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i.
“I need Rowan Chase’s personal number,” House says; Cuddy, sitting placidly at her desk, doesn’t blink twice. “Ideally sometime this year.”
“And I want world peace,” Cuddy deadpans, finally deigning to look at him. Her outfit, much to House’s disappointment, is wholly uninspiring for mockery: high-necked blouse, knee-length pencil skirt, half-inch pumps. She knows how dull he finds the process of interviewing fellowship candidates—truly, the fact that she won’t even consider alleviating his boredom by wearing something risqué is in line with a human rights violation. “As far as I can tell, neither of these things is relevant to your job.”
“Don’t tell me,” House sighs, mock-beleaguered, “the surgeons that did your boob job messed with your brain, too. You don’t think world-famous rheumatologist Rowan Chase is relevant to my job as, I don’t know, a world-famous diagnostician?”
This irritates her: not the boob job comment—although Cuddy does so loathe it whenever he implies her God-given gifts were less than God-given—but the fact that he’s accurately showboating. It’s a card he rarely plays; braggadocio is so boring, after all. But it is, currently, relevant. “You need a consult?” she frowns. “You can’t have a new case, Grainger’s last shift was yesterday.”
“Exactly,” House clicks his tongue. “As you keep reminding me, I have fellows dropping like flies. Did it occur to you that I might be trying to replace them?”
“No, House,” Cuddy sighs, familiar and not without a touch of fondness, “because that would involve you doing as you’re told. This person you’re getting the reference for—didn’t they provide Dr Chase’s contact information already?”
House thinks back to Robert Chase, sitting in his office half an hour ago: young and cocky and eerily reminiscent of a child playing dress-up in their parents’ clothing. Expensive clothes and an expensive haircut: trust-fund kid. Alone in America, fresh off the boat on the other side of the world: running away from something. “Not a fan of rheumatology?” House had asked, a leading question, and the way Chase’s mouth had flattened had been answer enough. “I don’t think they parted on the best terms,” he tells Cuddy now. “I want the inside scoop.”
Cuddy fixes him a stern look through layers of kohl-rimmed lashes. “So you’re looking for a reason not to hire someone,” she deduces—incorrectly, at that, but who is he to ruin her fun. “Now that sounds more like you. Would it kill you to be upfront for once?”
“Pretty sure it’s in the fine print of my contract, yeah,” House nods with mock-solemnity. “Can you get me the number, or do I need to resort to identity theft?”
“I don’t even want to know,” Cuddy mutters. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
*
“Dr House,” Rowan Chase greets, sounding perfectly genial under the foreign Euro-Aussie accent and the hiss-crackle of an international long-distance call. “I’m returning your call. How can I help?”
Great question, House thinks, and one with so many answers. Outright disownment would be effective, though unsurprising. Singing his son’s praises would be the opposite—surprising, but far less interesting. And then, of course, there is the inevitable in-between. The real question isn’t as to what is going on between Rowan Chase and his son: House sees father-son discontentment every time he looks in the fucking mirror. The real question is this: is he going to hire Robert Chase?
“Tell me about Robbie,” House decides. “He a bedwetter?”
Rowan’s breath catches on the line, thousands of miles away and sixteen hours ahead, and House thinks back to Chase’s interview again: he had smiled at all the nurses on his way in, had the look of a young man for whom charm came easy. In House’s office, Chase did not smile once. Why did you become an intensivist? House had asked, scanning Chase’s CV, before that fateful, Not a fan of rheumatology? It’s a question he normally hates asking—too run-of-the-mill, invites too many clichés—but with Chase the curiosity had been real. And the answer had been real, too: Quality of life is subjective. Dying’s a hard line.
Rheumatology, as a rule, is always about symptom management. You can’t get much further from hard lines than that.
“You must mean Robert,” Rowan says now, still pleasant-sounding. “I take it you’re considering him for a job?”
“Considering, shmidering,” House responds airily, rolling the cricket ball in his hands. “He a runaway? Can’t get much further from the Gold Coast than Jersey.”
“I’m very proud of my son,” Rowan recites in flat monotone. “He is a good doctor.” It is something House’s own father might say, so long as House himself were not around to hear it. It is not an answer to the question.
There is a one-year gap on Chase’s resumé, between high school and undergrad. House had not asked about it, because he presumed the answer: gap year, and then an extended anecdote about volunteering in free clinics or finding himself in the Amazon, and neither of those were particularly interesting lines of enquiry. It is not often that House is wrong, but it has been known to happen. “I’d certainly prefer that to hiring a bad one,” House says sardonically. “I remember you emailed me about an article I had in last year’s edition of JAMA. You know what I do here. Think he’d be a good fit?”
Just say something about him, House thinks. Something concrete. Something specific.
“I think Robert will do well at anything he puts his mind to,” Rowan says mildly. “Is that all, Dr House?”
“That’s enough,” House says, because it is.
ii.
