Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You've got to be kidding me," Foreman groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Cameron let out a small, distressed noise. "I told you we should have booked a better hotel."

Chase just sighed and stared at the scene before them with a resigned expression, looking like he’d aged five years in the past ten seconds.

House, meanwhile, was smirking.

Because right in front of them, in this fine establishment that had clearly put all its money into the lobby and none into the rooms, was a single hotel room. And inside that single hotel room was a single double bed and three single beds, all crammed into a space that was at least two beds short of comfortable.

Foreman turned toward the receptionist, but the guy had already vanished like a ghost, probably sensing the impending disaster.

"Of course," Chase muttered. "Of course this happened."

Cameron was still in disbelief. "I don’t understand. We booked four rooms. Four."

House, who had been silent up until now, took a step forward, surveying the room with mild amusement. "This is what happens when you go for the budget option,” he said, not even pretending to be upset. "I mean, come on, guys. Who needs four rooms? This builds character."

"Character?" Foreman echoed, shooting him a glare.

House ignored him. His eyes went straight to the double bed, and he immediately made his way toward it, flopping down onto the mattress with a pleased grunt. He stretched his bad leg out, bouncing the mattress a little as he did, and smirked when no one even tried to lay claim to it.

His team may be a pain in the ass most days, but this? This showed they'd been trained well.

"My bed," he announced smugly, making himself comfortable.

Not a single protest. Not even a token attempt to argue.

Instead, the three of them just slinked off to the three single beds in the room, exchanging wary glances, clearly realising what this meant.

There were three beds.

There were three of them.

Someone was getting screwed over.

"...I should get the one closest to the window," Cameron said quickly, moving toward it. "I'm a light sleeper."

"Oh, come on," Foreman said. "That has nothing to do with—"

"I'm not sleeping in the middle," Chase cut in, immediately crossing his arms. "I'm not."

"Then what?" Foreman said, folding his arms. "You wanna be by the bathroom? Be my guest."

"I think we should just go with first come, first serve," Cameron said, already pulling back the covers of the window-side bed.

Foreman glared. "Yeah, of course you think that. You got to the bed first!"

House, still lounging on his double bed, watched the scene unfold with mild entertainment.

For five full minutes, the three of them bickered.

Foreman brought up height ratios. Chase accused Cameron of being manipulative. Cameron declared she had seniority privileges, which made no sense, but she said it with enough confidence that Chase briefly looked like he believed her.

House let it go on for a bit, just to enjoy the show. But eventually, it got boring.

"Alright, children," he said lazily, stretching out on his undisputed double bed. "Daddy's making the call."

The arguing stopped, and three heads snapped toward him, expressions ranging from wary to mildly concerned.

House pointed at Chase. "You. By the window."

Chase blinked. "Wait, really? I—"

House pointed at Foreman. "You. Bathroom side."

Foreman looked vaguely satisfied—right up until House pointed at Cameron.

"And that means you get the middle," House finished with a smirk.

Cameron’s eyes widened. "What?"

"Should've argued less," House said with a shrug. "This is what happens when you try to make first come, first serve a thing."

Chase, clearly pleased with his placement, immediately threw his bag onto his bed before Cameron could change the ruling.

"You're the worst," Cameron muttered, reluctantly sitting down on the middle bed.

"I'm the worst?" House repeated. "Excuse you, I just solved your little problem in record time."

Foreman, now moving toward his designated bed, shook his head. "This trip is already a nightmare."

"Hey, it's a bonding experience," House said. "We're learning the value of teamwork. Conflict resolution. Personal space management."

"We are learning the value of personal space management?" Foreman said flatly.

House just smirked, patting the very spacious double bed under him.

Cameron groaned, flopping onto her bed. Chase had already curled up on his, looking much more pleased than before. Foreman was muttering under his breath, probably regretting every life choice that had led him here.

House took one last glance at his properly assigned team, then let out a satisfied sigh.

Best. Conference. Ever.

House had barely started drifting off when the first incident happened.

"House."

He cracked one eye open. "What."

Foreman stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Chase snores."

House groaned and flopped back onto the pillows. "So do a third of adults, which means you probably snore too. Shut up and go to sleep."

"No, but it's really bad," Foreman insisted. "It’s—"

Before he could finish, Chase let out an unholy snorting noise, like a congested pig choking on its own tongue.

Foreman gestured toward him like that was all the proof he needed.

House squinted at Chase. He was snoring pretty loudly. Maybe a little excessively.

Still, that wasn't his problem.

"Fix it," House said, rolling over.

"How?" Foreman demanded.

"Figure it out," House muttered.

"Are you kidding me—"

But House had already closed his eyes again.

The second incident happened at exactly 1:47 AM.

"House," Cameron whispered urgently.

House, who had just managed to fall into a proper sleep, let out a long, suffering sigh. "What now?"

"Someone’s in the bathroom."

House peeled one eye open. "…And?"

"They’ve been in there for like twenty minutes," she whispered. "And they didn’t even turn the light on."

House frowned. That was weird.

Dragging himself out of bed, he limped over to the bathroom door and knocked. "Unless you're having an existential crisis in there, hurry it up."

No response.

Frowning deeper, he tried the handle. Unlocked.

He pushed the door open—only to see Chase, half-asleep, sitting on the shut toilet lid with a dazed expression, hugging the toilet paper roll like a stuffed animal.

House stared.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Chase blinked slowly up at him, then muttered groggily, "Dunno."

House pinched the bridge of his nose. "Go back to bed."

Chase, still half-asleep, slowly got up and shuffled back to his bed like a zombie, collapsing onto the mattress without another word.

