Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dr. Gregory House was a brilliant doctor.

He was a narcissistic asshole but so were all brilliant men.

Doctors in particular. 

Chase hadn’t applied to the fellowship despite House's reputation, but because of it. He was determined to prove his worth under the most vicious doctor he could find. Of course Chase was aware of the nicknames the hospital staff had given him: Houses lapdog, yesman. But Chase fought hard for every scrap, every glimpse of recognition. 

If the world's biggest narcissist approved his skills, the second biggest had to as well. 

Or that had been the plan.

Before Dr. Rowan Chase died.

It had happened without warning. Without an explanation. He perished, just like that. 

It reminded Chase too much of that day, years ago, when he had come home to find his father’s study hollowed out. Shelves cleared, books gone. Awards and certificates stripped, leaving behind bare walls. All Rowan left were a few dusty family photos shoved into the back of a drawer.

Back then, Chase had torn the room apart, certain he’d missed something. A letter. A note. Anything.

He’d felt like a fool.

Now he just felt like a grown-up version of the same boy,  only older, colder, and even more pathetic. There were no letters this time either. No parting words. No acknowledgement at all.

Just silence.

His mother had died blaming him. His father had died forgetting him. And still, stupidly, he’d wanted to impress the man, if not as a son, then at least as a doctor. But Rowan Chase was dead.

And Robert Chase was still a disappointment.

There was nothing keeping him in America. 

But Australia? That entire continent reeked of his father, in every lecture hall that still carried his name, every colleague who still spoke of him in reverent tones, every textbook collecting dust with his byline on the cover.

That is why Chase stayed at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital grunting and grinding underneath House's whims. 

◉◉◉

The conference room felt colder than usual. Chase wasn’t sure if it was the air conditioning or just him. Foreman, Cameron and Chase were all standing around a table with their patients' files spread out. They looked exhausted under the harsh neon light. The hands of the clock were already past midnight.

Foreman hunched over the file, tapping a pen against the margin. “You ever wonder why you’re still here?”

Chase blinked. “Because we haven’t figured out what House saw in her history?”

Cameron frowned, tracing her finger down the printed page. “This appointment, three years ago. Something’s off.”

Foreman didn’t look up. “Same clinic, same complaint. Chest pain.”

“But then nothing for almost a half a year,” Cameron said. “And suddenly monthly check-ins?”

Chase leaned forward, skimming the notes, but Foreman cut in before he could speak.

“You’ve been here the longest. Still fetching coffee and playing House’s pet. Doesn’t that get old?”

The jab landed harder than it should’ve. Chase smoothed the sleeve of his shirt, suddenly aware of the silence between their words.

“You leaving?” he asked.

Foreman shrugged. “Eventually. Can’t rot here forever.”

Cameron looked startled. “But—”

“Relax. Not today.” He glanced at Chase. “Just saying. There’s a limit to how much of House anyone can take, before you turn out just as miserable. Look at Wilson.”

Chase didn’t answer. He was thinking about the resignation letters gathering dust in his drawer. Thinking about Australia, and how even the air there smelled like disappointment.

In the end, Cameron had been right about the strange appointment,  but that was about as far as any of them got. Naturally, House made sure to explain to his idiot team exactly why they were idiots .

The original diagnosis had actually been correct. The patient’s doctor had treated her properly, and the symptoms had improved. All the follow-up visits were just a cover for the ongoing affair which had developed with the doctor. It was like House always says, “everybody lies.” That line was practically engraved in Chase’s brain by now.

Unfortunately for the lovers, his wife was also a doctor at the same hospital. When she found out about the affair, she booked an appointment of her own with the patient. She secretly swapped out the patient’s medication, hoping to trigger an embarrassing rash and scare her husband away from the affair.

Instead, the patient ended up with a severe allergic reaction to a protein in the altered meds, one that nearly sent her into a coma.

Insulted, exhausted, and thoroughly defeated, all three fellows trudged out of the clinic, hoping to get at least a few hours of sleep.

◉◉◉

Chase stared at his apartment door for a few moments too long before finally turning the key in the lock. The air inside seemed somehow colder than in the street outside. A heavy unmoving cold sank through his clothing and embedded itself in the curve of his spine, the joints of his fingers, the soft ache behind his eyes. 

He didn’t bother taking off his shoes or jacket, just reached for the blanket slumped over the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself like a cocoon, stiff and scratchy but better than nothing.

The heating had gone out two weeks ago  or three, he couldn’t remember anymore  and despite the calls, the voicemails, the half-hearted threats to involve someone official, the landlord hadn’t done a thing. Now, the nights were sharpening, pressing in closer, and Chase had started noticing his breath curling in the air like smoke. A warning.

He thought about food, more out of habit than hunger, but when he opened the fridge, a wave of stale, chemical-cold air hit him in the face. The light inside flickered uncertainly, illuminating forgotten condiments. 

