Archive of Our Own

“Tell me something about yourself,” Chase whispers. “Something I don’t know.”

It’s dark in the bedroom. New moon outside, lights off inside, midnight on the clock. Chase is warm against his chest.

“I think I’m forgetting my mother’s voice,” says Foreman.

“Oh.” Chase is quiet.

He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. But it’s coming up on four years since she passed, and he can’t seem to distract himself from thinking about her.

“Sorry,” he says when the silence stretches on a moment too long. “I didn’t mean to be a downer—”

“You’re not,” Chase says at once, and Foreman feels him search around for his hand in the dark. He finds it, squeezes Foreman’s fingers. “You’re not,” he repeats. “I — I just didn’t know what to say.”

Foreman tightens his hold, pulls Chase closer. They’re lying chest-to-back, and Chase’s hair is tickling Foreman’s nose. Foreman intertwines their fingers, lets their joined hands rest on Chase’s belly. “Do you remember what your mom sounded like?” he asks quietly.

Chase is silent again. Then he says, “Sometimes. But I don’t know if that’s me remembering her voice, or the things she said.”

“And you don’t have anything, like, I don’t know, a video or something?”

“I think my sister might have some old tapes,” Chase replies thoughtfully. “Birthday parties and stuff, back when we used to have them. Stopped when I was six. But then I don’t know if I’d want to watch those. She sounded different then.”

“Different?” repeats Foreman.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Like — like she really loved us, instead of just pretending she did.”

“I’m sorry,” Foreman says again, voice low.

“For?” asks Chase.

“Bringing this up.”

“It’s okay, Foreman. You can talk about anything you want, you know that.”

Foreman hums thoughtfully. “I’m thinking about going to see my dad this weekend,” he says. “See if he’s got any old tapes of Mom.”

“That sounds nice,” Chase says after a few seconds. “Tell him hi from me.”

“Tell him yourself. You’re coming with,” says Foreman. “If you want,” he adds.

“You mean that?” Chase sounds surprised. “I mean… you’ve never taken me to your home before. I thought…” He trails off.

“What?” prompts Foreman.

“Nothing,” says Chase, rather suddenly. “Never mind. Of course I’ll come with you.”

Foreman frowns, though Chase can’t see it. “You didn’t think I wanted to take you home to my family?”

“We’ve never talked about it,” Chase answers evasively. He sounds apprehensive, like he’s trying not to let this become an argument. “And I mean — you and Thirteen were pretty serious, but you didn’t take her and you didn’t tell her about your mom—” He goes quiet abruptly.

“Thirteen and I broke up before I could even consider it,” Foreman tells him. “And I didn’t tell anyone about my mom because… well, just because. I guess I didn’t want to have to think about it at work too.”

“That makes sense,” Chase concedes, voice low.

“I know you’ve already met my dad and Marcus, so it’s not really the same thing,” Foreman says, “but I’d really like to do it right.” He swallows, wills himself to be honest. “I want to take you home, Chase. I want you to meet my family and see where I grew up. I want you to know that part of my life, too.”

This is a big deal, he knows. And he knows Chase knows too, going by the way he goes still in his arms. He’s spent years running from that part of himself, pretending it never happened, and now he’s basically inviting Chase into it. It feels a lot like vulnerability, raw and visceral and uncomfortable. It feels like being naked at the podium in the lecture hall, laid bare for everyone to dissect with their eyes.

Then Chase turns over so that they’re face to face, and he raises his head to kiss Foreman softly. “Okay,” he whispers in the dark.

“Yeah?” Foreman asks, shifting so that he’s lying on his back, letting Chase put his head down on his chest.

“I’d really like that,” Chase admits, before wrapping an arm and a leg around Foreman.

“I’d really like it too,” Foreman says, and kisses his hair.

They make the drive up to New York on a Saturday. Chase seems nervous, and Foreman can’t keep from drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He meant it when he said he wanted to do this right, and even though he knows his family has met Chase, he’s still afraid of something going wrong.

Foreman is expecting his father to open the door, and is surprised to instead find a tall, slender woman with dark skin and rich curls, wearing a pastel blue sundress.  “Eric,” she says with a smile, and steps forward to wrap her arms around him.

It’s been years, but he still recognizes her. “Rosie,” he says carefully, patting her back before letting go. “What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too,” she answers with an eye roll. “Your dad invited us. Oh, I see you’ve brought a guest!" she adds, noticing Chase.

He raises one hand in an awkward wave, the other still holding on to the fancy bottle of wine they’d purchased on the way.

“Right, okay,” mutters Foreman, resolving to speak to his dad later. He hates being put on the spot like this. He hasn’t spoken to anyone from his mom’s side of the family in a very long time, and it’s kind of discomfiting to find out they’ll be present when he’s going to be introducing his partner to his father. He has no idea how they’re going to react.

Oh well, now is as good a time as any to find out.

He puts his hand on the small of Chase’s back and says, “Rosie, this is my partner, Chase. Chase, this is my cousin Rosie. Her mother is my mom’s sister.”

“Hi,” Chase says, and smiles.

“Hello, Chase,” she says, and smiles back. It is effortless — if she’s surprised by the introduction, she doesn’t show it. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Chase says.

“Can we come in now?” Foreman asks, raising an eyebrow at Rosie.

She rolls her eyes. “God, I’d forgotten how annoying you were,” she mutters, eliciting a small laugh from Chase. She steps inside. “Come on in, then, everyone’s waiting.”

“Wait, everyone?” Foreman repeats, suddenly apprehensive. “Who else is here?”

“My mom, obviously,” Rosie replies as she heads towards the kitchen. “Grandma Hazel. Jonathan. Marcus is on his way, too.”

“Great. Just great,” says Foreman in a low voice, disgruntled. He turns around and grimaces at Chase, who’s got that deer-in-headlights look about him. His knuckles are white from how tightly he’s holding the wine bottle. “Sorry,” Foreman tells him, reaching out to squeeze his wrist. “I didn’t think my dad would invite everyone.”

“It’s okay—” Chase begins, trying to smile, but is interrupted when Foreman’s dad decides to choose that moment to appear.

Rodney comes bustling out of the kitchen, wearing a truly awful apron with the words MR. GOOD-LOOKIN’ IS COOKIN’ on the front. Foreman can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight, but his dad ignores him, instead calling out “Eric!” and wrapping him in a hug.

“Hi, Dad,” Foreman says, pasting a smile to his face. “Nice apron.”

“You like it?” Rodney asks, beaming. “Gift from Rosie.”

“Of course,” mutters Foreman. “Surprising to see her here.”

“I invited her,” Rodney informs him. “It’s been a while since we got the family together, hasn’t it? Oh, hello, Dr. Chase!”

“Please, just — just Chase,” is all Chase gets the chance to say before Rodney is seizing his free hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

“It is so nice to see you again,” he says. “I hope you’re doing well?”

“I’m good, thank you,” Chase replies, and smiles. He holds out the wine. “Um, we got you this.”

Rodney accepts it. “Thank you, son, even though you really didn’t need to,” he says with a smile. “I’m very glad you could join us today.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Chase says.

“Well, of course! I was glad enough to see Eric, but hearing that he’s bringing you made me even happier.”

Chase glances at Foreman, who is frowning at his father. Then he turns back to Rodney and says, “Really, thank you, Mr. Foreman.”

“None of that, son, it’s Rodney to you! Now, I’ve got to get back in the kitchen before your Auntie Beulah kills me. Eric, why don’t you show your friend around?”

“Dad, about that,” Foreman says before Rodney can disappear into the kitchen again. “Um, I brought Chase along because I wanted you to meet him. I didn’t know you’d be inviting everyone.”

“Well, it has been a while, you know,” Rodney answers, mild reproach in his tone. “You just never want to come home anymore.”

Foreman tries not to wilt under his father’s gaze. “Dad,” he mutters. “Not the point here. Look — Chase isn’t my friend, okay.”

Rodney frowns. “I don’t pretend to know what passes for manners among you kids these days, but at least don’t say that in front of the man, son.”

Chase suppresses a snort. Foreman elbows him, and says, “No, that’s not what I meant — Dad, I’m dating him. We live together. He’s my partner.”

“Oh.” Rodney’s expression goes strangely blank for a second. He looks at Chase, and then at Foreman, and says, “Well, that is surprising.”

Foreman feels Chase shrink into his side, almost as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and it occurs to him how much Rodney’s approval must mean to him. Foreman doesn’t pretend to understand why, but in that moment he feels anger, suddenly, and regret. “We can leave if it’s a problem,” he says quietly, reaching out to take Chase’s hand.

Rodney snaps out of it. “No — no, of course it’s not a problem,” he says, blinking. “I was just surprised, that’s all.” He smiles, and puts a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “I really am glad to have you here with us,” he says.

“Thank you,” Chase says, still sounding a little subdued.

Rodney’s smile falters a little, and Chase is looking like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him, so Foreman says, a little loudly, “You know what, you’re right, I’m just gonna show Chase around. See you later, Dad.”

He all but drags Chase away before his father even has a chance to respond.

“That went well,” mutters Chase once they’re at the foot of the stairs.

Foreman grimaces. “I’ve got half a mind to leave right now,” he admits, pausing. He’s still holding Chase’s hand. “We could go see the city. I know this great pizza place a couple blocks away from Mercy—”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to be rude,” begins Chase.

“Chase,” sighs Foreman. “We’re not being rude. I mean, first of all, Dad invited half the family without even telling me. And then, just right now—”

“He disapproves, doesn’t he,” Chase says dully. The worst part of the entire thing isn’t that Chase is upset — it’s that he seems unsurprised. Foreman remembers Chase telling him about how Cameron’s parents hadn’t really liked him either, and he feels a twinge of sympathy in his chest. Chase shouldn’t be used to expecting that people wouldn’t like him, before they’ve even gotten a chance to know him.

(Foreman tries not to think about how he hadn’t liked Chase either, in the beginning.)

“I don’t think so,” he says, keeping his tone low and soothing. He’s still holding Chase’s hand; he squeezes it, and continues, “Look, you know my dad. You know he’s kinda… old-school. It might take him some time to get used to the idea that I’m not dating a woman.”

“What if he never does?” questions Chase softly.

Foreman exhales slowly, and then leans in to kiss Chase. “If that happens,” he says, “then we’ll deal with it. You and me.”

Chase looks at him, searching, for a few moments, and then nods. “Okay,” he says, and tries to smile. “Okay, Foreman— I mean. Eric.”

“Yeah, calling me by my last name might get confusing in here,” Foreman says wryly, and then squeezes Chase’s hand again before letting go. “Come on, you can come see my old room.”

He leads Chase up the stairs. “Watch out for the sixth one up, it’s creaky,” he warns. “Gave me a hell of a lot of trouble as a teenager.”

Chase laughs. “Got caught sneaking out, huh?”

“Just the once,” Foreman says, grinning. “I’m a quick study.” He stops at the landing, waiting for Chase to join him before he says, walking on, “Okay, so this door here, that’s my parents’ room. That’s Marcus’s, over there. And here—” He pushes open a door. “This is my room.”

He stands aside, letting Chase enter first. The last time he had been here was when he’d been an undergrad, but it’s exactly as he remembers it. Dark blue walls, old wooden furniture, faded posters on the walls, the wobbly door knob on the closet, the window by his bed. Even his desk is still the same, save for the thin layer of dust over every surface.

“Wow,” Chase murmurs, looking around with wide eyes.

Foreman feels self-conscious suddenly, when he realizes that Chase is basically seeing him as he used to be. “It’s not much, I know,” he says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

“No, it’s great!” Chase says, turning to look at Foreman. He looks a little awed. “Did you make this?” he asks, gesturing towards the papier mache model of the USS Enterprise on the desk.

“Yeah,” mutters Foreman, feeling his face flush. “Took me a whole week.”

“It’s awesome!” exclaims Chase. “Can I touch it?”

Foreman makes a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Knock yourself out,” he says, following Chase further into the room. He heads for the bed, sitting down and suppressing the urge to sneeze at the small cloud of dust that puffs into the air.

Chase examines the model, turning it this way and that. “This is so cool,” he declares when he’s done, carefully putting it back. “Wow. Are these yours, too?” he asks, pointing to the dusty old trophies on a shelf.

“Yeah,” Foreman says again. “Football trophies from high school.”

“I didn’t know you played football,” Chase says, wandering over to take a closer look.

“Haven’t played in a long time,” Foreman tells him. “Not since high school, actually. No time in college or med school, and I got even busier afterwards.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.”

Chase steps away from the shelf, and approaches the bed. He stops at the sight of the photo frame on the bedside table. “Is that you?”

“Me and Marcus, when we were in high school,” Foreman answers, looking at it. “I guess this is before we grew apart.”

Chase looks at it for a few seconds longer, and then sits down next to Foreman on the bed. He’s close enough that their arms are pressed together. “I really like your room,” he tells Foreman.

“You don’t have to say that,” Foreman tells him. “It’s probably not what you were expecting.”

Chase looks around, and then smiles at Foreman. “Actually… it’s sort of exactly what I expected.”

“Yeah?” Foreman asks, surprised.

Chase nods. “It’s… it’s you,” he says. “If that makes sense.”

Foreman huffs a short laugh. “I guess,” he says, looking down in his lap. “You know,” he says a moment later, looking up again, “I wasn’t sure about coming back here.”

“I thought you wanted to,” Chase says.

“I know, but…” Foreman shrugs. “Chase, the last time I was in this house was for my mother’s funeral, and I didn’t come upstairs. Before that, college. I guess I thought I’d feel like I’d grown out of it.”

“I think,” Chase says slowly, “that we never really grow out of our parents’ houses. For better or for worse.”

“Yeah,” exhales Foreman. “I don’t think we do, either.”

They trail off into silence, but it only lasts about a minute before they’re interrupted by a knock on the open door. A second later, a child of about eight or nine sticks his head in. “Mama says you haveta come down for lunch,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” Foreman says, getting to his feet. “How are you doing, Jonathan?”

“I’m all right, Uncle Eric,” the kid — Jonathan — says. “I’m in the fourth grade now!”

“That’s great,” Foreman says. “They teach you the ABCs yet?”

“Ha ha,” says the kid, with an eye-roll. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Chase,” Foreman says. “He’s my partner. Chase, this is Rosie’s son Jonathan.”

“Hello,” Chase says with a smile. “Fourth grade, huh? That’s pretty cool.”

Jonathan grins. “Yeah!” he says. “Mama says you’re Uncle Eric’s boyfriend.”

“Uh,” says Chase. “I suppose I am, yes.”

“Does he kiss you?” Jonathan asks with interest. “Mama’s boyfriend kisses her a lot. It’s gross.”

“Jonathan,” says Foreman irritably as Chase begins laughing. “Go down and help your mom. Tell her we’re coming down, too.”

