Phoenix
T.V. Show: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Cameron
Author: Foxes' Dreams
Summary: Tense with the anguish of spiritual struggle, Chase is no longer able to defeat the trauma of being alone. Even though he had been missing Cameron's cautious whispers of innocence and complexity, her return might be the real approach of doom.
Chapter 1 - Jaded
Chase agonizingly felt his soul, his dimity dying. He laid in peaceful quiet, barely covered by the silk sheets of the old bed he didn't bother to arrange every morning. He was aware of the fact that he used to sniffle the fruity, exotic smell of his ex-wife's blonde curls. He could still touch and observe his former lover's embossed features, and the feather-like skin he caressed in most intimate moments, when they were both lost in the mutual attraction and waves of euphoria.
But, all things have a start and an end, and their finality proved to be a catastrophic, bittersweet one, marked by the heartbreaking effect it had on them. His nightmares were sometimes vivid, plagued with emotion and intensity. Behind his tightly closed eyelids, there was always a conflict of interests.
Sometimes, he felt the immediate surge to take the first plane to Chicago and to put all his past mistakes in order and in the darkest times, he blamed himself mostly for over-caring.
The night was charged with negative impulses, his body becoming a temple of powerful sins he was not prepared to overcome. The late-night slips had become a lethal addiction for him. He found himself being trapped in the poisonous world of guilty pleasures. His behavior and demeanor had changed, he was the exact definition of a blossoming self-destructive man.
Chase extended his arm just to touch a bare, cold shoulder being supported on the lilac pillow. He inertly groaned as he remembered the perilous, strenuous activities that he used as an excuse for self-loathing. He saw a dim light coming out from the small, coquettish bathroom and he quickly slapped hard his spiritually injured chest with his chiseled palm as an internal auto-punishment.
The alcohol was violently rushing through his veins and Chase could swear he could feel his head pounding loudly with greasy contents and his heart echoing off the unstylish, grey-hued walls.
Water is essential for life and Chase's medical mind instructed him to hydrate his body. He slowly got up and tested the shallow, wooden floor. His frozen feet brushed the uniform tiles of oak wood into which heavy drops of vodka had infiltrated in a matter of seconds. He wasn't able to recognize himself in the narrow mirror, partially masked by a cloak of smoke, which derived from his insane attempt to drown into sorrow. He noticed the motionless body laying in the uncomfortable bathtub, but he paid no special attention to it since all the nightly profanities would transform into dissolution when Chase regained his professional composure.
His palms were painfully rigid and stiffened, his brawny chest was crossed by deeply imaginary and bleeding scars, a fatal memory of his intoxicating behavior which had become strictly regular. Chase splashed his overworked face with cold, frigid water, trying continually to make contact with the harsh reality. His head throbbed agonizingly as he imagined his last passionate encounter with Cameron. He instantly prayed for a moment of calmness without her ghostly fingertips haunting his tensed jawline.
He was drowning in regret, a voiceless sigh escaping his slightly swollen lips, images of Cameron flashing before his passive and irresponsive eyes. He was still conscious, with his delineate judgement only partially affected, but still he couldn't escape the occasional guilt. He was sometimes buoyed by the salient taste of losing. He hid dozens of crucial retorts behind his mask of an adequate, idle figure,irrationally vulnerable and forever altered.
A vague sense of homelessness crept in the pit of his stomach, a labyrinthine rush of acidity and metallic taste occupying his capability of actually distinguishing normalcy and a strangely ritualistic feeling. Chase felt oddly intrusive even though he was resting in his own canopy bed, the shifting idea of trespassing a personal boundary scrutinizing that particular night. Tension fell away to an oddly somber hush, an unexpected pang of exhaustion defeating any sensation of betrayal or potential ruin. He ignored his function of harmless observer, all the miserable things that vied for attention fading progressively as he drifted into inaction, into a bereft nap.
The dawn showed itself in the pitch-black horizon, displaying only a foggy, humid atmosphere, a cumbrestone and slow day crowning in the silent and misjudged timeline. Chase was still poised on the edge of precipice, balancing between sin and confidence, as a reckless, overwhelming pain contorted all his limbs. He was still not ready to face a newly whirling beginning, but he still got up from the crumpled bed, whimpering sympathetically at the transition. The agonizing haze of a brutal hangover made him feel dizzy, almost stumbling over an article of clothing thrown carelessly on the dusty and slightly moldy floor.
On wobbly feet, he walked to the closet that was in his close proximity, not even bothering to rinse the negative layer of disillusionment and orgy. Chase was still trapped to in a deliberate scheme of forgetting and forgiving, a plan of which results failed to lighten up the cracked and irreparable soul. He figured a paraphernalia of illness, victimizing himself and retreating in a cocoon of regrets where he could mourn the letdown without any interruptions.
His silver-grey shirt was obviously crumpled, his shoes slightly muddy and traced by wrinkles, the whole outfit impaired and uncoordinated.
With no other word or logical phrase, he left, feeling the rainy weather of Princeton ingraining in his pores.
The frigid drops of rain seemed to have no effect on Chase, he was basally allowing miniature ice cubs to cascade down his deep frown. He walked into the hospital with punctuated steps, hiding himself behind a mask of glassy-eyes impassivity. He received genuine stares of worry from a couple of nurses as they started to realize how serious his strongly colored dark circles that bluntly covered his face were.