Resigned, he opened his cabinets only to pull out a loaf of bread which looked more green than white. He stared at it for a long moment, blinking in surprise. And here he had thought that the toxic cocktail of preservatives would keep the loaf fresh for just a few days longer. With a sigh he threw it in the trash. The growl in his stomach quieted like it had given up too.

The apartment was cloaked in darkness except for the sparse light from the street lantern outside. If Chase had turned on the lights perhaps he would have noticed how the walls of the apartment had begun to sweat. Not always. Not everywhere. But here and there in the corners where the paint bubbled slightly, or where the air smelled a little sour if you sat still too long. Drops clung to the inside of the window like someone had breathed on the glass and never stopped.

Chase pulled the blanket tighter, rubbed at his arms through the fabric. Everything ached, not sharply, not in a way he could name, just a slow, constant throb that lived beneath the surface of his skin.

He changed into a sweater that smelled faintly of damp wood. The clock by his bed blinked red: 2:07. Four hours of sleep, if he was lucky. He lay down, pulled the blankets over his head, curled in on himself as the cold settled in again, not biting, just there , like a presence, like a hand pressed lightly against his chest.

At four, he woke up shivering, his teeth clattering, limbs stiff, sweat pooling cold under his arms and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he was freezing or feverish, if he was inside the apartment or outside of himself. The window had fogged again, water tracing slow, uncertain paths down the glass.

He should’ve been angry. Furious, even. At the landlord. At his father. At his mother. At himself. But it was like trying to light a match underwater, the spark didn’t take. It just fizzled out somewhere inside his chest and left him hollow.

He stared at the ceiling until morning. Not thinking. Just existing.

◉◉◉

The warmth from his coffee mug slowly seeped into his fingers, waking the stiff joints. He felt better now, after a steaming hot shower in the staff locker rooms. The oppressive smell of dampness was washed away by coconut shampoo that he stole from Cameron. He stared at the calendar on the wall; it was almost the end of the month.

The letters would soon pour in, followed by the constant, nerve-racking ringing of his phone. He could pay his rent and utilities, barely. But it was his past that haunted him, followed him across oceans in the form of debt collectors and contracts, his mother’s name on the front, his name buried somewhere in the fine print.

“Morning.” Foreman slammed his bag on the table, jerking Chase out of his thoughts. 

"Jesus. It’s a bit early for a heart attack mate,” Chase muttered. His colleague only let out a deep chuckle, amused by the bewildered expression on Chase's face. 

By the time House finally staggered into the diagnostics room, the air was already thick with quiet frustration and caffeine. The three fellows were seated in a grim triangle around the table, half-buried in the backlog of paperwork House had so graciously neglected over the past several weeks. He smelled faintly of cigar smoke and a sour mixture of whiskey and bile, which Chase was all too familiar with. 

Without comment, he collapsed into the chair beside Chase, exhaling loudly.

Cameron didn’t even bother looking up. “You can’t show up to work hungover on a Tuesday ,” she said, in a tone that landed somewhere between exasperation and maternal disappointment.

House didn’t miss a beat. “And you can’t sleep with Chase, no matter how tragically seductive his shark story is.”

Foreman’s eyes flicked toward Chase, then Cameron. Slowly. 

“Wait, what?” Cameron asked, perplexed. 

House waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss the mental image he’d just created. “Relax. It’s not against hospital policy, entirely . But I just want the little kangaroo all to myself. You can have Foreman. He’s taller.”

“I’m flattered,” Foreman muttered.

Cameron sighed, finally setting her pen down. “For the record, Chase and I haven’t—” she paused, clearly regretting the need to clarify, “—done anything together.”

House turned to Chase with sudden interest, leaning in far too close, nostrils flaring theatrically as he took a long, exaggerated sniff.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chase recoiled, half-standing in protest.

House leaned back, smug. “Just confirming a theory. Either it’s a remarkable coincidence that you smell exactly like Cameron’s shampoo, or and far more likely, you’ve been spending your nights rinsing off your self-loathing in her shower.”

He glanced at the table, as if something there had just clicked into place. “Although, on second thought... three coffee cups, all yours, and judging by your bloodshot eyes and general aura of moral failure, you’ve been here longer than Cameron —”

House glared at Chase, whose coughing fit interrupted his brilliant deduction. Absent-mindedly Chase grabbed Camerons cup, his throat was scratchy, like he had eaten sandpaper. The tea helped, a bit. But the dry uncomfort remained.He probably caught a cold at the hospital, and the freezing temperature wasn’t doing his health any good. Finally the coughing stopped, House looked at him with bad grace but then continued:

“— Which means no shower. At least at her place. Which means,” he added, drawing the conclusion out like a magician revealing a card, “you’re an underfucked loser who ran out of shampoo and stole hers instead.”

He looked immensely pleased with himself, folding his arms and nodding like a man who’d solved a murder.

Chase gave a tired shrug. “That sounds about right.”

“You stole my shampoo?” Cameron asked, half-scandalized.

