Author's Note: Someday, everything will make perfect sense. So for now, laugh at the confusion, smile through the tears, be strong and keep reminding yourself that everything happens for a reason. –John Mayer
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.
The conference room of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine was a great place for thinking. The sunlight streaming through the glass walls, carved into orderly strips by the open vertical blinds offered a kind of symbolic clarity. In the early morning, the emptiness of the space enhanced the impression that any magical thing could happen, that any amazing solution might be found.
Chase liked the conference room, liked its glass and aluminum modernity, its open and uncluttered orderliness, its early morning silent serenity. This morning, however, he didn't need to wait for the arrival of his boss to break up the peace of the lovely room.
He had brought his own perturbation with him.
He had enjoyed the party last night. He clung to the thought almost desperately. It had been enjoyable. It had also been strange. People at the club expected certain kinds of behavior, and the behavior expected of him, present at the gathering as Lisa's dom, did not come naturally to him.
He was no angel. His eventual order to 'Peel me a grape' had garnered amused laughter, and the memory of a smiling Lisa earnestly peeling the tiny fruit and feeding it to him would be a memory he'd treasure, he was sure, even after they'd parted ways.
And that was the problem. He drained the last of the coffee in his cup and rose from the conference room desk to get a refill. Did he love Lisa? Her clothes, hanging on her side of the closet in his condo, his clothes in the drawer at hers, said he did. He watched the dark stream of coffee fill his cup. Why did he keep thinking about breaking up with her?
As he reached the desk, his unhappy eyes lit on metal. What the— He set his cup on the desk, and used the control stick to move the blinds aside. It was a second door to the balcony, in addition to the one in the inner office. He'd had no idea. He unlocked the door, picked up his cup, and stepped out onto the balcony.
It was windy and cold, but refreshing. He sipped the hot coffee gratefully. He was trying, God knew he was trying, but giving orders to a partner was just… not his thing. Partners were partners. Equal.
Lisa was hardly inferior. He was sure she did not think of herself as such. She always seemed perfectly sure of herself and her actions. She was, if anything, more forceful in pursuing their relationship than he.
It was merely a game, a pretense, sort of.
'Way more subs than doms out there,' Lisa had said. 'And only a few of the doms are what I'd call the real thing.' She'd pointed them out as she spoke. "Ginger, Annette over there, look how she handles her sub, David, Hank, and maybe Beverly. But more than half the doms are like yourself, playing against type to please their partner.'
Had other people there felt as conflicted as he did? It was hard to tell. They'd all seemed very into their play.
Maybe he'd just been distracted.
'Have you picked out a car yet?' Lisa had asked on the way to the party.
'A car?' Chase had had no idea what she'd been talking about.
'Your father wired money. A reward for getting your medical license, according to his secretary.'
How like Dad, to have someone tell the bank, but neglect to tell him.
The cold breeze did its best to knock these thoughts out of his mind. No wonder House liked—
"What are you doing out here?!" His boss' voice was as chilly as the wind. "Get back inside. Now!"
Chase eyed his boss warily, then ducked under the man's arm to reënter the conference room.
"Did you see that door was locked?" House demanded.
"Yeah, but—"
"Who told you you could go out there?"
Why was he so angry? Yet, he was: the reddened face and bulging veins said it more than the raised voice. "I'm sorry," Chase faltered. "I didn't think—"
"You didn't think I'd mind your invasion of my balcony? That door is locked for a reason. The balcony's mine. You can't use it. Understand?"
No, he didn't understand. Chase felt his heart racing. What was this? "I'm sorry," he repeated.
"You should be. Now get me some coffee."
Chase moved to the kitchen area, got one of the red mugs and filled it, hands shaking. Calm down.
House had gone into the inner office, but returned almost immediately with a huge patient chart. It had to be at least a hundred pages.
Chase offered him the mug. A peace offering.
No dice.
"Put it on the table," House snapped. He was busy writing symptoms on the whiteboard. Skin rash. Canker sores.
The cup made a distinct click as it hit the glass tabletop.
"And don't you dare touch that chart!"
Chase pulled his hand back from the blue folder as if it had been burned.
"You can't just do whatever you want, you know. You were hired to do what I tell you."
Chase rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was going to be bad now. He considered apologizing again, but knew it would do no good. He didn't even really understand what he was apologizing for.
The list of symptoms on the board was growing. Anemia. Constipation/bloating. Fractured wrist.
"Okay," House said. "Patient presented with a broken wrist and a mouth full of canker sores. What's wrong with her? Go!"
"Well, a wrist fracture could be caused by trauma—"
"Are you stupid?" House smacked the whiteboard smartly with his cane. "Do you see all the symptoms listed here? And clean out your ears, I just said 'canker sores'. You think she got those from trauma?"
"Multiple myeloma?"
"White cell count is normal."
"Exocrine Pancreatic Insufficiency?"
"Tolerates a fatty diet well."
"Lupus. That causes a rash and constipation."
House looked at him pityingly. "It's never lupus," he said.
Wilson was trying to chart, but kept getting distracted by noises from the next office over. Most of the conversation was indistinct, muffled by the intervening wall, but a few things carried over clearly.
"HOW HARD CAN IT BE TO TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW?"
Then, after a few seconds, "NO!" followed by a bang like a small caliber gunshot.
Wilson flew out into the hall.
"ARE YOU AFRAID OF ME?" House roared.
"YES!"
Wilson yanked open the glass door and flung himself into the room.
"What's going on?" he asked coolly, despite being out of breath.
"Just trying to work through a differential diagnosis with this moron here," his friend explained.
"Perhaps you should try not yelling at him." Wilson looked at Chase, to see if he was all right, but the young man's head was bowed submissively, a lock of blond hair screening his face.
"Perhaps you should mind your own business," House riposted.
"I was trying to, but you were yelling and banging." He bent to retrieve his friend's cane from the floor. "I take it this is what made the gunshot sound?"
"I'm feeling a little frustrated with my feeble fellow."
Chase's green eye flashed on Wilson. "House, bone cancer?"
"Oh, my God!" House exclaimed. "You're calling cancer 'cause an oncologist walked in? And if Dr. Podex the proctologist pranced into your proximity, you'd probably proclaim the problem was the patient's prostate!"
Chase looked confused. "You said the patient was a woman."
"Whatever. You think bone cancer caused canker sores?"
"Graft versus host could, if she had a bone marrow transplant."
"She didn't have one."
"And if you'd let me look at the file, I'd know that!"
House shoved the file across the table to him. Chase grabbed it and started looking through it.
Wilson knew that file. "Why are you punishing him?" he asked.
House crossed his arms over his chest and looked away towards the windows. "I found him out on the balcony."
"Oh, for pity's sake—"
"Mind your own—"
"Celiac disease?!" Chase rubbed his forehead. "I'd have sat here a long time before I thought of that."
House frowned. "This woman's been dead for six years, but we've got live patients coming in here all the time. Is that what you're gonna say when the next mystery case walks in here?"
Chase swallowed. "I'm sorry. What do you want me to say?"
House just glared at him.
It was Wilson who replied, "She's dead, because House didn't figure it out in time either."