Cameron gave House a look.

"Don't even," House muttered, shutting the bathroom door.

The third incident happened at 3:12 AM.

A loud THUMP woke House with a start.

He blinked blearily into the darkness. "…Did someone just die?"

"Ow," came Chase's pitiful voice from the floor.

"Oh, for—" House groaned and sat up. "What the hell happened?"

"Fell off," Chase mumbled.

House sighed, pushed himself up, and limped over. Chase was sitting on the floor, blanket half-draped over his head like a sad little ghost.

"Get up," House said, pulling him back onto the bed. "Stay on it this time."

"M'kay," Chase murmured sleepily, curling up under the blanket.

House shook his head and climbed back into bed.

The fourth incident happened at 4:30 AM.

"House."

"Oh my god."

House turned to see Cameron standing by his bed again.

"What now?"

"Foreman stole my blanket."

House stared at her. "Are you five?"

"No, but—"

"Then steal it back," House said, rolling over.

Cameron huffed but turned and marched over to Foreman’s bed. A few seconds later, there was a brief struggle as she attempted to yank the blanket back, followed by a sleepy "Quit it," from Foreman.

House ignored it.

The fifth incident happened at 5:00 AM.

This time, it was Foreman’s turn to wake House.

"Cameron kicks in her sleep," he grumbled.

"So kick her back," House muttered into his pillow.

"House—"

"Sleep deprivation is literally deadly, Foreman, and I swear to God if I don’t get at least one full hour—"

Foreman grumbled something but trudged back to bed.

By the time morning rolled around, House was dead inside.

Cameron was curled in a ball, still wrapped in Foreman’s stolen blanket.

Foreman was sprawled half-off the bed, looking vaguely like he regretted his life choices.

Chase, miraculously, was still asleep despite everything—face buried in the pillow, drooling slightly.

House, exhausted beyond words, sat up and sighed.

This conference was going to be hell.

By the time the team dragged themselves down to the hotel’s sad excuse for a breakfast buffet, they all looked like zombies.

Cameron had dark circles under her eyes and was moving in slow motion.

Foreman was chugging a cup of black coffee like his life depended on it.

Chase—who, miraculously, had slept through half the chaos—looked the least wrecked of them all, but he still yawned into his sleeve as he shuffled toward the food.

House, on the other hand, was 100% done with everything.

“Never. Again.” He limped toward the buffet, already regretting his entire existence.

Foreman grunted in agreement, too exhausted to argue.

They stared at the food selection, which was somehow even more depressing than House expected. Stale-looking bagels. A single sad fruit bowl with some questionable grapes. Watery eggs. And a waffle maker that looked like it had been through war.

Chase yawned again and grabbed a plate. "M'getting waffles."

House snorted. "Bold choice."

Cameron blearily reached for a cup of coffee. House snatched it away before she could take a sip.

"Hey!" she protested.

“No caffeine for you,” House said, sipping it himself. “We all suffered last night. You don’t get to cheat your way through it.”

She gave him a look but was too tired to fight.

Meanwhile, Chase had successfully poured waffle batter into the ancient waffle maker, only to realize too late that he hadn’t greased it first.

House watched as Chase opened the waffle iron and found himself staring at a horribly mutilated waffle, half of which was now fused to the top plate.

Chase blinked at it. “…Oh.”

House smirked. "Good job, Gordon Ramsay."

Chase scowled and tried to scrape it off. He only managed to make it look worse.

Foreman, still downing coffee like an addict, shook his head. "I can't believe I'm watching this happen."

Chase ignored him and dumped a ridiculous amount of syrup on the sad remains of his waffle before sitting down.

House, despite his misery, found himself somewhat entertained. His team was a mess. The food was crap. He hadn't slept.

And yet, this was the kind of disaster that made life interesting.

As he sat down with his own plate, he sighed dramatically. "Alright, children. Eat your terrible breakfast so we can go pretend to care about this conference."

Chase, mouth full of waffle, mumbled, "M'not a child."

"Sure you're not."

The team filed into the conference hall, still in various stages of exhaustion from the night from hell. The room was packed with doctors, most of them looking way too enthusiastic for whatever this first lecture was supposed to be about.

House had already forgotten the topic. Something about Advanced Data Analytics in Diagnostic Medicine.

Translation: Boring as hell.

They sat near the back, House slumping down in his chair and propping his cane against the seat next to him. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman all attempted to look like they were paying attention as the speaker—a stiff-looking guy in his 50s—stepped up to the podium and began droning on about data sets.

House lasted exactly four minutes before he leaned toward his team.

“Alright. Pop quiz.”

Cameron sighed. “House, please.”

“No, no, this is important,” House said, smirking. “If I have to suffer, so do you.”

Foreman gave him a dead-eyed stare. “You chose to sit through this.”

“I chose to come to a medical conference. I did not choose to listen to an hour-long TED Talk on spreadsheets.”

Chase stifled a yawn and mumbled, "Can we not get kicked out before lunch?"

House ignored him. He turned to Cameron first.

“You’re dying. You don’t know why. You have one test left to order, and if you pick wrong, I pull the plug on you myself. What do you pick?”

Cameron blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… what are my symptoms?”

House gave an exaggerated shrug. “Don’t know. Your vitals are a mess, your body’s shutting down, and nobody can figure out what’s wrong. You’ve got one shot.”

Cameron frowned, clearly thinking. “…I’d order a whole-genome sequencing?”

House clicked his tongue. “Wrong. You’re dead. Foreman, what about you?”

Foreman exhaled slowly, like he was mentally preparing himself. “I’d do a brain biopsy.”