“It was just sitting there,” Chase said. “Mine was empty.”

“You smell like a coconut goddess,” House added, not missing a beat.

Chase shot him a sideways glare. “You’re the one who knows what she smells like. Who’s the creep again?”

House smiled serenely. “It’s called differential olfaction. Maybe if you paid more attention to the world around you, and less to your tragic romantic failures, you’d have noticed that your shower gel smells like processed despair.”

◉◉◉

Since no new patients had been admitted which House deemed interesting enough to diagnose, Chase had volunteered to cover two hours of House's clinic duty. 

“Suck-up,” Foreman muttered under his breath.

Chase rolled his eyes and didn’t rise to the bait. He wasn’t doing this for House's sake. It was less a favor, more a tactical retreat. Anything was better than sitting in the diagnostics room, marinating in stale alcohol fumes and the subtle suggestion of vomit. He needed air. He needed movement.

The waiting room was filled to the brim coughing patience and screaming children. Chase inhaled deeply, bracing himself, and pushed through to Exam Room Three.

Inside sat a woman who Chase estimated was close to her fourthies. Her posture was rigid, fingers clenched tightly in her lap. Chase tried to look at her through House's lens. Worn but expensive dress. Nails professionally shaped but half-grown out. Faded roots just starting to betray a carefully maintained image. Not rich, not anymore, but she had been once.

“G’day. I’m Dr. Ch—House,” he caught himself just in time, and offered a polite smile.

She returned it with the tight politeness of someone already deeply uncomfortable.

Chase glanced at the chart. Papules in the genital region.

“Okay Mrs. Hendricks. I’m going to need you to undress from the waist down so I can take a look,” he said gently, stepping behind the curtain to give her some privacy.

When he returned, the sight was unmistakable, dozens of small, skin-colored papules scattered across the vulvar area, some with the telltale pearly center. A few had ruptured, oozing a viscous fluid. Molluscum contagiosum was practically diagnostic on sight, but he’d still need to confirm the presence of Henderson-Patterson bodies under the microscope.

“They’ve been there for two weeks,” the woman said, eyes averted. “I thought they’d go away on their own.”

Chase nodded. “Does your husband have similar symptoms?”

She stiffened. “He passed away. Last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Chase said, already regretting the question. But he pressed on. “I do need to ask, have you had any sexual partners since then?”

The look she gave him was a strange mix of confusion and quiet insult. “No,” she said. “Not since he died.”

Chase gave a small apologetic smile. “Thanks. I’ll run a test just to confirm, then come back with results.”

◉◉◉

House stumbled into the lab fifteen minutes later. Chase hadn’t expected to see him before lunch. 

“Anything fun?” House asked, yawning. He probably just grew bored nursing his hangover in his office, Chase thought. 

“Not really. Just a widow who won’t admit she had a bit of comfort sex.”

House perked up slightly, as if Chase had just mentioned a particularly juicy soap opera twist. “Go on.”

Chase held up the positive result. “Papules in the genital area, two weeks’ duration. Molluscum contagiosum, confirmed. She claims she hasn’t had sex since her husband died. Clearly lying, obviously. Just doesn’t want to look like she’s moved on too quickly.”

House finally glanced up, eyes glassy but alert. “And you believe that’s all this is?”

Chase gave a half-shrug. “It’s like you always say: everybody lies.”

House flipped through the chart, fingers drumming. “How’d the husband die?”

Before he could respond, another coughing fit shook Chase. They were beginning to annoy him. 

 “Didn’t ask. She already seemed uncomfortable admitting to an STD.”

House groaned, dramatic as ever. Had Chase known that House would interrogate him over a simple STD, he would have even asked her about the color of her bedsheets. 

 “Have I taught you people nothing ? The uncomfortable questions are the best kind. If not diagnostically, then at least they make good lunchtime stories.”

Chase exhaled slowly and turned to leave, already rehearsing the speech he’d give the patient. But he hadn’t made it three steps before House’s voice followed him, sharp and casual like a leash tugging on his collar.

“You’re sure that’s everything?”

Chase paused, hand on the doorframe. “It’s a simple viral infection,” he replied, defensive now. “The test came back positive. It’s textbook Molluscum Contagiosum.”

House didn’t look up. “And thirty-eight-year-old widows caught that, how, exactly?”

“It’s more common in kids, yeah,” Chase admitted, “but it’s been increasing in sexually active adults, too. Especially in people who don’t realize they’re carriers.”

House grunted noncommittally, still staring at the chart. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re missing something. Tell her the diagnosis. Watch how she reacts.”

Then he paused to think. Chase watched him closely, usually when his eyes began to drift like that House was close to an epiphany. The tension grew as House got out his prescription pad and scribbled something. 

Had Chase missed anything? He had been so sure that he worked thoroughly and the case seemed so crystal clear, like out of a  med school lecture. Chases rambling anticipation grew when House handed him the prescription…

“Take them. It’s annoying.”

