When Chase looked at the things which were certain regarding his chosen profession, he wanted to cringe. Nobody in the scope of his education had pointed out to him that much of being a doctor had to do with guesswork and argumentation, not data and the inherent respect afforded a man with the word "doctor" before his name. Medicine was a balance of detective work, science and, apparently, breaking and entering.

Chase had become quite stealthy at removing patients' keys from their personal belongings, sometimes slipping them straight out of spouse's pockets while they exchanged strained salutations. He had learned the art of picking pockets as a young boy lifting money from his father's wallet, when the senior Chase was around long enough for his wallet to be left unattended, that was. Keys were harder to take than money; they were clumsier and made more noise, but Chase had a doctor's precise hands. He had learned quickly, especially after his gold card had nearly snapped in half after going up against an exceptionally stubborn dead bolt, how to lift even an entire ring of keys while the patients remained unsuspicious. Occasionally he simply asked patients for their key but, of course, the ones whose environments were making them sick tended to reject the idea of strange doctors with knowledge of all things chemical and direct lines to both the Centers for Disease Control and the health department traipsing around their homes unsupervised.

Such was the case with the overly surly man with a notebook full of disturbing anarchic writings whose persistent cough, nosebleeds, headaches, and diarrhea House suspected were caused by an illegal toxin being stored in the home. The man protested, declaring he kept nothing illegal on his property, and Chase almost chuckled as he lifted the man's key from his keychain, a skull and crossbones. The more a patient protested, the more often House was right. Chase worried for a moment that the house might be filled with murderous fumes and that he might keel over within moments of entering but his fears dissipated quickly. Medical records showed he had been sick for months, with no apparent life-threatening symptoms. Chances were, Chase would be just fine. He would get in, get out, and get on with his life as usual.

"Take Cameron with you," House growled. "I need Foreman to prove he's a neurologist by running some of those brain tests I hear he knows how to do."

House was in one of his bossy, unforgiving moods, the kind where he barked orders without humor or even interest and during which Chase almost always had to resist the urge to salute and say, "Yes, drill sergeant." That was the other certainty of the medical profession, moody supervisors. That, at least, was one he had been warned of in medical school.

"He's just reserving himself," Cameron said as Chase inserted the key in the patient's front door. "He looks like he's in pain today, and you know it's hard for him to focus when he's in pain."

"He's not PMSing," Chase quipped, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Cameron's incessant defense of the man who so often treated them as cattle without abandon. The deadbolt clicked and he swung the front door open. "He's just a grouch."

Chase winced as he tentatively entered the front entryway of the house, then relaxed as he looked around the tiny structure. If they'd expected the house to be a dark, decrepit centerfold for Satanic Weekly magazine, they were wrong. It was a bachelor pad, sparsely decorated, but Chase could not see anything overtly out of the ordinary. A few beers littered the coffee table in the living room, resting on top of a stack of porn magazines. Chase chuckled, then cast a wayward glance at Cameron to gauge her reaction. She gave none, but headed for the kitchen, passing a large gun safe in the front hallway as she did.

"That's comforting," she nodded towards the gun safe. "The man could be a psychotic maniac intent on taking out half of New Jersey with a homemade chemical weapon, but at least he keeps his guns locked up."

"It's probably just a good thing he doesn't have kids," Chase said, marveling at the safe which came up to his own shoulder. "This thing is a juvenile deathtrap."

He tried the handle of the safe and found it unlocked. The heavy safe door swung open, revealing an empty box of cold green metal.

"Nothing in here," Chase called, running a cotton swab over the inside of the safe to check for residues, just in case. "I'll check the bathroom."

The bathroom of the ordinary bachelor was a dangerous thing by nature. Men, Chase knew, were often lax about their cleaning, especially the men who ended up patients of the diagnostics department at PPTH. He snapped on his latex gloves before entering, cautious of what he might find. He was surprised, however, to find the bathroom spotless. The medicine cabinet was stocked with over-the-counter acetaminophen and antihistamines, in addition to the medication prescribed by other physicians for the ailments which had brought him to Princeton-Plainsboro. It seemed the only anger the man had was contained in his notebook.

Still, Chase had learned not to fall for the blatantly obvious. Secrets which were meant to be kept were never presented at face value. If a man truly had something to hide, only the most scrutinizing eye would be able to identify it.

Cameron's heels clicked across the house to the bedroom where Chase found her on the floor, halfway underneath the unmade bed with only her legs sticking out from beneath the worn mattress. The bedroom was the only room out of order, Chase noted, indicating the patient probably spent most of his time there.

"What are you doing?" Chase inquired.

"If he's as paranoid as House thinks," Cameron grunted, wiggling her way out from under the bed, "something is probably hidden in this room so it can be easily accessible to him at all times. And anyone knows the best place to hide incriminating evidence is under the mattress."

