WARNINGS: sex


Chapter Three

The inside of the lab looks as though it might have been invaded by a small army of elementary school children. Every horizontal surface is covered in home goods, an assortment of toiletries, and the contents of a very large toy chest. It's well after midnight; the usual staff has gone home hours ago, leaving the building filled with a strange sense of hollowness, as though the darkened corridors might be populated by ghosts, the embodiment of loss and regret.

"I don't understand why House wants us to do this now." Cameron surveys the lab with a feeling of utter hopelessness, the exhaustion of a seventeen hour workday sinking into every pore. It's the first time they have spent more than half a day's work on a case in the four months she's been here, the first time she has seen House become truly fixated beyond logic or reason.

Chase shrugs, sitting heavily on one of the stools and lining up the toiletries along the edge of the bench surface for testing. "The kid started bleeding internally. We need to get to the bottom of it."

"He's stable now," Cameron protests, though she feels a twinge of guilt at her own unprofessionalism. "He'll be monitored all night. We'd be able to think more clearly if we'd had any sleep at all." In any other hospital, these tests would be unavailable until morning, until the regular lab staff was in to perform them. Still, Chase has not complained about the length of their workday or the lateness of the hour, and that makes her feel terribly inadequate. She has always prided herself on diligence, on her ability to get ahead by sheer tenacity if not natural talent.

"House doesn't really care how well we can think," says Chase, not looking up as he labels a series of miniscule test tubes, his handwriting meticulously neat. "Not when he's caught up in a puzzle like this. He just wants us to bring him the information he needs as quickly as possible. He's probably sleeping in his office right now anyway."

"Well, that's great," snaps Cameron, immediately regretting her tone. Chase is completely calm, inscrutable, scarcely even showing any signs of exhaustion. Another misplaced assumption, thinks Cameron. She'd pegged him as lazy because of his casual acceptance of inactivity, but he seems equally at ease working through the night.

"You'll get used to it," says Chase indifferently, opening up a bottle of lotion and using a small spatula to scoop a specimen into one of the test tubes. "Either that or you'll quit."

"Thanks," Cameron retorts, watching him work for a moment, too irritated to focus on the materials she's supposed to be testing. "You're not going to wear gloves? Goggles?"

"What, to test shampoo and makeup?" Chase snorts, snapping the tube neatly shut. "God forbid I might get some soap on my fingers."

"You could contaminate the samples." She's being childish again, but there's something infuriating in his tone, in the way House's constant onslaught of ridicule, of tests, seems to leave him completely unscathed. "And we're looking for toxins. You're not at all concerned about the possibility of exposure?"

Chase shrugs. "Not particularly. None of this is new. If it was toxins, it'd have to be a chronic exposure in large amounts. The little bit I might get on my fingers isn't going to do anything."

"Fine." Cameron turns her back to him, moving to line up the assortment of kitchen items on the edge of the opposite lab bench and reaching for the nearest box of gloves. "Do what you want."

For a few minutes they work in silence, the only sounds various containers opening and closing. Twice Cameron finds herself doubting what she's just done, having to repeat steps out of pure exhaustion. Again she feels her irritation with Chase growing; she is jealous, she realizes. She envies his ability to adapt so seamlessly to any adverse situation, to succeed without even seeming to care. For all of her determination, her passion, she finds herself continually disarmed by criticism, rendered helpless by self-doubt. It seems a terrible injustice that she is so often foiled by good intentions.

"There's no way the kid's parents are getting along as well as they want us to think," says Chase, breaking the silence at last.

"Why, just because they're divorced?" Cameron glances over her shoulder, but he still has his back to her, still intent on his work. "Not everyone who gets divorced ends up hating one another."

Chase exhales in a short puff of bitter air, not quite a scornful laugh. "Right. You're the expert."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Cameron strips off her gloves and drops them into the nearest trashcan, planting her hands on her hips. Over the past few months, she has grown used to Chase's aloofness in the face of her concern and criticism alike, to his superiority on all matters pertaining to the department. But this time his tone has crossed the line into outright standoffishness. It is a shocking change from his usual stoicism, and Cameron realizes she must have struck a nerve. That he has weaknesses, however well-concealed, makes him somehow more intriguing to her.

"I take it your parents are still happily married?" asks Chase, still refusing to turn around.

"Yes." Cameron crosses her arms, suspicion growing.

"Don't judge what you don't know," says Chase. "The parents are just acting friendly with each other for the benefit of their son while he's sick. Which is more than can be said for some."

"I take it your parents aren't still happily married?" asks Cameron, watching the way his shoulders clench.

"This isn't about me," he answers after a moment, and the tension in his voice tells her not to push it any further.

After that comes another stillness, longer than the first. Cameron has let herself be lulled into a daze of tiredness when the accident happens. She has nearly completed her first round of specimen collection when she hears Chase gasp softly. By the time she turns around, he's scrambling for paper towels, evidently having managed to splash himself in the face while attempting to remove a lid from one of the bottles.