“Wrong again.” House turned to Chase. “You gonna disappoint me too?”

Chase, still looking half-asleep, gave a lazy shrug. “Autopsy?”

House grinned. “See? Now that’s the kind of thinking I like.”

Cameron groaned and rubbed her temples. “House, that doesn’t even—”

“Shhh.” House waved her off. “The lesson here is simple: Sometimes the only way to be sure is to cut people open.”

Foreman shook his head. “That is not the lesson here.”

House leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself. “Details.”

Up on stage, the speaker was still talking about statistical models.

House sighed dramatically. “This is agony. I’d rather have a lumbar puncture with a rusty needle.”

Chase, still slumped in his seat, mumbled, "M'fallin' 'sleep."

House smirked and nudged him with his cane. "Go ahead. If you snore, I will record it."

Cameron shushed them both, trying to listen.

Foreman crossed his arms. "So what was the right answer?"

House just smirked. "Guess we'll never know."

The first lecture had been an unbearable slog, but the next one at least promised to be mildly interesting. Something about diagnostic methodologies in complex cases—which, while still likely to be full of big words with no real meaning, at least had a chance of holding House’s attention.

Or, more accurately, a chance for him to cause problems on purpose.

The speaker, a sharp-looking woman in her early 40s, started off decently enough—talking about diagnostic decision trees, differential methodology, and blah blah blah. House only tuned back in when she brought up a case study.

“…and after ruling out the initial possibilities, the patient was ultimately diagnosed with viral myocarditis. Now, the question is, was there a more efficient way to reach this conclusion?”

House smirked. Oh, this is too easy.

He leaned over to Foreman, voice low and amused. “Go on. Destroy her.”

Foreman sighed heavily. “House, no.”

“Foreman, yes.”

Cameron and Chase exchanged wary looks. They’d seen this happen before.

Foreman pressed his lips together like he was considering just ignoring House entirely, but after a long moment, he gave in and raised his hand.

The speaker nodded at him. “Yes?”

Foreman shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter. “Your process was inefficient. The patient presented with fatigue, mild chest pain, and flu-like symptoms, correct?”

The speaker tilted her head. “Yes?”

“You ran a full cardiac panel first, then waited for a biopsy to confirm myocarditis—before even considering viral etiology?”

“Well, given the—”

Foreman didn’t let her finish. “A simple viral PCR could’ve ruled in an enterovirus immediately, cutting diagnostic time in half. But instead, you wasted time with broad cardiac testing and invasive procedures that weren’t needed.”

The speaker blinked. “It wasn’t a waste. The differential—”

Foreman cut her off again. “It was a waste. The patient got worse while you took the scenic route.”

House grinned. “That’s my boy.”

The speaker looked slightly rattled but recovered quickly. “Well, sometimes a broader approach is necessary to avoid premature closure. If we’d assumed a viral cause without—”

“Premature closure would’ve been ordering no further tests,” Foreman shot back. “Testing for viral etiology first doesn’t prevent further investigation—it prevents delays.”

The speaker hesitated for a fraction of a second. That was all House needed.

He leaned toward Chase and Cameron, whispering dramatically, “He’s winning.”

Chase, to his credit, didn’t even try to hide his grin.

The speaker cleared her throat. “Well. I suppose that’s one way to approach it, but—”

House finally joined in, grinning like a wolf. “It’s the right way.”

The speaker sighed, clearly regretting ever calling on them. “Moving on.”

House smirked and leaned back, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Foreman exhaled through his nose and shook his head. “I hate you.”

House just clapped him on the shoulder. “No, you don’t. You love the attention.”

Chase nudged Foreman. “You did kinda destroy her.”

Foreman sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

After the thrilling spectacle of watching Foreman verbally eviscerate the last speaker, House had high hopes for the next lecture.

That was his first mistake.

The third talk of the day was titled “Navigating Ethical Dilemmas in Modern Medicine.”

House groaned the second he saw the title. Ethics. Great. He might as well take a nap now and let Cameron handle this one.

The speaker, an older man with the kind of posture that suggested he’d spent way too much time lecturing wide-eyed med students, started droning on about duty of care and informed consent and moral responsibility.

House lasted five minutes before he started causing problems.

Leaning over to Chase, he muttered, “I give this guy another ten minutes before he brings up the trolley problem.”

Cameron, seated next to him, whispered back, “You could at least try to take this seriously.”

House snorted. “What’s there to take seriously? Ethics is just hypotheticals for people who don’t have to make real decisions.”

Unfortunately for everyone, the speaker did bring up the trolley problem—right at the ten-minute mark.

House smirked. Called it.

“…and so, we must ask ourselves: Is it ethical to actively choose to divert the trolley, sacrificing one life to save five?”

House stretched dramatically, loud enough that a few people turned to glare at him. “Depends. Are the five people worth saving?”

The speaker blinked, caught off guard. “I—well, we assume all lives are of equal value—”

House made a face. “Then you’re already screwing up your own thought experiment.”

The speaker sighed. “The point of the dilemma isn’t about personal bias—”

“But it is, though,” House said, sitting forward like he was actually interested now. “Because in real life, we do weigh lives differently. You’re telling me if one track has five convicted murderers and the other has, say, a ten-year-old kid, you’re just gonna go with basic arithmetic?”

The speaker hesitated.

House smirked. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Chase, clearly enjoying this way too much, leaned forward. “What if the five people are all dying of terminal cancer and the one person is an organ donor?”

The speaker pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—that’s not the point of the scenario.”

House grinned. “Then maybe the scenario sucks.”

