The outside world was shut down. The voices, the hands, the moving parts, they were nothing more than white nose. All that there was in this static prison was blood, and a beating, throbbing heart.
Chase gently moved a blood soaked pad away from the heart, glancing up at the monitor to his right. Even the beeping was no disturbance to his solace. The nurses, the hands, the voices, they were all in the background to his masterpiece. All that there was in this world was the patient's heart, exposed to the world in the cool air of the operating room.
This was how Chase saw reality when he was in the operating room. To him, the room was a theater, the operation, the performance. He was an artist, the scalpels and sutures dancing in his hands with unparalleled precision. His words were the law, and all that he commanded came to be. The nurses and the other doctors, they were pawns when it came to his artistry.
The serenity that overcame him in the OR was nothing but an aid in his practice. He had found out long ago, when he had first begun practicing in med school, that the sounds and movements were nothing other than a distraction. All that he had to focus on was the patient that was in his hands, under his care, and everything else would melt away. It eased the strain on his heart, and it eased the panic that often rose in his mind when the blood started welling in his hands. He was a fine performer who kept calm under pressure, and it was this meditative state of concentration that made him so successful at his job.
Despite his tendency to block out the chaos of the world, it wasn't hard to acknowledge the fact that House was staring down from the observation room. The diagnostician was keenly watching for the sight of a rupture in the man's heart, as though he were lusting for the blood to be spilled. When it came to House, Chase had to focus with more intensity than usual to prevent the outside distractions from spilling in. Whether it was House's voice, or the pressure of his very presence, the man had a way of making the process anything but simple.
Swallowing, Chase watched as Foreman stuck another needle in, pushing in yet more pressure to the man's rapidly beating heart. He knew that this was going to be too much, that this man was going to die, right here, right now. But House's voice came crackling in over the speaker, telling them to push more, more. As often as House was right, Chase knew that this was ridiculous. The man's heart was writhing, beating out of control, and there had yet to be any results. They couldn't keep his chest open for much longer, and everyone in the room knew it.
For some reason, they complied to House's request, and Chase felt the white edges of his peace falter. The beeping on the machine rang shrill, and the heart was beating out of control. It seemed for a moment that it was going to stop, give up on them right there, but then Chase saw it. There was a trickle of blood, the very tear that House had been hoping for.
Time was of the essence now, and even though Foreman let out a sigh of victory, Chase was already grabbing gauze to hold over the bleed. The man's artery was torn, and they had only seconds to spare before the man was at immediate risk of death. He reached for the needle on the tray beside him, but he could feel the pulse of blood beneath his gloved hand swell and immediately go out of control. The hole in the arterial wall had burst further, and the blood was flowing freely, uncontrollably. Chase didn't have time to take a breath before a bright wave of arterial blood sprayed into his face, covering his body in the bright red liquid.
In that moment, the serenity was fractured, and Chase felt panic. There were precious seconds left before this man would die, before the rest of his blood would escape his body and he would cease to be naught more than a corpse lying abandoned on a cold metal table. In the back of his mind, Chase could hear Foreman and Taub expressing their panic, the nurses rushing about as they always did for extra supplies, as though that would help when a man's life hung in the balance.
"I can do this" he stated, without intentionally allowing the words to slip his mind. He had to reclaim his peace, his respite from the thunderous panic that was filling the OR. There was no time for the luxury of a deep breath now. The blood was still spraying up, covering his face, but he could see the tear quite easily. His battle now was not the unknown threat that this man was facing, it was just a tear in the flesh leaking blood quicker than a burst pipe. The blood didn't matter, yet it was all that mattered.
With hands as steady as those of a skilled artist, Chase fought through the blood, fought through the voices that expressed any doubt that this man would live. Chase knew he would- this was his operating table, his hands swiftly yanking the closures over the hole in this man's heart. The blood staining his face didn't matter, it didn't matter that the bitterness was coating the inside of his nose, blinding his right eye. There was nothing other than utter belief that he could save this man's life, and the rhythm of that damned machine would return to a regular beat, just with one more stitch.
And just like that, the bleeding stopped, and the machine sang the song of a heart beating with just enough life force. It was only then that Chase let out a sigh, staring down at the heart, pumping with renewed vigor. It was almost as though cheers of victory roared in the distance, as everyone in the room let out a collective breath. This man was saved, and he would live to see another day, with Chase's quick fingers as his saving grace.
It wasn't time to celebrate yet- Chase still had to focus on closing the man up and sending him to post-op for recovery. His chest was still open, his heart was still exposed, and there was still work to be done. Without so much as another word, and a quick nod of his head to House, Chase began to stich the man shut, pull back together the pieces of his body that had been forced apart. He couldn't mind the blood for now, however ill the feeling was as it clung to his face.
As the operation ended, and the man was pulled away, Chase's white peace melted apart. He saw smiles, he felt warm hands on his back congratulating him for another job well done, as though he needed some sort of award for not letting a patient die in his hands. Foreman and Taub had already disappeared with the patient, leaving Chase alone in the room with two women who were disposing the rest of the soiled medical supplies.
Broken from his stupor of concentration, the feeling of blood on his face came back to him at that moment. It was half dried by now, sticky and sour. Though the mask covering his face had shielded his mouth from the foul liquid, the rest of his face had not been spared. He could feel it sticking against his eyelid, smeared across his cheek. It had stung his eye when it had initially covered him, but now, his vision didn't even blur. The blood was covering any exposed skin on his right side, and it was beginning to feel heavy. The operating room was suddenly too cold, and House was gone from observation. The two nurses had walked out, and he was left all alone.