“I’ll ask you later when he’s not around,” Jonathan tells Chase, and runs off before Foreman can say anything.

“Cute kid,” says Chase, grinning.

“He’s a brat,” grumbles Foreman. “Come on, let’s go down. Food will be good if nothing else, if Auntie Beulah has anything to do with it. Rosie’s mom,” he clarifies a second later.

The house is noisier when they go back down. It seems Marcus has arrived; Foreman can’t see him, but he can hear the sounds of him arguing with Grandma Hazel from the kitchen. Rolling his eyes in response to Chase’s intrigued expression, he gently steers him towards the dining-room. “Not worth it,” he mouths.

They run into Auntie Beulah at the entrance of the living-room. She sweeps Foreman up in a crushing hug and then tuts at him, telling him he’s lost weight (he hasn’t) and that he needs to rest more (he does). She smiles maternally at Chase when Foreman introduces him, and thankfully doesn’t say anything about the fact that they’re dating. Foreman asks her about the food, and she promises there are no strawberries in anything, which goes a long way towards easing his mind. Chase, he notices, also relaxes a little after the interaction.

Grandma Hazel is already seated at the head of the table. An elderly lady of at least ninety, she’s still spry on her feet and has the reflexes of someone twenty years her junior. Her heavily wrinkled face splits into a smile when she sees Foreman, and he goes over obligingly and lets her plant a dry kiss to his face. “And who is this handsome young man?” she asks when she releases him.

“Chase,” Foreman says. He’s thinking he should have just sent a group text and introduced Chase in one go, instead of having to do it over and over again. Hopefully this should be the last time. “My partner.”

Grandma Hazel looks Chase up and down, and then takes his hand between both of hers. “Dear boy,” she says in her quavering old voice, “all the men in the world, and you went for Eric?”

Chase grins. “He asked really nicely,” he says.

“Somehow I doubt that,” says Grandma Hazel with a wink. “Oh well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Grandma!” hisses Foreman.

“Just telling the truth, dear,” she says, releasing Chase’s hand. “Why don’t you all have a seat so we can get started? I’m starving. Where’s that boy — MARCUS!”

“Coming, I’m coming!” Marcus calls out from what sounds like the other end of the house. A few seconds later, he enters the dining-room, holding a casserole dish. “Dr. Chase, good to see you,” he greets as he puts it down on the table.

They shake hands. “Just Chase is fine,” Chase tells him.

“Okay, Just Chase,” Marcus says with a grin. “Gotta say, I agree with Grandma Hazel. All the men in the world…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Oh, shut up,” Foreman tells him, rolling his eyes.

“Aw, he’s not too bad,” Chase tells Marcus, like he’s confiding a secret.

“Thanks, I feel so warm inside,” Foreman says deadpan, and Chase laughs.

They settle at the table. Rodney and Beulah sit on either side of Grandma Hazel, while Rosie sits next to her mother and Marcus takes the seat next to Rodney. Foreman sits down next to his brother, and Chase sits with Jonathan, who’s next to Rosie. Foreman catches his eye across the table and gives him a small, reassuring smile. Chase smiles back, and gently nudges Foreman’s foot under the table in thanks.

It seems Beulah has gone all out — the table is loaded. Hot and sour soup is served with breadsticks as an appetizer, and Foreman can also see baked ziti, red rice, and chicken pot pie for the main course. There are also buffalo wings and mashed potatoes as sides, and Rodney pours out the wine that Foreman and Chase got for everyone.

“This looks amazing,” Chase says as they all begin serving themselves. “You really didn’t have to—”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Beulah says with a warm smile. “After all, it’s been so long since Eric came to visit. I didn’t want him to miss out on good food. Lord knows what you kids eat in Jersey.”

“We do okay,” Foreman says.

“Do either of you cook?” asks Rosie, interested. “I know Eric never did before.”

“We don’t really get the time for it,” Chase says. “Sometimes we make pasta on weekends, though.”

“Kraft mac and cheese is not a meal,” Marcus mutters.

“That stuff’s not good for you,” Beulah says disapprovingly.

“We don’t make Kraft mac and cheese,” Foreman says, giving Marcus an annoyed look. “We manage just fine, Auntie Beulah, you don’t need to worry.”

“We haven’t even set anything on fire in months,” Chase adds with a grin.

“You set something on fire?” Jonathan asks with interest. “What was it?”

“A frying pan,” Chase tells him. “Fire department kicked our—” He stops himself just in time, and finishes, “butts.”

“You can say ass,” Jonathan tells him conversationally. “Mama says it all the time.”

“Jonathan!” Rosie looks scandalized, as Chase and Marcus both burst out laughing. “What did I tell you about that kind of language!”

“But Mom—”

Foreman tunes them out, deciding to focus on the food. It is just as good as he remembers from his childhood and teen years, and he finds himself nostalgic all of a sudden. He and Marcus used to love going to Beulah and Rosie’s home, just for Beulah’s cooking. He remembers she’d been legendary in her neighborhood for her dinner parties, how all the young adults used to come ask her for her recipes. He remembers Beulah in the kitchen with his mother, the two of them bent over a cookbook, debating cooking techniques and adding their own spin to the recipes.

Suddenly, he misses his mother so fiercely that it’s all he can do not to get teary-eyed right there at the table. The pot pie is exactly as she used to make it. He can see her influence in the baked ziti, in the sauce used for the buffalo wings — even in the way the dishes have been set out, in the warm scent of good food in the air.

Chase’s foot touches his under the table, and he looks up to find Chase watching him with concern. He gives him a small smile, hoping it comes across as reassuring, and blinks a couple of times to get rid of the moisture in his eyes. Chase returns his smile, and presses his calf against Foreman’s before letting go.

“So,” says Rosie, and everyone’s attention turns to her. “How long have you two been dating?”

“About a year or so,” Foreman replies.

“And you’re coworkers, right?” Beulah asks.

Foreman nods. “Yeah.”

“Technically, Fore— Eric is my boss,” Chase says. “Then again, he’s Dean of Medicine, so he’s everyone’s boss, I guess.”

“You’re not doing too badly for yourself, from what I hear,” Rodney says. “Head of Department, huh? That’s pretty impressive.”

“Thank you,” Chase says after a second. He still seems a little uncertain around Foreman’s dad, despite his relative comfort around the rest of the family.

“Pity about House, though,” Marcus says. “He was a grouchy old bas—” There is a thudding sound from under the table, and Marcus cuts himself off, yelping. “Ow — what the hell, Rosie?”

“Language,” she says, giving him a sweet smile.

Eyes watering, Marcus glares at her, and then continues, “Grouchy old jackass. Happy?” he asks Rosie.

She gives him a beatific look and continues eating her mashed potatoes.

“You know, we’ve got a gay man at our church,” Grandma Hazel says.

“We do?” asks Rodney, blinking in surprise.

“You know him, Rodney, come on,” says Grandma Hazel. “That fellow with the red hair, what’s his name — Lenny!”

“Grandma, Lenny’s not gay,” Rosie says patiently, with the air of someone who’s explaining this for the nth time. “He just thinks skirts are comfortable.”

“Well, they are,” Beulah says agreeably.

“Besides, not all gay men wear skirts,” says Marcus. “Right, Eric?”

“I’m not gay,” Foreman replies irritably.

“You just introduced us to your boyfriend,” Marcus points out.

“He’s got you there,” says Rosie with a grin.

“Did you all forget that my previous relationship was with a woman?” Foreman says.

“And I was married to one,” Chase adds.

“What happened there?” Rosie asks.

“Rosabel!” chides her mother.

“It’s okay,” Chase says hurriedly. “Uh. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“It’s like that, sometimes,” says Grandma Hazel sympathetically. “You remember Richard, don’t you, Beulah? Left his wife after ten years together.”

“She’d been stealing money from his senile sister’s bank account,” Rodney reminded her.

“Yeah, I can see how that might ruin a marriage,” says Foreman dryly, to general amusement.

Marcus helps Beulah and Rodney clear the table after lunch. All three of them vehemently refuse any offers to help, leaving Chase sitting awkwardly at the table while Foreman tries to convince them that no, they wouldn’t be needing that many leftovers.

“It’s just the two of us, Auntie,” he says. “And we’re barely ever home!”

“Freeze it, then,” she insists, putting a healthy amount of ziti into Tupperware. “But take it with you.”

“Okay, okay,” Foreman says, conceding. “Thanks,” he adds, remembering his manners.

Beulah smiles at him. “Any time, dear,” she tells him softly.

Rosie brings out peach cobbler for dessert. “It’s not like how Auntie Alicia used to make it,” she tells Foreman a little nervously, “but I tried.”

Foreman’s mouth goes dry.

It’s Marcus who answers. “It looks great, Rosie,” he says sincerely. “I’m sure it tastes great, too.”

Foreman remembers his mother’s cobbler, the way it filled the entire house with its aroma. He remembers looking forward to Sunday afternoons just for that, remembers hoping everyone else would have only a little so that there would be more for him. He remembers fighting with Marcus over the last bit of it, remembers his mother laughing, promising to make some more for him as soon as she could.

He takes a bite of it, trying to ignore Rosie’s eyes on him. She waits nervously as he chews and swallows, and he says, “Rosie, this is really good. Thank you.”

She beams, and serves him some more.

It’s not the same as his mother’s, that much is true. Rosie still has a long way to go before her cooking is on par with Alicia’s or even Beulah’s, but she did well enough, and Foreman is not about to burst her bubble by telling her the crust could be better.

Chase continues his stream of compliments for the food, making Rosie and Beulah blush and fawn over him. Marcus is digging into the cobbler like there’s no tomorrow, and the sight makes Foreman laugh a little. Some things are still the same as they were during his childhood, and the thought is comforting.

Rodney, however, is watching Chase interact with Jonathan with an expression that Foreman can’t quite interpret, and it makes apprehension rise in his chest. He knows his father is not a bigoted man, and that he’s done his best to be accepting of his children no matter what, but he can’t quite shake the niggling feeling that there’s something off here. Maybe he’s just being oversensitive, he thinks. It’s just paranoia.

Whatever it is, he hopes that even if Rodney doesn’t approve, he keeps it to himself. Last thing Chase needs is to deal with the guilt of being the reason Foreman and his father grow distant again. And he will feel guilty if that happens, Foreman knows. Chase tends to internalize things, turn his bad thoughts and feelings inwards where they can harm only him. It’s not healthy, but it’s an ingrained habit from a lifetime of neglect and emotional abuse, and Foreman doesn’t really know what to do about it other than try his best to reassure his partner.

They have tea in the living-room afterwards, and then Beulah says her goodbyes. She kisses Foreman’s cheek, hugs Chase, and tells them not to be strangers. Grandma Hazel does the same, and so does Rosie. Jonathan gives them both fistbumps as he follows his mom. Marcus stays for a while, and then says he’s going to get some smokes.

There is a short silence in the living-room, during which Rodney flips through TV channels, and Chase acts like his tea is the most interesting thing in the world. More to dissipate the tension that anything else, Foreman says, “So, uh. Lunch was nice.”

Rodney sets the TV remote aside and smiles at his son. “Glad to hear that,” he says. “We all missed you, you know. Marcus still visits every now and then, but it has been forever since you’ve come home.”

“Yeah,” says Foreman, not knowing what else to say. “Actually, Dad, I wanted to ask — you got any old tapes of Mom lying around?”

“I think so, yes,” Rodney answers after a few thoughtful seconds. “Most of them are VCR tapes, though.”

“That’s okay,” Foreman says. “I could get DVD copies made.”

“All right,” says Rodney. “I’ll go see if I can dig them out.” He gets to his feet and heads for the stairs, leaving Foreman alone with Chase for the first time since lunch.

“You can stop pretending you like the tea now,” Foreman says with a grin.

“Oh, thank God,” says Chase fervently, putting his cup down immediately. “No offense, but it tastes like leaf water.”

“None taken,” Foreman says with a laugh. “I don’t know why the hell they put Marcus in charge of tea. Man could probably burn water if he tries hard enough.”

Chase grins. “Who knows, maybe he’ll learn.”

“Forty years on this earth and he can barely microwave some popcorn,” Foreman says. “I doubt there’s much hope. Come on, let’s go get you some coffee.”

Chase follows him to the kitchen, where he leans against the counter while Foreman goes about making coffee. Everything is exactly where he remembers it being. Looks like his father hasn’t changed anything about the kitchen, has left it exactly like his mom had kept it. The familiarity feels warm in Foreman’s chest.

“I spent so many nights in here, in high school,” he tells Chase, handing him his coffee. “Used to do my homework at the table, with my coffee. Didn’t think I’d ever end up nostalgic for those days.”

“I can kinda see it,” Chase says, staring at the coffee table like he can visualize a younger Foreman there just by force of will. “I used to do my homework at school.”

“Why not home?” asks Foreman, taking his old seat at the kitchen table.

Chase sits down across from him. “Couldn’t focus at home,” he answers. “There was always something going on with my mom, and I had to look after my sister too. It was easier to concentrate at school.”

“Don’t you ever miss your home?” Foreman wonders.

“Sometimes,” Chase admits. “But then I figure, we’ve got a tendency to romanticize our childhoods. It probably wasn’t as nice as my nostalgia makes it seem. Don’t get me wrong, there were good parts, but overall?” He shrugs. “I try my best not to think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Foreman says after a few moments. “I wish it wasn’t like that.”

“Me too,” Chase replies with a crooked little smile. “But it is what it is, you know.”

“Yeah,” says Foreman slowly. “It is what it is.”

Chase washes the mug in the sink when he’s finished with coffee. The sight of him at Foreman’s childhood home’s kitchen sink takes his breath away for reasons he can’t explain. There’s just Chase, illuminated in the fading sunlight from the kitchen window over the sink, rinsing a mug and drying it before putting it away. His hair is gold and his eyes are blue-green and he is washing a cup in the house Foreman grew up in.

This is turning out to be a strange day, thinks Foreman, almost in a daze. He can’t make sense of his thoughts anymore. It’s a little too overwhelming, being here.

Rodney calls his name, and the two of them go back into the living-room. His father is standing there with a cardboard box of ancient VHS tapes, and on top of them is an old leather-bound notebook that Foreman knows all too well.

“Mom’s recipe book,” he breathes out, taking the box from his father. “I thought it would be in the kitchen.” He hadn’t looked for it, hadn’t thought to, but seeing it here, now, he wants nothing more than to take it home. Something his mother breathed on, wrote in, loved. This book that knows her touch. He wants it.

“I took it out,” Rodney admits quietly. “I kept seeing it every morning.”

Foreman understands. “Can I keep it?” he asks.

His father nods. “Sure, son. That’s why I brought it out.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Dad,” he says, and swallows past the lump in his throat. “We, uh, we should probably hit the road now, though. I’d like to get back home before dark.”