A few people in the audience chuckled. Cameron just buried her face in her hands.

The speaker sighed heavily. “Let’s move on.”

House sat back, smug. “God, I love ethics.”

After a long day of lectures—some more entertaining than others—the team headed out for dinner.

House, being House, had refused to make a reservation anywhere ahead of time. “It builds character,” he’d said, which really just meant he didn’t care if they starved.

Eventually, they ended up at a crowded steakhouse, where House promptly ordered the most expensive cut on the menu just to spite Cuddy (who was footing the bill). Chase stuck with something simple, Foreman got a burger, and Cameron ordered grilled chicken—something House immediately started mocking her for.

“What, afraid the steak might be too unethical after the trolley problem disaster?” he smirked.

Cameron rolled her eyes but didn’t engage.

Which, in hindsight, was the first sign something was wrong.

As dinner went on, she got quieter. She barely touched her food, just picking at it with her fork while the rest of them argued over some recent medical case.

About halfway through the meal, she suddenly put her utensils down and pressed a hand to her stomach.

House noticed immediately. “Oh, great. You’re not about to die on me, are you?”

Cameron gave him a weak glare, but her face was noticeably paler than before. “I’m fine.”

“You look less than fine,” Foreman said, frowning.

“I’m just—” Cameron exhaled. “I think I just need to lie down.”

House shrugged. “Good enough for me. Let’s go.”

Foreman raised an eyebrow. “We’re all leaving?”

House was already standing. “What, you wanna stay behind and get dessert while she pukes her guts out at the hotel?”

Foreman held up his hands in surrender. “Fair point.”

They paid quickly and made their way back. Cameron stayed quiet the whole time, walking a little slower than usual.

By the time they got to the hotel room, she looked exhausted.

“Alright, bed,” House said, pointing. “Unless you want me to carry you.”

Cameron shot him a glare but obeyed, kicking off her shoes and climbing under the covers without argument.

Foreman looked concerned. “Do you need—”

“I just need to sleep,” Cameron muttered.

House nodded, satisfied. “Great. If you do drop dead, try to do it quietly. I need my beauty sleep.”

Cameron let out a tired laugh, which House took as a victory.

The rest of them settled in, dimming the lights and preparing for what they hoped would be a normal, uneventful night.

They were wrong.

House woke up to the unmistakable sound of retching.

For a second, he debated ignoring it. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe it was someone else’s problem.

Then he heard another miserable gag, followed by a weak cough.

He sighed. So much for sleep.

Dragging himself out of bed, he grabbed his cane and limped toward the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hotel room.

Inside, Cameron was curled over the toilet, looking downright miserable. Her hair stuck to the sides of her face, and her hands clutched the bowl in a white-knuckled grip.

House leaned against the doorframe. “You know, when I said ‘puking your guts out,’ I was joking.”

Cameron groaned in response, resting her forehead against her arm.

House sighed and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “Move over.”

She didn’t argue—probably too sick to care. He grabbed a washcloth from the counter, ran it under cold water, and handed it to her. She took it without a word, pressing it against her forehead.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were her ragged breathing and the occasional heave.

House crouched down beside her, resting his arm on his knee. “You get food poisoning, or is this some dramatic stress response to being stuck in a hotel room with me?”

Cameron let out a weak laugh before gagging again.

House winced. “Yeah, don’t do that. You’re not a pretty puker.”

Cameron didn’t even lift her head to glare at him. Progress.

Another round of retching followed, and House rubbed a slow circle on her back. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing, but he figured a little reassurance wouldn’t kill him.

Eventually, Cameron slumped against the toilet, looking drained. “This sucks.”

“No kidding.” House pushed himself up and grabbed a cup from the counter, filling it with water. He handed it to her. “Rinse.”

She obeyed without complaint.

House sighed, leaning against the counter. “Alright. Here’s the deal. You’re gonna lie down, sip some water, and not die. If you do die, I’m gonna be very annoyed.”

Cameron rolled her eyes but let him help her up.

By the time they made it back to bed, she was barely keeping her eyes open. House pulled the covers over her and gave her a considering look.

“You’re not secretly contagious, right?” he asked.

“Pretty sure it was dinner,” she murmured sleepily.

House hummed. “Good. Because if I start puking, you will be taking care of me.”

Cameron made a vague noise of protest but was already drifting off.

House watched her for a second, then sighed and settled back into bed.

Tonight was definitely going on his list of reasons why medical conferences were a mistake.

House woke up to the same awful sounds as before—retching, gagging, the occasional miserable cough.

For a second, he wondered if he was stuck in some kind of horrible time loop.

He groaned, running a hand over his face before forcing himself upright. His leg protested, his back ached, and he was already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

He limped toward the bathroom again, squinting against the harsh light.

Cameron was hunched over the toilet, looking even worse than before. She was pale, sweaty, and visibly shaking, her hands gripping the toilet seat like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

House sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “Jesus. You look like death warmed over.”

Cameron weakly lifted her head to glare at him before immediately doubling over and dry-heaving again.

House winced. Yeah, that bad, huh?

He stepped inside and wet another washcloth, then crouched down beside her, pressing the cool fabric against the back of her neck. She shuddered but didn’t pull away.

“How’s the water staying down?” he asked.

She let out a miserable groan. “It’s not.”

House frowned. “That’s not ideal.”

Cameron just slumped against the toilet, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

House watched her for a moment, then nudged her lightly. “You done for now?”

She nodded weakly.

“Alright.” He hauled himself to his feet and grabbed the trash can from under the sink. He set it next to her before bending down again. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed before you pass out on the bathroom floor.”

