"What are we expecting to find?"
Chase's gloved fingers played over the dusty set of shelves as he moved through the room, Foreman leaving his side to expect a cabinet on the other side. He'd been dragged away from clinic duty, for which Cuddy would probably want his head on a silver platter, to dreg through a patient's apartment. Now, that would be all well and good and acceptable, except it wasn't even their damn patient. He was wasting time, albeit not valuable time, looking for... actually, he had no idea what they had been sent to find.
But it probably wouldn't be there, anyway.
"I dunno." replied a crouching Foreman, who was now picking out several vitamin bottles from the cabinet. Diabetes, House had said, or anything else that might give them an indicator of what had caused the gangrene. That wasn't much to go on, though; did the man want a festering blob of pus next to a dirty knife, or something? Would that be proof enough?
"Well why have you brought me, anyway? I could survive one day without following you around." Irritated tones crept into the Australian accent as Chase threw himself down on the couch in the center of the room, apparently throwing in the towel. It was utterly pointless, and he refused to make himself look like an idiot for House's enjoyment. He was just the resident clown.
"Hey! You think I wanted your whiny ass with me?" Eric rolled his eyes, closing the cabinet door and progressing into the kitchen. He left the door wide open, however, so he could continue talking – or arguing – with Robert. "House made me bring you. He just loves you like that."
Smirking some, Foreman opened the fridge and glanced over the contents, looking for any indication of a diabetic's diet. Lots of chocolate. Ordinary chocolate. Damn. So that theory was pretty much screwed over. Closing the refrigerator door, he began to search through the cupboards and drawers.
"All I ever get from him is an insult, and – if I'm real lucky? – a new nickname." Chase was sulking at his lack of respect from Greg, and crossed his arms over his beige blazer before deciding he should make some of his effort. Otherwise, it wouldn't only be his head on that silver platter. He got down to his knees and poked under the couch a bit.
"Oh, I'm sorry. You wanna be treated equal to me?" Eric walked back from the kitchen and closed the door behind him. "I'll get him to start calling you 'wigger' then." Raising his eyebrows significantly, even though Chase wasn't able to see, Foreman joined his break-in buddy and began looking under an armchair.
"Shut up. I just want him to start treating me less like a lap dog and more like a--" Frowning a little, Chase stopped himself speaking and reached further beneath the couch, fingers clasping around the ripped top of an open envelope. He pulled it out, and waved it before Foreman's eyes to get some attention.
"It's from us."
"Huh?" Foreman was still busy on his search, and didn't have enough care in the matter of a torn letter to utter much more than a grunted question.
"Princeton-Plansboro."
"Impossible. Her name would be on the database. Must be Princeton General."
"No, look. Plastic surgery unit." Chase jabbed the stamp on the envelope with his finger, and Foreman finally turned around and gave it a glance.
"That's a while different building."
"Under the same administration though. Same stressed-out chick signs their pay checks. Except while we're saving lives, they're cutting out fat and stuff."
"Okay, we get it. You don't like the cosmetics industry." Eric rapidly grew bored of Chase's rant, and took the envelope from the man's fingers to take a better look at it. Yup, Princeton-Plansboro Cosmetic Surgery Center.
"Think it's useful?" Chase asked, getting up off his knees.
"Not really. But House'll be dancing over your small intestine if we don't bring something back."