Fic: Ice Palace, Part 1
Title: Ice Palace
Pairing: Cameron/Foreman/Chase (eventually)
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter), NC-17 (eventually)
Summary: A terrible accident leaves Chase, Foreman and Cameron stranded during a break-in. Hurt/comfort, angst.
Spoilers: Spoilers for the first two seasons, except for "No Reason," which hasn't happened yet.
Disclaimer: No profit is being made from this story, and all characters belong to FOX and David Shore.
Author's Notes: This is a work in progress. As always, feedback is gratefully appreciated.
***************
The diagnostic department's latest patient hailed from a once-quaint, now-dilapidated country farmhouse. Forbiddingly framed by the slate-grey sky above, the blackish-brown house appeared weatherbeaten but solid: as if it had withstood winter after winter and remained as unconquerable as the dead yellow grass that surrounded it.
"Well, this is it." Cameron rolled to the car to a stop in the long gravel driveway and took the key out of the ignition.
"Charming," Chase remarked dryly from the backseat.
Foreman's jaw moved back and forth, unease clear on his face. "Let's make this fast."
The patient herself was a schoolteacher-turned-artist-turned-fruitcake named Martha Kearns, a skeletally thin woman with wild blue eyes sunken deeply into a motionless face. Her expression rarely changed, but by contrast her body trembled and coughed madly; a truly eerie effect. Her neurological symptoms had landed her in a sprawling car wreck, and in turn her injuries from the car wreck hindered several of their diagnostic procedures, much to House's annoyance. As a result, searching her lonely old house was currently the most likely way to yield clues to her condition.
"Come on," Cameron said. As she got out of the car, a blast of icy wind sent her brown hair swirling behind her. Chase sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden cold, and Foreman hunched down further into his brown leather jacket.
"Hey," Foreman said, rummaging in his jacket pocket. He drew out three face masks, and held them out to his colleagues expectantly. "We should all wear these."
Cameron threw a look of disbelief at Chase, who merely shrugged.
"I'm serious," Foreman said urgently, and after a long silence, frustration clouded his face. "Fine, nevermind."
"No, it's a good idea," Chase said, not entirely convincingly.
Despite Chase's patronizing tone, Foreman seemed mildly appeased when he reached for the mask and put it on. Cameron grudgingly gave in and did the same.
"I'll look around outside," Chase volunteered.
"All right, we'll take the house," Cameron replied.
Foreman nodded in agreement, but the hunch of his shoulders and flicker of his eyes signaled his brewing anxiety.
******
After a few moments of poking around, Foreman located a spare key inside the mailbox hanging by the front door. He unlocked the door and held it open for Cameron, although she couldn't tell if it was gallantry or fear that motivated him to let her go first.
Inside the house, a bleak white light poured in through wide windows and overwhelmed the sparse furnishings. A brown couch, angular and unwelcoming, punctuated one white wall, and across the room sat a blocky old television set with antennae splayed out. A bookcase loaded with dusty old tomes, a naked kitchen table, a shelf of disarrayed knickknacks - though Martha had been admitted to the hospital only two days ago, her lifeless house appeared to have been abandoned years earlier.
Cameron's fingers, seemingly made thinner by her black winter gloves, drifted over a rusty typewriter on Martha's inhumanly neat workdesk.
"All work and no play," she chuckled grimly to Foreman, "makes Jack a dull boy."
His laughter, although muffled by his mask, was decidedly nervous. If it was possible, his shoulders hunched even tighter than usual.
Cameron squinted at him in disbelief. What's his problem?
Whatever it was, Foreman's mute anxiety seemed to permeate the air. They wandered in silence through the rest of the first floor, scraping walls and shelves and sinks in tandem.
It wasn't long before they came to a pair of staircases. One led upstairs, and the other down to the cellar.
They looked at each other quietly.
"I'll take the basement," Foreman finally said. Above the mask, his eyes danced over her with a strange liquid concern.
"Are you sure?" asked Cameron.
He nodded. "You go upstairs." A typically Foreman bossy order, with an atypically uncertain flick of the eye.
*****
Chase moved around the side of the house, his long black coat flapping in the wind. His blond hair flew in all directions, his lips and cheeks made paler by the cold.
