d never doubted it. He knew her choice didn’t make much sense from the outside, but then neither had his.
“I’m glad you want to stay,” Cuddy had said when he’d shown up in her office a week after House fired him. “I was hoping it would be in intensive care.”
She’d gestured at the papers spread across her desk. Chase had guessed that they were the ones she’d prepared with his name on them. “I’ve got a position ready for you in intensive care, if you want it,” she said.
He’d just shaken his head.
“Neonatal?” she’d asked. “You did good there before. It’s hard to impress NICU nurses, but you did.”
Chase hadn’t bothered answering. He knew he could fit in there, but every time he walked past those rooms, he saw Mikey’s body again, another child he couldn’t save.
“I did rotations in surgery back in Melbourne,” he’d said. It was true. He’d even considered surgery back then, but then was drawn into intensive care -- the rapid fire speed of it, the demands to think quickly, to act even faster.
Cuddy had nodded. “I know,” she’d said, “but you’d have to start over here. Residency, no fellowship, no special privileges.”
“I know.”
Cuddy had looked down at the papers, then up at him. “Can you at least tell me why?”
Chase had looked down at the carpet. He wasn’t sure if he could explain it to himself yet, just felt something driving at him, wanting to know more, to do something more, to try new roads, new specialties. He’d told himself that the fact that House had two specialties beyond diagnostics didn’t have anything to do with his own desire to add another to his experience.
He’d looked up. Cuddy had still been waiting. Chase guessed she’d learned patience working with House for years.
“I can do more with surgery,” he’d finally said. “Something’s wrong, you go in and fix it.”
“I thought you’d done pretty well with the part about finding out what’s wrong in the first place,” she’d said.
“I can still do that in surgery,” he’d said, giving her the same answer he’d given Cameron earlier. It hadn’t been a lie, though it wasn’t the whole truth. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he even knew the whole truth now, more than six months later. “There are things you can only see in the O.R.” he said, and leaned forward, looked Cuddy in the eye. “It seems like you’d want someone in the O.R. who knows how to diagnose too.”
She’d stared at him, blue eyes that were darker than House’s, but with nearly the same intensity, the same ability to judge a person’s words and actions. She’d finally nodded.
“No promises,” she’d said, but three days later he’d had the offer: nearly the same money he’d made working for House, but part of the surgical staff.
Murphy had been the first one to get up and shake his hand the morning he’d shown up for the new job.
“House is an idiot,” he’d said. “I’m not.”
Chase had scrubbed in on some of Murphy’s surgeries back when he was still working for House, including one of Andie’s. Now he’d made it clear that he wanted to mentor him. Chase wasn’t complaining. Murphy was a good guy, a great surgeon. He wasn’t House -- no worldwide reputation, no high wire acts -- but that wasn’t a bad thing. He was stable. Comfortable. And Chase reminded himself again that was a good thing.
He wasn’t lying to himself, but still he had to admit that he missed the excitement of working with House. That feeling of being caught up in a whirlwind, of never knowing what would happen next. The satisfaction of knowing that they’d done something no one else could. Surgery didn’t have that. He hadn’t done anything yet that others on the staff couldn’t do.
But surgery had a kind of security that he’d never had with House, and security was a good thing.
He’d nearly laughed when one of the residents bragged about the work they did, comparing the surgeons to cowboys, saying that no other specialty had the same thrills. They didn’t know how much they were missing.
Murphy was already there when Chase walked into the scrub room, meticulously making his way with the soap and scrub brush up toward his elbows. “You do anything with livers yet?” he asked.
Chase turned on the faucet and reached for a soap packet, broke it open. “Observed a couple of transplants,” he said. He worked the soap into a lather between his fingers, under his nails.
“This won’t be that exciting. Three growths, all pretty close together,” Murphy said. “Nothing’s that simple in the liver, but it should be straightforward.” He put down the soap, started rinsing. “We’ll go in, cut them out and send a sample to pathology to confirm.”
“Pathology?” Chase asked.
Murphy nodded and began to rinse off the soap.
Chase scrubbed harder. If House wanted the growths biopsied, that meant that he still didn’t know what was going on. This wasn’t just a resection, it was a diagnostics test. He looked over at Murphy, wondering if he realized that, then wondered if he should mention it.
He didn’t.
“Hurry up,” Murphy said and toweled his hands dry. “I wouldn’t want to start without you.”
Chase nodded. It wouldn’t make any difference if Murphy knew that House was still looking for answers. House would still want it done anyway, and Murphy would still have to do it.
He finished scrubbing, then ran his hands and arms under the warm water. He took a sterile towel, then backed into the O.R.
Chase caught a glimpse of the patient as he put on his gloves. The man was fairly young, and looked pale under the bright lights. A bit of dark hair peeked out from under the surgical cap. He was already sedated, and the anesthesiologist was intubating him.
Murphy motioned to him from the table, and Chase walked over.
“Why don’t you get us started,” Murphy said.
