Disclaimer: I own nothing. Fox or Bryan Singer probably owns House and company; Nadia Wheatley owns 'Night Tolkien Died'; Jean Genet owns himself
Chase woke from an unpleasant dream at the sound of loud knocking, disoriented and cold. His throat felt sandpapered, and the room swam in and out of focus as he stumbled to the door of his apartment. He squinted through the tiny looking-glass to see who was there, then shook his head. He opened the door without undoing the chain lock. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You could catch something!"
"I think we know the proper precautions," Cameron replied. "Can we come in, please?"
Chase protested, "No! You should go back to the hospital or go home or something. You can't be here, I'm sick--"
"Exactly. We're here to look after you."
Chase shook his head, but instead of arguing he asked, "Who's 'we', anyway? I only see you."
This amused Cameron, but she was not a laughing sort of girl. She smiled. "Wilson's here, too. Come on, Chase, let us!"
Despite a muggy mind and thick esophagus, Chase had his wits gathered loosely about him. "You could get sick--"
"Not likely." Wilson decided it was time he settled the issue. For the first time he understood House's short temper. These two argued like two unusually gracious twelve-year-olds. "It's not Influenza A," he explained. "No one else is ill. You've been sick nearly a week, and Foreman, House and Alison have shown no signs of sharing your infection. If you had Influenza A, there would have been an epidemic."
Reluctantly, Chase closed the door and unlatched the chain lock. He unwillingly invited Cameron and Wilson in. The moment they entered his apartment Chase felt a self-conscious blush creeping up his neck, and he took as long as he possibly could closing and latching the door. "I'm sorry for the mess," he said unnecessarily, sweeping a handful of tissues into the rubbish bin. The room was immaculate, if one was turning the pages of a catalogue. In reality the stunning lack of personality sent a shiver through Cameron's nervous system, and she found herself staring at the couch, the oasis of mess, where a quilt lay half on the floor. Chase had clearly been sleeping there. "I wasn't really expecting anyone to come round," he apologized.
"We're really not here to play any role in your personal life," Wilson said.
"Then why are you here?" Chase asked.
"Like I said," Cameron replied, "to look after you. To make sure you continue to have a social life." She hefted the plastic grocery bag in her hand. "Even if, against all odds, you do know how to cook, you probably shouldn't be trusted around any flames. You're sick! So, we decided to feed you."
Chase lost control and blushed. He jammed his hands shyly into his pockets. "You don't have to--"
"We're going to," Wilson interrupted.
"Yes, you do seem determined…" Chase looked about helplessly.
"Kitchen?" Cameron prompted. Chase led the way mutely. Within half a minute Wilson and Cameron had ascertained that Chase did not mind their presence and did not wish them to leave, though he knew they would is he asked. All of this was managed without more than single-syllable answers from Chase, ever polite but more cold and distant than most ill folk are from competent doctors.
Chase insisted, "I can help."
Wilson disagreed only because Cameron had slower responses. "You're sick, Chase. You should rest."
"I can't just let you--"
"You can boil some water," Cameron interrupted. "It's a real pain, has to be boiled without a lid on--family recipe." Satisfied, Chase filled a pot half-way at the sink. As he did, Wilson hissed a vague inquiry about the purpose of boiling water. "Keep him busy," Cameron replied quietly. "It's all in James Herriot."
Chase dropped the pot. He jumped, Cameron shrieked; Wilson winced at Cameron and the urge to shout at Chase. More than anything, this disturbed him. Wilson never shouted. In all the combined years of working with House and putting up with his brother's kids, he had never shouted. "Chase, please?" Wilson asked, indicating the next room. "You're sick."
"I'm not useless."
"No one said you were. Unfortunately, your job requires exposure to sick people. It's amazing you haven't grown ill before now. Please?" Seeing that this tactic was futile, Wilson promptly said to Cameron, "Are you playing quarterback here or not?"
Cameron shook her head. "I hate sports metaphors," she complained, tugging Chase out of the room.
"I can help," he protested.
Ignoring him, Cameron looked around. She was in the room she had entered, with the couch that served as a bed and bookshelves lined with books. Squinty she could just tell which were not lined with dust. "What's this?" she asked, taking down a purple paperback.
"Don't," Chase protested half-heartedly.
Cameron read the title, "The Night Tolkien Died? Memoir?" she asked.
"Not really. I had it… look, I liked Tolkien when I was a kid, okay? He was already dead, but… you know what the nineties were like."
Cameron nodded. "Bland," she suggested. "Yeah. Is this you?" She lifted a framed picture. It was easily missed, the subject turned downwards, but curiosity drove her to look at the snapshot even as Chase moved to stop her.
He was thirteen, if that, sitting on the floor with his hand behind him, legs splayed out, grinning hopelessly at his ridiculous friends who had tied helium balloons through the loops on his khaki trousers. Cameron smiled. "They called you Bobby, didn't they?" she asked.
"No," Chase replied, "they didn't." He stood awkwardly for a moment, then in fits and stammers said, "My dad did. I never liked it." When Cameron could think of nothing to say in response, Chase supplied a new topic: "Look, you can borrow the book if you like, just be careful. It's a bit old."
Cameron set the book back on the shelf. In truth, she wanted to hug Chase. She wanted to throw her arms around him and reduce him to a healing round of tears on her shoulder, after which he would trust her and feel much better about everything in his life. She sincerely believed that she could make him eat and sleep, build antibodies faster than the speed of light. "Jean Genet." She ran a finger along the spine of another book. "I always found him too abstract for satire."
"I don't think he qualifies as satire."
She spun to face him. "You think Genet isn't political commentary?" Cameron returned incredulously.
"Commentary, yes. Satire? No. I suppose it's different when you've been Warda," Chase admitted. Cameron felt her eyes widen at the prospect of Chase as the whore with slits in her skirt. "Late bloomer." Chase tried to shrug off his embarrassment, but ended up doubled over in a coughing fit.
Ignoring his hands attempting to flap her away, Cameron directed Chase gently to the couch and sat him down. She sat beside him and, before she could think, rubbed his back as he coughed. "Cameron," he wheezed, once his coughing had stopped. She took her hand back promptly, hurt and embarrassed.
What am I doing here? Cameron wondered. For the first time since Wilson had suggested this visit to her, Cameron questioned it. It's not wrong, she thought, this dropping by. This is what friends do. This is what people do for one another. But me? I don't belong here. I'm not the right kind of bold…
Her eyes strayed to the kitchen. Wilson shot Cameron a thumbs-up. Slowly, discreetly, she drew in a deep breath.
earthdrago: Thanks for bringing the italics issue to my attention; I've fixed it. As for anorexia, comfortable as corners are, every one is false. Yes, extended periods of starvation lead to a skeletal appearance, but this is not the immediate result. There is weight loss, but before the skeletal appearance, especially for someone with more fat than muscle, will come brittle hair, yellowed fingertips, the like. I like Wilson, too. He caves to House often, but it seems like he does it not out of weakness but the belief that House is in pain.
Arbitrary9: Cameron's not crying because Chase has the flu. She thinks he's killing himself by negligence, and to a certain degree, she's right.