Chase wasn't sure if she was joking or not, so he watched her fling the comforter off the bed and search the mattress in silence.

Finding nothing, she moved on to the closet which was packed so full of clothes Cameron had to use her entire body weight to shove them aside.

"You know, I think this guy is a fraud," she noted. "Nobody who is as angry with capitalism as he claims to be owns this many outfits. He owns more clothes than I do."

Outside, Chase heard the squeak of brakes and the slamming of several car doors. He moved to the bedroom windows and pulled the mini-blinds apart gently.

"Cameron," he gulped, "I think we've got a problem."

Cameron joined him at the window and peered out, then swore.

Two police cars lined the street in front of the house, parked behind the imitation police car belonging to the Cage Silent Alarm home security company. Two burly police officers and one just-as-muscle-laden security guard stared up at the house, unclipping their gun holsters.

"It's okay, we're okay," Chase babbled. "We'll just explain to them who we are and where we're from and we'll be fine. We have a key."

"Sure, except that you stole the key from a man in a hospital bed and we have no authorization to be here," Cameron's voice was tinged with panic, yet somehow she managed not to be at a loss for words, "and as much as we like to ignore it, unauthorized entrance is trespassing and therefore a crime, not to mention something we could be personally sued over."

The officers moved closer to the house and Chase stepped back from the windows, letting the mini-blinds drop shut lest the two doctors be seen.

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"Hide," Cameron demanded, leaping towards the open closet and pulling Chase in with her. She jerked the closet door shut, plunging them both into darkness. She pushed her way to the back of the closet and yanked on the sleeve of Chase's jacket, beckoning her to join him.

"What if they open the door and find us in here?" Chase whispered. His voice hissed in the darkness and was muffled by the collection of suit jackets Cameron was rearranging in an attempt to cover them.

"Then we're screwed," she replied, grunting with the effort it took to move the loaded hangers. "Did you lock the front door?"
"Yeah," Chase said, watching the cracks of light which filtered in from the bedroom and cast the inside of the closet with dim, gentle light. Chase's eyes were adjusting to the light, and he watched as pieces of lint floated on the yellow afternoon sunlight, drifting in and out of the closet with ease. "How much of a mess did you make in the kitchen?"

"I've done this before," Cameron reminded him. "I know how to clean up."

Heavy booted footsteps clunked in the front hallway, and Chase placed a finger on his lips to shush her.

"Cage Security," a booming but nervous voice resonated through the house. Cameron went completely still and inside the closet silence loomed large and deafening. "Mr. Sweeney? Cage Security."

"Police," a stronger voice announced its presence. "You have tripped a silent alarm. Show yourself now before I have to find you."

The boots began to clunk through the house, no doubt preceded by the dull gray metal of a service weapon and the flash of a silver badge. Chase shrunk against the back wall of the closet, trying to make himself as tiny and as insignificant as possible, hoping to border on the invisible. With the tiny slivers of sunlight Chase could see that although the closet was shallow it was long, extending beyond the edges of the closet door. Stepping silently over shoes and around a collection of shirts he could identify as hideous even in the dark, Chase crept towards the far corner of the closet. Cameron stood opposite the closet door, focused on the sound of the boot steps and ignorant to Chase's movements. Chase snaked his arm out from behind the row of Hawaiian shirts which now concealed him and grasped her wrist firmly, tugging her towards him. She slithered into the corner beside him, pulling the shirts closed around them. They both hoped, silently, that if the closet door opened they would be hidden enough from view.

Chase pulled Cameron tightly against him, turning so she was concealed entirely by his body, nestled in the corner of the closet. He reached his arms up and placed his elbows on either side of her head, resting his palms flat against the cool closet walls. He noted with irony that this was the same position he would stand in when the police would arrest them.

He wondered if House would come bail them out of jail. He would bail Cameron out, that was almost certain. Chase would probably be left to stew for a day or so.

Cameron's breath was stilted and shallow, and came in ragged bursts against Chase's cheek. He leaned closer to her, so close his lips brushed the edge of her ear, and whispered, "Breathe normally," just as he realized he was holding back himself.

She took a deep breath and exhaled, sending a warm gust past his ear and across the collar of his shirt. He shivered in spite of himself. It was hardly the time for it, but Chase was suddenly very aware that he had Cameron, warm and trembling to the touch, trapped beneath him, up against a wall, only centimeters from his skin.

Her heart was thumping so loudly he could hear it with his naked ears. She heard the muffled thuds of her heartbeat and crossed her arms over her chest in an irrational attempt to shield the sound from the officers, as if they could hear it through the closet walls and over their own footsteps. Her fingers brushed against Chase's shirt, leaving a burning trail in their wake. His pulse was racing as well, but now for a very different reason.

