Chapter Text
The early morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting soft, golden light over the recovery room. Chase was awake, but his body still felt foreign, like he was inhabiting someone else’s skin. Every movement sent a dull ache rippling through him, a reminder of the ordeal he barely remembered. His mind, however, was sharp—and restless.
He hadn’t seen House since he’d woken up. Cameron and Foreman had checked in periodically, even Wilson had appeared, offering some of his usual comforting words. But House’s absence was conspicuous. Chase wasn’t sure what to make of it—whether House was intentionally avoiding him or if he simply had better things to do than watch over a recovering colleague.
A part of Chase had expected House to burst in, making some snide remark about how long it was taking him to get back on his feet, but the silence was almost worse. It left too much room for the thoughts he didn’t want to deal with—the fear that still clung to him like a shadow.
The door to the room creaked open, and for a split second, Chase thought it might be House. But it was Cameron, her expression softer than usual, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a file in the other.
"You're awake again," she said, trying to sound casual, but there was an underlying relief in her tone.
"Yeah," Chase replied quietly, his voice still hoarse. "You don't have to stay, you know."
Cameron placed the coffee on the small table beside him and sat down in the chair she'd practically claimed as her own. "I'm not staying because I have to. I’m staying because I want to."
Chase gave a faint nod, though he didn’t meet her eyes. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, lost in the quiet hum of the machines. Cameron watched him carefully, noting the tension in his expression. It wasn’t just the physical recovery—he was still processing everything that had happened.
"You don't have to pretend you're fine, Chase," she said gently.
His jaw clenched at her words. "I know."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy and charged. Chase finally turned to look at her, his eyes clouded with something that ran deeper than exhaustion. "I thought I was dying," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t… think. It felt like my body was shutting down, and I didn’t even know why."
Cameron reached out, resting her hand on his arm, a gesture of quiet support. "It’s normal to feel shaken after something like that. You were scared. Anyone would be."
"I’ve seen patients go through this kind of thing before," Chase continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard her. "But I never thought… I never imagined it would feel like this."
Cameron’s heart clenched. "It’s different when it’s you. I get that. But you’re here now. You made it through."
Chase shook his head, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I’m a doctor, Cameron. I should have known something was wrong. I let it get this far."
"Don’t do that to yourself," she said firmly. "You didn’t know, and that’s not your fault. No one blames you for what happened."
Chase was silent, his gaze dropping to the sheets that covered him. He knew she was right, logically, but the weight of his own expectations—of the standard he held himself to—was hard to shake. He’d been blindsided by his own body, and now, even though he was on the road to recovery, he didn’t feel like himself. He wasn’t sure he ever would again.
---
House stood outside the room, listening. He hadn’t planned on eavesdropping, but when he heard the soft murmur of voices, he’d stopped just short of the door. He leaned on his cane, his face unreadable, his mind churning.
Chase had always been the most reserved of his team, rarely showing cracks in his professional facade. But now, House could hear the cracks widening, the fear and vulnerability in Chase’s voice.
It wasn’t unusual for House to feel detached from the aftermath of his cases; once the diagnosis was solved, the patient either lived or died. Simple. But this time was different. This was one of his own.
House knew he should probably go in, make some biting remark about Chase wallowing in self-pity. But for once, the impulse didn’t come. Instead, he just stood there, listening to the conversation, feeling that rare twinge of guilt, and something else—something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
---
Back inside the room, Cameron glanced at her watch. "You should get some more rest," she suggested. "Your body needs time to heal."
Chase nodded, though sleep was the last thing on his mind. He didn’t want to close his eyes. Not yet. "I will," he lied, offering her a weak smile.
Cameron hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more, but decided against it. "I’ll be back later," she promised, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze before standing to leave.
As she opened the door, she nearly collided with House, who had moved at the last second to avoid being caught loitering.
"House," Cameron said, a little surprised. "I didn’t realize—"
"Yeah, yeah," House cut her off, waving his cane dismissively. "Go get some sleep, Florence Nightingale. I'll take it from here."
Cameron hesitated, her eyes flicking between Chase and House, but after a moment, she nodded and slipped past him. House watched her go before stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.
Chase looked up as House entered, his expression unreadable. "So," House said, hobbling over to the chair Cameron had vacated and plopping down with a grunt. "You’re not dead. That’s something."
Chase’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. "Guess not."