“You could always stay, you know,” Rodney says.

“Not today, Dad, but I’ll keep that in mind,” Foreman replies. He’s not quite sure he’s ready enough to spend the night. He doesn’t know if he ever will be.

Rodney nods, accepting that. “All right.” Then he looks past Foreman, to Chase, who’s standing just behind him, hands in his pockets. “You too,” he says. “You’re just as welcome here as Eric is.”

“You sure about that?” Foreman asks before Chase can reply. His eyes are dry and his throat is no longer stuck, the emotions vanishing the moment he remembers the expression on Chase’s face from earlier.

“Of course,” says Rodney at once. “Look, I am aware I didn’t have the best reaction, earlier. And I’m sorry about that. I suppose you just caught me by surprise.” He clears his throat, and takes a step towards them. “Chase, I want you to know that you have nothing to worry about. I’ve liked you since the first time I met you, and you seem to make my son happy. That’s all that matters.”

“Oh.” Chase’s posture loosens. “Thank you, sir,” he says. “And thank you for having me over. I had a good time.”

Rodney smiles. “I really am happy to hear that,” he says, clapping Chase on the shoulder. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe you can convince Eric he needs to visit his old man more,” he jokes.

Chase smiles, a little awkward. “Maybe,” he echoes, glancing over at Foreman.

“Dad,” mutters Foreman. “I’ll visit, okay?”

“You always say that, and never do,” Rodney says. He sounds resigned, not reproachful, and that suddenly has Foreman feeling guilty.

“Dad…”

“It’s okay,” Rodney says hurriedly. “Let’s neither of us expect too much of each other. Just come when you can.”

Foreman nods. He can do that. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, Dad.”

Rodney nods back, and pats him on the cheek. “Go on, then, you’ve got quite a drive back. And don’t forget the leftovers Beulah saved for you. Wait, I’ll go get them for you.”

Foreman loads the box of tapes in the back of the car, along with the leftovers. He hugs his dad goodbye, and watches as Rodney shakes Chase’s hand before pulling him in for a hug too. Chase looks pleasantly surprised, hugging back, and he smiles at Rodney before getting in the passenger seat.

“Take care,” Rodney says.

“You too, Dad. Tell Marcus bye from us.”

“Sure, son.”

“I liked your family,” Chase tells him later on, when they’re in bed. “They’re really nice.”

“They are,” Foreman agrees. “Today went better than I thought it would.”

“Yeah,” says Chase. “Gotta say, though, your dad had me worried for a while.”

Foreman snorts. “Me too. Glad it didn’t become a problem.”

“Yeah,” repeats Chase. Then he says, “I think my grandma would’ve liked your Grandma Hazel.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Foreman says. “I’m not sure I like my Grandma Hazel, at times.”

Chase laughs. “Why not?”

“She’s always trying to get me to eat something,” Foreman replies irritably. “Keeps telling me how skinny I’ve gotten. Last time she saw me I was twenty pounds lighter! I told her I’m going to the gym and working out and she said I needed more pasta in my life.”

“Everyone should have more pasta in their life,” Chase says after a moment. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “And besides, all grandmas do that! It’s literally their thing.”

“Maybe,” says Foreman, “but it gets annoying.”

“Deal with it, she’s a sweetheart,” Chase says, pulling at the blankets.

“Quit hogging,” Foreman tells him.

“My feet are cold,” Chase complains.

“Put on socks.”

“No, I’m already in bed.”

Foreman rolls his eyes even though Chase can’t see it in the darkness of the bedroom. “Then don’t complain,” he says, tugging the blankets back.

There is a short tug of war session until they both settle again, and then Chase asks, voice quiet, “Hey, does it bother you that I call you Foreman?”

“Nah,” Foreman replies after a few moments, a little confused by the question. “Not really. Does it bother you that I call you Chase?”

“No,” Chase answers at once, “but that’s ‘cause I don’t really like my first name. Feels weird to hear it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You don’t have any weird childhood issues with your first name, though, so — does it bother you?”

“Chase,” Foreman says, turning on his side so he can look at Chase in the moonlight flooding the room through the window. “You can call me anything you want, okay? It’s all good.”

“Okay,” Chase says after a moment. “Okay, Eric,” he adds, like he’s trying it out.

Foreman smiles. “See? It’s that simple.” Besides, he kinda likes the way his first name sounds in Chase’s mouth.

Chase smiles back. “Yeah,” he says softly.

They borrow a VCR player from one of their elderly neighbors, and they spend their Sunday morning watching the tapes Foreman got from his dad. They go back all the way to Foreman’s fifth birthday, back when VHS technology was still pretty new, and stop around the time Foreman was seventeen, when he’d begun distancing himself from his family.

“You were a cute kid,” Chase says. He’s sitting on the couch next to Foreman, legs draped over Foreman’s lap, Foreman’s hand resting on his ankle. They’re both still in their pajamas, not bothering to get dressed since they don’t have any plans to leave the house.

“I looked like every other kid,” Foreman points out. “You’re just biased.”

“Nah, you were cute,” Chase counters. “Oh, is that your mum?” he asks when she appears onscreen, laughing and singing happy birthday.

“Yeah,” says Foreman softly, unable to take his eyes off her as she puts a cake down on the kitchen table. There are five candles on it, and Foreman watches his younger self strain with the effort to blow them out in one go.

“She’s beautiful,” Chase says.

“Yeah,” repeats Foreman.

She sounds so alive. He watches as she kisses him in the video, as she helps him cut his cake. She remains smiling the entire time he opens his presents.

The videos go on. There’s Eric at nine, playing basketball in the street with Marcus, his mother cheering from behind the camera as Rodney warns them to be careful. There’s Marcus at twelve, helping Eric with a school project, the two of them at the kitchen table, faces scrunched up in concentration, Alicia’s voice asking what they’re making. Eric and Marcus at twelve and fourteen, fighting viciously over who was the better swimmer, Rodney trying to suppress his laughter as he tried to mediate. Alicia recording, also laughing, loud and clear and alive. Rodney recording a high school football game, Alicia cheering in the background (the last video with Marcus in it). Eric recording as Rodney tries to make lunch by following Beulah’s instructions while Alicia laughs.

The last video is of Eric, sitting at the kitchen table engrossed in his homework like he’d told Chase. Alicia comes up, the camera moving with her footsteps. “What are you working on?” she asks.

“History assignment,” Eric replies shortly. He looks annoyed to be interrupted.

“What’s it about?”

“World War Two.”

“Oh?” She sits down across from him, the camera still pointed at him. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Mom,” sighs Eric, finally looking up from his notebook. “Later. I need to finish this soon, it’s due tomorrow.”

There are a few seconds of silence. Neither Alicia nor Eric say anything. He goes back to his papers. The camera is entirely still, focused on him. Then she says, voice quiet, “Oh baby. I am so proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”

Teenage Eric looks up, surprised.

Alicia goes on, “You’re gonna get into a damn good college, I just know it. And you’re gonna do something amazing with your life. I just know.”

Eric swallows. “Thanks, Mom,” he says softly. He no longer looks annoyed. He looks… overwhelmed.

“I love you, honey,” she says.

“I love you too, Mom,” he replies, and smiles shakily at her.

The video stops. Foreman keeps staring at the screen, his younger self at the kitchen table, his mother’s words echoing in his mind. He’s not aware he’s crying silently until he feels Chase’s hands on his face, gently wiping his tears away. He looks at him, opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what he’s thinking right now.

It doesn’t matter, though. Chase wipes away the last of his tears, and then rests his head on Foreman’s shoulder. He doesn’t speak. Foreman doesn’t need him to; his hands say more than his words could right now. So he just rests his head against Chase’s, and clutches his hand, and tries to exhale away the heaviness of his heart.

Park calls Chase on Monday night, halfway through dinner. He looks annoyed at the insistent ringing, but Foreman can see Park’s name on the screen, and gestures at him to pick up. “This better be good,” warns Chase as an opening, putting the phone on speaker so he can continue eating.

“Patient went into cardiac arrest,” says Park promptly.

Chase puts his fork down, closes his eyes, and slowly counts to ten in a whisper as if begging for patience. Foreman watches him, trying to figure out if he should be amused by Chase or concerned for the patient. Then Chase asks, “And why exactly did that happen? He was stable when I left today.”

“If I knew why it happened I wouldn’t be calling you,” Park says snappishly. She sounds harried. “Look, can you come in? Adams and I got him stabilized for now but it’s likely he’ll need a pacemaker, and—”

“I’ll come,” Chase sighs, cutting her off. “Did you call Taub?”

“No,” Park says after a second. “Should I have?”

“No, don’t,” Chase tells her. “He’s got the girls this week. I’ll be there in half an hour, okay? Keep the patient alive until then.”

He hangs up and puts his head in his hands, massaging his temples. “I’m sorry,” he says after a couple of seconds, looking up miserably at Foreman.

“Don’t be,” Foreman tells him. “Just finish dinner before you go, though, you haven’t eaten much.”

Chase picks up his fork again. “Yeah,” he says. “Cardiac arrest. Ugh. There goes the last diagnosis.”

“You’ll figure it out,” reassures Foreman. “Do you want me to come with you, keep you company?”

“No, it’s okay,” Chase tells him, though he sounds grateful for the offer. “You’ve had a long day yourself, just get some rest. I’ll probably be back in a couple hours.”

“Okay,” accepts Foreman.

It doesn’t turn out quite that way, though. Chase still isn’t back by midnight, and he doesn’t pick up the phone when Foreman calls. Foreman assumes he must be busy, and has his theory confirmed when Chase texts: don’t stay up, think it’s an all nighter kind of case.

Okay, Foreman texts back. See you tomorrow. Then, on a whim he has no explanation for, he adds, Love you.

The reply is almost instantaneous. i love you too :)

Foreman finds Chase sleeping on the couch in the Diagnostics lounge the next morning, lab coat draped over him. His hair is messy and he looks exhausted, and Foreman can see empty coffee cups in the trash can by his desk.

“Hey,” he says gently, shaking Chase’s shoulder.

Chase jolts awake, blinking rapidly to dispel the sleep from his eyes. He relaxes a little when he sees Foreman. “Hey,” he replies, rubbing a hand down his face. “What time is it?”

“Just after nine,” Foreman tells him. “You all right?”

Chase sits up and stretches. “Yeah, ‘m okay,” he yawns, before slumping back against the couch. “Think I need a coffee. Or ten.”

“How’s the patient?” asks Foreman, sitting down next to him.

“Okay,” Chase replies, and yawns again. “Did emergency surgery last night to insert a pacemaker. Team should be here soon for the differential.”

“Okay,” says Foreman. “Why don’t you go get fresh, and I’ll get you some coffee?” He doesn’t bother trying to convince Chase to go home and rest. He knows there’s no point — Chase is not going to go home until the patient is okay, and Foreman wouldn’t have done it either, when he’d still been on the team. What he can do, though, is make sure Chase is okay.

“Yeah, all right,” says Chase. He stretches again, and kisses Foreman’s cheek before standing and shuffling off. Foreman smiles as he watches him go, and then heads down to the cafe to get Chase coffee and breakfast.

They don’t see much of each other for the rest of the day; Chase is busy with his patient, and Foreman has back to back meetings with the insurance people and then the board. After that he interviews candidates for an opening in OB/GYN, and barely manages to make time for lunch. He saves some for Chase and takes it up to the Diagnostics lounge, only to find it empty; turns out the patient was actually suffering from paraneoplastic syndrome caused by some kind of cancer, and now Chase is in surgery again.

He texts Chase just as he’s about to leave the hospital for the day. Call me when you’re leaving for home, he says. I’ll do something about dinner.

Chase doesn’t reply, but that’s to be expected. Just in case, though, Foreman leaves instructions with Nurse Regina to pass on the same message to Chase whenever she sees him.

Foreman spends his drive home thinking about what to do for dinner. Usually they get takeout, but he’s not in the mood for it tonight. There’s always Beulah’s leftovers, he supposes. He wouldn’t mind having some more of that baked ziti.

He changes his mind, however, when he opens the freezer. It would take time to defrost this  — and besides, he’s got this strange urge to do something himself, with his own hands. Chase has spent almost an entire day at work, performed two surgeries in that time, and who knew how many more procedures. Foreman’s still not even sure he’s had lunch. He knows Chase is going to be bone-tired, exhausted beyond belief, and the least he deserves is to come home to a nice meal. Something that someone made for him because they wanted him to eat well, to be well.

He closes the freezer door and goes to the living-room to search out his mother’s recipe book. He has no idea if he’ll even be able to make anything in it, considering that his cooking skills are rudimentary at best. He’s not even sure if he’ll have all the ingredients required for whatever recipe he chooses. They went grocery shopping last week, but they mostly got toiletries and basic food items like bread and eggs.

Foreman sits down at the small kitchen table and begins flipping through the book. It’s old, the leather worn down in places, the pages yellowed, but it is well-loved, and when Foreman touches it he almost feels like his mom’s right here, in the kitchen with him, watching him try to figure it all out. Her handwriting is familiar, her beautiful slanting cursive contrasting with Beulah’s hasty scrawl and Grandma Hazel’s block print.

He turns the pages reverently, scanning titles and ingredient lists, mentally comparing them with what he knows they’ve got in the fridge and pantry. It takes him some time to reach a recipe that looks promising, but that’s also because he’s spent a lot of time just drinking in his mother’s handwriting, the proof of her existence, the fact that she put pen to paper and wrote down something that’s here after she’s gone.

Foreman takes a deep breath and stands. It’s time to get to work, see what he can manage to do. If it works, great. If not, there’s always ziti leftovers in the freezer.

Garlic parmesan pasta, one pot. Looks straightforward enough, thinks Foreman as he reads through the recipe. And he’s pretty sure they’ve got everything he’ll need.

He finds a skillet that looks like it’ll do, and sets it aside so he can do ingredient prep before he begins cooking. He chops up garlic as small as he can, which takes him some time because he’s not that skilled with knives. He tries to think of it like doing surgery, but kitchen knives are more difficult to handle than scalpels, and not just because the blades are huge. But he gets it done, and sets the garlic aside.

He melts a couple tablespoons of butter in the skillet over medium heat, and then adds the garlic. The aroma that arises is so sharply reminiscent of his childhood that it throws him for a loop — all he can think of is sunny afternoons, his mother singing along to the radio in the kitchen, and this exact same scent wafting through the air, tempting him as he did his homework. If he focuses, he thinks he can almost remember the song she used to sing.

A sizzling sound knocks him out of his thoughts, and Foreman turns his attention back to the skillet. He stirs, making sure nothing is burning, and then adds chicken broth, milk, and fettuccine. It’s store-bought, even though there’s a recipe for making a homemade version in Alicia’s book. But Foreman’s not quite sure he can manage that just yet, and besides, there’s no time for experiments. Chase will probably be home soon.

