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Blind Truthe
by Quillwriter
"Have you ever even had a girlfriend?" Chase glared at Foreman. He was getting more and more like House every day. It was a wonder he did not see it.
"Is that any of your business?" Too defensive. Way too defensive. Foreman heard it that way too. He smiled his sly half-smile.
"I suppose not." The grin did not go away. "You know, pretending you do not actually have a personal life is not going to keep House from speculating. Loudly, and inappropriately."
"You either, I see," Chase muttered under his breath as he closed the door to the observation room.
"Hey, I'm only trying to give you some friendly advice. You never mention any women in your life. Well, except that one, and that was probably not the best one to bring up, fetishes and all." Chase groaned. He would never live that slip down. "I'm just saying. Go out. Make it known you've gone out. Give him something real and unimportant to torture you with, and he will stop speculating."
"W-what do you mean? What is he speculating about?" He couldn't know the truth. Chase was careful. No one knew the truth.
"Anything and everything, man."
"Here," Chase moved over to the machine and flipped some switches. An image appeared. "Would you look at that." He pointed.
"House was right." Foreman shook his head.
"Bastard's always right."
They took the scan back to the office, posted it on the light board and sat down to wait. Chase had barely hit his chair when House breezed in, stumping cane thudding against the floor in a quick rythm.
"Well?"
"You were right," Foreman said.
"Of course I was." He picked up the coffee pot, turned and looked at them. "What are you still doing here? Go. Treat her!" They jumped up and were almost out the door. "Chase."
"What?"
"She asked for you."
"Me? Why?"
"Who knows." House raised both eyebrows and went back to pouring his coffee. "Guess she didn't put the pretty face and the light loafers together."
Chase shook his head. "Pretty face? She's blind."
House merely shrugged. "Then she had to have heard all that sashaying." Chase would have made some pathetic retort, but Foreman elbowed him roughly in the ribs. Chase snapped his mouth shut and they left the office.
"I tried to warn you," Foreman said, as they entered the patient's room.
Chase made no response, but turned to their patient, instead. "Hi."
"Dr. Chase. Are you here to give me the treatment you talked about?"
"Yes. What it entails,"
"No."
"'Scuse me?"
"I don't want it."
"Why?" Chase studied the young lady in the bed. She was not distressed. There was no indication she was upset. "You know this treatment could make all the difference to your quality of life?"
"I like my life the way it is. Don't you?"
"Do I like your life, or do I like mine?"
"How could you possibly have an opinion about my life?"
"Well, what does this have to do with me?"
"It has everything to do with you." She held out her hand to him, her face turned toward him. If he did not know she was blind, he would have said she was looking at him. He glanced at Foreman who only shrugged. Blowing out a long breath, he placed his left hand in hers. She turned it over, palm up, traced a line from his palm to the space between his thumb and first finger, and smiled slightly. "Have you never heard the phrase Physician, heal thyself."
Chase pulled his hand free. "Well, yeah, sure, but,"
Her smile broadened. "Heal your own wounds first. Then you can worry about me." Calmly, she settled back in her bed. "You can go now."
They had little choice. She had refused treatment. Her ailment was not life threatening, so the doctors left the room.
"I don't get it." Foreman stared at Chase, puzzled.
"Don't look at me. I have no idea what that was all about."
When they got back, House was sitting at the table, coffee in hand, cane over his shoulder, and a smug smile on his face. "Let me guess. She said no."
"How?" Chase did not even bother to finish the question. House had already swung to his feet.
"Chase." He pointed to his office with his cane. Chase set his teeth. This was going to fall on him. It always, somehow, fell on him. And it always, for whatever reason, stuck.
As the door swung shut behind them, Chase spoke. "Look, I know what you are going to say, and this is not my fault. I don't know why she refused."
"Yes you do."
"No, I don't. She just read my palm." House's brows drew together in that way. Chase braced.
"Let me see."
"See what?" Chase could not help but take a step back.
"Your hand. Let me see."
"Why?" Here it comes. He did hold out his hand, though. House took it, held it palm up in his, and Chase was surprised. He did not know why he had expected House's hands to be calloused or rough. They weren't. House turned the hand over and peered at the back of it, studying his fingers. Looking for what? Belatedly, Chase pulled his hand back, but House had noticed the pause. It was not the sort of thing he would likely miss.