House leaned forward, his cane resting between his knees, his sharp gaze studying Chase intently. "What’s the point of this little pity party? You want to wallow in guilt for not catching your own disease? Be my guest. But it’s a waste of time."
Chase’s jaw tightened. "I should’ve known something was wrong."
"Really?" House shot back, his tone clipped. "You think you’re the only doctor to miss something about yourself? Newsflash: we all suck at diagnosing ourselves. Hell, I misdiagnosed my own leg and look where that got me."
Chase frowned, not sure where House was going with this.
"Your body crapped out on you," House continued, "and yeah, maybe you ignored the signs. But you’re still here. You still get to fight another day. Stop wasting energy feeling guilty and start using it to get better."
Chase stared at him, the words hitting him harder than he’d expected. House wasn’t exactly comforting, but there was something in his bluntness that cut through the fog in Chase’s mind.
After a long pause, Chase finally spoke. "I just… I don’t know how to come back from this."
House leaned back, tapping his cane against the floor rhythmically. "You don’t have to know right now. Just take it one step at a time. And when you’re ready… you’ll figure it out."
Chase didn’t respond immediately, but something in him loosened, if only slightly. House’s words were far from comforting, but they were honest. And maybe that was what he needed right now.
House stood, looking down at Chase. "Now, stop being a drama queen and get some rest. I don’t want you passing out on the job because you were too busy moping."
With that, he turned and headed for the door, but before he left, he paused, glancing back at Chase. "You’ll be fine. Eventually."
Chase nodded, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "Thanks, House."
House grunted in response, then left the room, leaving Chase alone with his thoughts. The path to recovery was still uncertain, but for the first time, Chase felt like maybe—just maybe—he could handle it.
---
Outside the room, House walked down the hallway, his mind still lingering on Chase. He’d be fine. He had to be.
Because House didn’t lose his people.
Not if he could help it.
---
Days passed, and Chase found himself caught between a desire to get back to normal and the frustrating reality of his slow recovery. Physically, he was improving; his breathing had returned to normal, the pain had lessened, and his strength was gradually returning. But mentally, things were far from okay.
He'd been discharged from the ICU, and now he spent most of his time in the private hospital room, staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts drift to places he’d rather avoid. Work, the team, his near-death experience—it was all starting to blur into a dark, formless anxiety he couldn’t quite shake.
When the door creaked open, Chase didn’t bother to look up. He already knew who it was. Cameron had a certain rhythm in her footsteps, the soft shuffle that told him she was checking in on him again.
"How’s the patient?" she asked, setting a tray of food on the table beside him.
"I’m fine," he muttered, though his tone lacked any real conviction. He hadn’t touched the last meal she brought, and the one before that. His appetite had disappeared, along with his desire to do much of anything.
Cameron noticed, but said nothing. Instead, she took a seat beside him, folding her hands in her lap. She’d been coming to visit him every day since the incident, lingering for hours at a time, but today she seemed quieter, more uncertain.
"You haven’t been sleeping," Cameron finally said, her voice soft but direct.
Chase shrugged. "I sleep enough."
"Chase…" She leaned forward, her eyes searching his. "You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to keep it all bottled up."
He turned his head away, staring at the window. Outside, the world kept turning, people lived their lives, and everything moved on. But inside, he was stuck, unable to shake the suffocating weight that clung to him since the collapse. He wasn’t sure how to explain it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Cameron watched him, her worry deepening. "It’s okay to feel scared," she said gently. "What happened to you… it wasn’t just physical. You almost died, Chase. It’s normal to feel… off."
Chase’s jaw clenched. "I’m a doctor, Cameron. I should’ve handled it better."
"And you didn’t, because you’re human," she countered, her voice more forceful than before. "You always think you have to be the strong one, but you don’t. Not this time."
Chase was silent, his fingers tightening around the blanket. He hated feeling like this—weak, vulnerable, uncertain. It was the kind of thing he’d seen in patients, the way their confidence in their bodies crumbled when faced with illness. He never thought he’d be one of them.
Cameron reached out, her hand resting gently on his arm. "You’re allowed to take time. No one expects you to bounce back immediately. Not even House."
Chase’s lips twitched at the mention of House. "He wouldn’t say that to my face."
"No, he wouldn’t," Cameron admitted with a faint laugh. "But he cares. In his own… weird way."
Chase nodded slightly, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He appreciated Cameron’s presence, her steady reassurance, but there was something else gnawing at him, something he hadn’t voiced.
"I keep thinking…" Chase started, his voice low and uncertain. "What if it happens again?"