He adds in salt and pepper and continues stirring, inhaling the smell and trying desperately to remember the song his mother sang in his memory. It evades him, though, dancing at the edges of his memory, leaving him frustrated and irritated with himself. It’s such a simple little thing; how could he forget?

The pasta comes to a boil; he reduces the heat, as the recipe instructs, and keeps stirring. All he has to do now is add parmesan and wait for it to come to the right consistency, so until that happens, he figures he might as well call the hospital, see if there’s any updates on Chase’s patient.

Nurse Regina informs him the patient is stable, and that Chase is currently speaking to the family. She estimates he’ll probably leave the hospital in ten minutes. It’s a fifteen-minute drive home, which Foreman figures gives him around half an hour to get dinner ready.

He turns off the stove when the pasta looks thick enough, and covers the skillet. He finds parsley in the fridge, and chops it for garnish, trying his best to cut it evenly. They should probably get one of those fancy specialized scissors for that, he thinks absently. The alternative is making a mistake due to his poor chopping technique and ending up short a few fingers. It might not affect him too much at work considering he’s now in admin and not doing surgery or procedures, but he’s pretty sure Chase wouldn’t be too happy.

The lock clicks in the front door just as Foreman is garnishing the pasta with the parsley, and a second later Chase calls out, “I’m home!”

“Hey,” Foreman calls back, as Chase hangs up his coat and bag. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Chase says, crossing the open plan apartment to the kitchen. “That smells amazing, did you make it?”

“Yeah,” Foreman tells him, gesturing towards the open recipe book on the kitchen table. “I wanted to make something for dinner, figured I’d check out some of my mom’s recipes.”

Chase smiles. “I can’t wait to try it, then,” he says, washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

“I just hope I didn’t mess up,” Foreman says, putting a hot dish coaster in the middle of the table. He transfers the skillet from the stove to the table, and lays out plates and cutlery. Chase dries his hands in the meantime and then joins him at the table.

Foreman serves the pasta, plating it for Chase. Regardless of what it might taste like, it definitely smells nice. It doesn’t look too bad either, and Chase looks impressed at the whole thing as he wraps it up in his fork and blows on it to cool it down.

“If it sucks, pretend you don’t hate it and just order takeout behind my back,” Foreman says, taking some pasta out on his own plate.

Chase laughs. “Noted,” he says, and then takes a bite.

Foreman watches him a bit nervously. Chase’s eyes go wide as he swallows. “Foreman,” he says. “This is so good. Seriously, go on, try it.” He gestures with his fork, waiting until Foreman takes a bite.

It’s not the exact same as his mom used to make it, but Foreman has to admit — it is pretty good, considering this is a first attempt. He smiles to himself and takes another bite, suddenly ravenous. Chase, it appears, is in the same boat; he’s digging in, looking like he’s reached a higher plane of existence. It makes Foreman feel a little embarrassed — he’s sure it can’t be that good, that Chase is just acting like he loves it so that Foreman feels better.

“I’m not kidding, this really is good,” Chase says, as if he’s read Foreman’s mind. “If there are leftovers, I’m taking them to work tomorrow.”

Foreman smiles again. “Okay,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” Chase tells him earnestly. “Thank you, Eric. I really appreciate it.”

Foreman flushes at the praise. “Damn near chopped my fingers off along with the parsley,” he tells Chase.

“Glad you didn’t,” Chase says with a snort. “I think I’ve had my fill of medical emergencies for the day.”

“Speaking of,” says Foreman. “How’s your patient?”

“All right,” Chase answers. “Stable. We managed to get the tumor, so I guess we’ll find out tomorrow if there’s any improvement.”

“Here’s to hoping,” Foreman says.

They settle in the living-room to watch TV after dinner — which Chase won’t stop praising until Foreman literally has to bribe him with leftovers to shut up. Ten minutes into an old Star Trek rerun, Chase falls asleep with his head on Foreman’s shoulder, his breathing slow and even. It’s a testament to how tired he is that he doesn’t wake even when Foreman adjusts his position to make him more comfortable, wrapping an arm around him so that Chase’s head is tucked under Foreman’s chin. With his other hand, he mutes the TV so that the sound won’t disturb Chase.

He thinks back on the evening, especially Chase’s delight at the pasta and his enjoyment of it. He can’t help but wonder if part of the reason Chase was so happy is because he isn’t used to being cooked for. Chase’s mom probably didn’t cook for him and his sister, probably wasn’t sober enough for it — or, just as likely, had a cook come in and do it for her. Cameron wasn’t much of a cook either, and she and Chase had mostly lived off takeout. And Chase hadn’t had a serious relationship after her, not until Foreman had finally asked him out.

This is new to him, being taken care of like this. It’s just as new to Foreman, who’s not used to making himself vulnerable enough to let someone else in. With Thirteen, it wasn’t too difficult — she was just as closed-off and cautious about her feelings as he was, and they’d both been too independent to really lean on each other much. Foreman remembers the aftermath of Kutner’s death, how it had been easier to cope on his own than to do it with his girlfriend.

It’s different with Chase. Chase doesn’t quite say with words when he needs comfort, but Foreman’s learned to read him well enough. He knows the little things to look out for — the dark shadows under Chase’s eyes, or the exhausted slump of his posture, the way his steps come a little slower, a little heavier. He knows when Chase wants to be reassured and when he wants to be left alone. He’s learned that there are times when Chase doesn’t want to talk about anything, and there are times when he needs to unburden himself or risk breaking down and lashing out later. He knows that Chase responds best to physical touch, hard proof that he is not alone. He knows the worst thing he can do when Chase is upset is to tell him he’s overreacting — there’s no quicker way to make him shut down. He’s learned that the hard way.

And in return, when Foreman sinks down on the couch in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep, Chase joins him. He sits with him in silence, the two of them watching TV on mute, and he gives Foreman time to feel better without pressuring him. He lets Foreman rant about work and all the difficult people he has to deal with, and he listens patiently, giving advice and calling Foreman out when it’s required. He knows that Foreman is not very verbally expressive, and he accepts that, has never once indicated that he wants Foreman to change. And when Foreman has migraines, Chase lets him lie down with his head in his lap, and turns all the lights off. He rubs circles into the skin over Foreman’s temples until Foreman can manage some sleep. He brings him water and painkillers and snacks, and handles all his work correspondence for him. Foreman can’t remember the last time someone had taken care of him like that, either.

They fit. Somehow, with their flaws and issues and idiosyncrasies, they fit. Their jagged edges somehow match, slot into each other until they’re smooth. Their bodies, too — Chase’s head under Foreman’s chin, the way their fingers intertwine, the way Foreman fits between Chase’s legs. At the risk of sounding like the corny poetry Thirteen likes — it feels like Chase’s body is made for his.

A few years ago Foreman would never have thought Chase would be the one he’d end up in a long-term relationship with — and yet here they are. They argue about patients and they mock each other’s favorite sports and they fight over the TV remote — but they also sleep facing each other, and they go on date nights every week with religious regularity, and they spend their silences together. There’s not a thing that happens in Foreman’s life that he doesn’t want to tell Chase about immediately, and vice versa. They know the worst of each other, so after all, it only makes sense that they choose to share the best of each other.

They just fit.

“I think that’s too much salt.”

“Recipe says to taste.”

“Yeah, but I’m assuming your mum meant that for a reasonable person with reasonable taste.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Foreman asks irritably.

“It means food isn’t supposed to taste like a salt mine,” Chase replies.

“It’s not meant to be bland either!” Foreman retorts.

“You know what, let’s just put in a bit, and if it’s not enough we can always add it later,” suggests Chase. “Better than having too much of it and having the entire thing go to waste.”

Foreman considers this. “Yeah, okay,” he says grudgingly.

It’s been three weeks since they got the recipe book. Foreman tried two more recipes from it, one of which turned out amazing and the other one disastrous beyond belief. This is his fourth attempt, and Chase has decided to help too.

Despite the arguing over salt, it’s nice. Foreman likes spending time with Chase, and the domesticity makes it better. It feels good to share this with him, this part of his mother that he’s trying to reconnect with.

“You wanna hear something funny?” Foreman asks as Chase sprinkles salt over the rice in the pot. “I used to hate this dish as a kid.”

“How come?” Chase asks, stirring the rice.

Foreman shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess maybe ‘cause Marcus liked it, so Mom made it all the time and I got tired of it.”

Chase grins. “And she never made your favorites?”

“She did, all the time,” Foreman replies with a smile. “I was just a bratty preteen. Plus, you know, sibling rivalry.”

“I never had that with my sister,” Chase tells him. “I think because she’s quite a bit younger than me and I practically raised her.”

“It can get intense,” says Foreman. “There was a whole month where I refused to have dinner if Mom made anything Marcus liked.”

That makes Chase laugh. “Well, if you think you’ve grown out of it, maybe we could call Marcus over someday.”

“You want to invite my brother?” Foreman asks, surprised.

Chase nods. “If you agree,” he says. “I had fun with your family, you know. And Marcus seems cool.”

“I’ll see,” Foreman says after a second. “With our history… I don’t know. I’m trying to work with a clean slate, but it can be tough.”

“Like I said,” says Chase, “only if you agree.”

“I’ll think about it,” promises Foreman.

They have their rice with gravy, and Foreman brings out some of the soda in the fridge. Chase was right about the salt; the dish is just right now, and almost exactly how Alicia used to make it. Foreman thinks about how he’d been ready to dump all that salt in it, and shudders to himself.

“You can say it, you know,” Chase says conversationally, taking a sip of his drink.

“Say what?”

“That I was right.”

Foreman gives him an unimpressed look. Chase grins, unfazed. “Say it,” he says.

“Fine, you were right,” says Foreman, throwing his hands up. “And I’m glad,” he adds. “‘Cause it tastes like how I remember it.”

Chase's grin softens into a smile. “Good,” he says.

They clean up together once they’re done; Foreman wipes the dishes, while Chase loads them into the dishwasher. It’s peaceful, this kind of quiet routine they’ve got, the way they don’t need to talk as they go about their chores. The silences, Foreman thinks, may be one of his favorite things about this relationship, because he never feels the urge to fill them. With Chase, even before they’d begun dating, he’s always been able to spend time in absolute quiet, saying and doing nothing, and it’s never felt awkward.

Chase is humming under his breath as he wipes the surface of the table clean. It’s a familiar tune, but Foreman can’t make it out, and he doesn’t want to ask for fear of disturbing Chase. And suddenly that reminds him of how he still can’t remember the song his mom used to sing as she cooked, and Foreman is struck with a sudden fear.

He’s a smart man, and he’s not in the habit of deluding himself or sugar-coating bitter realities. He knows there’s a very good chance that, like his mother, he might develop Alzheimer’s, too. And he’s a neurologist, he’s studied and trained under some of the smartest people in the country. He knows full well that the symptoms can present early on, and be minor enough to be dismissed.

He tries to distract himself, tries to focus on Chase’s voice, but all it does is remind him of what he can’t remember (and isn’t that ironic). He tries to recall his studies, tries to remind himself of the odds that he won’t get it, that he’ll keep his memory, and that doesn’t work either because, well, what were the odds of him getting into med school? Him being accepted to work with House? Contracting Naegleria? Falling in love with a man? His entire life has been a study in odds and chances.

“Are you all right?” Chase asks him, when they’re getting ready to turn in for the night. He’s in the process of stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt, while Foreman finishes brushing his teeth.

“Yeah,” Foreman lies.

“It’s just, you’ve been kinda quiet since dinner,” Chase ventures cautiously.

Foreman rinses out his mouth and dries his face, and emerges from the en-suite bathroom to see Chase sitting in bed, undressed. He looks concerned, hands fidgeting with the hem of his thin gray shirt.

“I mean, you don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Chase says hurriedly, watching as Foreman gets into his side of the bed. “I just… I was just worried, is all.”

Foreman settles with his back against the headboard, and turns his head to look at Chase. “Do you know what my greatest fear is?” he asks quietly.

Chase blinks, taken aback by the question. In the yellow lamplight, his eyes look gray. “No,” he replies.

“I’m scared of becoming like my mother,” Foreman tells him, candid, almost raw. He looks Chase in the eyes. “I’m scared of starting to forget, of losing my mind until there’s nothing left. And I’m scared that when — that if it happens, I’ll be alone.”

“Eric…” begins Chase softly.

“No, I know, I know it’s not logical,” Foreman says, before Chase can go on. “I know. If there’s a chance I’ll get sick, there’s also a chance I won’t. I know, and that doesn’t stop me from worrying.”

Chase exhales slowly, and then shuffles closer to Foreman. He stops about half a foot away, as if he’s not sure whether his touch would be welcome right now. It makes something inside Foreman feel heavy — doesn’t Chase know that Foreman is always going to want him there?

Before he can say that, Chase asks, “What brought this on?”

Foreman sighs, leaning his head against the headboard and looking up at the ceiling, willing his eyes to stay dry. “When I was little,” he says, “my mom, she used to sing in the kitchen. While she cooked. And ever since we visited my dad’s, I’ve been trying to remember what song it was. And I can’t. And you were humming in the kitchen, and it reminded me of her again, except — except I still can’t remember, Chase. And I’m scared that it’s just the beginning, that I’ll keep forgetting things until there’s nothing left.”

He raises his head again, turns it to look at Chase. Chase is watching him with a strange sort of sadness on his face, his eyes wet in the lamplight. Foreman goes on, “I’m scared that one day, I’m gonna be just like her. And I don’t want to be alone when that happens.”

“Why do you think you’d be alone?” Chase asks softly. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. The heaviness in Foreman’s chest intensifies.

“You remember that patient we had last year?” he asks quietly. “He was gonna be in that Alzheimer’s drug trial and he got sick, left the hospital, got hypothermia. You and Adams were talking while you were waiting for him to wake up, and…”

“You were in the observation room,” finishes Chase. He looks heartbroken now.

Foreman nods. “You said that if you ever became a burden on your loved ones, you’d kill yourself,” he says, and Chase closes his eyes, inhaling sharply. “And it’s — I get that, I understand,” he continues hurriedly. “What your mom did to herself, what she did to you… I get where you’re coming from, and I don’t blame you. But I don’t want you to stay out of obligation, either. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here and take care of me if I ever get sick like my mom did. I don’t want to be a burden on you, or anyone else.”

Chase opens his eyes. His nose is red, the way it is when he’s trying not to cry, and despite that, a tear rolls down his cheek. “I—” he begins, and then stops. His voice is thick. “I don’t think you’re a burden.”

“I’m not a burden now,” Foreman points out. “But later—”

“If,” Chase says fiercely. Another tear falls, and then another. “You said if. You might not get sick at all. And if you do,” he adds before Foreman can interrupt, “if you do, I’ll be there, Foreman. Of course I’ll be there. Not ‘cause I’m obligated or anything. But because I’d want to.”