"Nope."
"Nope, what?"
"Your love line. It's not brail."
"Oh, for God's sake. I did not talk her out of treatment."
"Like the nun you did not talk into going back to the nunnery to die."
"I admit-" But House was not going to let him finish.
"Or that nine-year-old you did not kiss."
"That was-"
"Different, I know. And it hardly counts since she's not your type. Not even the right gender for you."
"This conversation is over."
"Oh." House tilted his head and looked at Chase. "He has a back bone after all."
"You have no business," But again, House cut him off.
"I'll tell you the same thing I told Cameron. I don't like you."
"Go to hell." Chase left the office. Reprimand or no reprimand, House did not have the right to speculate about his personal life. Of course, if he was not so sensitive about it, House would have much less amunition. Anyway, he had done nothing wrong.
Needing to avoid human contact for a little while, Chase went to the lab. There were no cultures to run, no biopsies, no blood, nothing. What there was, was peace and quiet, and a small corner where he could sit and hide. Like he was a kid again. Like he had broken something expensive and he was hiding from his parents, trying to work out how to blame it on the maid. He could hardly blame it on a friend. He hadn't had any then either. Now, there was nothing to blame on anyone. It was only House, speculating, poking, guessing. Guessing too close to the truth. Too close for what? Who would care?
No one. It was different here. He was not a high profile rich kid, this was not seminary school where they screened everyone, judged even while professing not to. No one here was going to tell him he was not qualified to do his job because he was not like them. No one here would bat an eye, because no one here would even be surprised. So why couldn't he just -.
"Hey," Chase rolled his eyes. Cameron.
"Hey." he turned around. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"Why?"
"Heard House was giving you a hard time." Chase shrugged. He did not want to get into it, especially with her. "You know, Robert, he's just curious."
"Don't, Allison. Don't defend him. He can be curious about anything he wants, patients, illness, whatever. He has no right prying into my head like that."
"He wants to know what makes you tick, what you'll take a stand for. He's waiting for you to fight back. But you can't beat him at his own game. He's the master of secrets and aggression. Just be yourself. Then, instead of being a manipulative, prying bastard, he's just plain mean, and that's too simple for him. He doesn't like easy targets. It's no fun for him if it's easy." She shrugged. "He'll find something else eventually, but you'll at least have a few days peace." She gave him a look. Sympathetic, like she knew what he was going through, and left. She had no idea what he was going through.
In an old, old habbit, Chase chewed the side of his thumb. He was being rediculous. Foreman was right. Just go out. Go on a date. And Cameron was right too. Give House what he wanted. Chase reached into his pants pocket and pulled something out. He looked carefully at it, slipped it on the ring finger of his left hand, beside the graduation ring on his pinkie. He headed back to the office. Cameron was there, going through mail. Foreman looked up from a thick medical text. House, leaning in front of the coffee pot, cocked his head.
"The prodigal son returns." Chase said nothing. He reached for the phone, dialed a number, making sure his ringed finger was in plain view. Like mothes to a flame, three sets of eyes fluttered over it as he dialed. The phone on the other end rang, and the machine picked up. Chase resisted the urge to lower his voice or turn his back.
"Hey. Andrew. It's Robert. Umm, looks like I won't be working late after all, so keep dinner warm. I'll see you when I get home. 'Bout six. See you." He hung up.
"You didn't tell him you loved him." House mocked and sipped his coffee. Chase smiled.
"I don't have to. He knows."
"Good. Now go give Madame Palm Reader her meds."
"She doesn't need them."
"You're an expert, all of a sudden?"
"She likes her life the way it is. There's nothing wrong with her."
"She's blind. It's reversable."
"It's who she is."
"Are we talking about the patient here? Or you?"
"She refused the treatment, she is not sick, she is going home." Chase picked up her chart from the table and went to the door, but he turned before walking out. "Thanks for the advice, Foreman, Cameron." He glanced at House. His chin was down on his chest, and he might have been smiling. It was hard to tell.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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