It had been a week.
One week.
One week since the diagnosis.
One week since she left with tears in her eyes.
One week since he had fallen.
One week since he had carefully pulled him out of his tightly curled position, gently rubbing his back as he cried with pain and emotion.
One week since he had suddenly curled again, in agony as his back panged and thrilled with pain.
One week since he had picked him up.
One week since he had carried him to a patient room, grunting with his own pain.
One week since he had sat on the bed next to him and gently brushed a hand over his cheek, wiping away the tears.
One week since the gruff voice had told him that it would be ok, that he wasn't alone, and that he would be ok.
One week since he had closed his eyes with his head resting on a shoulder covered by a rumpled blue shirt, the pain in his heart fading below the pain in his back.
It had been six days.
Six days since he had woken up with his head resting on a shoulder covered by a blue shirt.
Six days since he had tried to sit up and move away, dreading the reaction that he would get when he woke up.
Six days since the pain had caused him to collapse back against the person on the bed.
Six days since a callus-roughened right hand had moved gently over the side of his face, letting him know that he didn't have to pretend it hadn't happened.
Six days since he had rested his head back on the shoulder, closing his eyes with exhaustion.
It had been five days.
Five days since he had seen her as he hobbled down the hallway, a warm arm around his waist.
Five days since she had burst into tears at the sight of him.
Five days since he had turned and looked at him, and asked why the hell he was doing this and what the hell was going on and if it was just because of the diagnosis.
Five days since he had replied that he was doing this because he would have done this before but he hadn't been comfortable enough.
Five days since he had replied that he was helping him.
Five days since he had replied that it was because she had left.
Five days since he had stared at him, mouth hanging open in shock.
Five days since the hand still on his arm to help him balance had withdrawn, and he had looked down at him with uncertain eyes.
Five days since he had nodded and taken an unsteady step.
Five days since he had rested his head on a shoulder covered by a faded woodstock T-shirt.
It had been four days.
Four days since he had woken to find himself lying in a bed in a bedroom with his head resting on a gray T-shirt.
Four days since he had felt a hand carefully massaging his back.
Four days since he had lifted his head and smiled.
Four days since he had smiled back.
It had been three days.
Three days since he had cried out and crumpled to the floor.
Three days since he had told the nurse to page him.
Three day since the hands that were now expected had gently touched him, soothing the pain.
Three days since he had helped him to a hospital bed.
Three days since he had left him on the bed, asleep, to tell Cuddy that they were taking sick days and family emergency days respectively.
Three days since Cuddy had carefully shaken his shoulder, and asked him quietly if he was going to be able to continue working.
Three days since he realized he wouldn't be able to do his job anymore.
Three days since the diagnostics department had gained its sixth employee.
It had been two days.
Two days since he had woken with his face pressed into a shoulder covered by a pink shirt.
Two days since he had woken in a hospital bed for the third time.
Two days since he had bit his lip and tried to fight back the tears, not of pain but solely of emotion.
Two days since his hand had gently rested on the back of his head, fingers stroking his hair and chest rumbling as his quiet words calmed and soothed him.
It had been one day.
One day since he had lain in the MRI, his rough voice crackling over the intercomn every few minutes.
One day since he had lain curled on the bed with his head resting on a shoulder covered by a sky-blue shirt, as a slightly uncomfortable Foreman snapped the black plastic sheet up to the light box.
One day since they had known he would have to go into surgery right away, if he wanted to have any hope at all.
He groaned, slowly waking up.
Brilliant blue eyes were watching him, and as he reached out, a familiar hand gripped his, and a smile twitched onto the stubbled face.
"How did it go?" he asked, not looking away from the familiar eyes.
"They got it all."
Chase nodded, and pulled House close, pressing his face into a shoulder covered by a rumpled blue shirt.
Two days later, he woke with his head resting on a shoulder covered by no shirt at all.