Foreman blinks, surprised. “But you said—”

“I know what I said,” Chase cuts in. “But… it’s you. It’s you, and I care about you, and I don’t want to leave you over a hypothetical scenario that might never happen.” He wipes at his eyes angrily.

“It might, though,” Foreman points out gently. “And I don’t want you to end up resenting me if it does.”

“I won’t,” Chase insists.

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know that you’ll get ill!” Chase bursts out. “And for that matter — I could too! What if I catch some awful disease that melts my brain? What if I get hurt at work again and get paralyzed? Huh?”

“Chase, those are all hypothetical—” begins Foreman.

“Exactly!” Chase says. He’s trying not to cry, and all it does is make his tears come faster. “It’s hypothetical, and it might not happen, and you might never get sick. And if you do — if — then I’ll still be there with you, ‘cause you wouldn’t be a burden, all right? Being with someone, it’s — it’s not just about being there for the good bits, okay? You gotta be there for the parts that suck too, ‘cause that’s what a relationship is! And as for what I said—” He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “Foreman, what my mum had, she did it to herself. She chose to drink herself into liver failure. Your mum didn’t choose to get sick. It’s different.”

“It wasn’t different from that patient,” Foreman says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Chase says, shrugging angrily. “But I don’t care. I’d stay with you, no matter what, if you’d let me.”

Foreman can’t help it; he leans in, wrapping his arms around Chase and pulling him in. Chase lets himself be tugged into the embrace, his entire body going loose against Foreman’s as he buries his face in Foreman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about what I said,” he whispers, voice muffled as his hands grip at the fabric of Foreman’s shirt. “I didn’t mean it about your mum, or even you. It’s just… watching that guy’s wife look after him, and he didn’t even remember her, and — when I think about that possibly happening to you…” He trails off, shuddering. “But I wouldn’t ever want you to kill yourself,” he finishes fiercely. “Not you. Me, maybe, if I got sick, but not you, not you—”

“Not you, either,” Foreman interjects, shaking Chase lightly. “Shut up, Chase. Not you, either.”

Chase takes in another shaky breath, and goes still in Foreman’s arms. “Okay,” he says in the end, voice ragged. “Okay. No one’s killing themselves in any scenario.”

“Yeah,” says Foreman, leaning his head against Chase’s. “And no more dwelling on things that might never happen.”

“Please,” mutters Chase fervently.

They sit in silence for a while. Chase relaxes eventually, shifting so that he’s sitting with his head on Foreman’s shoulder, his hands playing nervously with Foreman’s fingers in his lap. Foreman feels — well, a bit better, now that they’ve talked about it. He hadn’t even known that he’d been afraid of Chase leaving, but he feels reassured now. He just wishes Chase hadn’t ended up crying — it’s a bit difficult for him to see, because Chase normally has even more of an iron-grip on his feelings than Foreman does, and Foreman doesn’t like seeing him worn down like this.

On the other hand, though, they’ve clarified some important things, and Foreman can’t help but feel glad for it. At least he knows where they stand now.

“You know,” he says eventually, turning his hand so he can intertwine his fingers with Chase’s. “House would say you’re a hypocrite.”

“Yeah, probably, but I don’t care,” Chase says, sounding tired. “I mean, it’s not like he didn’t go against everything he believed in, for someone he loved.”

“True,” concedes Foreman, smiling a little. Hearing Chase use the word love makes something warm flare up inside him, light and comforting. It feels like reaffirmation.

“Foreman?” Chase says after a while. He sounds so very young, suddenly, and kind of lost.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t really believe I’d leave you if you got sick, do you?”

Foreman brings their joined hands to his mouth, presses a kiss to Chase’s knuckles. “No, Chase, I don’t.” It’s the truth.

Chase exhales, the tension seeming to leave his body. “Okay,” he whispers. “Just — just making sure.”

There is silence for a few more moments. Then Foreman asks, “Chase?”

“Yeah?”

“I hate it when you cry,” he admits quietly.

Chase chuckles wetly. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” Foreman says. “Just… I just wanted to tell you.”

“Okay,” Chase repeats, again in a whisper.

They end up falling asleep like that — sitting up in bed, leaning against each other, hands joined, and the lights still on. And in the morning Foreman is going to have an epic backache, and the mother of all cricks in his neck, but right now he can’t make himself care. He feels lighter than he has in a long time, and the ache in his heart when he thinks about his future is no longer there. Compared to that, a little backache is nothing.

Foreman invites Marcus for Sunday lunch, two weeks after that. Marcus, in a not entirely unexpected move, invites the rest of the family along. He neglects to mention it until Sunday morning, at which point Chase and Foreman both promptly begin freaking out over portions.

They manage to get it done, though — Foreman makes the garlic parmesan pasta again, Chase attempts chicken corn soup, and they both collaborate on a casserole that can either turn out delicious or disastrous. But Beulah comments that the food smells nice, and Rosie says if they hate it they’ll just order takeout, and Marcus says it wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to poison him. Rodney is too busy checking out the TV in the living-room to care about the food discussion, while Jonathan pokes and prods at Foreman’s Xbox. Grandma Hazel is in the small balcony, where she’s examining Chase’s collection of plants. She seems impressed, but it’s hard to tell because there’s not much difference between her impressed face and her disappointed face. As a child, Foreman had found it incredibly tough to ascertain whether she was happy or upset with him.

They settle down for lunch eventually. Chase’s chicken corn soup turns out good, and Beulah hums approvingly as she tastes it. That makes him beam like a child on Christmas, which in turn makes Foreman smile (while on the inside he hopes his dish is up to the mark, too). Grandma Hazel says Foreman’s parsley-chopping technique still needs some work even though he used the fancy herb scissors, but otherwise seems to approve. The casserole is a hit, too. Foreman’s relieved because if Chase’s dish was approved and his wasn’t, he knows he’ll never hear the end of it from his partner.

Chase serves ice-cream for dessert. Jonathan immediately declares him his favorite person, which makes Chase grin and promise to sneak him seconds when Rosie isn’t looking. Foreman pretends he hasn’t heard, because when it comes to Chase’s actions, at work and at home, Foreman is a huge fan of plausible deniability.

They all crowd into the living-room after lunch. It’s a bit of a tight fit, since Foreman had never thought he’d ever have this many people at his apartment, but he finds he doesn’t mind. Grandma Hazel appropriates the armchair, Beulah and Rosie take the loveseat, and Rodney, Marcus, and Foreman sit on the three-seater couch. Jonathan is on the floor, going through Foreman’s video game collection, while Chase sits cross-legged nearby with his back against Foreman’s legs, ice-cream bowl in his hand.

“Before you ask, Jonathan, no, you can’t borrow Uncle Eric’s PlayStation,” Rosie says.

“Mama, this is an Xbox,” Jonathan says. Then it seems to register what she said. “Aw, why not?”

“Don’t you have that science fair coming up?” asks Beulah. “Do well in that and you can have the box-thing.”

“Xbox,” Jonathan corrects.

“Sure, that,” says Beulah dismissively.

“Can I play Call of Duty?” Jonathan asks Foreman.

“Ask your mom,” he replies.

“Ugh, she’ll just say no,” says Jonathan morosely. “I bet Chase would let me play Call of Duty.”

“Well, Chase isn’t your mama, so it doesn’t matter what he’ll let you do,” Marcus says with a grin. “Though you can watch me kick Eric’s ass at it.”

Rosie’s too far to kick him, so she settles for glaring.

“Oh Lord, you remember that video game console you kids had?” Rodney says, chuckling.

“Oh, the Atari!” says Marcus. “I remember that. Eric hated that thing.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Foreman protests at once. “You just never let me play!”

“Because you got competitive!” laughs Marcus. “Remember that time you got so mad ‘cause I was better than you, you threatened to sell my video game collection?”

Chase laughs. “Seriously?” he asks, twisting around to look up at Foreman.

“I can confirm,” says Rodney, a twinkle in his eye. “That’s why your mother restricted you to video games on the weekends only.”

“A family tradition I am proud to uphold,” declares Rosie.

“Oh, please, as if you didn’t beg Mom to let you play with us whenever you came over—” begins Foreman.

“She was better than both of us, too,” Marcus tells Chase with a grin.

“Mama played video games?” Jonathan asks, eyes wide in disbelief.

“What, did you think I was born boring?” Rosie counters, grinning at the look on her son’s face.

“Yes,” Jonathan replies after a second, still looking stunned.

“You know what, how about a game right now, for old times’ sake?” suggests Marcus. “Eric and I’ll go first, and whoever wins can play Rosie.”

“What about Chase?” asks Jonathan, as Marcus begins setting up the Xbox.

“Oh, I don’t really like video games that much,” Chase says.

Jonathan looks like someone’s just told him the sky is green. “How come?” he asks incredulously. “What do you do when you’re bored, then?”

“I read,” Chase answers after a second.

“See? He reads,” says Grandma Hazel, as if proving a point. “People just don’t do that these days.”

“Do you read fun books?” Jonathan asks.

“Sometimes,” Chase replies. “Do you know Harry Potter?”

Jonathan shakes his head, looking intrigued.

“Well, ask your mum to get you a copy, see if you like it,” Chase tells him. “We’ll watch the movie together afterwards.”

“Okay!” says Jonathan happily, and turns to Rosie. “Mama, can I? Can I please?”

“What if you don’t like it?” Marcus asks before Rosie can answer.

“Chase says it’s fun so it must be,” Jonathan answers defensively. “Can I, Mama?”

“Of course,” Rosie says with an approving smile.

Marcus hands Foreman a controller just then, and they begin playing Tekken. Rodney switches with Rosie so that she can sit next to Marcus and Foreman, while he moves over to Beulah’s side so he can talk to her and Grandma Hazel, the three of them conversing in low voices. Jonathan watches his uncles play, while Chase leans back against Foreman’s legs and makes comments on the game here and there.

For the first time in his life Foreman kicks Marcus’s ass soundly, but only has a few minutes to feel triumphant before Rosie does the same to him. Jonathan is delighted by the fact that his mom is not as boring as he’d thought, while Chase pats Foreman’s knee and tells him there’s always next time. Foreman is about to answer, but then he hears his mother’s name and makes a shushing gesture.

“...the way she held knives, do you remember?” Beulah is saying.

Rodney nods. “I was always scared she’d hurt herself, but she never did,” he says. “Knew her way around knives, Alicia did.”

Chase looks up at Foreman, and then back towards Rodney. Foreman returns the look, resting one hand on Chase’s shoulder as he focuses on the conversation.

“She could easily do better than any of them fancy chefs at restaurants, my Alicia,” says Grandma Hazel. She looks proud. This time the expression is distinct on her face.

Foreman remembers this too, remembers the expert way his mother would cut up fruits and vegetables, the way she sliced into meat, the chop-chop-chop of her knife against the cutting board as she diced herbs. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table, watching the blade of her knife glint in the afternoon sun, marveling at the absolute control she had, the way she made it dance in her fingers and never got a single cut.

He realizes that it doesn’t matter how fancy his herb scissors are; when Grandma Hazel says his chopping technique needs work, she means it’s not like his mother’s. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever be on that level. He can’t be his mother, in more ways than one.

But maybe that doesn’t matter to Grandma Hazel either. Maybe she just misses her daughter and is looking for her everywhere. Foreman understands that. He’s searching for her too.

“Oh, you remember how she ripped into me for ruining her favorite knife?” says Beulah, with a nostalgic smile.

“She would get so annoyed when I said I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just use one knife for everything,” reminisces Rodney.

“I miss her,” says Grandma Hazel candidly. “Kitchen ain’t the same without her. And Beulah’s still ruining knives,” she adds.

Foreman swallows, forces himself to look away. He wants to join in the conversation, but is too afraid of breaking the spell. He wants to hear them talk about his mother until the day is over, but he’s afraid that it still won’t help him find her.

And he still can’t remember what song she used to sing.

He remembers the way his father would twirl her in the kitchen, he remembers how she would laugh when he dipped her, the flush on her cheeks. His father is not the most expressive of men, but to Alicia he had been devoted. This much Foreman remembers. He remembers them brushing their teeth side by side in the mornings, remembers the way they’d hold hands as they walked, how neither of them ever left for work without giving the other a kiss. They had been Foreman’s first model of what a relationship was supposed to look like, even though later on he’d tried his best to distance himself from that silly kind of romanticism. After all, love hadn’t saved Alicia or preserved her mind. Love hadn’t stopped Rodney from closing himself off, barricading himself behind prayer and church and religion. Foreman, his entire life, had thought he had no use for that kind of love, the kind that would make him lose himself at its loss.

But then he also remembers hearing that Chase got stabbed in the heart. He remembers seeing Chase’s blood all over the patient’s room, remembers standing in the observation room over the OR and watching as the surgeons tried to put Chase back together. He remembers throwing up later. Remembers having to be pulled from Chase’s side in the PACU by the hospital lawyers, because they needed to discuss their plan of action and it couldn’t wait till Chase woke up and Foreman saw that he was all right. They hadn’t even been together then, and Foreman still feels like vomiting at the memory.

(Chase cut his finger last week while trying to julienne a carrot, and it kept bleeding, and Foreman had panicked. He remembers that too. Just a little nick, nothing compared to a scalpel in the heart, and Foreman remembers being sick at the sight of Chase’s blood. It’s strange. He’s been inside people’s brains, touched their organs, their bones. He’s felt hearts beating under his fingers. A few drops of blood from a nicked finger should not be what undoes him.)

Chase shifts against his legs, and Foreman snaps out of his thoughts, returns to himself to find Marcus and Rosie playing another round of Tekken while Chase tells Jonathan all about his favorite books. He’s changed positions, leaning sideways against Foreman’s legs instead of backwards, and his cheek rests on Foreman’s knee as he explains Hogwarts to a rapt Jonathan.

Foreman leans back against the couch, runs his hand through Chase’s hair once, and listens to the sounds of his family around him. He wonders how he could ever have thought it would be easy, living without them all. He wonders if he’s been a fool all these years, if in his attempts to protect himself, all he’s done is lose himself.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to find his way back without his mother.

Wednesday morning, Foreman wakes up sweaty and overheated.

He’s alone in bed, which in itself is not a good sign because usually he’s the first to wake. He must’ve slept in, which combined with his high temperature means he’s most definitely sick.

He checks the time on his bedside clock and groans when he sees he’s only got half an hour to get ready for work. He’ll get breakfast on the way, he thinks, and then take some medicine, force himself to power through the morning and then maybe take a half-day. That thought flies out the window when he finally forces himself to sit up and is immediately hit with an overpowering wave of nausea.

“Chase!” he calls out, voice hoarse and painful. He can taste bile at the back of his throat.