To his left, a cluster of metal garbage cans huddled against the side of the house, and just beyond that, a concrete stairwell led down to a basement door. A few yards to Chase's right was a dense thicket of trees. It was dead quiet and the woods seemed motionless, as if all life had been frozen by the chill air and impending snow.
After a quick glance to be sure he was out of sight, Chase took off his mask, looking down at it with a stab of pity. In light of what he had survived, perhaps Foreman had the right to be slightly obsessive about these things.
Everything's changed now, Chase thought ruefully as he lifted the lid to one of the garbage cans and eyed its contents.
Foreman, for one thing, had changed. With his iron self-reliance, the confident lift of his head and the defiant gleam in his eye, he had once been one of those oddly reassuring constants in life - even for all his grating arrogance. But then had come those terrible hours when Foreman had withered to a yellow-eyed visage of death. Reduced to the most primitive of instincts, he had clawed and grasped for survival in a way Chase dared not bring himself to judge...
And Cameron, she was different now too; her brush with HIV had brought her nearly as low as Foreman, but she had been a little luckier. She had not been walled inside a transparent quarantine room, she had not had to scream and beg for mercy, she had not writhed in pain while her father prayed uselessly on the other side of the building.
But her hollow-eyed despair had been much the same, and Chase alone had witnessed it during their one and only sexual encounter; it had been both grotesque and erotic to behold, and to this day he thought occasionally of her small needy hands pulling at his shoulders and her delicate lips hissing please, Chase, yes...
Chase liked to think he did not know why he had given into her. But really he did, knowing he had worn much the same expression after that fateful phone call, the one that had knocked all the air out of his lungs and turned him into an orphan and a patient-killer in five ruthlessly short minutes -
A sharp rustling distracted Chase from his morose thoughts, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white darting through the trees.
He whirled, his mouth falling open in apprehension. What the hell was that?
Wide-eyed, Chase took a small step forward, scanning the forest for any further signs of motion. He hardly dared to breathe for trepidation; but again the woods were still and empty. Chase began to doubt himself, wondering if he'd even seen anything at all. Somehow, the possibility that I'm imagining things is not very reassuring.
Chase pursed his lips and retreated, glancing nervously behind him. He hadn't found anything here that might diagnose their patient's illness. Time to check out the backyard, he decided, swiftly replacing the garbage lid and turning on his heel.
*****
Foreman descended gingerly into the basement. Ancient and unsteady, the stairs screamed beneath every step.
He clung to the railing as he went, thankful he'd chosen to explore the basement alone. Cameron and Chase would no doubt be highly amused if they could see his tentative shuffling steps.
Yeah, don't kid yourself, Eric. This is just a drop in the bucket after everyone saw you sick and screaming and begging for your life...
Foreman still woke up in the night sometimes, panic beating in his chest, the memory of his excruciating illness a hollow ache in his nerves. Even a few months later, he still couldn't quite believe what had happened in that tiny glass room. When had he become that hideous person, lashing out in terror, putting his own colleagues at risk?
A million little moments, perhaps, punctuated by a few very big ones. Maybe it had been Mom - maybe it had been watching her grow progressively thinner with every visit, her once immaculately coiffed hair now hanging around her face in white clumps. Maybe it had been when she'd unknowingly cut him to the quick by asking if the bullies at the playground had stopped picking on her poor pudgy boy.
No, it had not been those moments. It had been Foreman's own foolish choices in their aftermath.
It was his decision to ignore and suppress and deny them until they turned to poison within him. His delusion that the cold ruthlessness hardening in his veins was something to be glad of, because the alternative frightened him. His slow metamorphosis into a man who focused only on facts and procedures and conclusions and success.
And for a time, it worked. The anguish had ceased to exist for him, just like House's racial taunts rolled off his back, and Cuddy's deceitful offer of a promotion didn't faze him, and he no longer really gave a fuck if the bullies at the playground felt like picking on some poor stupid fat kid.
No, none of it mattered. No one should have had the faintest reason to guess he was less than perfect. Chase was supposed to be the flighty kiss-ass, Cameron the foolish bleeding heart; and he, Eric Foreman, he was made of stone, and nothing and no one could break him.