Cameron barely had the energy to protest. She let House pull her up, swaying slightly before he steadied her with a firm grip.

He guided her back to bed, tossing a bottle of water on the nightstand and settling the trash can within arm’s reach.

She collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.

House crossed his arms. “Alright, here’s the deal. You try to sip water. If that doesn’t work, we’re taking a fun little trip to the ER for some fluids.”

Cameron made a face but didn’t argue.

House sat down on the edge of his bed, watching her carefully. Her breathing was uneven, and she looked completely wrecked.

After a moment, she cracked one eye open. “You’re staying up, aren’t you?”

House shrugged. “Can’t have you choking on your own vomit. That would definitely make this trip worse.”

Cameron let out a weak chuckle. “Lucky me.”

Cameron continued throwing up. Relentlessly.

At some point, it stopped being just miserable and started getting concerning. She was barely getting a breath in before she was heaving again, and every attempt at sipping water ended up in the toilet seconds later.

House sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Alright. Enough of this.

He pushed himself up, grabbed his cane, and tapped the side of her bed with it. “Field trip. We’re going to the ER.”

Cameron groaned weakly into her pillow. “I’ll be fine…”

House ignored her and went straight to Chase and Foreman’s beds, yanking their blankets down in one dramatic motion. “Up and at ‘em, kids. We’re all going.”

Chase let out an incoherent protest and tried to burrow into his pillow. Foreman cracked one eye open and scowled. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m not dragging just her to the ER in the middle of the night while you two sleep like babies. Misery loves company.”

Cameron let out another pitiful retching noise.

Foreman sighed, already resigned. Chase, on the other hand, sat up looking half-conscious and very confused. “Who’s dyin’?”

“No one, yet,” House muttered. “But Cameron’s trying her best.”

Chase blinked blearily, then made a face. “Ew.”

House rolled his eyes. “Yes. Ew. Get dressed.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in a cab heading to the nearest hospital, Cameron in the front to combat the nausea, pale and slumped against the window, Chase half-asleep against House’s shoulder, and Foreman rubbing his temples like he was seriously regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.

House smirked. “Cheer up, kids. I bet we’ll get a great case study out of this.”

They arrived at the ER and checked Cameron in, where she was promptly led to a curtained-off bed. She looked even worse under the harsh fluorescent lights—pale, clammy, and barely able to sit up without swaying.

The doctor on call took one look at her and immediately started an IV for fluids. “Looks like textbook food poisoning,” she said, hanging a bag of saline. “We’ll do some blood work to rule out anything more serious, but this is pretty classic.”

House leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Great. So she’s not actually dying. Just feels like it.”

The doctor ignored him and focused on Cameron. “You’ve lost a lot of fluids. We’ll give you IV anti-nausea meds and rehydrate you, but after that, it’s just rest, clear fluids, and bland food for a few days.”

Cameron barely nodded, exhausted.

Meanwhile, Chase had somehow managed to fall asleep sitting upright in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, head tipped onto Foreman’s shoulder. Foreman looked like he wanted to shove him off but was too tired to bother.

The doctor finished checking Cameron’s vitals, then turned to House with a professional smile. “She should be fine with some rest. Just make sure she takes it easy for the next day or two, Dad.”

House’s eyebrows shot up. Foreman smirked.

Cameron, barely conscious, still managed to whisper, “Not my dad.”

The doctor blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I just assumed—”

“Yeah, yeah,” House waved her off. “Happens all the time.”

Once Cameron was stable enough to be discharged, House looked at his sleep-deprived ducklings and made an executive decision. He nudged Chase awake with his cane, then yanked Foreman’s arm to haul him up.

“We’re skipping the first speech tomorrow,” he announced, guiding Cameron toward the exit.

Chase, still mostly asleep, mumbled, “Wha’ why?”

“Because I don’t feel like dragging three exhausted children around while pretending to care about Cardiology in the 21st Century.”

Foreman didn’t even argue. Chase just nodded sleepily.

House smirked. Finally, something good came out of this.

By the time the third day rolled around, everyone was running on fumes. Cameron still looked miserable but was no longer actively vomiting, which House considered a win. Chase kept yawning dramatically, as if his suffering was unparalleled, while Foreman had settled into a quiet, resigned exhaustion.

They skipped the morning session but listened to the next one which was at least mildly interesting—some new chemotherapy technique House already knew about but took the opportunity to loudly critique. Chase tried to take notes but ended up doodling on his paper. House leaned over and raised an eyebrow at what appeared to be a stick figure of himself wielding a massive cane like a sword.

He pointed at it. “Not bad. Needs more gravitas.”

Chase smirked and added a tiny explosion behind the figure.

The next session was less fun. More about the ethical considerations in modern medicine, which made House roll his eyes so hard he nearly sprained something. Foreman actually engaged in the discussion—because of course he did—but House made up for it by whispering increasingly absurd hypothetical scenarios to Chase, who had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop from laughing.

Cameron spent most of the day in a half-daze, still weak from the food poisoning. House occasionally poked her to make sure she was still alive.

By the time dinner rolled around, everyone was too exhausted for shenanigans. House didn’t even have to force them into an early bedtime—they all trudged back to the hotel room without protest.

Except Foreman, who, despite looking ready to drop, was sitting up in bed reviewing his notes. House scowled.

“Put it away.”

“I’m just looking over—”

“Put it away,” House repeated, snatching the notebook. “You think too loudly.”

Foreman exhaled sharply, clearly annoyed but too tired to fight back. He slumped down into bed with a muttered, “Unbelievable.”