House hires Allison Cameron for the following reasons, and in no particular order: because she is perceptive, because she politely but steadfastly refuses to let Wilson hold the door open for her, because she interned at the Mayo Clinic, and because she is beautiful. Cuddy is, of course, thrilled; Cameron is not just a woman, but a woman of a particular sort—dark-haired and pantsuit-wearing and almost irritatingly diligent, a kind of ghost of Christmas past for Cuddy to pour all her hopes and dreams of glass ceiling breakage into. Wilson, too, is pleased, in spite of the door-holding incident; Cameron is eager to assist in handover whenever one of their patients is transferred to Oncology, and there’s a Kerry ‘04 sticker on her bumper—she’s a bleeding heart just like he is, so they can bleed all over each other, as far as House is concerned. Chase, however—
It isn’t that they don’t get along. Actually, them not getting along wouldn’t be an issue at all; Chase and McKenzie had hated each other, and weaponising that hatred had made McKenzie more productive in the last two months of his fellowship than he’d been for the entire two years. But Cameron and Chase appear to like each other just fine; she immediately and unapologetically covers for him when he stumbles in hungover one morning, and he effortlessly includes her in the morning coffee rounds. But still. There’s something…
“She doesn’t bite, you know,” House says, two weeks after Cameron’s first day on the job; she’s absent today, scheduling clash that she’d warned House about at interview—she only moved to New Jersey two months ago and has to close the deal on her new apartment. “Cameron, that is. No need to tiptoe around her like she’s going to rip your throat out. Cuddy, on the other hand…”
“I’m not scared of Cameron,” Chase scoffs, incredulous. Except he sort of is: ever since she showed up he’s been quieter in differentials, less likely to agree to breaking into a patient’s home. “She’s nice.”
His brow furrows on the last word, and House thinks: Oh. There it is.
Cameron is nice. Not kind, and not particularly charming, but she is nice: she says please and thank you, and smiles at babies, and always refers to patients by their names even when they’re not in the room. It’s borderline manipulative, in House’s opinion, but it’ll take her far.
He thinks of Rowan Chase: always smiling, in every photograph. Always pleasant. Immunology and rheumatology have historically been closely related fields. The first words out of his mouth when House called him six months ago had been House’s name. Cameron, yesterday, entering a patient’s room: Jasmine, how are you feeling?
House likes to roll his eyes sparingly, for fear of making the action lose its effectiveness, but good God. This really calls for it.
“Your homework for tomorrow is to tell Cameron she’s wrong to her in face in the differential,” House says, “or you’re fired.”
Chase’s face contorts into confusion. “What if she isn’t wrong?”
“In the football game of life Cameron is a linebacker, not a quarterback,” House says dismissively. “She’s a great team player, but she doesn’t score goals. She’ll be wrong about something. Get over your fear of her already.”
“I’m not scared of her!” Chase insists, and it is almost cute, how completely and utterly false he sounds.
The next day, Cameron suggests myasthenia gravis for a borderline textbook case of Guillain-Barré, and House raises a pointed eyebrow at Chase, who sighs. “Can’t be MG,” he says reluctantly, “the symptoms are too acute. The paralysis is way too rapid-onset.” Chase says all of this to the floor, not to Cameron, but House has a handwave-y relationship towards technicalities; he’ll take it.
Cameron frowns for a second, put-out, then shakes her head and says, “Yeah, you’re right. Her white count’s a little off, too. LP for infection?” She glances between House and Chase for confirmation. Chase shrugs, assignment completed, but the look on his face is pure relief; he was expecting her turn on him, House thinks, and instead Cameron has barely blinked.
“Gold star for Chase,” House says brightly. “Silver star for Cameron. Minus stars for everyone, because it’s Guillain-Barré, you idiots , get her on IVIg and plasmapheresis.”
“I’ll start her on the immunoglobulin,” Cameron volunteers quickly, and before Chase can follow her to go requisition the plasmapheresis machine, House snags his ankle with the end of his cane.
“See,” he says pointedly, “she’s not so scary after all.”
“And I told you I wasn’t scared of her,” Chase protests again, but it rings hollow; still, this time House actually believes it.
iii.
As a rule, Cuddy does not requisition House’s team unless it is a dire emergency—or the festive season. She knows well enough to leave them alone if there’s a case, but otherwise her rules are clear: at least one of House’s fellows must be loaned out to work Christmas Day. He begrudgingly understands her reasoning: the ER is always over-full on Thanksgiving and Christmas, on account of the sheer number of idiot home cooks trying to get creative with carving knives at the same time, and most hospital staff are eager to hoard their PTO to spend the holidays with their families—understaffing is inevitable. And Cuddy also knows well enough not to bother trying to rope House into pulling a Christmas shift, so truly, it isn’t really House’s problem.
The day after they discharge Sister Augustine, the show begins. Chase had worked last Christmas almost by default—he’d been the newest fellow on the team then, and McKenzie and Popov had both had young children besides—so in the interest of saving time, House pre-emptively declares him immune from the grand squabble to avoid the Christmas shift. “I need an answer by the end of the day,” he tells Cameron and Foreman, “or I’ll send you both Cuddy’s way.” Besides, Chase and Foreman seem to hate each other enough already; a little friction between Foreman and Cameron will do them all some good. It never pays, House thinks, to let the serfs get too buddy-buddy; he’s pretty sure that’s how the French revolution started. As it stands, House is rather attached to his head. He’d like to keep it that way.