His face seemed to blotchy, somehow continually bloated with unshed tears that had been striving for an outlet ever since Cameron's exit from his life.
He entered the lounge of the diagnostic department wordlessly, his dark hued coat and leather briefcase landing carelessly on a chair as though he poured out white eel from within.
House's somber figure came into the room along with its arrogant figure and a voice ready to be between contemptuous amusement and actual malice. Instantly, pairs of eyes scrutinized him mercilessly, exhaling only pitiful whimpers.
"So, wombat. Hard night? Too many hookers getting into your pants, too much booze for you to handle?" House said with his normal acidity, the conceited smile breaking dimples in his cheeks.
"Don't we have actual medical cases to solve?" Chase retorted just as bitterly, fumbling with the leather case of the file as though it was an inconsequential burning.
"Thirty year old male, presented to the ER with abnormal sounds during breathing, copious salivation and spontaneous facial cyanosis," He continued with his voice equal and stern, with no curiosity hidden behind his tone.
"Eosinophilic pneumonia could explain the difficulty in breathing," Masters tried to interfere, failing to assess basic notions and receiving only hazily cloudy huffs in response.
"It doesn't cause acute cyanosis. How about pellagra? A severe vitamin B3 deficiency might explain the excessive salivation," Foreman contraindicated, punctuating his opinion with a sneer or more likely a grim scowl.
It was as thought the sense of collectivity was crashing down, fatal dozes of venom veneering between them.
"Vitamin B3 has nothing to do with the lungs. But the serotonin syndrome can explain all his conditions, especially since we don't know any previous medication he had taken," Taub adventured himself in the diagnosis, digits chanting on the glass table. He felt refuted, completely demure and appealing, in contrast to Chase, who was in a rankling shadow.
"The tox screen ER performed was negative. The substances need to be in his bloodstream to onset the syndrome," Foreman dodged, dissolving another plausible explanation.
"Pulmonary fibrosis can easily affect the lungs hard enough to produce abnormal sounds during breathing," Masters indicated, toes curling under the pressure of being new. She felt oddly intrusive, sensing people staring at her with pure resentment.
"No, it doesn't harm the salivary glands. Nothing fits perfectly," Taub raised his voice indulgently, every little drop of hope perishing. He seemed beyond exhausted, his head supporting itself in the rigidity of his palms.
A stolid silence pervaded the atmosphere. The case seemed to be indescribably difficulty, especially with Chase's minimal implication. Sorrow was coming in waves and he was drowning in that fastidious morning.
"The guy has a tracheoesophageal fistula. It is the only rational option. Moreover his medical record shows that he was polyhidraminous in the uterus. That's the classic sign for a fistula," Chase explained indecisively, with his words so cold and despaired. His eyes were utterly transfixed to the file, he was fruitfully ignoring his colleagues.
"Fistulas are extremely rare in adults," Masters began to disagree, shyness creeping into her volatile voice.
"Have we ever dealt with something normal?" Chase retorted harshly, between gritted teeth. His blood was pulsating incoherently in his veins, tension coming to the ultimate breaking point.
"Do some plain chest radiographies to confirm," House said with his dim satisfaction dazzling within him. "And better book the OR for a laryngectomy," He continued, puffing air out of his body, transmitting around him the virtue odor of pills and freshly brewed coffee.
After being dismissed with their usual tasks, the team was slowly traversing the glass door when House's metallic and commonly zealous voice interrupted their routine.
"Doctor Chase," He called, redolently moving a reddish lollipop between his ardent lips. His composure was as always oscillating between intimidating and jokingly, with his legs propped on the desk.
"I'm not in the mood for any of your reckless mind-games, House," Chase said monotonously, barely making the minimal effort to fully turn.
"You're going to a conference on general surgery in Atlanta," House announced with the maximum level of clearness in his demeanor.
"No, I'm not," Chase reacted immediately, frowning deeply and clenching the side of his jaw. His mechanism of defense was once more activated.
"You'd better pack your thingies, kangaroo. New land is coming," House said in the same comradely sassiness. He eyed his employee with gloomy insistence, trying to decipher why he was so hesitant.
"Can't you stop with this crap and tell me the actual reason why you're sending me," Chase contorted into words, feeling a sense of helplessness coiling in the pit of his stomach whilst his fist jabbed the side of his trousers.
"Cuddy is enough reason for both of us," House reasoned, the lollipop perilously dangling off his slender fingers.
"Why should I-" Chase tried vainly to intervene, to change the almost imminent departure. He was unwilling to leave Princeton, his energy was completely drained from his veins.
"Your flight is tonight," House announced with gruesome patience. It was lukewarm obvious he was aware of what the conference might bring Chase into vision.
He left the bureau with a sort of trampled and inward protest, feeling not only panicky, but also trapped in a world where nobody could tell him anything bluntly, with numerous further confusing additions.
Chase bypassed his colleagues irresponsibly, feeling their confused gazes bewilder the cruel and methodic drama that was unfolding in front of him. He just strode with nothing but a strong facade of fussy diffuseness claiming his contracted face.
Author's Note: This great prompt was given to me by red-lighting. I quickly fell in love with it, so I hope we can all share this feeling. Basically, it is my summer challenge, my first chance to write a novel.
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