"You could have stopped me, you realize."
Chase ignored the speaker--Amos, of course, unless Tim had let himself in, which really, when he thought about it, was fine so long as he didn't touch anything--and concentrated on the motherboard. He was so absorbed in the detail-work that he barely noticed when someone sat down next to him and someone else slid a power bar toward his knee.
"Hmmm," Chase said by way of thank you, yes, now go away please, fumbling for the power bar and the cup of coffee being pressed into his hands. Okay, maybe Tim could touch things a little, if he came equipped with--
Chase spat out the power-bar-that-was-not-a-power-bar-but-was-granola-with-ohgodswerethosepeanuts and finally looked up. An expectant ring of faces looked back at him, all familiar, all cranky, and all, supposedly, dead.
"Oh," he wheezed, throat closing up. Peter Grodin looked abashed, Abrams looked triumphant, and Gall just looked sick. Griffin--oh gods oh gods oh gods--leaned out of the kitchen doorway. "What's the matter, Doc?" he asked, frowning.
"I think he's having an allergic reaction," Grodin noted.
"Who gave the doctor a lemon?"
"It wasn't a lemon! I would know if it were a lemon!"
"Is he breathing?"
"I didn't sacrifice myself for the bastard to have him die now."
"He's turning a weird color."
"Really? Is that your medical opinion? Here, help me lower him to the floor. Anyone have an epi-pen?"
Chase blinked dazedly, gasping in choked breaths as the ring of scientists grew. There was Johnson. Dumais. Hays. All staring down at him.
"Think we should call the doctor?"
"Call the Major. He'll know what to do."
"Call the Major? No wonder you never got that second PhD!"
"Is anyone else concerned about the colors he's turning? I'm concerned about the colors he's turning."
"He has to have a pen somewhere. This is Rodney McKay we're talking about. There isn't a medical malaise he hasn't adopted as his own."
"Oh, hey, is he flipping us off? He can't breathe and he's flipping us off."
"That's our McKay all right."