Cameron frowned, her hand tightening on his arm. "It won’t. The worst is over."
"You don’t know that," he said, his eyes darkening with the fear he’d kept hidden for days. "What if it happens when I’m at work? Or in surgery? What if I freeze up and someone dies because I couldn’t…"
He trailed off, the weight of the unspoken possibility pressing down on him. It was his worst nightmare—the thought of being back in the hospital, standing over a patient, and feeling that same helplessness wash over him again. The thought of being the cause of someone else’s suffering.
Cameron’s heart broke at the raw fear in his voice. She squeezed his arm, her eyes filled with empathy. "You’ll get stronger. You will. And when you do, you’ll go back to work, and you’ll be just as good as you’ve always been. You can’t let this paralyze you."
Chase stared at her for a long moment, her words sinking in slowly. Part of him wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that everything would go back to normal in time. But the fear lingered, gnawing at him like a dark shadow in the back of his mind.
---
Meanwhile, back at the hospital’s diagnostics office, House sat behind his desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. His team was running tests on the latest patient—a fairly standard case, nothing too complicated—and yet, his mind wasn’t on the diagnosis. It was on Chase.
He hadn’t seen Chase since their last conversation in the hospital room, and for some reason, it bothered him more than he cared to admit. House had never been one for bedside visits, especially not when the patient was one of his team. It was too personal. Too real. But something about the way Chase had been so rattled stayed with him.
"Where’s your head today?" Wilson’s voice cut through House’s thoughts as he walked into the office, holding a cup of coffee. "You’ve been staring at the wall for the past ten minutes."
"Maybe the wall’s more interesting than your face," House shot back, though the edge in his voice was noticeably absent.
Wilson raised an eyebrow, his expression softening as he realized what was going on. "You’re still thinking about Chase, aren’t you?"
House didn’t respond immediately, his fingers still playing with the pen. "He’s fine," House said eventually, though there was a trace of uncertainty in his tone.
"Physically, maybe," Wilson said, sitting down across from him. "But you know it’s not just the physical stuff that matters. He went through something traumatic."
House leaned back in his chair, his gaze narrowing slightly. "He’ll deal with it. He’s a doctor. We all go through this at some point."
"Maybe," Wilson conceded. "But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. And it doesn’t mean he’s not struggling right now."
House’s jaw tightened. He hated this—the emotional territory that Wilson was trying to drag him into. But as much as he wanted to deflect, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Wilson was right. Chase wasn’t the same. And if House didn’t address it, there was a chance the cracks in his confidence might never heal.
"What do you want me to do?" House asked finally, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Hold his hand and tell him everything’s going to be okay?"
Wilson shook his head, his expression thoughtful. "No. But maybe remind him that you’ve got his back. Even if you’re terrible at saying it."
House snorted, though there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. "I’ll stick to solving puzzles, thanks."
Wilson smiled knowingly. "Just don’t wait too long."
---
Later that afternoon, Chase sat in his room, absently flipping through a magazine without really reading it. His mind kept wandering, circling back to the same doubts, the same questions.
A knock at the door startled him, and he glanced up to see House standing in the doorway, leaning casually on his cane. Chase blinked in surprise, unsure of what to expect.
"Figured I’d check in before you die of boredom," House said, stepping into the room.
Chase managed a weak smile. "That’s considerate of you."
House moved to the foot of the bed, his gaze sharp but not unkind. "You’re still here. That’s good."
Chase nodded slowly. "Yeah. Still here."
House tapped his cane against the floor, his expression unreadable. "You’re going to be fine, Chase. Whatever doubts you’ve got, you’ll work through them. You’re not the first doctor to freak out after almost dying, and you won’t be the last."
Chase swallowed hard, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t used to House being this… direct. Encouraging, even.
House’s eyes narrowed slightly. "But if you keep wallowing in it, you’ll never get your edge back. You don’t want to be that guy."
Chase met his gaze, something shifting in his chest. House wasn’t coddling him, wasn’t pretending everything was fine. But in his own way, he was giving Chase permission to move forward—to not let this define him.
"Thanks," Chase said quietly, and he meant it.
House gave a small nod, then turned to leave, his cane tapping rhythmically as he walked away. But just before he reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"You’ll be back soon," House said with certainty. "And when you are, don’t screw up."
With that, he left the room, leaving Chase with a faint smile playing on his lips. Maybe he wasn’t fully okay yet. But for the first time, he felt like he might be, eventually.
One step at a time.