He hadn't realized his mad folly until he'd stabbed Cameron, that steely will to survive having turned into a mindless silent scream in his ears, louder than it had ever been before. Maybe even without the disease, Mom wouldn't recognize you anymore...
Foreman shook his head, trying to derail that train of thought. He had reached the bottom of the stairs, and he tried instead to focus on his surroundings. The walls were a rotting brown plaster, the air carrying the scent of chemicals. He nodded to himself, making a mental note of the sickly sweet smell.
He groped along the wall and around the corner, and at last his fingers found a lightswitch and flicked it on. Foreman squinted as a brilliant white light flooded the room, throwing his free hand up to shield his eyes.
As his vision adjusted to the light, he leaned forward in astonishment.
Shelves of pottery lined the walls, an array of brilliant colors gleaming out at him from all sides. In the center of the room was a potter's wheel, and in the corner was a work table with paints and lacquers.
Foreman drifted through the room, admiring an elegant turquoise vase, a squat black pot with fiery red patterns lacing the rim, an enormous green saucer shot through with gold. Unlike the wan living room, each creation here pulsed with color and vitality.
Beneath the mask, Foreman's lips parted in an awestruck smile.
*****
Two floors above, Cameron had just reached the top of the staircase.
The upstairs was much like the downstairs - the floors lined with pale blonde wood, the walls painted a dull white, the air filled with the same musty light that somehow managed to be too sharp and too pale at the same time.
Someone had clearly tried to make the bedrooms welcoming: the wallpaper's yellow floral pattern had probably once been warm, although it was now leached of its color. The windowpanes were outlined by worn-out mahogany wood, the white linen curtains yellowed by dust.
By all rights, it should have felt like a real home. But the rooms and hallways were deathly silent, shrouded by an irritating haze of dust, and Cameron could hear nothing but the wind whining outside and a dog's desolate barking in the distance.
Indeed, the dust was everywhere. It swirled through the air like snow, lying in a thick fuzz on the dark wooden windowpanes, soaking the blankets and curtains.
Foreman's mask helpfully kept the dust out of Cameron's nose and throat - although there was no need to tell him that - but her eyelashes fluttered sharply as she tried to blink the worst of it out of her eyes. her eyes itched and watered as she tried to collect her samples. Finally, in frustration, she simply flung open a window.
The needle-sharp wind came screaming into the room, carrying upon it angry flecks of ice. Cameron yanked her cream-colored trenchcoat tighter around her shoulders, hunching against the harsh cold air; still, it sent the worst of the dust swirling away, and that was all she needed for now. You'll be out of here soon anyway.
She hurried out of the room, the brutal chill following her through the bleak wooden hallway. No matter. There was only one room left. She yanked open the door, eager to take her samples and get back to her warm car and speed back to the warm hospital-
A thousand beady black eyes stared back at her.
Cameron stopped short, her eyes wide.
Portrait after portrait lined the walls - all identical, all depicting a snow-white dog with obsidian eyes gleaming out of a brilliant long-haired coat. They all seemed to stare down at Cameron, who felt as if she had stumbled upon some forbidden secret.
She took a small step forward, her wide-eyed gaze traveling all around the room, and as it did she realized the portraits were not all exactly the same. The earlier portraits were crisp and clean and majestic; but as time progressed, the portraits grew cruder, and the dog devolved before her very eyes into something feral and malevolent. One portrait stood in the center of the room, presumably the last to be completed, and held only a blank soulless cruelty.
A sensation like heavy lead began to fill Cameron's bones, a cold sick feeling she hadn't had since-
A faint metallic clatter from somewhere outside broke the spell. Cameron shook herself, trying to get her stomach to unknot itself. Downstairs, Allison. Get back downstairs, and get out of this house.
Trying not to look directly at any of the portraits, Cameron backed quickly out of the room. It was all she could do not to run down the stairs.
******
Chase hurried around the side of the house, pausing to scan the back yard.