Cough drops. Disappointed Chase stuffed the paper in his pocket.

“And don’t get sick. I need someone to do my clinic hours,” House added but Chase wasn’t listening anymore. 

◉◉◉

Reluctantly Chase made his way back to his patient. 

He studied the woman, nervously peeling the skin from her cuticles. He had missed something, not in his diagnosis, otherwise House would have already berated him in the lab. But he had worked long enough with the doctor to know that diagnosing and treating patients was only one part of the puzzle. House did not rest until all of the pieces aligned perfectly. 

Mrs. Hendrickson was watching him expectantly. 

Chase cleared his throat, “ the lab results confirmed that you have contracted Molluscum Contagiosum.”

He paused for a moment, gauging her reaction. His subconscious told him that she did not look surprised. On the contrary, she had heard those words before. Or maybe it was House's fear mongering which influenced his perception.

“It is a viral infection which you caught from someone else. But don’t worry it’s very treatable. I’m going to write you a prescription for Berdazimer. You should refrain from any sexual activity until the papules have cleared up and you’ve completed a follow up visit.”

Mrs. Hendrickson had nodded along the entire time, which struck Chase as odd. Normally patients who received the news that they had contracted an STD denied, denied, denied. Accused the doctor of screwing up their results. Or invented some story of how they’ve acquired their disease. 

For a woman who had insisted that she had not participated in any sexual activity since her husband's passing, she was suspiciously calm. 

“Well, thank you very much, Doctor House,” she said, standing to shake his hand.

Chase smiled stiffly. He knew he still had to ask, or he’d never hear the end of it from House.

“One last thing, Mrs. Hendrickson. I’m afraid I have to ask, how did your husband pass away?”

The woman looked at him, irritated. “How is that relevant to my condition?”

Yeah, House, how is this relevant? Chase asked himself.

“I must insist.” He offered her his most disarming smile.

“Liver failure,” she replied curtly, her eyes dropping to the ground.

Shameful death then , his inner House commented. Alcoholic, probably.

“And how are you coping? Stress might worsen your condition,” Chase lied.

“Well,” Mrs. Hendrickson appeared appeased, “we’re managing as best we can.”

We? “Do you have any children?”

“I have a son, Liam. He’s eight. Devastated by his father’s death, of course. But he’s strong—he’ll be alright.”

She almost appeared younger when she spoke about her son, the stiffness in her face melting away.

“I’d like you two to see me tomorrow. The infection could have spread to him. I just want to check.”

Mrs. Hendrickson picked at the skin around her finger until a few small drops of blood welled up. “No,” her voice cracked slightly. “He’s completely fine.”

Chase raised both eyebrows. “It’s just a quick look.”

But she shook her head vehemently. “No, it’s really alright. He doesn’t like doctors very much.”

Chase couldn’t shake the feeling that she was lying. He had no concrete reason to disbelieve her, except for the fact that: everybody lies.

So he lied, himself. “The virus sometimes presents worse in young children than in adults. More papules, worse itching. And subsequently, a spreading infection affecting his entire class. I’m just going to take a quick look at him.”

Mrs. Hendrickson nodded along, not because she was convinced, but for lack of a counter-argument.

◉◉◉

“So?”

House found Chase by the pharmacy with his prescription of cough drops.

“Still sticking to my diagnosis. Test confirms Molluscum. Husband died of liver failure. Judging by her reaction, alcoholic.”

“Boooring,” House muttered. “Why can’t people have more interesting deaths? Like sleep walking off a cliff?”

Chase ignored House's rambling. “She has a kid. She’s bringing him in tomorrow so I can take a look.”

That got House’s attention. He straightened slightly, eyes narrowing like a cat catching movement.

“And because you are me—minus the charisma and Vicodin addiction— well at least she thinks that you are me. And it’s best not to confuse the nurses… you should just cover my clinic hours again.”

Chase frowned. “That wasn’t part of the deal,” he complained.

House grinned, already halfway down the hallway. “It is now.”

But then he stopped, spun around, and pointed a finger at Chase like a detective revealing a suspect. “Speaking of you, you’ve been showering at the clinic for what? A week now?”

Chase sighed. “Not this again.” He swirled the cough drop in his mouth. 

“Let me guess,” House continued, counting off on his fingers. “Girlfriend kicked you out. You’re sleeping in your car. Possibly joined a cult.”

Chase took a long sip of his drink and didn’t meet his eyes. “No hot water at home. Pipe’s busted. And the bloody landlord is too lazy to fix it.”

House stared at him, narrowing his eyes. “Just the pipe?”

Chase shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “Yeah. Just the pipe.”

A beat. House smirked, unconvinced.

“Aww, can’t the little wombat handle a cold shower? I heard it’s going to be the coldest winter in twenty years. Not sure you Australians are built for actual weather. Don’t you people barbecue on Christmas?”

“I’d take a barbecue over your hospital food any day,” Chase muttered, turning to walk off.

