He's waiting. His little joke, his little bit of recklessness with the total confidentiality into which he's sworn, is making him prickle with vertigo. Anyone could notice. But they won't.

When Dr Cuddy passes, for example, she's drowsy, over-paper-worked, noticing little, caring less. He does not register. He's furniture.

He looks down, fiddles with a soft, threadbare patch on his shoulder, yawns.

Dr Foreman, next, on his way out, bids him a good night- he's corrected; it's really a "Good morning;" they roll their eyes together, camaraderie brought out by the late hour- and finds nothing extraordinary in his colleague's appearance. He's beat. To catch Foreman's attention now would require some pretty shocking symptoms, and even his noticing these isn't certain once he's off duty.

Yeah, Chase smiles: no worries there. He falls to scuffing his feet, checking his watch.

And there's a lengthy interim, perhaps a whole half hour, before Dr Cameron, let off duty at the same time as the other two, now emerges from the women's cloakroom. Tempted to say something light, despairing, about women and their preening, her colleague nonetheless lets it pass, steps aside to let her do the same. Things are still a little prickly between them; she smiles. She does notice that his blue jacket's missing, but he looks warm enough in his replacement. She won't look for too long, anyway, for fear that he might take it the wrong way. She walks by.

He stays where he is.

He doesn't notice Dr Wilson's approach. There's bemusement on the doctor's face; he reaches out to tap his colleague's shoulder, the worn, lighter-colored patch, nearly cautious.

The other man starts. His head spins.

Wilson's is spinning too. "Chase?"

"Yes?"

"This,"- tapping again, perhaps harder than necessary- "doesn't it belong to Dr House?"

"Sorry?"

"It's House's jacket."

Seeing Chase's disbelieving blush underlines the significance he had already assumed.

He recoils, face odd, eyebrows in turmoil.

They face one another. Neither is sure that the other completely understands.

"Isn't it?"

Chase blinks, itching, mortified. He doesn't realize that Wilson's frown is not only of disapproval, but pain: a melting ache as at once he sees the breadth of the shoulders within that jacket, the way it is worn across the slender chest, and remembers the feel of its cool lining on his own wrists.

The jacket is gray; a crisp, severe, schoolmasterly cut in a smooth fiber of unexpected warmth.

Upstairs, in his office, as he readies himself to switch off for the night, Gregory House ignores his burning ears.