Three seconds later Chase enters the bedroom, his expression shifting to concern when he takes in Foreman’s state. Foreman opens his mouth to say something, though he doesn’t get the chance — his stomach revolts, and before he can stop himself he’s throwing up over the side of the bed.

“Foreman!” Chase sounds alarmed. He rushes off into the en-suite bathroom, returning a few moments later with the dustbin. He shoves it under Foreman’s face with one hand, the other on his back, rubbing circles into his skin as Foreman’s stomach empties itself.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Foreman rasps out once he’s done.

“Don’t worry about it,” Chase says, putting the bin aside. “Wait, I’ll get you some water—”

He checks Foreman’s temperature as Foreman takes small sips of the water. “You’ve got a fever,” he tells him.

“Yeah, I feel like crap,” Foreman says, putting the glass back on the side table.

“I’ll make you a snack, and get you meds,” Chase tells him. “I’ll call your secretary too, tell him you’re not coming in today.”

“What about you?” Foreman asks. “Won’t you be late for work?”

“Oh.” Chase blinks. He’s still wearing his pajamas. “No, I’m not going in either.”

“Why not?” Foreman asks, and then coughs. He’s got an awful taste in his mouth that the water didn’t help much.

“If I go to work, who’ll look after you?” Chase asks rhetorically. He gets to his feet and holds his hand out. “C’mon, let’s get you into fresh clothes.”

He helps Foreman change into sweatpants and a thin t-shirt, and then helps him to the living-room. Foreman lies down on the couch, head on a cushion, and Chase turns on the TV for him, handing him the remote.

“Toast okay?” he asks.

Foreman nods. “Yeah,” he says, curling further into the blanket Chase has put over him.

He can hear Chase talk on the phone as he makes breakfast. He calls Foreman’s secretary first, and then he calls Taub, explaining that he’s not coming in and that Taub’s in charge for the time being. Then he’s back in the living-room, holding a plate of toast, and Foreman struggles into a sitting position so he can eat.

“Here,” Chase says, handing him pills. “These should help.”

Foreman accepts them, knocking them back with water. Then he lies down again, closing his eyes. “I think I’ll nap for a bit.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Chase. “You’ll feel better when you wake. You need anything, call me, okay?”

“Okay,” says Foreman.

He hears the sound of the TV turning off, and then a second later, feels Chase’s lips against his forehead. “I’ll be around,” Chase whispers, and then he’s gone.

Foreman dozes in and out. He’s not really aware of time passing, or of anything else. Once or twice he wakes up thinking he’s going to vomit again, but the toast stays down and he blessedly manages to go back to sleep. It’s difficult to get any rest, though — he overheats, kicks the blanket off, and begins feeling cold again. He puts the blanket on. Rinse and repeat.

A few times he feels Chase’s hand on his forehead, checking his temperature. He hears snatches of conversation here and there, and understands that Chase is probably dealing with his patient over the phone. He wants to feel guilty about it, about keeping Chase from work, but there’s a bigger part of him that’s glad that he’s not home alone like this.

Chase wakes him up for lunch, makes him have a bit of last night’s leftovers. He checks Foreman’s temperature again, and declares, “You’ve still got a fever, but it’s better than before. How are you feeling?”

Foreman thinks about it, and says, “All right, I guess? I still feel like crap but I no longer feel nauseous.”

“Good,” says Chase, and settles in the armchair with his own plate. “Looks like it’s the flu.”

“Ugh,” groans Foreman. “I think I must’ve caught it from a clinic patient.”

“You’ll be okay,” Chase tells him. “I mean, you’ve caught worse from patients, right?”

“Ugh,” says Foreman again, remembering the Naegleria.

Chase grins. “See? Not that bad,” he says brightly, putting his empty plate on the coffee table.

“What if it is?” asks Foreman mulishly. “What if it’s SARS and I am going to die?”

Chase raises an eyebrow. “Well, in that case, I sure hope you put me in your will,” he says evenly. “I’ve been wanting to trade my car in for a Ferrari, you know.”

Foreman laughs, a weak, raspy kind of sound. “Something wrong with your car?”

“Not luxurious enough,” says Chase, grinning.

“You drive a Range Rover,” Foreman points out.

Chase pretends to think. “You’re right,” he says. “Maybe I should go for a Rolls-Royce instead. A chauffeur too.”

“How do you know I’ll leave you that much money?” Foreman asks. “For all you know I could decide to give it all to Taub.”

“Then I’ll simply commit fraud,” says Chase. “I’ll have all your money wired to a Swiss bank account before your body’s even cold, and I’ll live out the rest of my days in luxury in the Bahamas.”

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought. Should I be concerned?”

“Well, I did poison your toast,” Chase says with a serious expression. “It’s all part of my grand scheme to take your money.”

Foreman laughs again. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get better. You know, to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Chase smiles. “Yeah,” he says.

“Or,” says Foreman a second later. “Maybe the real scheme all along was you trying to trick me into getting better instead of dying on the couch.”

That makes Chase laugh. “Guess you’ve caught me out."

Foreman ends up falling asleep again, some time after lunch. He’s only vaguely aware of the TV running in the background, volume low, and the occasional rustle of Chase’s movements. His skin still feels too hot for his body, and his eyes feel like they’re burning even when he closes them. There’s a vague throbbing in his head that he’s really hoping doesn’t develop into a migraine.

He can hear music but he can’t make out the words; Chase is cutting something in the kitchen, the chop-chop in time with the drumbeat in the inaudible song; Foreman is trying to read his mother’s recipe book but the words all run together and jumble up and he realizes he can’t understand what they say; Rodney is saying it’s too little, too late, and Foreman is never going to be a part of the family again; and Foreman tries to say he’s sorry, he never meant to distance himself this much, he was only trying to protect himself, but Rodney is not listening and then Chase’s knife comes down on his hand and he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding so much and Foreman is panicking because that much of Chase’s blood means he’s got a knife in his heart, and the music is rising in volume, crescendoing—

“Foreman— Eric! Wake up!”

He comes to with a jolt and a gasp. The living-room is dark, he’s covered in sweat, and Chase’s face floats above him, pale with worry.

“What—” he begins, and then immediately claps his hand over his mouth. He’s got that acidic taste to his spit that means he’s about to throw up any second now.

Chase stands and leaves. Foreman wants to call out to him, ask him to come back, but he’s too afraid of vomiting again and ruining the couch like he did the bedroom. But then Chase is back, and he’s holding a bin under Foreman’s face, and Foreman retches into it, stomach heaving violently, throat working as he spits up the remains of his lunch followed by bile and watery fluid.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Chase is saying, kneeling on the ground next to the sofa, and his free hand is on Foreman’s back, rubbing, his touch soothing—

Foreman coughs, and then falls back against the couch, eyes watering. Chase puts the bin aside and hands him a glass of water, holding it up to his lips himself when Foreman’s hands shake too much to hold it without spilling. Foreman sips, feeling the cool liquid hit his throat, soothe the rawness to it, and then he looks at Chase and he says, “I’m so sorry—”

And Chase shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no, it’s okay, you’re not well, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for—”

“I made a mess in the bedroom—”

“I cleaned it up, don’t worry, Eric, it’s okay—”

“You cleaned it up?” Foreman repeats.

Chase nods.

“My vomit?”

“Yeah,” says Chase, frowning. “What are you— oh. Oh no, don’t, please don’t—” He reaches up, his hand shaking a little as he wipes at the tear that falls down Foreman’s face.

Foreman takes a deep breath. He doesn’t understand why this is affecting him so much, and like this — the simple gesture of Chase cleaning up after him, looking after him, it’s overwhelming, it’s more than he knows how to handle—

He exhales. It comes out shaky, and he wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what, and Chase is looking at him with that open, soft expression, and so instead Foreman reaches out with a trembling hand and touches Chase’s face. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for,” Chase replies, leaning into the touch. “C’mon, let’s get a bit more water into you, and then you can rest some more, okay?”

“Okay,” says Foreman. He drinks the water Chase brings him, and then he turns on his side, curling into the blanket, because he feels cold now, and he can’t sleep like this.

Chase stands again. Foreman only has a second to wonder what he’s doing, and in the next moment he feels a soft weight on him, and opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to see Chase draping a brightly colored patchwork quilt over him.

“Better?” he asks, sitting down on the ground again.

“Your grandma’s quilt,” Foreman says, feeling it beginning to warm him already. “Chase—”

“Keep it,” Chase tells him with a small smile. “It’s nice and warm, and you need it more than I do right now.”

Foreman tries to smile back. He must succeed, going by the soft look in Chase’s eyes.

“How do you feel?” Chase asks.

“Okay,” Foreman replies. “I just had a bad dream.”

“Want to talk about it?” Chase asks sympathetically.

Foreman shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I think I’ll go back to sleep, though.”

“You do that.” Chase makes to stand, but Foreman’s hand shoots out from under the blankets, catching Chase by the wrist.

“Can you stay?” he asks quietly. “Just — for a while?”

“Of course,” Chase says at once, and sits back down on the ground. He’s leaning sideways against the couch, facing Foreman. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“No,” says Foreman, finding himself unable to take his eyes off Chase. “No, I don’t want anything else.”

“Okay,” says Chase. “TV?”

“No.” Foreman closes his eyes. “I’m good, Chase.”

A few seconds later, he feels Chase’s hand on his forehead, gently wiping off the sweat, and then it settles somewhere by his chest, over the blankets. Foreman wraps one hand around Chase’s, squeezing his fingers, and smiles when he feels Chase squeeze back.

He can’t remember the last time he was sick like this and had someone else take care of him. He’s not counting the Naegleria infection, because he’d had his dad then, and by the time he’d been discharged he was well enough to handle being home alone. Foreman doesn’t get sick, usually, and certainly never this much, and he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to go through it alone. He knows he’s capable of it, but it feels good that he can just lie here, close his eyes, and let himself be taken care of. He can’t remember the last time someone had done that for him, except for his mother when he’d been much younger. Rodney in the hospital had been supportive enough, but his father’s not a very touchy-feely person and he had been content to sit in the chair by Foreman’s bed, talking to him but keeping a polite distance.

Chase’s hand is warm in his, just slightly smaller than his own, callused in places that Foreman memorized a long time ago without even realizing it. His presence next to Foreman is assuring, solid proof that he’s not alone, that he’s got someone who’s willing to be with him on his worst days, take care of him and make sure he’s all right. He remembers he’d wanted to be that for Thirteen, the way his father had been that for his mother — but this, now, feels good too. He’s tired of being strong, he thinks.

It takes him a moment to realize that Chase is singing, his voice is so soft. It’s a little hoarse too, probably from being unused for most of the day, but it sounds wonderful to Foreman’s ears, and he smiles again without opening his eyes.

When the night has come, and the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we’ll see
No I won’t be afraid, oh I won’t be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

It sounds vaguely familiar. Foreman thinks he must’ve heard it in passing somewhere, maybe in a TV show or a movie, or playing in one of the restaurants he and Chase like to go to.

Darlin’, darlin’, stand by me, oh stand by me
Oh stand, stand by me
Stand by me

Chase’s voice is a bit stronger now, the words coming out more confidently, and Foreman exhales slowly, fingers tightening a little around Chase’s hand. He wishes he got to hear this more, this side of Chase that sang sweet and slow instead of belting out Don’t Stop Believing while showering at unholy hours of the morning. He should probably tell him that, he thinks. Maybe when he’s better, if he remembers.

He’s drifting off now, and even though he’s still sick, he no longer feels like crap. Chase’s blanket is a warm weight over him, Chase’s hand is soft in his, and Chase’s voice washes over him in waves of comfort—

Whenever you’re in trouble won’t you stand by me?
Oh, stand by me

The realization is not sudden when it clicks. It feels like remembering a word that’s been dancing on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. Like something he’s known all along, only he hadn’t known that he’d known it.

“That’s the song,” he whispers, voice heavy with sleep.

“What?” Chase asks, interrupting himself.

“The song,” Foreman repeats, thinking of sunny kitchens and the smell of garlic in the air, and old songs on the radio. “That’s the song.”

“What do you mean?” asks Chase, sounding a little confused, but by then Foreman has already dozed off, his eyes heavy and chest light.

He remembers.

The fourth anniversary of Alicia Foreman’s death is more or less unremarkable.

It’s a Tuesday. Foreman wakes up at 6 AM, goes for a run, comes back and puts the coffee on. He wakes Chase, who groans into his pillow and mumbles something about five more minutes. Five minutes later, Foreman pulls the covers off him and all but pushes him into the bathroom. Chase showers, then Foreman takes his turn. They have breakfast. Foreman skims through the newspaper while Chase pushes his Alpha Bits around his bowl in an attempt to make up cuss words. He manages “fuc” and gives up when he can’t find a K. Foreman rolls his eyes at him, finishes his coffee, and then gets up to put his mug in the sink. Chase finishes his cereal, puts the dirty plates and mugs in the dishwasher, and then they put on their coats and head down to Foreman’s car.

They debate over what music to play. They reach work before they reach a decision. Chase promises to see Foreman for lunch and then heads up to Diagnostics. Foreman goes to his office, starts up his computer, and sinks back in his chair. His secretary tells him he’s got a meeting with the hospital lawyers because they’re being sued by a patient. Three students have gotten everyone to sign a petition about the donuts in the cafeteria and want to bring it to his attention. Around eight people have sent over files and asked him to take a look, because they want consults from Chase.

Foreman talks to the lawyers, listens to the students and lies through his teeth that he’ll look into the donut issue, and goes through the eight files. Six of them are simple misdiagnoses made by idiot doctors; he corrects them, and faxes them back. Two look like promising cases; those he sets aside for Chase to look at later.

Taub pops in, asks if Foreman has plans Friday night. “Depends what you want me to do,” Foreman says. “Because I’m not in the mood to go clubbing.”

“I’m not asking you to hang out,” Taub says. “I’m asking you to babysit.”

“Babysit?” Foreman raises an eyebrow. “Got a date? A third woman to knock up?”

“Ha, ha,” says Taub flatly. “Can you take the girls or not?”

“Both of them?”

“No, I was thinking one and then two-thirds of the other — yes, Foreman, both of them.”

“I’ll let you know,” Foreman replies after a second.

“Cool, I’ll drop them off by seven,” says Taub.

“I didn’t say yes!”

“No, but Chase did,” Taub tells him with a smirk.

“Then why’d you ask me?”

“Thought it’d be funny to see you backpedal,” grins Taub. “Thanks again, see you on Friday!”

And he’s out before Foreman can threaten to stick him in the clinic for a month.

Chase joins Foreman for lunch. He says he’s not hungry and orders a salad, but then eats Foreman’s fries anyway. Foreman gives him the two files; Chase goes over them and says one looks like multiple sclerosis, has that been ruled out? Foreman says no, but he’ll look into it. The second file makes no sense, which intrigues Chase, so he takes that case on.