◉◉◉

The sky turned into a deep orange hue, and Chase wondered when he had last seen a sunset. He used to enjoy watching them in Australia. His uni had been closed to the sea and he’d often sit at the beach, anatomy handbook in one hand, as the setting sun set the entire sky ablaze. 

House had let him go early for once, presumably because he forced Chase to cover four of his clinic hours. He wasn’t a total asshole. But Chase almost wished he were. Then at least he would have had an excuse to avoid his dingy apartment with its ever growing list of chores: dirty dishes, unwashed clothing and empty cabinets. 

Chase sat in a lousy dinner, composing a new article for a medicine journal, a peculiar case of an atypical presentation of Lupus. But at least it was warm there and the waitress stopped by every few minutes to refill his coffee mug. Outside fat snowflakes tumbled from the dark sky. The weather man on the telly predicted that a blizzard would hit New Jersey sometime next week. 

He really needed to get his boiler fixed. But his landlord still hadn’t sent anyone over. Chase had tried calling him again, but only got the machine.  

When the clock was close to midnight and the kitchen was closing up, Chase knew he couldn’t avoid going to his apartment any longer. 

The cold met him like an old enemy, slipping into his bones before he even closed the apartment door. It wasn’t just in the air anymore, it lived in the walls, bloomed under the floorboards, seeped into everything he touched. Frost crusted the corners of the windows. His breath fogged immediately, curling like ghosts toward the ceiling.

Chase paused in the middle of the room, blinking against the dull ache in his skull. He was so tired he could barely think straight. His eyes settled on the growing mountain of dirty clothes spilling out from the hamper onto the damp floor. The sight made something twist in his stomach, somewhere between shame and resignation.

He barely made it to bed. The blanket crackled beneath his weight, stiff and brittle with frozen moisture. He curled into himself with a choked coughing sound, knees to chest, muscles locking in waves of tremors. It wasn’t just cold anymore, it was invasive. Violent.

He drifted.

The dreams came fast. 

He was a teenager again, back in the garden. The air was warm, sticky with the scent of citrus. His mother handed him a glass heavy with ice and lemon slices, vodka swirling clear. She laughed, her voice used to be pretty, clear like crystal. Her fingers brushed his, wet with condensation and lemon oil. 

“We don’t need him,” she said lightly. But Chase didn’t respond. 

“We don’t need him,” she repeated as if it would become a reality if she only said it often enough. Her red lips parted as she finished her glass in one long sip.

The ice in his glass began to melt, then freeze again. The lemon slices blackened. He blinked, his mother was crying. Or laughing. Her hands were too cold. Her fingernails dug into his arm.

“You won’t leave me. You won’t leave me, right?”

Her red lips didn’t move, but Chase heard her voice, felt it, vibrating behind his eyes.  Her face twisted, distorting in impossible ways, eyes stretching too far, mouth too wide. Still, the voice pressed inward. Words stretching, pressing inside of him. 

His bones ached. His head was cracking open, a brittle, splintering sound. The pressure was unbearable. He screamed, but it echoed like laughter and it didn’t stop.

“You will stay?” she asked again. Commanded. Whispered. Screamed. Her voice layered over itself, high, low, childlike, monstrous.

Chase tried to speak, but his tongue had melted. Colors smeared like oil across his vision, green into blue into screaming red.

“You will stay, forever?”

“I promise,” Chase choked out, voice wet and raw. And the world shuddered around him.

He woke gasping, soaked in sweat that had already turned to ice along the back of his neck. His teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. His heart jackhammered. Something in his chest burned with panic.

He had to go.

He crashed out of bed. The walls tilted slightly. He steadied himself, blinking hard. His breath came in rapid bursts. Everything hurt. Every inch of him felt brittle, on the verge of breaking.

He grabbed trash bags and started stuffing them full of his dirty clothes, not bothering to sort. His hands were so numb he kept dropping things. A sock. A shirt. He left them behind. The apartment was closing around him.

Outside, the car was an icebox. The steering wheel burned with cold. His fingers felt skinned as he drove. He kept the heat on full blast and it still wasn’t enough. His reflection in the rearview mirror looked like a stranger, pale, hollow-eyed, with dark circles carving deep trenches under both eyes.

He drove to the nearest 24-hour laundromat. The fluorescents buzzed overhead like angry bees, and the air inside hit him like a wave of forgiveness, warm, dry and artificial. 

He forced some coins into the machine. His hands shook as he fed in the wet clothes. His shoulders slumped forward, relief making him dizzy.

In the corner, a homeless woman eyed him over the edge of a tattered blanket, suspicion sharp in her face. He didn’t care. He nodded once, acknowledging her presence, maybe even sharing the same bleak fraternity of being unwanted in warm places,and then sat down.

The machines began to rumble, warm air stirring through the space. Chase leaned his head back against the cold metal wall. The hum of spinning drums vibrated through his spine.