House clicked off the lights. “If anyone wakes me up tonight, I’m prescribing them a lethal dose of shut the hell up.”

For once, the room stayed quiet. No puking. No nightmares. No late-night bickering.

House drifted off, actually hoping for an uneventful night.

He should’ve known better.

House was woken up by soft cries and whimpers.

He groaned, sitting up in bed and rubbing his face. What the hell now?

Foreman and Cameron were both out cold, but Chase—curled up on his side—was clearly in the middle of a nightmare. His breathing was uneven, his fingers twitching against the sheets, and his whimpers were growing into something more distressed.

House sighed. He cursed being a light sleeper, cursed Chase for having the audacity to dream loudly, and cursed himself for already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He limped over and crouched slightly, pressing a hand to Chase’s shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”

Chase didn’t stir. His face scrunched up, and his whole body tensed.

House shook him a little harder. “Come on, up.”

That did it. Chase’s eyes shot open—but instead of relief or confusion, his expression immediately twisted into something panicked. He scrambled back so fast that he nearly rolled off the bed, gasping for breath, his eyes darting wildly before landing on House.

And then he froze.

House knew that look. He didn’t like that look.

“Chase,” he said carefully, but Chase was already shaking his head, shrinking away, curling his hands into fists against the sheets.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Chase stammered, his voice wrecked, thin with panic. “I swear, I—please don’t—”

House’s stomach twisted. He’d woken up patients from post-op nightmares before, seen people lost in medicated confusion, but this was different. Chase wasn’t here. Not really. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing was ragged, and the way his body was locked up—it wasn’t just fear. It was expectation.

House exhaled slowly. His voice softened without him even thinking about it. “Chase. It’s me.”

Chase flinched. His whole body jerked like House had hit him, and that—that was enough to confirm exactly where his mind was.

Ah. Fantastic. Flashback time.

House clenched his jaw and forced himself to stay where he was, careful not to move too fast. “You’re not there,” he said, firm but quiet. “You’re here. It’s just a dream.”

Chase shook his head again, still gasping like he couldn’t get enough air. “I—I didn’t mean to, I—”

House reached out, deliberately slow, and grabbed Chase’s wrist. It was a gamble—touch was either going to ground him or really set him off—but Chase went completely still, breathing in shuddering gulps.

“Chase.” House squeezed his wrist, voice lower now. “Look at me.”

Chase’s chest heaved. His fingers twitched, like he was fighting some instinct to yank himself away.

“Look at me,” House repeated. “Tell me where you are.”

For a second, it didn’t seem like Chase even could. But then his eyes flicked around the dim hotel room, landing on House’s face. He swallowed hard. “N—not home.”

House nodded. “Yeah. Not home. And I’m not—” He stopped himself. He didn’t need to say it. “You’re in a hotel. At a conference. With me, Foreman, and Cameron.”

Chase still looked wrecked, but his breathing was slowing. His fingers unclenched slightly. He was still shaking.

House let go of his wrist. “You good?”

Chase wiped his face quickly, like he was embarrassed to even have tears, and gave a jerky nod. “…Yeah.” His voice was hoarse.

House didn’t believe him for a second, but whatever.

“You’re exhausted,” House said, standing back up. His leg ached in protest, and he rolled his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

Chase hesitated. His body had stopped shaking, but he still looked half-out of it. House recognized that feeling—when something should be over, but your brain hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

House sighed and, before Chase could overthink it, gave his shoulder a light push, guiding him back down. “Go to sleep.”

Chase blinked at him for a second. But then his body slumped back against the pillows.

House watched as his eyes fluttered closed, his breathing finally leveling out. He didn’t stir again.

House exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. He limped back to bed, lying down with a thud.

His brain was still whirring, flashing back to that wide-eyed panic, the flinching, the expectation.

House stared at the ceiling.

He’s not there. He’s here.

Not that House cared.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he closed his eyes and listened to Chase’s steady breathing until he finally drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, Chase looked vaguely embarrassed, avoiding House’s eyes and rubbing at the back of his neck like he thought House was going to mention something.

House did not.

Not because he was being kind, but because why would he? Chase already looked sufficiently awkward about the whole thing, and bringing it up would just make it a thing, which would make House uncomfortable, which meant no thanks.

Instead, he just muttered something about needing coffee or death and went about his morning.

The day itself was surprisingly… good.

It was their last full day at the conference, which meant they’d already sat through most of the mind-numbing lectures and gotten all the networking garbage out of the way. Today was lighter—more hands-on demonstrations, a couple of actually useful panels, and, of course, opportunities for House to embarrass his team in public by forcing them to show off how much better they were than everyone else.

The shenanigans started early.

At one point, Chase got into an argument with some hotshot Harvard graduate over a case study, and House just sat back and watched as Chase, with his fancy Australian accent and pretty-boy charm, absolutely wrecked the guy in the most passive-aggressive way possible.

“Interesting theory,” Chase said, nodding politely. “If you ignore all the research from the last five years.”

Cameron, who was standing next to him, choked on her water.

House grinned. His boy was growing up.

Foreman spent most of the afternoon glaring at House every time he prompted him to participate in something. “I don’t need to prove I’m smarter than everyone,” Foreman grumbled at one point.

“That’s exactly what someone not smarter than everyone would say,” House responded, and Foreman sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Cameron, still looking a little pale from the food poisoning incident, sat out of most of the high-energy stuff, but she had a good time mocking Chase when he got a little too competitive during one of the diagnostic simulations.

“It’s not a race,” she reminded him as Chase furiously scribbled notes.

Chase did not hear her over the sound of his need to win.

