Author's Note: How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital. – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D., nor its concepts, characters, and setting, but I do love them, especially Chase. This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not meant to take the place of the advice of either physicians or lawyers licensed to practice in your country or state.

"Brumbies, not zebras?" Chase's easy laughter rang out into the sunlit air of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine's big conference room, putting his boss in mind of the bell choir he'd heard last Christmas by dint of the beautiful purity of its tone.

"What's a brumby?" House queried, mostly to cover his absurd flight of fancy.

"Sorry. Wild horse. Mustang, I guess you'd say."

"Wilson thinks I'm corrupting you."

The Aussie grinned. "How could you? You've barely spoken to me since I've been here, save the odd 'G'day, is there any coffee, see ya later, 'n g'night.'"

House shrugged, unexpectedly stung by the young man's offhandedly true accusation, but his fellow wasn't actually complaining. Chase's mind was still on the issue at hand. "Tell Wilson when I see black and white striped hair on an animal, I always think zebra."

"What if it had no hair? What if it was black and white striped skin?

Blond brows rose over twinkling green eyes. "Then I'd say we're big trouble: black and white striped skin is a tiger. A zebra's skin is black."

Thanks to what House insisted on calling the Case of the Puking Pothead, the floodgates had opened. It had finally dawned on the Americans (at least the ones at PPTH) that Chase was, in fact, a doctor. Accordingly, where before he had observed, now he was doing, and those with medical licenses contented themselves with observing him.

"Nice stick," Dr. Hourani approved, after Chase had completed a lumbar puncture. "I saw you double check the kit beforehand. Always a good idea."

"The first time I did an LP by myself, the patient told me he'd had a doctor once who started the procedure, then discovered something missing from the kit, so they had to stop in the middle while he got another. Said it was painful. Told me to check, make sure I had everything I needed before I started… and because of him, I always do."

"Chase, do you have a minute?" It was Dr. Wilson.

"Sure, something I can do?" Grand Rounds had ended; he was on his way back to the DDM office.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, but Emma's mother is stuck in traffic, two of the nurses have called in sick, and she likes you, says you're cute and have a funny accent."

Chase chuckled. Emma was six and Australia-crazy, habitually dragging along to her treatments a veritable menagerie of stuffed Australian fauna, up to and including an echidna. He could not have recommended she hug a real one.

"It's no bother. I'm happy to help."

"I appreciate it."

"Have you ever held a real koala?" Emma lovingly stroked the faux fur of the marsupial she'd pressed into Chase's arms upon his arrival.

The toy was well made, big and heavy, with a realistic leather nose and hard plastic claws. "I have," he told her, "and you know, you have to be careful when you hold them, 'cause these claws are really sharp, and they're kind of sleepy, and," he moved the toy animal out a few inches from his torso, "if you're not careful, like as not they'll piss all over your shirt."

She squealed with delight at the naughty word, making Chase blush. "Don't tell your mum I said that."

Emma laughed. "I'll say they might go pee-pee," she promised.

Chase was back conning his books at the conference table when House wandered in. "Is there any coffee?" he asked.

"Sure." Chase got up to get it for him, selecting the big red mug his boss favored, filling it, then returning to slide it across the glass to the head of the table where House had seated himself. "What's that?" He gestured towards the blue folder House held, clearly a patient chart. "Do we have a patient?"

"You're busy," House demurred, motioning towards the litter of textbooks and notepaper in front of his fellow.

"I'm not too busy for a patient," Chase exclaimed. It was exciting, in fact. He'd begun to wonder if House ever treated any patients at all. He reached for the file, and House failed to snatch it back in time.

"It's solved," House said. "It was just water intoxication, some idiotic fraternity ritual."

"Oh, yeah?" Chase was looking at the chart, puzzled. "You did a chem-7 on this… I could have done that for you."

House looked away nervously. "You aren't licensed."

Chase rolled his eyes. "I'm aware. I could have done it if you were watching me!"

"You weren't here."

"No, because I'll never get licensed if I sit in this office all day doing nothing!"

"I'm a cripple, I can't chase you all over this hospital every time I want to run a test!"

Every time?

Every time?!

Oh, my God!

How many times has this happened?!

"You holding out on me, House?" It could not be said he was staring, because he kept having to blink. "How many cases have you handled since I've been here?"

House looked away.

"Handled by yourself and didn't tell me about."

No answer.

"How many, House?!"

The older man brought his eyes angrily back to his fellow. "Six."

Chase leaned against the metal back of his chair, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Six.

Oh, my God.

He doesn't want my help. I never thought she'd do it, he'd said. He never wanted me here.

Disappointment at this total rejection didn't just stick a scalpel into his heart. It shoved a reservoir into his skull as well and dripped acid directly into his pain center.

He doesn't want me.

He's just like Dad.

Chase blinked rapidly a few more times, trying wrap his aching head around it. What— Why— "Why didn't you say?" God, what was he doing here? He kept blinking. His heart hurt, more even than his head.

"Are you crying?" House's tone was annoyed.

"No."

"You weren't here," House repeated, reasonably. Why was Chase trying to make him feel guilty? He hadn't done anything wrong. Chase needed to get his New Jersey license, time enough to worry about chasing zebras after that. He tried to think of a pun involving 'Chase' and 'chasing'. He couldn't. Anyway, he had virtuously handled things himself, so his fellow could get ready for his test. Chase should be praising him, not whining. He snuck a look down the table at the boy. He was certainly going to start bawling at any moment.

Chase's hands had fallen to his lap. He loosed a sigh, more to expel carbon dioxide than anything else. "My schedule is on the desk in your office….and what did you give me the pager for, if you never plan to use it?"

At the word, said pager went off. Chase pulled it out and looked at it stupidly, then put it away.

"What is it?" House asked.

"Dr. Thomas wants me to scrub in for a surgery."

House gave him a look that said 'I told you so.'

He was so weary. One hand reached up to smooth back the blond hair, attempting futilely to hook a wayward lock of it behind his ear. "I'll tell him we're busy, that we have a case."

"We're not; we don't," House pointed out. "It's solved."

Chase just looked defeated.

"Get your rear in gear, Thomas doesn't like to be kept waiting. You want him to write a recommendation for you to the New Jersey Medical Board, don't you? Go scrub in!"

Chase rose in silent obedience and ducked out the door.

"Suction! What the hell is wrong with you, Chase?"

"Sorry." All he needed was to get the surgeon angry at him, too. There was nothing he could do about House right now. He needed to pay attention to what he was doing.

It was nearly six when they finished. House's office was empty and dark, the DDM conference room the same. He put away the books and papers he'd left on the table, poured out the rest of the coffee, and made sure the machine was turned off. He was done for today. Cardiology rounds were at seven tomorrow morning.

He stopped in the locker room to exchange the lab coat for his jacket. At home it was spring, but here it was autumn. Colder than he was used to, and headed into his second winter of the year.

As he passed the reception desk, he glanced towards Dr. Cuddy's office. It was dark, and he didn't think he could tell her this problem anyway, he felt so ashamed. Ashamed that House didn't want him, after all she'd done to bring him here.

"Hey!" It was Peggy the receptionist, coat on and purse over her shoulder. "You heading out?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too." She considered his sad face thoughtfully. "You homesick? We could go to Rudy's. I'll buy you a Foster's Beer."

Oh, yeah, 'cause drinking Canadian piss-water's gonna make everything all better. Aloud, he countered, "Make it a Red Stripe, and you've got a deal." At least the Red Stripe bottle would be almost the right shape.