Foreman goes back to his office after lunch, and decides to call his dad. They make small talk for a few minutes. Rodney asks about Foreman’s job, about Chase, and whether or not they’ve reached a decision on if they should adopt a cat. Foreman says that he understands Chase’s grief over his previous cat dying, but he’s personally not a fan of fur everywhere. Rodney suggests a Sphynx cat. Foreman barely resists the urge to tell his father that if he wanted to look at wrinkly bags of skin, he’d go into the clinic and look at some ballsacks.

They don’t talk about Alicia. They dance around the subject plenty, but neither of them mentions her. Foreman tries not to feel bad for feeling relieved. He knows his dad misses her a lot, but he’s not sure how he’d be able to comfort his father over the phone. Hell, he’s got no idea how he’d do it in person. They’re not huggers, either of them.

He texts Marcus. He’d call, but every year Marcus says something along the lines of “I wish you’d have spoken at the funeral” and every year Foreman says “It’s no one’s business and maybe I just want to keep some things private, okay.” Sometimes Marcus understands, and doesn’t push. Sometimes it gets ugly, devolves into shouting and accusations and Marcus saying “You just don’t want people to know you were ever anything less than perfect!” and Foreman telling him to fuck off and not talk about things he doesn’t have a clue about. This year, Marcus texts him back half an hour later and asks him if he’s got plans for Christmas. Foreman says he’s not sure but he’ll let him know. It’s a lie; Chase has no family, and neither of them are big on office Christmas parties. But he’s still not sure if he wants to spend holidays with his family, and he ignores the small voice in his head that says it would be nice.

Beulah calls in the afternoon. She cries a little, which makes Foreman uncomfortable. Rosie and Jonathan aren’t home, but Grandma Hazel talks to him. Thankfully she doesn’t mention Alicia at all, just tells Foreman to look after himself and eat well, and to look after Chase too because she thinks he’s too skinny. Foreman grits his teeth, tells his grandmother thanks, he will, and promises to seriously consider Christmas. He hangs up, texts Chase: turning my phone off for a bit, page me or come by if you need anything and then does just that.

He’s got about an hour before he needs to head home, and he’s done with his meetings and obligations for the day. He pulls the blinds down and tells his secretary not to let anyone in unless it’s Chase or someone’s dying, and then he sits down on the sofa by the window and takes a few deep breaths.

His heart feels heavy. It’s been like this the entire day, but now there’s nothing to distract himself with. The previous years, he’d had patients, he’d had cases, or something else to occupy his time with. This year, it’s not working. He supposes it’s because he’s become closer to his family, which means his mother is on his mind more than she used to be. He wonders what he would be doing, if this year was like any other year and he’d never gone home. There wouldn’t have been phone calls from his family and crying on the phone, but then he also wouldn’t have had tapes of his mother, her recipe book, the memory of her favorite song.

He vividly remembers the day he’d gotten the call. Friday night. He’d just gotten off work, had been pulling out of the hospital parking lot when his dad called. He’d considered not picking up, considered ignoring it and then later lying and saying he was busy, but then his dad texted Please pick up Eric it’s your mother and Foreman had been breathless, suddenly. He’d pulled over, called his dad, and gone completely still when his dad said, without any greeting, just like that, “She’s gone.”

“When?” he’d asked when he’d been able to form words.

“A few minutes ago,” said Rodney. His voice was slow, measured; he might as well have been talking about the weather. Foreman had hated him a little for it. His wife of four decades had passed — didn’t he care? Didn’t he feel anything?

“What—” Foreman had begun, but his dad had cut him off.

“Funeral is this Sunday,” he’d said. He hadn’t asked him to come. He didn’t ask anything of him. It had stung, thinking his father thought him cold enough to ditch his mother’s funeral.

“Okay,” Foreman had said in the end. He hadn’t known what else to say.

His father hung up without anything further.

Foreman remembers that he got home, but he doesn’t remember the drive. He doesn’t remember much of that night, other than sitting on the couch and trying to figure out what he was feeling. It didn’t feel like he’d lost his mother. The fresh grief he’d been expecting just wasn’t there. He supposed it was probably because to him, she’d been lost a long time ago, when she no longer remembered who he was. He supposed this was probably a good thing, a mercy — she was no longer suffering.

He’d wondered if he should call someone. Just to tell them. He felt like someone should know, someone should care that Alicia Foreman was gone. Someone other than her immediate family. But then he remembered none of his colleagues had even met her. No one even knew her, except Chase because Chase knew his dad, too. He’d never met Alicia, but he would have cared.

And then he’d figured, Chase probably had enough on his mind, what with his divorce and all, and he needed all the support he could get, and it didn’t really feel fair to put this on him. He was already miserable, mourning his relationship, and Foreman hadn’t felt right asking him to deal with this too, not when Foreman was the one he was relying on as a support system (such that it was). He needed Foreman to be strong, to support and reassure him, not the other way round. And Thirteen… they’d just broken up. Foreman wasn’t sure she’d care, and even if she did, he didn’t feel right asking for emotional support after the way they’d separated.

So Foreman had kept quiet. He’d sat on his couch the entire night, and tried to convince himself that at least his mother was no longer suffering, and that was a good thing. He tried very hard not to think about what Alzheimer’s did to brains, and all the complicated ways it could make the body shut down. He tried to feel like a person, like a son, and not a neurologist.

In the morning, he got in his car and he made the drive to New York. He stayed at a hotel instead of his childhood home, because he didn’t have it in him to see the place where he grew up and the huge absence in it. He gave his father a perfunctory hug, accepted cheek kisses and embraces from strangers and relatives he hadn’t spoken to in years, and he was silent at the funeral. Open casket. He’d wondered if she would look like she’d been sleeping, but she didn’t. She just looked empty. Speeches were made, tears were shed. Foreman sat still in the front row, next to the empty chair meant for Marcus who couldn’t come, and his eyes remained dry.

He stayed long enough at the wake to make sure people saw he was there — if only for the sake of his mother’s memory, because he didn’t want all the nosy neighbors talking about how none of Alicia’s sons had been at her funeral, how Rodney had been alone — and then he gave his father another cold hug, and said his goodbyes. That had been the last time he’d been home, until he’d had the idea to introduce Chase to his family.

Today feels a lot like that day. Foreman has no sense of time passing, not until his secretary knocks at the door to his office to tell him he’s leaving for the day. “Oh, and Dr. Chase asked me to tell you he’ll be home later,” his secretary adds. “He’s in surgery.”

“Okay,” says Foreman. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

He doesn’t remember the drive home, much like that day. His brain feels like it’s on autopilot. But then he gets home, and her recipe book is on the counter, and everything comes rushing back, and before he can really think about it he’s heading over, flipping it open, running his fingers reverently across her cursive.

She touched this, she wrote in it. Proof that she existed, that she was alive, that she knew so much before it was all robbed from her.

Foreman swallows, blinking away the moisture in his eyes, and turns pages until he finds what he’s looking for.

Next: the ingredients.

He’s had them in the cupboards for a while, waiting for when he felt ready to use them. First, peaches. He’d bought them fresh when it had been the season for them, and he’d frozen them for later. Better than canned peaches by far. It would’ve been easier to cut them up beforehand, but he’s glad he didn’t. He doesn’t want to miss any part of this experience.

They’re defrosted; he’d popped them in the fridge last night in anticipation for today. He peels, cores, and slices them, holding his knife the way he remembers his mother doing, the way he’s seen his aunt do it. The juice stains his fingers, runs down his wrists when he lifts his hands. He licks his fingers clean, closing his eyes for a moment against the taste of his childhood, and then he washes his hands and gets back to work.

Peaches, sugar, salt, all in a saucepan. Medium heat, like the recipe instructs. He stirs until the sugar dissolves, and the scent of peaches is strong and syrupy in the air. Then he turns the heat off.

Preheat oven to 350 F, says his mother’s handwriting. He listens, obeys. Their oven is so rarely used that it takes him a few minutes to figure it out, but he gets there in the end. He finds a baking dish, puts sliced butter on top of it and puts it in the oven to melt. Oven mitts on a small hook on the wall above the counter; he puts them on, takes the dish out once the butter’s melted, puts it aside.

Big bowl in one of the cabinets; he places it on the counter, sifts flour into it, sugar, salt, baking powder. The movements come to him more naturally now, as opposed to before when he’d have to read and reread the recipe just to figure out what to do. He pours in milk, stirs, pours the mixture over the melted butter in the dish, smooths it all over.

Peaches over the mixture, some cinnamon. He takes a moment to inhale, take it in, smelling his childhood, hearing his mother’s warm voice, feeling phantom sunshine on his skin. The oven beeps to tell him it’s one preheating; he puts in the dish, sets the timer, and then makes his way to the living-room, collapsing on the couch like his strings have been cut.

The scent of baking peach cobbler fills the air, fills his lungs. Home, home, home, sunny weekend afternoons, soft voices singing Ben E. King, his mother, oh, his beautiful mother, her mind sharp and fingers steady, her voice honeyed and so full of love. He misses her, he misses her so much.

Click, the sound of a key turning in a lock, and then Chase calls out, “I’m home!” He finds Foreman on the couch and joins him, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder. “Peach cobbler?” he asks after a deep inhale.

“Yeah,” says Foreman. “Used to be my mom’s favorite.” Then, because he doesn’t feel ready just yet to even contemplate this conversation, “How’s your day been?”

“Okay,” Chase replies. “Patient’s stable.”

“Any idea what it might be?”

“Not sure yet. Definitely some kinda genetic disease though.” A pause. “We’re babysitting for Taub on Friday.”

“I heard,” Foreman replies with a snort.

“What about you?” Chase asks. “What did you do all day?”

Foreman tells him about the lawyers and the students, tells him about talking to his family. He leaves out Rodney’s suggestion of adopting a Sphynx cat, because he knows Chase will remember it and bring it up when Foreman can’t say no, and then they’ll end up with a scrotum-looking cat.

Chase listens to him quietly, his presence warm and steady next to Foreman, and then he says softly, “I think the cobbler is done.”

Sure enough, the oven is beeping. Foreman gets to his feet, and says, “Okay, let’s have dinner, then.”

Chase sets the table while Foreman heats up last night’s leftovers. He only had the energy to cook one thing today, and he’s glad he chose to make his mother’s favorite dessert instead of something else. They eat in near silence, both of them too tired to really talk much, and when they’re done Chase begins clearing the table while Foreman takes out ice-cream from the freezer to serve with the cobbler.

It tastes like he remembers. He doesn’t know if it really is as good as Alicia used to make, or if it’s his nostalgia romanticizing things, but either way, it’s got him closing his eyes, savoring every bite, letting it fill him up. It tastes like summer and coming home, the celebration dinner when he got into college, when he got into med school, when he graduated as Dr. Eric Foreman. And for a moment, he’s back in that kitchen, eighteen years old, finally daring to hope for a future.

He opens his eyes, finds Chase watching him with a melancholy sort of smile on his face. “It’s lovely,” he says quietly, and gestures towards the cobbler.

“Thank you,” Foreman manages to say. “I wish you’d had the chance to have her original version of it.”

“Me too,” says Chase, “but I’m really glad I get to have this one too.”

Foreman takes a deep breath, puts his fork down, and goes round the table to where Chase is sitting. He waits until Chase has put his fork down too, and then he leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet, tasting peaches and vanilla. “So am I,” he whispers when they part, and it feels like a confession he doesn’t have words for.

They go to bed soon after they’re done cleaning up. Foreman is too exhausted to watch TV or play video games or any of the other things he does to unwind at the end of the day. In any case, his head feels too full right now, with no space for anything else. So he lies down in the dark, facing Chase, and he absently plays with Chase’s fingers, and he talks. He just talks.

“My mom — this was her favorite dessert. She’d make it whenever she wanted to celebrate something, or… or just because.” He tells Chase about the celebration dinners, about the last one being when he’d graduated med school. “I’d already stopped going home by then,” he confesses. “She’d begun forgetting and it was getting difficult, and I told myself I was too busy when really, it’s just that I couldn’t see her lose her memories like that.” He takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I regret it.”

“She knew you loved her,” Chase says quietly.

“Did she?” wonders Foreman. “I never told her enough. I never—” He pauses, tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I didn’t visit enough, I didn’t talk to her enough, I just… I wasn’t there for her, Chase. My dad told me she’d asked about me before she — before she died. And I wasn’t there. Last time I’d seen her was when she came here to visit, you remember? Fuck. Fuck.” His voice is shaking now. It feels like he’s finally processing the fact that she’s gone, she’s gone and she’s not coming back, and nothing he does now will change the past.

“Eric,” says Chase, and then stops.

“It’s too little, too late now,” Foreman says, voice thick. He’s crying in the dark, tears slipping down his face onto the pillow below. “What does it matter now that I’m trying to learn how she cooked, or looking at old tapes of her? She’s gone, Chase, she’s not coming back! And yeah, maybe she didn’t remember who I was, maybe she wouldn’t have remembered me telling her I love her but — but I should still have been there. The woman who raised me, and I couldn’t even be with her in her last years? What kind of person does that make me?”

Chase gently untangles his fingers from Foreman’s so he can reach out and put his hand on Foreman’s chest, over his heart. “You’re trying,” he says. “You made her proud, Eric, I know you did. And — and you’re trying to do right by your dad now, by your family, and that means something. That matters.”

“I’m scared they’ll hate me,” Foreman confesses. “That I went too far, and now they’re not going to take me back.”

“They already did,” Chase points out, tightening his fingers in the material of Foreman’s shirt. “They already did, look, they visited, and they asked us over for Christmas, and they gave you your mum’s book, and they keep calling, and — you’re their family, they love you, I don’t think they ever stopped.”

“Yeah?” whispers Foreman, desperate for reassurance.

“Yeah,” confirms Chase. “Trust me, I know what it’s like not to be part of your own family. This is not like that at all.”

Foreman puts his hand over Chase’s, squeezes. “I’ll take your word for it,” he says.

“Good,” says Chase emphatically.

They lie in the dark, and then suddenly it’s too much, because his hands smell like cobbler, and his mother’s absence suddenly seems too big, too overwhelming, and it feels like all the years of her being out of his reach are finally catching up with him. “I miss her,” he chokes out, and sucks in a breath. “I miss her so much—”

“I know,” whispers Chase, and he moves forward so he can put his arms around Foreman. “I know, I know—”

Foreman buries his face in the soft skin of Chase’s neck, and tries to breathe. “She’s gone, Chase, fuck—”

“No,” Chase contradicts, hand running up and down Foreman’s arm, “no she’s not, ‘cause you remember her, and you’re sharing her with your family, and — and with me, and that means she’s not entirely gone. I know you don’t really believe in heaven, but — she’s not gone as long as you remember her, okay? Do you think you could believe in that?”

