In the beginning, he's Wilson.
He's not completely sure of that, but he must be because this has to be what it feels like to die.
He has a monstrous headache, and each slight muscle twitch sends waves of pain throughout his entire body. He's lying on some ratty couch, because in the back of his mind he knows trying to stand will tie his stomach in knots and he'll end up on the floor, in roughly the same position. After a while, the room comes into focus.
House is lying on the couch opposite him. But it's not the right House. Or at least, he doesn't think so. He quints closely at the older man. Yes, it's House, circa 2004. Not what House looked like when he died. This is the House he first knew.
House hands him something. It's a cigarette, home rolled. Probably weed.
Without thinking he takes a long drag. "You know what sucks about cancer?"
"What?" Says House, his eyes glazed over.
"It kills you."
"Marijuana can do that, too."
"Yeah, but it's cooler."
His ears are ringing. A high, shrill sound that comes out of nowhere with the soul purpose to assault his ears. He jams his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears, but he can't block it out. It's not coming from in the room, it's not coming from anywhere.
m m m
The scene changes.
He appears to be himself again. At least, his hands are; long, surgeon's fingers. He can't quite focus on the rest of him, the pain in his head is so intense.
He's in House's office. No, that's wrong. It's his office. Even in this state he must correct himself.
He peeks into the adjoining conference room, and sees a figure lying on the couch. He walks forward to get a closer look at who it is. He pushes the door open and enters the room, walking around the table.
The person is small. Their hair is black. They appear to be asleep, but he can't quite see their face.
"Park?" He says. There is no reaction. He bends down toward her, and notices that her limbs are splayed out in odd directions, not quite natural. It takes a moment for his brain to make the connection, once he sees her face.
Her head has rolled to one side, the neck broken so badly that it can't support her head. She stares at him with vacant, unseeing eyes.
He tries to scream, but nothing comes out. His throat feels like it's on fire.
"Park!" he chokes out after a moment. "Park." And he knows she can't hear him.
"She's gone." Behind him is a woman. He knows her.
She has the voice of Cameron. The face of Thirteen. The hair of Masters. The name on her badge is Adams.
He looks at her, or it, with confusion. As he watches, the features keep changing. Going through all the woman he's known—his mother, his sister, patients, nurses, old girlfriends. Until he's looking at Park again, standing there, alive. But her body's still on the couch. She's in two places at once.
His head throbs. He's close to tears.
"Chase," Park, the alive one, calls his name. "Chase, are you okay?"
He tries to shake his head, but she can't seem to see it. "Chase! Can you hear me?"
"Yes!"
"Chase?"
m m m
Chase's eyes shoot open.
Everything is blurry. His breathing is ragged, burning his raw throat. His headache is real, and shrouds everything in pain, and his stomach can't quite decide if it's part of the problem or the solution. His pajama pants and white t shirt are soaked with sweat, but he's got cold chills causing goosebumps all over his skin.
Park's face is inches from his, her brow furrowed in worry. "Chase?"
He can see her clearly now. She's alive. In jeans and a t shirt, she's crouching down so her eyes meet his. Behind her, he can see his own living room and coffee table. He's on his couch, he's pretty sure.
"Park, thank God." He rasps. "how'd you know?"
"You called me." She replies, looking at him like he's lost his mind. "Like, half an hour ago. You just said, 'I need help' and then hung up. I knew it was you because you're the only Australian I know. Also I have caller ID. Tried to call you back, but you didn't answer." And then, "Of course I came. Scared the shit out of me."
It's starting to come back to him, in increments. He'd gotten up at five, as usual, because he liked to take a run and have a slow breakfast before leaving for work. But he'd slept badly the night before and woken up feeling like complete shit. He'd stumbled into the living room, grabbing the cell phone on the coffee table and calling the person he felt safest with. Then promptly passed out again. The clock on the wall told him it was five thirty in the morning. She had come. He wasn't sure he trusted anyone else.
She takes his pulse and feels his forehead. "Come on." She says, getting to her feet and leaning over him. "Let's get you back to bed."
She drags him to his feet, and he leans most of his weight on her as she leads him back to his bedroom.
"I think I'm dying." He says weakly, as the pain in his head is reignited by movement.
"You're not dying, Chase." She responds. "You have the flu. You'll live."
He groans in response.
She gets him back in bed, piles blankets on him, though he's still cold. "I'll find you some acetaminophen."
"And a barf bucket?" His stomach is not heading anywhere good.
"And a barf bucket."
She begins to head toward his kitchen.
"Chi," He says from his bed. "thank you."
She raises an eyebrow. "You must really feel like death if you're calling me by my first name."
He might've chuckled, but it ends up as a wheezing sound accompanied by a grimace. He really looks like shit.
She looks at him for a moment longer before going off to find him relief.
Author's Note: Well, that's it. Just a one shot that came to me on a restless night. Reviews are much appreciated!