Chase doesn't feel good.
But he has to go to work, because they have a patient, and House probably won't be there until ten.
So he drags his ass out of bed and gets dressed.
He's surprised, when he stumbles into the differential room, and House is already there.
He's even more surprised to suddenly find himself lying on the carpet, face-down.
He slowly picks himself up, and wobbles over to the table, slumping over the cool glass surface as he pretty much melts into a chair.
He lies there for a while, too exhausted to move.
There's a cool hand on his forehead, and it feels tremendously nice.
He makes a little hitched sighing noise, as the hand rests there.
He hears a chuckle, and frowns, as the hand withdraws.
He's woken, by something sticking in his ear.
He's too tired to care.
A hand grips his arm, and he allows it to half-drag his stumbling form over to the recliner in House's office.
He lies down on it, and starts coughing.
There's a cup pressed into his hands, and he drinks the cool water.
He closes his eyes, and sleeps.
The next time he's aware, there's a cup pressed to his lips.
He drinks, and warm, spicy liquid flows down his sore, sore throat.
He manages to get his eyes open a little, but all he sees is a rumpled shirt and hands holding the mug.
He closes his eyes again, but keeps drinking.
It tastes like cinnamon.
He can't keep it down, though.
Someone pulls the stray strands of his hair out of his face, as he vomits.
He slumps over the arm of the chair, whimpering quietly.
Someone wipes his face with a wet towel, and he closes his eyes, trying to keep his stomach from rebelling again.
His arm is over someone's shoulders, as he stumbles along.
He's in a car, and he's carsick, and he heaves out the window.
He's on a couch, and he's not wearing a shirt, and there's a damp towel laid over his forehead.
He slowly pulls it off, and sits up.
He needs a bathroom. Like, now.
"Hello?" he calls, and his voice is hoarse and barely audible.
A head sticks out of a doorway, and then the rest of House emerges after it.
"You passed out. A bunch. Or slept. Anyway, Wilson got you here."
Chase nodded weakly, then rasped, "I need to use the bathroom."
House pointed.
Chase got up, wobbled a few feet, and fell.
Then he flushed even redder than his fever was already making him, and hung his head.
"Please tell me you did not just void yourself."
Chase lowered his head even farther.
He heard House sigh, and then a hand under his armpit, and his body being pulled upright, and half-dragged into the bathroom.
He pulled his pants and boxers off and sat on the toilet, miserably.
House lifted the pile of fabric off the floor into a trash can with the far end of his cane, and limped out.
Chase sat, completely naked and shivering, in House's apartment bathroom.
Eventually, House came back in and handed him a long t-shirt with the name of some pharmaceutical company on it.
"Here," he said, "I don't care if you poop on it."
Chase smiled, faintly, and pulled it on.
Then he stood, and wobbled his way back out to the couch.
He crawled onto the cushions, and slept.
House watched him, a half-smile tracing his lips.
"Get some rest, Chase," he said, quietly, brushing his hand over Chase's flushed cheek.
Chase woke a while later.
But he was in House's recliner in the office.
Not House's apartment.
He was dressed in scrubs, not a t-shirt.
He sat up, shakily.
He had no idea what he had dreamt, and what had been real.
House sat on the couch, while Wilson knelt on the floor, scrubbing in an attempt to get the smell of Chase's pee to go away.
House yawned, leaning back, "you think he'll remember?"
Wilson looked up at him, smiling.
"He'll probably think it was just a dream."