A hill of dead grass sloped down gently from the back of the house, ending abruptly at the edge of a vast frozen lake. Its icy expanse stretched far into the distance, a few tiny pine trees tossing on the distant opposite shore. A long wooden pier jutted into the lake, sheltering a few rowboats that held freakishly still - embedded in the ice.
It had a strange, ugly majesty, Chase decided. The wooden pier and boats were rickety, piddling little manmade creations against the wild backdrop of nature.
He turned his eye from the wide white lake to a lonely shed across the backyard. The squat building was so thickly covered in ivy it almost seemed to disappear into the woods behind it.
Worth a look, Chase thought. He set off across the backyard, the grass crunching under his feet.
The shed door wasn't locked, but it was jammed tightly into the frame; it took a mighty effort for Chase to finally wrench it open. A thick cloud of frost and dirt cascaded down around him when he succeeded. After a sharp fit of coughing, Chase cleared his throat and peered inside.
A massive oven, wrought of black iron, filled half of the tiny shed. Its fat pipes reached through the roof, thick white cobwebs nestled between them. A dirty window on the far side of the room provided a little bit of dusky light, and beside the door a few deformed attempts at pottery sat forlornly on a shelf.
The oven, like everything else in the room, had gone cold. Chase pulled open the little door to the fuel chamber, where he supposed wood or charcoal would normally have burned brightly. But he felt no heat when he took off one glove and held a tentative hand inside, and the ashes were icy against his bare fingers.
He scraped the oven, took samples of the ashes and even put a piece of pottery in his bag for good measure. After giving the room a final once-over, Chase quietly let himself out of the shed.
The door closed behind him, Chase found his eyes drawn yet again to the lake. Almost of their own volition, his legs carried him down the hill and onto the old wooden pier. He walked out further and further, transfixed by the wild beauty of it all: the pine trees billowing in the wind, the flakes whirling through the air, the brisk air shearing his cheeks.
When he reached the end, Chase gazed out at the smooth unbroken plane of ice before him. Standing at the edge of the pier, he felt as if he were floating high above it.
"Wow," he murmured to himself.
*****
OLIVES
OLIVES
OLIVES
The rest of the basement was a letdown compared to the virtual art gallery Foreman had first stumbled upon - just a room with shelves upon shelves of canned goods. Martha had stockpiled enough soup and olives and pickles and Spaghetti-Os to survive a nuclear holocaust. Foreman recalled the not-entirely-sane look in her eye back at the hospital, and wondered if she hadn't well expected one.
He dropped a few cans into his bag, deciding they might be worth testing - lead poisoning? a food-borne illness? - and then his eyes drifted toward a heavy door on the opposite side of the room. Might as well, Foreman thought, and pushed his way through.
Icy wind stung his eyes, and he blinked back involuntary tears. He found himself at the bottom of a small concrete stairwell, and as he climbed to the top, Foreman realized with a chuckle that he'd apparently let himself out the side of the house.
Sharp flecks of ice pricked at his face, and when he turned an apprehensive gaze to the sky, he saw ominous grey clouds churning above. All right, time to get out of here.
He turned to leave -
"Jesus!" Foreman's loud, undignified gasp was muffled by his mask.
-and few feet away stood a white dog, its accusatory black eyes fixed upon him.
The creature stepped forward, drawing back its lips to reveal dark gums and saliva-coated teeth. Its low growl vibrated through the cold, silent air.
"Whoa, there." Foreman held up his hands in a surrender gesture and backed away slowly. His initial sense of dread, which had disappeared in the face of the colorful pottery, began to hammer once again in his chest. He began to babble cheerful placating nonsense. "I'm not gonna hurt you, all right? I'm just here to figure out what's making your owner sick..."
Foreman's gaze flicked away from the creature for one nervous second. No! Don't show fear! his damaged brain reminded him a second too late.
Its growl rising into angry yelps, the dog leapt at him.
Dropping his bag of samples, Foreman staggered backwards and instinctively threw up his arms to defend himself. As the creature's weight slammed against him, he toppled backwards through the garbage cans with a loud crash.