With his head spinning, Chase burst from the doors of the operating room, and stripped down as quickly as he could. It was as though he could smell the blood stronger than ever, and it was almost as though it were suffocating him. He wasted no time in rushing to the sink and scrubbing his hands, his arms, trying to get the last traces of blood off. It was nearly in a frenzy he worked, rubbing his hands until they were red and raw.
It was only when he expended nearly all of his energy that he realized he had failed to tend to the blood on his face, and that was the thought that drove him to a constricted chest and tight, wheezing breaths. Although the signs of anxiety weren't hard for the skilled doctor to recognize, that didn't make bearing the symptoms any easier. His hands trembling, they had never trembled like this before, Chase bolted from the prep room and towards the locker rooms, towards the showers.
The walk had passed in a dream, and now it was in that same state that Chase was turning on the water as hot as he could, not bothering to strip off his clothes as he went. It was enough to feel the water run down his body, splash hot against his face, finally starting to pry away the crimson that dyed his skin with such brilliance.
Though the water started the job, Chase resorted to his hands to do the rest, rubbing at his cheek and his nose and his eye, trying to get the blood off as quickly as he could, all the while battling his own racing heart and wheezing breaths. The thought that his own veins were pumping with the very same substance that had splattered his skin had shaken him, as had the adrenal rush as he stitched together the heart of a dying man.
There was no name for what Chase was feeling, and even as the last strains of copper swirled down the drain, he swore that he could still smell that bitterness. Every time he closed his eyes he saw blood dripping, like a clip from some nightmare that he couldn't stop reliving.
It was against his will that he let out a small moan of pain, but it was his will that broke as his trembling knees finally gave way. With burning eyes he slid to the floor of the shower, splashing into the water that had puddled on the tiles. The soaking cotton strained against his joints, pulled at his skin with an incredible amount of discomfort, but that wasn't even a thought that crossed his mind.
Only then, prone on the floor of the hospital showers, did Robert Chase begin to cry. The tears were silent at first, but once he was assured that the sound of running water was covering his presence, he let the first whimper slip past his lips. His shoulders were still trembling from the burden of anxiety, and it was still hard for him to draw in a full breath without wheezing. But the water had washed away all of the blood, not all of the pain.
Chase was left staring at the white tiles, and at the same time, staring at his fate. He had never cried over a patient who hadn't died, and even in the cases they had, there were few instances where tears had been shed. But never before had blood rushed out of a vein with such intensity, a situation that they as doctors had induced, to soak his skin as it had.
Replaying the operation in his head, he could vividly feel the pulse of blood beneath his fingers as he tried to ebb the flow, hunt for the path he needed to use in order to repair the tear. He had operated blindly, letting his skills as a doctor guide him through the situation. There had been breaths held, there had been chaos, and with not even seconds to spare he had pulled through with a swift and definitive hand.
Rubbing his temples with his free hand and choking back a loud sob, Chase realized just how alone he was. When he held a scalpel in his hand, when the patient was there under his watch, it was up to him whether that soul lived or died on that table. It wasn't as though this was a subject he had never thought of before, but the events of that morning had done all but stagnate his concerns.
Again he felt the blood hot against his face, and swore under his breath, wondering how he had managed to fight and save that life in such distress. The outside world had ceased to exist, and all he had seen was that beating, bleeding heart. At the thought, his own heart began racing again, and he pounded a fist against his chest in a futile attempt to still it. The tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes, and as his body shook, all he wanted was someone who could hold him close.
This episode carried on, this feud of doubts and panic playing through his mind at the speed of lightning. The blood was a theme that he could not escape, and with each breath he took between whimpers, he swore that he could taste copper washing across his tongue. But even the most intense feelings could only last so long, and as time carried on, the whimpers faded, and the tears did as well. The steam of the hot water had filled the small space, and there wasn't a spot on his body that wasn't saturated with moisture.
Still curled upon himself on the tiled floor of the shower, Chase drew a deep breath, his mind slowly fading to numbness. The surgery was over, the man was alive. His expertise was indeed what had saved the patient in the end, and he had no reason to weigh the doubts that teased the back of his mind. The shadows had begun to retreat, and peace had begun to restore his usual heart rate. But there was nothing that he could do, no deep breathing or self-assurances, that made the terrible longing for someone to be there ebb.
Just as he was about to gather himself to his feet, to sort himself out from the mess that he had made for himself, a sound came to his ears. It sounded like footsteps, though their sound was nearly muffled by the water. As Chase strained his ears, though the sounds were fading, he could hear the distinct rhythm.
A step, a subtle thunk, and another step. The same three beat cycle again and again until it faded out of earshot, the sound of a rubber stopper hardly audible on the tiled floor, but it was a sound that Chase had heard many times before. There were no words spoken then, for he couldn't summon any, and Chase let his jaw hang open in surprise. He hadn't been alone through his suffering- House had been there. The realization sunk in, slowly, but it reached his mind in the end.
House, of all people, had been there for him, however silently. House knew.
For a few moments, Chase was terrified that House would make cruel remarks, taunt him, or even fire him. But he remembered then another detail from the earlier operation; House's piercing blue eyes, staring at him from above, as though the man were God himself. He recalled the voice as it crackled through the speakers, the assuredness, but also the concern. House played God, but he knew the distinction; in the end, he was indeed only playing. He was human, just like the rest of them. And that meant that he could pity, just like everyone else.
Chase knew that these weak moments of his would be kept silent, just as House had during the surgeon's personal suffering. This moment would be stored away in his mind, but only for an analysis later on. Chase knew well enough how House worked, and as he peeled his soaking shirt away from his body, he was at ease knowing that he was indeed not alone.
Thank you all so much for reading! If you didn't know, this one-shot was based off of an episode in season 7, I believe 7.14 to be exact, where the surgery goes as described, but of course, I figured that Chase would let it get to him a little for the sake of a good story :) I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for taking the time out of your day to read this!