The footsteps echoed into the bedroom, and Chase stepped closer to the frozen Cameron, pressing his body against hers as a shadow fell across the closet door, plunging the entire contents of the closet into blackness. Cameron's hands flew back against the closet wall as she shrank even more into the corner, widening the tiny gap between them. She tilted her face down, almost burying her forehead against Chase's shoulder. Chase brought his arms closer together, almost clutching her head, as he shrank down over her, praying the shadows at the corner of the closet and the clothes hanging beside him would be enough to keep them hidden from view. They both held their breath again.

The closet door opened, flooding the closet with light, then shut just as quickly.

"Bedroom's clear!" the voice announced as the boots headed back toward the front hall.

In the closet, Chase and Cameron exhaled simultaneously. Cameron tilted her head up towards the ceiling, grinning with nervous laughter. Chase smiled into the curve of her shoulder, but stayed poised as he was. He took a deep, relieved breath and the scent of her, all Dove soap and mango shampoo, attacked his senses. He closed his eyes, afraid she would look at his face and see them roll into the back to his head with pleasure. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to clutch her hair in his fists and kiss her until her scent turned to the musky smell of lust.

"This guy's a quack," the quivering voice, the security guard, proclaimed. "We're out here at least once a month investigating his alarm and never finding anything. Came in here once and he'd set up booby traps to set off the alarm just to see if we were paying attention. Bet that's what happened this time."

A two-way radio squawked and one of the officers responded.

"Can never be too sure," another replied to the guard. "We'll check the perimeter of the house and the neighborhood just to be sure."

"I appreciate it," the guard said. "Sorry to bring you guys out here for nothing. With four beeps the silent security system was deactivated. "I'll stick around and reactivate that when you're done."

Cameron looked Chase in the eye, her stare acknowledging their predicament had not changed. He opened his eyes and gazed back at her, thinking of something else entirely.

He had vowed not to pursue her, and to allow life to take its course, to bring him back to her if it was meant to be. And here he was, right back with her, with two cops and a security guard ensuring they stayed fused together, unable to separate. If he'd been waiting for a sign this was, undeniably, it.

With a final deep, shaking breath, Chase took control of his moment.

He dropped his arms from the walls, landing one on her neck and bringing the other to rest on her hip. He remembered the curve of that hip, dancing and tantalizinghim as it led him to her room. Gooseflesh blanched against his fingers as her skin reacted to his touch. He could feel her pulse quicken and skitter all over the place. She knew what was coming. Her lips formed his name in silent questioning, but she did not try to pull away. He stroked his thumb against her throat, trying to reassure her. As he did, he realized that reassurance had never been part of his fantasy. She had never done anything to reassure him, she had just taken him, and that was exactly what he had wanted to do to her in return. Keeping the other hand on her hip he moved his arm back up to the wall to steady himself, leaned in, and kissed her before she could respond.

Turnabout was, it turned out, fair play.

He feared for a moment that this kiss would be different from the first one, and that all that had excited himthat night could have been just an effect of the drugs, thus absolving him of the idea there was any real attraction between them. For the first few seconds of the kiss he waited, clinging to the fantasy, as he kissed her startled, unresponsive lips.

Then, as if a spark had jolted her to life, she began to kiss him back. Her lips parted as her eyes slid closed, and she pulled him in as slowly and as tenderly as he had remembered. She was still unsure, still exploring, and he refused to press the issue with her, wanting to draw out the moment as long as he could.

When the pressure reached its breaking point, break it did. She pressed her lips a little harder against his and that was the only hint he required. He took her waist with both his arms, pulling her firmly against him, pressed her against the wall as hard as he could without crushing her, and kissed her until his own knees shook so much he was forced to release her and place his hands back on the wall to steady himself and keep from toppling over.

So heavy were they breathing that they scarcely heard the four beeps reinstate the security system and the front door slam.

It was the chatter of the officers returning to their cars outside the bedroom window and the subsequent scratch of tires against asphalt which shook them from their reverie. Chase stepped back from the wall almost immediately, conscious that his moment had passed.

"He reactivated the silent alarm," Chase said, his voice unnaturally loud and awkward after the silence of the events which had transpired.

Cameron nodded, mute. Chase stifled a grin. He'd had his revenge and silenced the unsilenceable Dr. Cameron. A banner day all around.

He noted, as an added benefit, that her lips were beginning to swell from the assault they had taken. Chase resolved to take his time returning to the hospital, lest House take notice.

"We have to leave," Chase said, filling in the logic which Cameron was clearly not ready to process. "Wherever that sensor is we're bound to trip it, and next time they won't be quite so lenient about the search."

"What'll we tell House?" Cameron asked, finding her voice again.

"The truth," Chase decided. At Cameron's panicked glance he added, "Well, not the whole truth, obviously."

Cameron smiled, but Chase turned too quickly to see it. He opened the closet door and hurried out, anxious to again outrun the awkwardness which would undoubtedly follow them for weeks.

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To be continued ...