By the time they all went out for dinner that evening, everyone was in a surprisingly good mood.

They’d survived. They’d actually survived.

Even House had to admit—this hadn’t been the worst trip ever.

They laughed over dinner, bickered good-naturedly on the way back to the hotel, and for once—just once—House wasn’t counting down the seconds until he could ditch them all and go home.

Back in the hotel room, he sat on the edge of his bed and surveyed his team.

Cameron flopped down into her bed, exhaling contentedly. Chase looked exhausted but happy, stretching like a cat before sitting down on his own bed. Foreman sat down as well, looking satisfied.

House narrowed his eyes.

Something was wrong.

Too much had happened on this trip already. Cameron had gotten sick. Chase had had a nightmare and a panic attack rolled into one. With his luck, that left only one person untouched by disaster.

House turned his head, staring suspiciously at Foreman.

Foreman blinked at him. “…What?”

House squinted harder.

Cameron had gotten sick. Chase had freaked out.

Foreman was the only one left.

Foreman frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

House continued staring. He didn’t know how, but he knew—he just knew—something was going to happen.

Foreman sighed, shaking his head. “You’re being weird.”

House did not respond. He simply continued staring at Foreman, because he knew.

And, as always…

He was right.

House was jolted awake again in the middle of the night, because of course he was.

For one blissful second, he thought maybe—maybe—he was just imagining it. Maybe it was just a weird dream, or a noise from another room, or literally anything that wasn’t his problem.

Then he heard it again.

A sharp thump. A muffled curse.

House groaned, slamming a pillow over his face. “No,” he mumbled into it. “Whatever it is, no.”

Another thump.

He sighed, shoved the pillow off his face, and sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What the hell now?”

It was still dark, but he could make out Chase and Cameron sleeping soundly in their beds, which left only one suspect.

Foreman’s bed was empty.

House squinted. “Foreman?”

There was another thump, followed by an exasperated groan from the direction of the bathroom.

House hauled himself up with a sigh and limped over, pushing the door open.

Foreman was on the floor.

House blinked. “That’s an interesting life choice.”

Foreman glared up at him. “Shut up.”

House flipped the light switch, and—okay, that explained a lot.

Foreman’s eyes were swollen and puffy, his nose was running, and he was clutching his face with both hands. He looked miserable.

“…What,” House said flatly, “did you do to yourself?”

Foreman groaned, dropping his hands. “I think—” He sniffled. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction.”

House raised an eyebrow. “To what?”

“I don’t know,” Foreman snapped, rubbing at his eyes. “I woke up all itchy, went to wash my face, and then—this.” He gestured vaguely at his entire situation.

House leaned against the doorframe, considering.

Cameron had gotten food poisoning. Chase had a psychological breakdown. It only made sense that Foreman would randomly get an allergic reaction in the middle of the night.

“Alright,” House said, “what’d you eat?”

“The same thing as everyone else.”

“Touch?”

“…The same things as everyone else?”

House narrowed his eyes.

Foreman huffed. “What?”

“You sure about that?”

Foreman hesitated. “Well…”

House crossed his arms.

Foreman sighed. “I mean, I might have used the hotel’s complimentary lotion before bed.”

House closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

“Shut up,” Foreman muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

House opened his eyes. “You had a random hotel lotion moment, and now your face looks like that.”

Foreman scowled. “Yes, House.”

House smirked. “I’m definitely not thinking about how Chase and Cameron are both, medically speaking, absolute disasters, but you are the one who managed to get taken out by some moisturizer.”

Foreman groaned and rubbed his swollen eyes again.

House reached out and swatted his hands away. “Stop doing that.”

“I can’t,” Foreman grumbled. “It itches.”

House sighed, grabbed a washcloth, and ran it under cold water before tossing it at him. “Here. Do something useful.”

Foreman pressed it to his face with a sigh.

House crossed his arms, surveying the situation. They weren’t going to the ER for this. It wasn’t that bad. But Foreman was definitely going to need some antihistamines, which meant House was going to have to leave the hotel room and find some at this godforsaken hour, which meant—

He sighed. “I hate all of you.”

Foreman, eyes still puffy, mumbled, “We know.”

House returned from his impromptu middle-of-the-night pharmacy trip, bottle of antihistamines in hand, fully prepared to drop the pills on Foreman’s head and go straight back to sleep.

Then he walked into the room and saw that somehow—somehow—Foreman had managed to make everything worse.

His face was even more swollen than before, his eyes redder, and his arms were now also blotchy.

House sighed heavily, shutting the door behind him. “I was gone for twenty minutes.”

Foreman looked miserable. “It itched.”

House tossed the pharmacy bag onto the table and limped closer, taking in the full disaster. “And so your solution was…?”

Foreman muttered something.

House cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?”

“I took another shower,” Foreman said reluctantly.

House closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and counted to three. “You took a hot shower.”

“…Yeah.”

House exhaled. “Which made it worse.”

“…Yeah.”

House cracked one eye open. “And then?”

“…I might’ve scrubbed really hard with a towel.”

House pinched the bridge of his nose. “And then?”

Foreman hesitated.

House dropped his hand and looked at him. “What did you do?”

“…I used the hotel lotion again.”

House stared.

“I didn’t realize it was the same one!” Foreman said quickly.

House shook his head. “No. No, no, no—this is too good. The neurologist—” he waved a hand at Foreman’s face—“the brilliant, top of his class, educated neurologist, looked at a bottle of lotion, a bottle that had already caused an allergic reaction, and thought, ‘Yeah, let’s give that another shot’?”

Foreman groaned, rubbing his forehead.