“Yeah,” Foreman says after a few moments. “Yeah, I think — I think so.” He inhales again, the faint scent of Chase’s honey and shea butter soap, and he feels his body relax and his heart slow just a little bit. “Yeah,” he says again, and closes his eyes.

“She’s not gonna leave you as long as you believe in that,” Chase whispers.

“Yeah,” breathes Foreman, and pulls Chase closer to himself. “I believe in that.”

Foreman wakes up before Chase the next morning, his throat feeling gummed up and thick. He untangles an arm from the covers so he can rub at his eyes, and then yawns and stretches in place. Chase is still fast asleep, curled under the covers with the top of his head sticking out, his hair messy. Foreman smiles at the sight, leaning in to kiss Chase’s forehead before he gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom.

Chase joins him for breakfast, still in his pajamas and sporting some truly extraordinary bedhead, in sharp contrast to Foreman who’s already showered and dressed for work. “Coffee,” he mumbles, and Foreman grins as he sets it down in front of him in his favorite ugly green mug.

They don’t talk about the previous night. Foreman knows that if he needs to, Chase will listen. But his chest feels lighter than it has in months, and he supposes the crying finally did him some good, and it’s — it’s okay. Things seem better now, in the pale morning after a difficult night.

So instead he packs lunch while Chase showers and dresses, and he lets Chase pick the music on their drive to work, and he kisses him in the lobby without giving a damn that people can see. Neither of them are big on PDA, but Foreman feels affectionate today, and he doesn’t really care what anyone else has to say about that. All he cares about is the flush of Chase’s cheeks and the pleased look on his face, and the way he smiles when he says, “I’ll see you later.”

He feels better.

There’s another meeting with the lawyers to discuss the case. The students are back demanding to know why he hasn’t done something about the cafeteria donuts already. Chase barges into his office at around eleven and they spend half an hour arguing over whether or not the patient really qualifies for some experimental treatment that Chase has heard they’re trying in Ukraine or wherever. He checks in with Nurse Regina and then the pharmacy to make sure everything is running smoothly. He has lunch with Chase, and a quick go in one of the supply closets after that. They reach an agreement over the patient. Taub makes jokes about sexual favors that Foreman threatens to report him to HR for.

It’s normal. Comforting, even, to know that the world is going on spinning no matter what.

He takes Chase out for dinner after work. They watch a movie and make out in the back of the theater like teenagers. Foreman finishes what Chase started once they’re home, fucks Chase through the mattress until the bed is creaking ominously and Chase’s lip is bleeding from how hard he’s trying to be quiet and there are scratches all over Foreman’s back and arms from Chase’s fingernails. They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, sweaty and sated, and just before Chase drifts off he murmurs a sleepy “I love you” and Foreman thinks he wants this forever.

Beulah calls to say hello on Friday night. Foreman has gone out to pick up dinner, while Chase stays home with Taub’s girls. He’s in his element with them, never awkward, never uncertain — he’d been on the floor with them when Foreman left, all three of them lying on their bellies and giggling over the animal noises Chase was making.

Foreman is halfway to the restaurant when his aunt calls. He waits a second for the age-old hesitation to answer, and is pleasantly surprised when that doesn’t happen. “Hi, Auntie,” he greets when he picks up.

“Hello, dear,” she says. “Just calling to say hi. You doing well?”

“Yeah, Auntie.”

“And Chase?”

“He’s good too. We’re babysitting a friend’s daughters tonight.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. How old are they?”

Foreman is quiet for a few moments as he tries to calculate how long it's been since the clusterfuck with Rachel and Ruby.

“You’re not sure, are you?” guesses Beulah shrewdly.

“They mostly crawl, and have a couple of teeth,” Foreman says sheepishly. “That’s about all I can tell.”

Beulah laughs. “Well, that’s something, at least.” There’s a pause, and then, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Eric, but… you ever planning on having your own?”

“Oh.” He can’t say he’s surprised by the question; in fact, he’s surprised no one’s asked sooner. It’s the first thing any of the aunties think of whenever they hear of anyone in a long-term relationship. “Well, Chase says he’d like a kid at some point.”

“And you?” prods Beulah.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I think… if he wanted one, I’d be okay with that. If it’s with him.”

There is a short silence on the other end. Then Beulah says, “It looks like you’ve thought about your future with him.”

Foreman isn’t sure what to say. “I mean, I haven’t… I don’t know, asked him to marry me or anything.”

“Do you love him?” Beulah asks.

That’s unexpected. Foreman blinks, and then asks, “What do you mean?” He’s literally just told her he’s open to having kids with Chase. If that’s not love, he’s not sure what is.

Or maybe he’s not sure either way, he thinks suddenly. After all, he’d been damn sure he’d loved Thirteen, and that was why he’d risked his career for her with the drug trials. And yet they’d broken up — miserably — and took forever to come round to being friends again. He hasn’t spoken to her in months either way; she’s barely a part of his life.

He’s afraid of that being him and Chase, too.

“Auntie?” he says when Beulah still hasn’t spoken.

“I’m here, dear,” she says. “Just waiting for you.”

“Oh.” An idea occurs to him. “Auntie — what does it mean, when you love someone?”

Beulah hums thoughtfully. “It’s the little things,” she says finally. “Grand gestures are easy, you know? And you don’t have to do them that often. But the little things… that’s how you know someone really loves you. Like — like when you see their favorite snack at the grocery store and you buy it for them ‘cause it makes them happy, or when they let you have the last slice of pizza. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I think it does,” Foreman tells her, thinking on her words. “Thanks, Auntie,” he adds before he forgets.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she says with a little chuckle. “Would you like to talk to your Grandma Hazel?”

“Sure,” says Foreman after a moment. He takes the turn into the restaurant's parking lot and begins cruising for a parking spot.

“Eric,” says his grandmother.

“Oh, hi Grandma. How are you?”

“Arthritic,” she answers, making Foreman laugh a little. “It’s the weather, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says. “‘S getting colder.”

“I heard your conversation with Beulah, you know. She had you on speaker.”

Foreman suppresses a groan. “Come on, Auntie, really?”

“I’m cooking, dear,” comes Beulah’s voice, sounding far away. “Needed both my hands.”

“Could’ve let me know,” he grumbles. Last thing he needed was for his entire family to overhear his little emotional crisis. He just hopes Marcus isn’t there, or he’ll never live it down.

“Ah, but then we wouldn’t get to be a part of this adorable conversation,” comes Marcus’s voice, and Foreman resists the urge to hang up and slam his head into the steering wheel.

“This is awful,” he mutters.

“Oh please, you know Mom would’ve told everyone anyway,” says Rosie over the line.

“You’re here too? Fuck’s sake!”

“Language!” says Grandma Hazel reproachfully. Foreman can hear Marcus laughing in the background, and resolves to kick him in the nuts the next time he sees him.

“Sorry, Grandma,” he says dutifully, rolling his eyes.

“Anyway,” says Grandma Hazel as Foreman finally locates a reversing car and goes to stand nearby, indicating for the parking spot, “Love, you say?”

Foreman makes a noncommittal sound.

“Love is sacrifice, son,” she tells him. “The big things and the small ones. Like when I used to eat your grandpa’s homemade jam even though it was the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

“Didn’t you eat a raw slug on a dare once?” Marcus asks with interest.

“I did, and that’s how you know I mean what I say,” says Grandma Hazel.

“Raw slug?” Jonathan sounds intrigued. If Foreman had known the entire family was out there listening to him discussing his private life, he would have never picked up the call. Hell, even now he’s got half a mind to hang up and block his aunt’s number, but he knows he’d never hear the end of it. Besides, they'd probably call him back with someone else's phone.

“I’ll tell you later,” he hears Rosie promising.

“So the jam, is that considered a big sacrifice or a small one?” he asks.

Grandma Hazel snorts. “Both,” she says. “But you know what I mean.”

Foreman thinks of the fact that he hasn’t had strawberries since he began dating Chase, even though he really likes them. “Yeah,” he says.

“I think it’s when you know you’ve got their back and they’ve got yours,” says Rosie. She sounds a little sad, and Foreman knows she’s thinking of her ex. “When you watch out for each other no matter what.”

“Friends do that too,” Marcus points out.

“Yeah, but I mean, more than what you’d do for someone you just considered a friend,” Rosie clarifies. “You get me, though, right, Eric?”

“Yeah,” he says thoughtfully. The car in front of him manages to extricate itself from the narrow space, and Foreman reverses his BMW into the spot with ease. He keeps his phone to his ear with one hand, using the other to turn the car off and exit.

“Well, I think it’s when you feel sad ‘cause they’re sad,” declares Jonathan. “But then you’re happy when they’re happy and everything feels nice.”

There is a short pause, and then Rosie says, “He’s got a crush on someone in his class.”

“Aw, isn’t that adorable,” teases Marcus.

“Uncle Marcus!” whines Jonathan.

“What! I just said it’s cute—”

“Leave him alone,” Foreman says, grinning as he walks across the parking lot. “Besides, he’s got more game than you, Marcus.”

“I’ll have you know that I could get any woman I wanted,” Marcus informs them all loftily.

“Sure,” says Rosie. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you give Eric advice too, since you got a lot to say?” says Beulah.

“Yeah, it’s a free for all, huh,” mutters Foreman, but no one pays him any mind.

Marcus hums thoughtfully, and then says, “I guess it’s when they make the stupid shit feel important. Like — when laundry seems fun just ‘cause you’re doing it with them. Stuff like that.”

“Laundry is never fun,” Jonathan says.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a kid, and also single,” Marcus informs him.

“At least I like someone!” Jonathan counters. “You just make eyes at the nice lady at the coffee shop but you never ask her out—”

“That’s enough,” comes Rodney’s voice before they can begin squabbling. Sometimes it’s like there’s no age difference at all between Marcus and Jonathan. “Marcus, stop arguing with the child, and give me the phone.”

“Dad—” begins Marcus petulantly.

“Now, son,” says Rodney, but he sounds like he’s grinning.

There is silence on the other end of the line, so Foreman takes the opportunity to tell the girl at the counter his order. She nods at him and gestures to the waiting area at the side, while he fishes for his wallet with his free hand.

Then his dad says, “Eric, you there?”

“Yeah, Dad. I’m not on speaker, am I?”

“No,” says Rodney with a deep chuckle. “I brought the phone out in the yard. It’s just you and me.”

“Good,” sighs Foreman. “I didn’t know Auntie Beulah was going to do that.”

“Rosie did have a point, you know, she’d have told everyone anyway,” says Rodney. He sounds amused.

Foreman sighs again. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “It’s like she’s never heard of privacy. Thank God she’s not a doctor, she’d be broadcasting her patients’ details all over her network of aunties.”

His father laughs, before abruptly going quiet again. “Eric… you’re serious, aren’t you?”

The girl at the counter hands Foreman his bag of takeout, and then takes his proffered credit card. “About?” Foreman asks, entering his PIN in the machine with his free hand, his phone held between his ear and shoulder.

“About Chase,” his father clarifies.

“Oh.” Foreman accepts his credit card back and puts it in his wallet. “Yeah,” he says, pocketing it, grabbing his bag, and heading outside once more. “Yeah, Dad.”

Rodney is silent for so long that Foreman starts to feel apprehensive. Is this going to be a problem? He hopes not. He’d thought they’re past this.

Then Rodney says, “I used to worry about you, you know. That you’d… that you’d be alone.”

“Dad?” Foreman is so surprised by the admission he stops walking, right there in the parking lot.

“Don’t get me wrong, Eric,” his father says quietly. “But you’ve always been so busy with your work, and I know it must’ve gotten lonely. That old boss of yours, I know he wasn’t a fan of relationships of any kind in the workplace. I know the kind of environment he made at your job made it difficult, too.”

“Marcus tell you that?” Foreman asks, resuming walking.

“Yes,” says Rodney. “But I met him too, remember? Bitter and lonely men always want others around them to be like that too. I thought you had a good thing going with that lady, too, Dr. Hadley I mean. I’d been sad that didn’t last.”

“I think,” Foreman says slowly, “that we were too similar in the end.”

“Perhaps,” acknowledges Rodney. “Either way, it just made me worry more. You need good people around you, Eric. You need family. No one should have to be alone for so long.”

“I’m not, though,” Foreman reminds him. “Dad, I’m not alone.”

“I know,” says his dad after a moment. “And I can’t tell you how glad that makes me, Eric.” He pauses, and then says, “He makes you happy, Eric. Doesn’t he? I can see it.”

“He does,” Foreman admits, putting the takeout bag in the back of his car and then getting into the driver’s seat.

“So here’s what I’ve got to say to that,” says Rodney, as Foreman starts the car. “I think love is a choice, Eric. A choice you make every day. It’s when you wake up in the morning, every day of your life, and you keep choosing them even when it’s hard. Even when you’re tired, and when you’re sick, and when it looks hopeless.” He takes a deep breath. “I chose your mother every day, Eric. Right up until the last day of her life. And I still choose her every day, when I look around at this house she built. When I think of the sons she gave me. When I listen to her mother and her sister talk about her.”

“It doesn’t get hard?” Foreman asks. He’s not surprised to hear how hoarse his voice is, how his throat feels like there’s something stuck in it that he can’t get past.

“Of course it gets hard, son,” Rodney tells him gently. “But then if it was easy, it wouldn’t be love, would it?”

Foreman takes in a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“So you think on it, Eric,” his father tells him. “You think about this, long and hard, and you ask yourself. Do you love him?”

Foreman thinks about letting Chase choose the music in the car even though he plays the same ten songs from the 80s over and over again. He thinks about Chase doing the dishes because he knows Foreman hates it. He thinks of Chase singing in the shower, and the way he leans against Foreman’s side when they watch TV. He thinks about strawberries, how he misses them sometimes. He thinks about the EpiPen that’s always in his pocket, just in case Chase has a reaction. He thinks of Chase giving him his grandmother’s quilt, the one thing from his childhood he’s kept through all these years. He thinks of the way Chase lets him put on horror movies on weekend nights, even though he hates them. He thinks of a dead dictator, and of burning a morgue sign-in sheet in the middle of the night.

He thinks of sharing his mother’s book, and the rest of his family too.

And he answers his dad. “Yes,” he says, without hesitation.

That night, after Taub’s picked up the girls and it’s just the two of them again, Foreman lets Chase choose a movie. He watches The Breakfast Club with him for the umpteenth time, because Chase loves that movie and Foreman likes seeing him happy even though he’s damn tired of John Hughes movies. He lets Chase drape his legs all over his lap, and he puts his arms around him and keeps him as close as he can.

And then when the movie’s ending, and Chase is singing along to Don’t You (Forget About Me) in the end credits, Foreman interrupts him with a kiss, and he says, “I want you to stay with me.”

And Chase smiles against his mouth, and says, “I was always going to.”