Chase took a scalpel, placed it against the man’s skin. He applied pressure and the first few drops of blood appeared. He pushed past the skin, into a band of yellowish fat and finally into muscle.
“Good,” Murphy said, and took over, making steady progress toward the liver.
Chase remembered the first time he’d seen inside a human body, the way that everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, and yet nothing looked the same as any of the diagrams or photos he’d studied.
He stepped aside as one of the nurses suctioned blood from the incision. He sensed movement from somewhere above them and he looked up, past Murphy to the observation deck. The lights were bright in his eyes and he couldn’t make out any details, but recognized the silhouette: tall and slender, with the right shoulder raised slightly over the left, the right elbow locked tightly against his side, the hand on a cane that Chase couldn’t see, but knew was there.
“He hasn’t said anything yet,” Murphy said. His eyes above his mask were bright -- maybe with amusement, maybe with anger. Chase didn’t know him well enough yet to know what Murphy was thinking. “Maybe House really does trust you.”
Chase shook his head. “House doesn’t trust anyone,” he said.
“Well then, let’s hurry up and get this done, before he remembers that.”
Chase took the familiar steps out from the O.R., past concrete walls and into the dark wood, glass and chrome facade that covered the walls in the public areas of the hospital. The patient was in post-op now, and he was taking the same path he had walked so many times before.
It felt a little like going home, though Chase knew that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but him. Or maybe Cameron. He stepped into the elevator and leaned back against the dark walls and remembered his father’s study in Melbourne with its heavy bookshelves, the garden that Mum had loved, his own bedroom on the second floor with windows that looked out over the hills and toward the ocean.
But that was gone now -- had been for years. They’d sold the house three months after Mum died. He hadn’t even bothered to drive past it once he left. It didn’t mean anything.
Somehow, though, those two rooms upstairs still held him, kept bringing him back. He used to find excuses to go upstairs, to walk past the glass walls. Sometimes he’d tell himself that he was just checking up on the new fellowship candidates. Sometimes he’d convince himself to go check on a patient who happened to be on the same floor. Sometimes he’d just happen to need the bathroom that was just down the hall.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Usually the rooms were empty, just the familiar layout of the table and chairs, all empty, House’s team -- or the people who might someday be his team -- gathered in one of the lecture halls. But sometimes he’d see House in his office, bent over his desk as he read something, or tossing and catching his ball again and again, or sometimes just staring out into space, at something only he could see.
He stopped making excuses for checking on House the day after House jammed a knife into an electrical socket. He’d rushed to House’s room, knowing that he was stable, knowing that there was nothing that he could do, but knowing he had to be there.
“Why ...” He couldn’t even get the question out, and Wilson hadn’t seemed to know what to say. He’d just shaken his head, keeping his eyes on House as he lay there.
A day later, Wilson had found him in the lounge. “Because he’s an idiot,” he’d said, finally answering the question Chase hadn’t been able to ask.
He’d sat next to Chase in the nearly empty room. “He wanted to prove that there was no afterlife.”
Chase had felt his eyebrows raise. “You’re ... you’re joking, right?”
Wilson had leaned back, rubbed at his eyes. “He’s an idiot,” he repeated.
Chase had only nodded. After Wilson left, he’d started to wonder if there had been any signs that House was about to do something stupid, something he or Cameron would have seen if they’d been there. The new candidates wouldn’t know what to look out for, wouldn’t be able to see that moment when House’s curiosity slipped over into obsession.
He went by House’s office more often, stopping outside to watch him, if only for a few minutes. He’d make sure to take a break when he knew House would be in the cafeteria, or he’d arrange to meet Cameron in the lobby when he knew House would be passing through on his way home.
One day House waved him in as Chase paused outside the office door.
“I’ve got a deal for you,” House had said. “It’s a sure thing.”
Chase had found himself nodding as House spoke, explaining how they could both make money from the pool. He found it easy to picture how it would happen, felt how easy it was to once again slide so easily into House’s circle.
“It’s perfect,” House had said. “They’ll never suspect you. They think you hate me.”
“Who says I don’t?” Chase had asked.
House had just leaned back in is chair, the hint of a smile still in his eyes.
The elevator doors opened and Chase shook off the memories, walked out and around the corner. Familiar steps. Just like coming home.
Except.
He came to a stop in the hallway. This wasn’t familiar. The blinds were open, but nothing was where it belonged.
He opened the door, walked in. The shelves that should be against the far wall were at his left. The table was next to the window, its surface piled high with books.
“The ANA was negative,” came a voice. Thirteen. “I ran it twice.”
“It’s got to be cancer,” another voice. Taub. “Paraneoplastic syndrome would explain the effusion.”
The words were familiar, even if the voices weren’t. The give and take of the DDX.
He stepped out from behind the shelves. “It’s not cancer.”
“Who asked you?” House was sitting on the chair closest to the white board, his right hand gripping his leg just above the knee.