House batted his hand away. “No touching.” He turned, grabbed the pharmacy bag, and pulled out the antihistamines. “Take two.”

Foreman obediently took the pills.

House rummaged through the bag, pulling out a tube of hydrocortisone cream and a cold pack. “Alright, genius, you’re getting the full treatment.”

Foreman sat on the bed, letting House smear the cream on the worst patches of irritation and slap the cold pack into his hands.

“There,” House said, tossing the tube back into the bag. “Now, come on.”

Foreman frowned. “Where are we—hey!”

House grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hauled him up.

“You’ve lost your bedtime privileges,” House said, dragging him toward the bed.

“I had bedtime privileges?”

“Not anymore.” House shoved him down onto the mattress, ignoring the glare Foreman shot him. “Now stay here. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Don’t think about touching anything.”

Foreman huffed, but he was too tired to argue. “Fine.”

House turned off the light, limped back to his own bed, and flopped onto it with a groan.

Finally.

Silence.

Peace.

Sleep.

“…House?”

He was going to end it all.

House woke up feeling like death warmed over.

Four nights. Four nights of interrupted sleep, chaos, vomit, nightmares, allergic reactions, and sheer stupidity. His entire body ached, his leg throbbed, and his brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge.

Meanwhile, across the room, his three beloved ducklings were bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and downright chirpy.

Foreman, looking significantly less blotchy, was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper like nothing had happened.

Cameron, looking fully recovered from her night of hell, was neatly packing her bag with an air of satisfaction.

And Chase, who had spent the previous night sobbing into House’s shirt from a full-blown flashback, was now sprawled out on his bed, lazily scrolling through his phone like the trauma fairy hadn’t visited him less than twenty-four hours ago.

House groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You’re all too happy,” he muttered.

Chase glanced up. “That’s cause we slept well.”

House shot him a look so venomous it could kill a lesser man. “I hate you.”

Chase just grinned.

House let his head drop back against the pillow. He wasn’t moving. He refused to move. They had one more speech that afternoon before they could leave, and if anyone so much as thought about waking him up before noon, he would kill them.

Cameron zipped up her bag and gave him a too-sweet smile. “Breakfast starts in ten minutes.”

“I hope it poisons you again,” House mumbled into his pillow.

Foreman smirked. “That’s not nice.”

“You’re not nice,” House snapped back.

“I feel great, actually.”

House cracked one eye open and glared. “That’s cause you slept, you ungrateful little—” He cut himself off with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut.

Four nights. Four.

He was never taking them anywhere again.

Ever.

He felt himself starting to drift off, already fantasizing about his glorious ten hours of sleep once they got home—

“Come on,” Chase said. “Breakfast.”

House didn’t move.

Silence.

Then—

Three voices in unison: “House.”

House cracked an eye open.

All three of them were standing over him, looking down expectantly.

He exhaled sharply.

He hated them.

And he knew—deep down, in the bitter, exhausted core of his soul—that he was going to break his promise.

Because somehow, some way, these three little idiots would convince him to do this again.

And that was the real tragedy.

He sighed heavily, rolled out of bed, and grumbled, “If I collapse face-first into my eggs, none of you are allowed to wake me up.”

Chase patted his arm. “We’ll take pictures.”

House scowled as they all filed out of the room.

Never again.

(Until next time.)

Chapter Text

They almost made it out of there without disaster. Almost.

But of course, his beloved little minions couldn’t just get in the car like normal human beings.

No, because that would have been too easy.

Instead, House had turned his back for one minute—one single minute—to check out of the hotel, only to return to chaos incarnate.

The three of them stood in the lobby looking extremely guilty, like toddlers who had been caught raiding the cookie jar.

Cameron was soaked.

Foreman had what looked like a scorch mark on his sleeve.

And Chase was dripping with glitter.

House stared at them.

They stared back, completely silent.

He inhaled. Slowly. “What. The. Hell.”

Silence.

Then—

“It was an accident,” Chase said weakly.

House closed his eyes. “Which part? The water, the fire hazard, or the goddamn glitter bomb?”

“…All of it?” Cameron offered.

House pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. He wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t. He didn’t care.

Except he did. He had to know.

He opened his eyes. “Explain.”

They shuffled awkwardly, looking like three five-year-olds being scolded by their dad.

“Well,” Chase started, scratching at his glitter-covered cheek, “Cameron might have knocked over a pitcher of water…”

“Which might have spilled onto an outlet,” Foreman added.

“Which might have sparked and set my sleeve on fire,” he continued.

“Which might have made me panic and accidentally knock over the Christmas display,” Cameron admitted.

“…Which definitely had a lot of glitter,” Chase finished, still dripping with it.

House just stared.

He wanted to be mad. He wanted to yell. But it was just… so incredibly stupid.

Instead, he let out a slow, exhausted breath and muttered, “You’re grounded.”

Three heads snapped up.

“What?” Foreman blinked. “We’re adults.”

“Not anymore,” House shot back. “You lost that privilege the second you turned into the three stooges and nearly burned down a hotel.”

Chase sulked. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, really? Really?” House threw up his hands. “You two nearly electrocuted yourselves, and you—” he pointed at Chase, “—look like you got attacked by a craft store!”

Chase frowned and picked some glitter out of his hair. “…It’s everywhere.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

They all looked sufficiently ashamed of themselves, which should have been satisfying, but House was too damn tired to enjoy it.

“I hate you all,” he grumbled. “Get in the car.”

Three sheepish, grounded fellows trudged out of the hotel, House limping after them, wondering—not for the first time—how these people were allowed to practice medicine.