Foreman howled incoherently, adrenaline turning his brain to static. His own fucking mask was smothering him - he couldn't breathe - all his rehabilitation evaporated - he couldn't control his limbs - he couldn't control his body - the creature was scrabbling against his chest, he could feel its rancid breath - it would tear his throat out -
His flailing hand brushed the edge of a garbage can lid, and through some thunderous force of will Foreman got his unruly fingers around it. He swung blindly, feeling a sinewy crunch as he connected with the dog's flank, and the creature's barking rose into an outraged squeal. Foreman struck again and again, beating it back, panic transmuting into white-hot fury -
And then it was over.
Blood streaking its matted white coat, the dog leapt away. Its wounded yelps faded away into the distance as it raced off to god-knows-where.
Foreman rolled over slowly, still sprawled amid the garbage cans, his heart slamming against his ribcage. He pulled off his mask and gulped down massive lungfuls of the winter air. It's over. It's okay.
But for a long moment, he could do nothing but stare at the snow swirling past his trembling hands.
*****
Her bag full of samples, Cameron hightailed it downstairs, away from that creepy room with its creepy portraits. She drew in a breath as she pushed the back door open; snow poured down in earnest now, the flakes like a swarm of white insects covering the backyard.
It took a sharp squint for her to make out the black-clad figure standing at the end of the pier, silhouetted by the ice and snow. Chase, she realized. He stood still, apparently unbothered by the quickening snow. She was about to call out to him when a movement registered in the corner of her eye.
Foreman came barrelling around the side of the house, his shoulders hunching defensively, breaking into a half-sprint when he saw her.
"Someone's not wearing his mask," she teased him, pulling off her own to reveal a sharp smile.
"We need to get out of here," he said urgently, not quite clamping down on the tremor in his voice. Fear flashed in his dark eyes, and he grabbed Cameron's forearm and began to shepherd her back inside.
"What happened?" Cameron's eyes widened; the sleeve of Foreman's jacket was shredded. "Are you hurt?"
"I'll tell you in the car. Right now, we need to g..." His eyes, still glancing all around defensively, suddenly locked onto something just past Cameron's shoulder. "Shit!"
Cameron whirled to look; Foreman was already off like a shot, surging past her. Even through the thickly falling snow, she could see a white blur racing down the hill and towards the pier.
The dog is real! Cameron realized with a gasp. And it was heading straight for...
"CHASE!" Foreman bellowed. "LOOK OUT!"
He was running as fast as he could, but Foreman simply wasn't built for speed. He would never catch up in time. The dog was already halfway down the pier and barking furiously, and by the time Chase turned around it was too late.
His brow furrowed defensively, hands flying up to protect himself, and Cameron could see him mouth some futile words of concession. Undeterred, the dog lunged. Chase stumbled backwards under the attack, and his foot went off the edge of the pier.
For one long horrible moment Chase flailed out into empty air, then plummeted through the ice with a watery crash.
Cameron screamed and bolted forward. Foreman had just reached the pier, and even from a distance she could hear his burst of profanity as Chase disappeared off the edge, the dog squealing after him. Foreman redoubled his speed, stumbling at the end to stop his momentum carrying him over.
Now running at a full sprint to catch up, Cameron unbuttoned her long coat. She tore it off and flung it at Foreman, who took it in wordless understanding and slung it over the edge of the pier.
"CHASE!" he shouted. "Grab this! We can pull you up!"
It's not long enough, Cameron realized with increasing dread. Foreman flopped onto his belly with a grunt to lower the coat as far as he could, and Chase stretched a desperate, clawlike hand up to grab it - with a sick feeling Cameron noted that his fingers were already frozen and gnarled. No matter how far Foreman stretched, the coat was at least a foot too short.
"God DAMMIT!" Foreman gave up and threw Cameron's coat back at her, casting his eyes around desperately.
"The boat!" she realized. Foreman grunted in immediate understanding and flung himself down the wooden steps toward it, with Cameron hot on his heels.
The rowboat was frozen in place; Foreman grabbed one oar, threw Cameron the other, and together they hacked violently at the ice until the boat began bobbing up and down. Too slow, too slow! Cameron thought. Foreman also seemed to realize time was running out, and he clambered quickly into the rowboat, which rocked dangerously beneath his unsteady weight.
Cameron started to climb in after him, but he held up a hand.
"No. You stay there."