Within minutes, he was asleep again already slipping into the next dream.

◉◉◉

Bloodshot eyes bore into him. Chase blinked a few times. On a rational level, he knew the haggard man staring back at him was his own reflection in the foggy mirror  but he barely recognized himself. It was like looking at a copy of a copy of a copy, so adulterated it hardly resembled the original.

The warmth of the shower, which had brought him comfort just yesterday, now felt fleeting. Chase shivered as he pulled his lab coat tightly around himself, as if the thin fabric could protect him from the cold that seemed to seep out from inside him.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking as he combed his hair and tried out the vaguely expensive-looking face cream he had fished from Cameron’s toiletries. Chase had never cared much about his appearance. At least not more than most men, certainly not as much as Wilson. But the ghostly figure that stared back at him shook him to the core. He hoped whatever magic lived in a woman’s toiletry bag would be enough to make him look normal, normal enough to keep his coworkers from asking questions.

One last glance in the mirror: he looked better.

Or… maybe that was a stretch.

But certainly not worse.

The hallway tilted beneath Chase’s feet as he stumbled forward, each fluorescent light above flickering a little too brightly. His balance swayed, like he was walking the deck of a ship, and the walls leaned in closer than they should have. He blinked hard, his vision smeared with fatigue. 

A nurse caught sight of him, brows knitting in concern, but instinctively stepped out of his path. 

The diagnostics room was quiet. Cameron sat at the table, a medical journal open in front of her, steam curling gently from a mug of tea. The calm, orderly normalcy of it irritated him. She flinched when the door flew open, slamming against the wall behind it.

“You look unwell,” she said, startled.

“Good morning to you too,” Chase muttered, voice frayed. He dropped into the chair opposite her, jaw clenched, his fingers beginning to drum against the table. Restless, rapid taps. The kind that begged for someone to ask if he was okay.

He didn’t want her to ask.

His entire body buzzed like a short-circuited wire, jittery and humming under the skin. His right leg started bouncing, heel tapping uncontrollably against the floor. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop feeling cold. His skin still hadn’t warmed up from the night before. Every breath scraped inside his throat like it had been iced.

He needed sleep. One night, just one decent night of rest. He wasn’t asking for a miracle. Just enough to keep his neurons from catching fire.

“Cameron.”

She flinched slightly. His voice was too loud. He winced, dragging his hand over his face.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, trying to soften it. “I need you to write me a prescription.”

Her eyes narrowed, alert now. The word no was already forming behind her lips. Before she could say it, he slammed both palms down on the table. Not hard, but enough to make her mug jump, tea sloshing against the rim.

“I’m not House,” he snapped. “I don’t need Vicodin, or whatever cocktail of self-destruction he’s cooked up this week. I just need something to sleep. Something stronger than goddamn melatonin.”

He exhaled through his nose, tried to roll his shoulders and relax. It didn’t help. His muscles still ached painfully and his throat felt dry and raw. He could see his tension reflected back at him in Cameron’s wary stare.

“I’m sorry,” he added, quieter now. “I haven’t slept properly in… two weeks.”

Something in her expression shifted. Maybe it was the circles under his eyes, or the desperation bleeding through the edges of his voice.

“I’ll prescribe it,” she said slowly. “But I’m treating you like a patient. I’m not just handing over pills.”

He nodded, grateful. Too grateful. Too desparete.He hated how weak it made him feel.

She launched into the standard questions, pen poised. He answered numbly, mechanical. A part of him floated just outside his own body, watching this quiet exchange like it was happening to someone else.

“Why can’t you sleep?” she asked eventually.

“Stress,” Chase said flatly.

Her eyebrow arched, skeptical. “More stress than usual?”

He clenched his jaw. His fingers resumed their drumming. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to dig into the mountain of reasons his body refused to let go at night.

“What’s stressing you?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. The question wasn’t cruel, wasn’t even unreasonable, but something sharp cracked inside him.

What wasn’t stressing him?

Perhaps the stack of unpaid bills on his kitchen table? The broken boiler in an apartment that hadn’t felt livable in weeks? The calls to the landlord that went unanswered? The freezing nights wrapped in damp blankets, trying not to think about how badly his bones ached? Or maybe it was just the silence. The endless, cavernous silence that wormed itself deep into his soul, unanswered questions, festering, rotting. 

“My father died,” he said stiffly.

Cameron looked confused. “But he’s been dead for a while.”

“Yeah,” Chase said, voice low. “And he can rot in peace while I’m still here, alive, forced to deal with all the crap he left behind.”

His hands had curled into fists on the table. Cameron said nothing for a moment. Her gaze softened, but she kept her professional composure.

“There are some legal issues I need to handle,” Chase continued more carefully, forcing calm. “It’ll be fine. It’s just... I need to sleep. That’s all.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll write you a week’s worth of Silenor. But I’ll want to follow up. If you’re not improving—”

“I’m not depressed,” he cut in sharply, too defensive. There was nothing wrong with him. He just needed to sleep.