At lunch with Wilson, he lays out his predictions. “See, Cameron’s got puppydog eyes,” he muses, pilfering some of Wilson’s fries, “but dagnabbit, that Foreman kid’s got edge. Too close to call.”
“And at no point did it ever occur to you to lie to Cuddy about having a case,” Wilson raises his eyebrows, “so that all of them could have Christmas off?”
House wags his finger chidingly. “Hey now,” he says, and prods Wilson directly into the pudginess of his shoulder. “Lying is wrong.”
“Right, and making them fight over who gets to spend the holiday with their families isn’t,” Wilson deadpans. “Of course.”
In all honesty, the final outcome is far less interesting than the deliberations themselves, and so House is pleased to return to his department and see Cameron and Foreman still sitting at the conference table together, fervently making their cases as to who should get the day off. “I’m happy to work it next year,” Cameron says, saccharine-sweet with righteous self-sacrifice; she probably means it, too, or at least thinks she does, “but I already booked my flight to Chicago, and the tickets are non-refundable.”
“I understand,” Foreman is saying—unlike Cameron, he definitely doesn’t mean it—“but with my mom’s Alzheimer’s—“
Cameron’s expression is crumpling like wet tissue paper; she’s about two seconds away from conceding. Boring, House thinks, and prepares to head over to his office for a busy afternoon shift of avoiding clinic duty and catching up on General Hospital, except Chase, stood by the coffee machine and staring distantly out of the window, jumps to attention and says, “I’ll do it. I’ll work the Christmas shift.
All three of them—Cameron, Foreman and House—stare at him. “Nice try,” House says, recovering first, “but an empty gesture. You can’t trade immunity idols with another contestant.”
Chase flicks him an irritated look. “This isn’t Survivor,” he says. “Seriously, I don’t mind. You’ve both got good reasons to want it off, and I’ll get double pay for it. It works out.”
Cameron unfreezes second; House figures that Foreman is still reeling from seeing first-hand proof of Chase having a soul. “That’s so kind of you to offer,” she says earnestly, “but you worked Christmas last year—“
Chase cuts her off with a wave. “Exactly, it’s not a bad shift.” (Total lie.) “Seriously, it’s fine. Go see your parents.”
“Thanks,” Foreman says at last; he has the grace to look a touch embarrassed at how begrudging it sounds. “Next time you need a shift covered, we got you.”
Chase shrugs, faux-modest. “Cool,” he says. He locks eyes with House and adds, “So that’s sorted, then.”
Yeah, right.
*
House plots and schemes to get Chase alone for the rest of the week, but is foiled at every turn: first, their new patient starts bleeding out of every orifice (ugh), and then Cuddy forces him at gunpoint (well, clinic duty point, but House would prefer the gun) to do some of his dictations, and then there’s a SARS scare that has everyone pulling overtime shifts testing and isolating everyone the patient has been in contact with (the patient, as it turns out, does not have SARS). So in a way it’s fitting that he only gets around to it on Christmas Eve: Cameron is gone early, off to catch her fabled pre-booked flight, and Foreman follows suit not an hour later, leaving Chase and House alone in the conference room. Ding dong merrily on high, and all that.
“You’re working tomorrow,” House points, and Chase’s jaw twitches. “You shouldn’t be.”
“Cameron and Foreman,” Chase starts, and House clicks his tongue chidingly.
“If I were being fair, I would’ve told Foreman to work it,” House says, “since he’s the greenest. If I were being equitable, I would’ve told Cameron to work it, since dementia mom trumps non-refundable plane tickets any day. That wasn’t the point. You usually know better than to mess with my games, and yet…”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like spending Christmas alone on the other side of the world,” Chase says flatly. “Sue me.”
“Your mom’s been dead ten years, and I know you’re not exactly crazy about your dad,” House points out. “Can’t be the first time you’ve spent Christmas Day on your own.”
“Will be the first time I don’t go to Mass on it, though,” Chase bites back, and then slumps in his chair, like all the wind has gone out of his sails. He looks ashen, ten years older and younger at once; the nun, House thinks grimly, must’ve really done a number on him. “It’s not a sin to miss it if you have patient obligations. If I’m working Christmas Day…”
“Pretty sure there’s something in the fine print that mentions this loophole,” House says, not unkindly. Chase barks out a humourless laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “But better than no reason at all, right?” Chase scrubs his eyes tiredly. “The way I see it…maybe, in ten years time, things’ll be different, with my faith. Maybe it’s all part of His plan. And I’ll feel bad enough for doubting already. At least if I have an excuse for one day a year…”
“Not how it works,” House tells him. “Catholics don’t actually have a monopoly on guilt. The only person who gets to decide if you feel bad about it is you.”
“I wish that were true,” Chase says wistfully. His beeper goes off; he’s on call tonight and tomorrow. Snow is beginning to fall. “Merry Christmas, House.”
*
Next year, there is no question as to who has to work Christmas. House already has Chase’s name written down.