Disclaimer: I own nothing except the particular arrangement of words. All is written for fun, angst, and response to reviewer pressure.

"Doctor House checks in at eight-fifteen."

Wilson raised his eyes. G-d, he does look sick. Chase was sallow. Under his glassy eyes were deep smudges, which indicated that either House had taken a swing at him (which was unlikely) or Chase hadn't slept well lately. "Did he tell you to say that?"

"Yeah."

"To me?" Wilson asked incredulously. "Yeah, oncologists are really stupid doctors. Okay. Come with me."

That surprised Chase enough that he fully opened his eyes for the first time that day. What, am I getting a slap on the wrist from Cuddy? That seems a bit severe... and yet incredibly juvenile. Wait, I haven't done anything wrong! "Where?" he asked, but Wilson only called for him to come on, they didn't have all day.

Chase was further confused when he closed the door to the exam room behind him and Wilson said, "Okay. I assume you know the drill." Chase stared blankly at him, wondering rather fervidly what was going on. "Chase? Sit down. Take off your shirt."

What! "Are you… Doctor Wilson, are you…"

"No, nothing like that." Wilson laughed. "No, House has already bagsied that one for when he needs to get himself fired. I'm just giving you a check-up."

Nothing made sense anymore. "What? Why?" Information just couldn't make the leap from 'a' to 'b' in Chase's mind. A bridge was out. "Did House put you up to this? Because--"

"Okay! Enough! House is my friend. He doesn't put me up to things. Well, that's lie, he does. Not this time. You're sick. Your colleagues are tired of it. And I'm tired of being in the middle of it, frankly. Bothering House, well, that's one thing. Some would envy you. But Cameron's upset. You made her cry. So just sit down and take your shirt off so I can listen to your lungs and heart."

For a moment, Chase couldn't move. He wasn't sick. He had a cough, that was all. He considered saying so, but from the no-nonsense look on Wilson's face coupled with the very seriously crossed arms, he knew that argument wouldn't fly. At last Chase meekly sat down and unbuttoned his shirt. He hissed at the cold when the stethoscope touched his back.

"Why haven't you been sleeping?" Wilson asked.

"Work," Chase replied.

"That was a stupid excuse. I know you aren't here nearly enough to merit the marks under your eyes. So, what is it? Your dad?"

"How d'you--"

"I was his doctor, remember? Is it 'Chase' or 'Robert'?" Wilson asked, suddenly realizing he had used 'Chase' without asking.

"It's Chase," he said, and coughed. "Are you honestly not acting on orders from House? This seems a convenient way to get rid of me for a few days."

Wilson met Chase's eyes. "Does it actually surprise you so much, that people around here care about you? I didn't invent that story about Cameron. She was in tears because you rejected her attempts to look after you; she's convinced you're suicidal or that you hate her. Foreman's angry as all hell, but then when isn't he. And House, yes, he asked me to examine you."

"I knew it. House hates me. He wants a fake diagnosis so I can't work--"

Ignoring the absurdity of the suggestion of his ignoring the Hippocratic Oath to indulge House, Wilson asked incredulously, "House hates you?" He set aside his stethoscope and pulled a thermometer out of the drawer beside the sink. "Do you actually believe that?"

"And you don't? Wilson, he wants me to quit. Why else would he do this to me? His snide remarks and mundane assignments should do it if he keeps going until my contract's up. I don't think I can last. I haven't had a lunch break in months because House said that Foreman or Cameron needed the time to do lab work or…" He interrupted himself with a yawn. As Chase closed his mouth, Wilson held out the thermometer, which Chase obediently stuck beneath his tongue.

Wilson checked his watch. "Okay. For the next two minutes, you can't talk. You won't need to. Just listen. If House hated you, he would have fired you. Did you never think that he's so upset about your running to Vogler because he trusted you? This torturing you, as the rest of the team calls it--I don't know why House is doing it. He does not confide his every twisted bit of logic in me, contrary to popular belief. But if I had to guess, I would say that either he is simply juvenile, or he wants you to fight him on it. Cameron would--has, actually, for all the good it's done. Even Foreman's gotten angry enough to chew him out a couple of times. But you keep taking it, which is probably why it isn't stopping. And," Wilson added after checking his watch, "if House is being juvenile, your taking his abuse has allowed him to carry on--"

Chase tore the thermometer out of his mouth. "All right. Enough. Are you satisfied? I have work to do--"

"No, you don't. You need to go home and sleep, and eat something. You're malnourished, that isn't helping your flu."

With no regard to Wilson's words, Chase started buttoning his shirt. After half a minute, Wilson added, "If you don't go home, you leave me no choice but to tell Cuddy you continued working despite sound medical advice--"

"Yeah." Chase had reached the door, and now turned back to face Wilson. "Sound medical advice. I'm a doctor, too."

"You're a kid missing his dad," Wilson replied shortly.

"I can't miss someone I haven't seen in years!"

"Right. Then why are you shouting at me? Have I done a poor job of examining you?" Wilson did not truly respect Chase's criticism on the matter. "Are you saying despite your blatant symptoms that you think you're not sick?"

"You're stopping me from doing my job!"

"What, didn't you hear me earlier? You have influenza. You're a risk to the hospital. Chase, you're really sick. If you keep working here, you're going to kill yourself and probably start an epidemic."

Chase stared at him. "Influenza?" he asked.

"Your exhaustion could be due to lack of sleep, but that cough and your temperature, especially the red rims around your eyes, everything points to influenza. Send some blood to the lab for further proof, just don't take it yourself. I'll write you a prescription--ribavirin--then you've got to go home."

Chase nodded. "I'm on my way. I don't want any ribavirin."

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I always love feedback, positive or constructive (but no flames please!). Sorry this chapter took so long, school got a bit hectic, but it's calmed down now.

To be continued!