“You did, when you asked for the surgery.” Chase crossed his arms over his chest. “We removed the growths and sent a sample down to path, but I took a look. I’m willing to bet you whatever you want that it’s not cancer. They’re cysts. Benign.”
House nodded toward Taub. “Go take a look,” he said. Taub looked at House, then at Chase. He dumped out his coffee and walked away.
Chase stared at the board, his eyes moving along the list of symptoms, then to the possible diagnoses. “Infection” was already crossed out. So was “post-MI.” Chase found himself studying the words as well, trying to think of what else would fit.
“It’s autoimmune,” House said, and took a drink of coffee.
“But the ANA ....” Thirteen said.
“ANA isn’t perfect,” Foreman said. “Some diseases don’t respond to it, and depending on what you’re looking for, up to 20 percent of the time you get a false negative.”
“So why run the tests at all?” Kutner muttered.
“Because up to 80 percent of the time, you get the right answer,” Chase said.
House leaned back. “Run it again,” he said to Thirteen. “Run them all again. Check everything.” He pointed to Kutner, “and take him with you.”
Kutner groaned, but got up and followed Thirteen.
House held out a marker to Chase. “Take cancer off the list,” he said.
Chase paused for just a moment before taking the marker. He uncapped it and stepped up to the board, remembering every time House told him he wasn’t ready for it yet. He put the felt tip against the white surface, then drew a steady mark through the word.
He stared at it for a moment longer, then backed away.
Foreman drew his attention away as he pushed himself back from the table, walked to the coffee maker. House held up his mug and Foreman grabbed it on his way. He held out the pot to Chase, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
Chase waited for House to object, to tell him to go back to surgery. He didn’t.
“Sure,” he said, and pulled out a chair. He leaned back, the top of the chair hitting him in that familiar spot between the T3 and T4 vertebra. He stared at the window, the skies a dark gray beyond the blinds, the wind banging against something loose somewhere beyond the glass making a steel-on-steel rattle. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound, hearing the way the heater blew out hot air into the room.
“I love what you’ve done with the place.” Chase didn’t even have to open his eyes to know it was Wilson’s voice.
He turned and saw Wilson standing in the middle of the room, just past the shelves. He was still wearing his coat, his briefcase in one hand, the other hand on his left hip.
“Better feng shui,” House said.
Wilson looked at the shelves, looked at House. He shook his head and walked further into the room. “I thought I was going to give you a ride in this morning if it was still snowing,” he said.
“Something came up,” House said.
Foreman poured coffee into two cups, put one in front of House, handed the other to Chase.
Wilson put his briefcase on the floor next to a pile of books. He took of his coat, draped it over the back of a chair. “They plowed in the snow around your car,” he said. “You’re going to have to dig it out.”
“Why do you think I kept Kutner around?”
Wilson chuckled, walked over to the coffee maker. Foreman poured him a cup, then poured the rest into his own cup. There was just a little left in the pot when he put it down.
House took a drink. “You forgot sugar,” he said.
Foreman shrugged, took a seat and leaned back. “Get it yourself,” he said.
House didn’t bother, just winced and took another drink.
Wilson took the last empty seat. “Seriously,” he said, “why’d you change everything?”
“Better privacy,” he said. “This way, no one can see in.”
“It would’ve been easier just to close the blinds,” Chase pointed out.
House ignored him. Chase took a drink, let the taste of the coffee linger on his tongue, rich and bitter. It felt good here, somehow still familiar despite all the changes. Or maybe it felt familiar because of the changes. He knew he needed to get back downstairs. He had reports to finish. The emergency room would be backing up, which meant more emergency surgeries.
He took another drink.
“House!” Cuddy’s voice was already raised when she walked into the room. “You forged my signature just to have the janitorial staff rearrange your office?” She was holding out a single sheet of paper. “At time-and-a-half?”
“It was Foreman’s idea,” House said.
Foreman shook his head. Cuddy didn’t even bother looking at him, just tossed the paper onto the table. “I doubt it,” she said.
“I wanted to have Kutner do it,” House said, “but Foreman said that wasn’t a good use of resources.”
“This little stunt of yours is going to cost us more than two hundred dollars,” Cuddy said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re have two choices in how you’ll pay it back: playing nice with some donors, or more clinic hours.”
“Cash isn’t good enough?”
Cuddy held out two fingers. “Donors or clinic,” she said. “There is no third option.”
She turned and left the room, the door swinging shut behind her. House stared at the spot where she’d been, one eyebrow cocked up as he considered his choices.
“I found a flaw in your feng shui,” Wilson said. “No early warning system for visitors. They can’t see you in here, but you can’t see them coming either.”
House rolled his eyes.
Chase took smiled as he took another drink. Just like home. There were just a few sips left. He wanted to stay, but he knew he didn’t belong here. Not anymore.
He swallowed the coffee down, put the empty mug on the table and stood.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. He took one last look in the room on his way out, at the table, at the white board, at House. “Thanks,” he said, and walked out.
Chapter Six: Kutner
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Date: 2008-04-10 10:51 am (UTC)