Chase had been prepared for another onslaught of the pack of teenage girls when he left the patient's room, but they were sitting demurely in a row of chairs against the far wall, ankles crossed and eyes cast down on the books they held in their laps. It made a pretty picture, and for a brief moment he admired the sight, when suddenly he was accosted by a familiar voice.

"You were happy enough to discuss it in front of House's candidates," Cameron said crossly. "You owe me a chance to talk."

"I don't owe you anything," Chase said calmly, "and you don't owe me anything either—not even an explanation. I understand what happened. I don't want to talk about it."

She looked annoyed rather than pleased. "You can't possibly understand if we haven't talked."

Chase sighed heavily. "You've been in love with House for ages," he said, ticking each point off on his fingers as he spoke, and shaking his head in admonition when she looked ready to argue that first statement, "and his neediness recently, shall we say, peaked: he actually tried to kill himself. You don't listen to anybody's rational explanations when you've made up your mind there's some Deep Emotional Cause, so I doubt you bought the story that he was test-driving a near death experience. You probably decided he was suffering more than ever...and comforting him proved irresistible." Cameron opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. "And for him," Chase went on bitterly, "the chance to screw me over was probably even more irresistible. You were just a convenient means to an end."

Cameron glared. "How dare you?" she asked, infuriated. Chase shrugged unemotionally.

"Might as well be honest," he said, almost cheerfully. "Nothing to lie about now, is there?" He felt relieved, actually, not to be in love anymore. Wanting to bang her, that he could handle. Being in love? Not possible, now that he knew it hadn't been what he'd thought it was, not for her. The knowledge that he'd failed to make her love him enough that House wasn't a factor was sickening, but he'd get over it, as he always did: he'd walk away unscathed, shrug it off, try something else.

"House wasn't the only one," Cameron said abruptly, her face cold and angry. Chase gaped at her.

"What?" he asked, with a gasp of shock that was almost like laughter.

"He wasn't the only one," she repeated, and spun on her heels and walked away, leaving him staring after her. He made an exasperated noise and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
The three girls, he saw, were staring at him, expressions brimful of adoring pity. If they were just a little older, he thought grimly, he'd take them up on that, as a distraction.

"They're an improvement over the nine year old," Foreman's voice cut into his thoughts, and Chase looked up, startled, "but seriously: can you not stick to your own age group?" Chase grinned back.



"I wasn't," he protested, then gave it up. "I have a medical interest in them."

"I bet you do," Foreman said, in a tone of utter disbelief.

"No, actually, I do," Chase said. "They're friends of a kid I'm treating for organophosphate poisoning, and, well, the whole group of them are acting so oddly I'm beginning to wonder if something else is wrong."

Foreman looked back at the girls, disinterested. All three watched him with looks of intensity, but he shook his head slightly as he turned his attention back to Chase. "Judging by the clothes and the attitude, they're typical suburban teenagers—a little more Goth than average, but they don't look sick. Unless you want to treat them for Affluenza, maybe."

"Could you just...come talk to the boy for a moment?" Chase asked. "I'd like your opinion."

Foreman looked impatient, but nodded, and walked with Chase back to Renfield's room. Once there, however, it took less than ten minutes' conversation before Foreman beckoned Chase back into the hallway.

"C'mon," Foreman said, hovering between laughter and exasperation. "Are you having me on?" Chase looked blank. "They're a bunch of Goth kids trying to freak out the adults by playing Dracula."

Chase was abashed. "Bug eating," he said, shaking his head. "I never even thought of it. I suppose they got the idea from his name." He was trying to sound amused, but his embarrassment was obvious, and Foreman's poorly-suppressed amusement wasn't helping. "I was worried his obsession with being strong meant he had some real form of body dysmorphic disorder, most likely muscle dysmorphia. I should come back after his mum leaves and strangle the little bastard," Chase said, shooting a disgusted look at the boy's three co-conspirators.

"You need a coffee," Foreman said, sympathetically. "Clear some cobwebs out of your head."