“I know,” she said gently. “But it’s FDA-approved for insomnia. That’s all.”

“Then give me Zolpidem,” Chase fired back. “Shorter half-life, better efficacy.”

“They’re riskier,” she reminded him.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Low-dose DORAs.”

Cameron sighed, her professionalism never cracking. “Okay. I’ll give you a week’s worth. But if they don’t help, we try the Silenor.”

He nodded. The tension in his shoulders didn’t fade. He already regretted asking her. Should’ve gone to Foreman. Would’ve gotten the prescription, fewer questions, less pity.

◉◉◉

His heart thundered against his ribs, the caffeine from one too many mugs of coffee was rampaging through his system like a chemical riot. Chase gripped the patient's file tighter to stop his hands from shaking. Focus.

His eyes darted between Mrs. Hendrickson and her son, but they wouldn’t stay still. His vision kept trying to zoom in and out, like a broken lens.

Mrs. Hendrickson looked worse than she had yesterday, face pale, arms locked tightly around the boy as if she were trying to physically anchor him to her chest. Liam was small for his age, and limps thin and pale. His little hands began to scratch the space in between his fingers anxiously. 

“Hi Liam, how are you doing?” Chase crouched down. His tone aimed for lighthearted but came out strained, as though someone else were speaking through a foggy speaker. 

Liam didn’t answer. He ducked his head, burying his face into his mother’s coat like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“He doesn’t speak much,” Mrs. Hendrickson offered softly. “Not since his father passed.”

Chase couldn't stifle the dry coughs that occasionally interrupted his conversation. He smiled apologetically. His temples throbbed. Too much coffee. Not enough food. Not enough sleep. No sleep. Should have eaten something, should have — Stop.

“That’s alright,” he said, voice rising artificially. “You’re doing great, Liam. “I just need to check the bumps your mum told me about. That’s all. Won’t take long.”

He leaned a little to the side, trying to make eye contact, but the boy pressed deeper into his mother’s arms, hands gripping her coat like a lifeline.

Chase fought the growing urge to sigh. His body was screaming to sit down, to lie down, to stop, but his brain was racing too fast to catch up. For a moment, he considered just writing the prescription. Antibiotics. Done. Easy. Same thing that the mothers has. 

For a split second, he saw not Liam, but someone else: a woman lying in a hospital bed, dismissed with too few questions asked and too little care given. A decision made during another time he hadn't been sleeping. Right after the call about his father.

No. Not again.

He stood abruptly and nearly lost his balance. Stars flared in his peripheral vision as he dug through one of the cabinets, hands rummaging blindly. His fingers landed on something soft. A plush toy.

He pulled out the small, slightly-dusty koala. Chase turned back, holding it out like an offering.

“Here you go, mate,” he said, crouching again. “You can keep him. I just need to take a look, and then you and your mum can go home.”

Liam’s eyes locked on the koala. Hesitation lingered on his face, but after a beat, his grip on his mother’s coat loosened. One small hand reached for the toy.

Chase exhaled in quiet relief.

“Where does he have the papules?” he asked, not taking his eyes off Liam, who was slowly letting himself be coaxed out of hiding.

“On his thighs,” the mother said, voice tight with nerves.

Chase nodded. The file was still trembling slightly in his grip. He forced it down. Focus. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like he was hearing it in his ears.

It was just a simple case. A simple exam. He just had to keep his hands steady.

And not screw it up.

He had managed to coax Liam onto the examining table, but it was impossible to convince the kid to take off his trousers so Chase could get a better look at his papules. Liam sat there almost petrified as if Chase was going to jump at him at any moment. Exasperated Chase ran his fingers through his hair, trying not to make his impatience obvious. 

In the end, Mrs. Hendrickson carefully rolled down her son’s trousers, her hands stiff and overly precise. Chase braced himself, and there they were. Hundreds of small, flesh-colored papules scattered across Liam’s pale thighs like drops of wax. Identical to the ones he’d seen yesterday on her.

Molluscum contagiosum. Probably.

Maybe they’d shared a towel. Maybe she’d unknowingly passed the virus on. He leaned in to examine the lesions more closely, his gloved fingers steady even as his heart ticked uncomfortably fast. He wouldn’t let fatigue, emotion, or his past make the call for him. Not again. Not this time. He’d still run the test. 

Then something else caught his eye.

Just beneath the cluster of papules, a thin, reddened rash stretching along Liam’s inner thighs. The skin was irritated, dry, raw in places. It didn’t fit the symptoms.

Mrs. Hendrickson’s voice cut in, sharp with practiced calm. “It’s just diaper rash. He’s been wetting the bed again… since everything.” She didn’t elaborate. Just watched him closely.

Chase gave a noncommittal nod, returning his gaze to the papules, but his mind was already elsewhere.

“Okay, Liam,” he said gently, forcing a smile. “I’ll take a small sample of your skin, run a test and be right back with the result,” Chase explained and got out the scalpel.