Cameron is about to rebuke him for the carelessness of not wearing goggles when she realizes there's something off about the way he's moving. His hands shake violently for a moment as he tries to get the stuff off, and then he's crumpled to the floor before she can comprehend what's just happened. Her first thought as she presses the emergency call button is that he's been exposed to whatever toxin has made the patient sick. But then, in the interminable few seconds while she waits for the response team and crash cart to come, she realizes how labored his breathing has become, sees the cyanotic tinge to his lips.

In this moment, her instincts seize control, driven by vivid memories of her residency in immunology, the endless allergy tests she's seen conducted. Chase's bag is slung over the back of a lab stool, and Cameron scoops it up without a second thought, dumping its contents onto the bench on the desperate chance that this is a contingency he's prepared for. When she finds the epi pen, she feels weak with relief, her own hands shaking as she quickly kneels beside him, pulls back the plunger and injects it into his thigh.

She is about to get back up, to call for help again, when Chase coughs raggedly, eyes fluttering open as he gasps for air. Somehow, he manages to find her hand and hold on, grasp white-knuckled. In the simplicity of this gesture, Cameron feels unspeakable fear.

Chase cannot say how much time passes before he awakens in the ER. His head is pounding, and his throat feels as though he might have swallowed steel wool. He is too well aware of what's happened, and his limbs feel heavy with dissipated adrenaline, his skin sticky with drying sweat. It's been a long time since he's had a reaction this bad, almost long enough to forget just how little it takes. That it's happened at work fills him with shame; the last thing he wants is for any of his colleagues to witness weakness on his part.

"Hey."

The sound of Cameron's voice makes Chase jump; he hasn't realized that she is still sitting by the side of his bed. She looks even more exhausted than she had in the lab, a thick, dog-eared novel splayed out in her hands so that the cover is obscured. Chase feels his stomach swim with guilt and embarrassment at her presence. She has likely saved his life, yet irrationally he wishes she had not been there at all, despite the possible consequences.

"What are you doing here?" he asks after a moment, coughing roughly.

"You went into anaphylactic shock," says Cameron, the concern in her voice making his skin crawl with discomfort. "You stopped breathing for almost a minute. They'll have to monitor you overnight, make sure you don't have a secondary reaction." She moves to pour him a cup of water from the pitcher on the tiny side table, and Chase avoids her eyes as he takes it.

"I know," he answers, sipping cautiously. "But that doesn't explain why you're here."

"You could have died!" Cameron exclaims incredulously. She closes the book with a little slap, and sets it on the floor, getting to her feet. There are dark shadows under her eyes, her makeup smudged, and she's pulled her hair into a messy bun, little tendrils escaping down the back of her neck.

"But I didn't," Chase answers stubbornly, struggling to sit up on the gurney. "I'm fine now."

Cameron sighs, clearly exasperated. "What are you allergic to?"

"What does it matter?" Chase runs a hand through his hair; the skin on his face feels oddly too tight. Her concern fills him with a multitude of conflicting emotions: he is accustomed to being alone, to dealing with whatever comes his way without relying on the support of others. Having her here now is at once touching and unsettling.

"You have a severe allergy!" Cameron throws her hands up, edging toward anger now. "You had epi in your bag, so you knew you might need it for something! You have to tell the people around you that you might need help. You can't just assume they'll know what to do when you stop breathing and turn blue! Especially if you're going to be stupid enough to handle unknown substances without any protective gear!"

"What's the point?" Chase explodes at last, frustration overtaking the memory of fear, of his futile struggle to breath. "Who am I supposed to tell? House? He'd probably stand around laughing while I went into a coma. Nobody else sticks around long enough for it to matter."

Cameron is quiet for a moment, regarding him with an expression he can't quite read. Slowly, her expression softens, and she pulls the chair closer to the side of the bed, sitting down again. "Tell me. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

"Strawberries," Chase answers resignedly, feeling ridiculous. "I'm allergic to strawberries. Not usually that difficult to avoid."

Cameron bites her lip and nods. "Strawberry extract is a common ingredient in a lot of cosmetics. Even ones that aren't strawberry-scented."

"Yeah, well, I don't make a habit of using a lot of smelly bath stuff," Chase answers wryly. "And I definitely don't go around squirting myself in the face with it."

Cameron smiles a little at that, finally seeming more relaxed. "They should be able to move you to a real room soon. Can I get you anything?"

Chase opens his mouth to decline, but is interrupted by the head of House's cane poking through the curtain surrounding the bed and pulling it back. Cameron jumps, turning around to eye House warily.

"So, get the lab results yet?" he asks, though his tone says he already knows the answer.

"You know we didn't finish the tests," says Cameron sourly.

"Well, why not?" House uses his cane to pull over another chair from the adjacent curtain area, and sits heavily in it. "We've still got a case to solve."

"Sorry," Cameron answers sarcastically. "Got a little distracted by my colleague being taken to the ER."

"Hmmm." House rests his chin on the head of his cane, feigning a look of thoughtfulness. "Maybe Cuddy was right. I do need three of you. Then we could keep working on the case while you cry at Chase's bedside."


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