She bristled, opening her mouth to issue an indignant reply, but -
"In case I fuck up, okay?" Foreman shouted, his voice slightly out of control.
Attempting to make a noise of agreement, Cameron landed somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Foreman pushed off at a respectable speed, despite continually needing to jab at the ice in front of him. Cameron watched him go for a moment, then turned and raced back up the stairs.
Dropping to her knees, she peered over the edge at Chase and nearly burst into tears. His blond hair stuck to the side of his face in frozen streaks, his eyes wide and glassy with panic.
"Chase," she cried. "Chase, it's all right! Foreman's coming to get you!"
"Help me," he burbled, gagging on a mouthful of lake water.
She continued shouting nonsensical words of encouragement, begging him, willing him, to stay above the water even as the snow poured down relentlessly around them. Out of the corner of her eye Cameron could see the dog desperately scrabbling to climb out of the water and onto the ice. But the ice was too thin, and it continually broke off and sent the dog plunging back into the water. Its movements grew slower and slower, its yowling quieted to a desperate soggy whine...
Cameron could not bear to watch the animal struggle for life; but looking at Chase was little better. His arms were barely moving as he attempted to tread water. Cameron knew the blood was draining from his muscles, and that soon they would weaken fatally. She could hear Foreman hacking away at the ice, but the wind whipping past her ears made it impossible to tell how close or far away he was.
"Hurry!" Cameron shrieked. "Chase. Robert! You have to hang on for a few more seconds!"
He looked up at her, his eyes completely out of focus, and made an incoherent noise of protest. The water was lapping at his cheeks.
No, no, no, Cameron begged silently, as if she could keep him above the water by sheer force of will.
But his eyes were rolling up, his arms refusing to move. And then Chase simply vanished, his blond hair swirling down into the greenish-black depths.
"NO!" Cameron shrieked, and then clapped a hand to her mouth as Foreman's gloved hand plunged swiftly into the water after him. For an agonizing second he searched around, seemingly unable to get a grip on anything solid; and then he latched onto something, and with a frustrated cry tore Chase from the water.
Cameron's sob of relief was cut short when Foreman all but flung Chase into the bottom of the boat, the sudden extra weight causing the rowboat to tip precariously. For one panicked second, it seemed they might very well capsize; Foreman squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the icy plunge, and Cameron could all but see his life flashing before him.
But the boat tipped back, mercifully righting itself, and when it did Foreman's eyes snapped open. He grabbed his oar and frantically began forcing the boat back around the pier.
Cameron, meanwhile, scrambled down the stairs to the dock. As soon as the boat came within arm's reach, she grabbed the side and pulled it towards the landing. Foreman stood up gingerly, clearly afraid to tip the boat again.
"Careful," she admonished him uselessly.
He planted his feet firmly in the boat, and together they heaved Chase out and onto the dock, where he shook and choked uncontrollably, his lips blue and his skin corpselike in its pallor. A light dusting of ice decorated his hair and eyebrows.
"Chase," Cameron said urgently, tearing her coat off again and throwing it over him. "Chase, it's all right."
Foreman, meanwhile, jumped out of the rowboat as if it would tip over at any minute. He stood over Chase, looking sick, and for the first time Cameron noticed his hands were trembling.
"He's going to die," he breathed.
"Shut up!" she shouted up at him through the falling snow.
"Just like the dog."
"I said shut up!" Cameron repeated shrilly, trying to erase that possibility from her own mind as much as Foreman's. She crouched down and grabbed Chase's ankles. "Foreman, we have to get him into the house! Grab his shoulders! FOREMAN!"
Foreman stared at her, wild-eyed, and for a horrible second Cameron had no idea what he would do.
But by some miracle he obeyed her. Despite the silent panic in his eye, he helped pull Chase up from the ground. Together they dragged Chase down the pier as fast as they could, away from the lake and up the hill of dead grass. Behind them, a motionless clump of white fur lay floating in the lake.
To Be Continued...
Author's Notes: As I said earlier, this is a work in progress. I have most of the next two parts either written or plotted. There is no reason for me not to finish this story, so please kick my ass if I don't. If this story is worthy of finishing, anyway.