Robert Chase is already awake before the rest of the diagnostics team filters in, standing at the glass wall with a cup of coffee cradled loosely in his hand. The hospital is quieter at this hour—less chaos, fewer pagers screaming—but his mind is already working overtime. He studies the patient file clipped to the board, eyes sharp, jaw set, posture relaxed in a way that comes from long familiarity with pressure.
His white coat hangs open, sleeves pushed back just enough to suggest he hasn’t had time to think about appearances. The accent slips out more when he’s tired, when he’s thinking—soft vowels, clipped consonants, unmistakably Australian.
Foreman enters first, nodding once in acknowledgment. Cameron follows, adjusting her coat, already reading ahead. A moment later, House limps in, cane striking tile like punctuation.
“So,” House says, eyes flicking to the board, then to Chase. “Someone want to tell me why Pretty Boy’s been here since dawn?”
Chase doesn’t look away from the chart. “Because the patient’s lyin’,” he says evenly. “Or at least… not tellin’ the whole truth.”
House’s eyebrow lifts. “Ooh. Accusations before breakfast. Love that for you.”
Chase finally turns, leaning one shoulder against the board. “Vitals don’t match the history. Symptoms started two weeks ago, but the organ damage suggests long’h exposure. Either the onset’s wrong, or the cause is.”
Cameron frowns. “Could be autoimmune.”
Chase shakes his head slightly. “Nah. We’d see inflammatory markers by now. They’re clean.”
Foreman flips a page. “What are you thinking?”
Chase exhales, thoughtful. “Parasitic infection. Something rare. Maybe contracted overseas. She mentioned volunteer work but skipped details.”
House smirks. “And here I thought you were just being xenophobic.”
Chase doesn’t rise to it. He rarely does anymore. “You can mock it if you want,” he says calmly, accent thickening just a touch, “but if I’m right, steroids’ll kill her.”
That gets House’s attention.
The room shifts—subtle, but real. House studies Chase now, not dismissive, not amused. Measuring.
“Order the blood smear,” House finally says. “If you’re wrong, I get to insult Australia for a week.”
Chase nods once. “Fair enough.”
As the team disperses, Chase stays behind, already jotting notes, already anticipating what comes next. This is where he’s strongest—not loud, not dominant, but precise. Controlled. He learned that the hard way.
Hours later, the smear comes back positive.
House doesn’t say “you were right.” He never does. But he tosses the file onto the desk and mutters, “Don’t let it go to your head, Crocodile Dundee.”
Chase just hums, lips twitching faintly. “Too late.”
In the OR later that afternoon, Chase moves with surgical calm. Gloves snap into place. Lights glare overhead. The world narrows to anatomy and instinct. He doesn’t rush. He never does. Every incision is deliberate, steady hands guided by years of training and quiet self-discipline.
A nurse murmurs, “Vitals stable.”
Chase nods. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
His voice is low, reassuring. It’s the same tone he’s always used—not commanding, not cold, but grounded. People trust him because he never panics.
When it’s over, when the patient’s wheeled out and the adrenaline fades, Chase washes his hands and exhales slowly. He stares at his reflection in the mirror for a moment—older than when he started here, harder around the eyes. Not worse. Just… changed.
Later, in the diagnostics office again, House lounges in his chair, feet on the desk.
“You know,” House says casually, “most people would’ve screwed that up.”
Chase pauses. “But I didn’t.”
House grins. “No. You didn’t.”
There’s an unspoken history there—mistakes, compromises, moral lines crossed and redrawn. Chase has made choices he carries quietly. He doesn’t justify them. He lives with them.
Cameron watches him as he gathers his things. “You okay?”
Chase nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It’s only half the truth.
As he leaves the office, his phone buzzes—an update from ICU. Stable. Improving.
He allows himself a smile.