“Will it hurt?” Liam piped up, his voice barely more than a whisper. He peeked up at Chase with wide, glassy eyes. For just a second, Chase thought he’d seen something nestled on the inside of the boy’s mouth. A papule? Or was his mind playing tricks on him?

Before he could lean in for a better look, Mrs. Hendrickson’s hand clamped slightly tighter around her son’s shoulder. Her eyes locked with Chase’s, unblinking. Protective? Alarmed? There was something too sharp in the way she looked at him, like she was daring him to say something he hadn’t figured out yet.

Chase’s thoughts caught on the image of that bump, replaying in loops. A hollow chill crept over his skin. His instincts stirred, not loud, not clear, but insistent, like something half-submerged just beneath the surface of his conscious mind. A signal that something didn’t add up.

He realized too late that Liam was still looking at him, waiting.

“No,” Chase said finally, his voice softer than before. “It’s not going to hurt. You’ll barely feel it.”

But Liam had already turned his face away again, retreating into silence. The moment passed. Yet the tension in the room didn’t.

Chase stumbled out of the exam room. His thoughts spun around themselves in frantic, fraying loops. Disconnected images: Liam’s voice, the bump inside his mouth, Mrs. Hendrickson’s grip on the boy’s shoulder. The same rash.Her eyes.

Something was wrong.

Had been wrong. Since yesterday.

He’d brushed it off then, just a grieving widow, a likely lie, comfort sex no one wanted to admit. But now he’d seen her son. Liam. Pale. Frightened. And with the same papules. Something clicked in his mind in a way that left a sour taste in his mouth.

Chase's hands trembled as he ran the test. The strip turned purple in confirmation. The same virus. Again. And yet this wasn’t about a diagnosis anymore. It was about a pattern. One he could no longer ignore.

Chapter Text

Before Chase even realized what he was doing, he slammed open the door to House’s office. It ricocheted off the wall with a sharp bang. House jolted upright in his chair, blinking against the sudden intrusion like a feral cat yanked out of sleep.

“What the hell?” House growled. “Someone better be dying.”

Chase stood in the doorway, chest heaving, not speaking.

House squinted at him. “Well? Say something. Or mime it.”

“The woman from yesterday,” he finally managed, his voice raw. “Mrs. Hendrickson. The one with MC. She brought in her son.”

"And you dragged me out of a perfectly boring dream for what?” House drawled, already settling back like he hadn’t quite woken up.

“He has it too.”

House stared at him, unimpressed. “Molluscum is contagious.  And you’ve heard of door handles, right?”

The suspicion was already there, clawing its way up from somewhere deep. But saying it, thinking it, felt wrong, like breaking a fragile promise he’d held inside for years.

Swallowing hard, voice barely above a whisper, Chase said, “I think she’s abusing him. Sexually.”

House froze, just for a second, then tilted his head. “And you came to me instead of Social Services. Or Cuddy. Interesting… And why exactly did you think that I was the best person to handle this?” His voice wasn’t offended, just curious, almost amused. As if Chase’s subconscious choice was worth more than the accusation itself.

He studied him for a few more moments, then exhaled. “Are you sure?”

Chase gave a tiny shake of his head. The words had come out before he could stop them.  But now that he said them aloud, he couldn't let it go. They clung, heavy and awful. And it fit. It fit too well. All the strange gaps, the off-notes, the things he’d tried to ignore. The pieces of the puzzle aligned perfectly. .

But what if he was wrong? Saw patterns that weren’t there? His sleep-starved brain just making monsters out of shadows?

He hoped to God he was wrong. He needed to be wrong. Because if he wasn’t…

House was watching him, pacient for once. 

“I need to talk to the boy alone. You have to distract her,” Chase finally said. 

He expected pushback. Sarcasm. A sneer. But House stood. No joke. No insult. Just a brief flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he grabbed his cane and followed.

◉◉◉

Inside the exam room, Mrs. Hendrickson was hunched protectively over Liam, who clutched the stuffed koala Chase had given him earlier. His small hands fidgeted with the plush fabric.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Chase,” House said in a tone that was somehow both friendly and completely untrustworthy. He stared at them both in silence, as if his gaze was enough to draw the answers out of them. 

Mrs. Hendrickson blinked. “Is… something wrong?”

“Yes,” House said flatly. “Your son is dying.”

The color drained from her face in an instant. Her mouth dropped open, her body going rigid. “But… but he has what I have. How can it be different? I don’t— I thought it wasn’t serious.”

“It’s not,” House said, already circling her. “Unless you’re eight, with eczema that leaves your skin as defenseless as wet tissue paper.” He pointed with his cane at Liam’s fingers, where the skin was dry, cracked. “Virus gets in. Spreads. Complicates. We need an MRI.”

Her face contorted, panic overtaking her features. “An MRI? For a rash?”

House shrugged. “I’m sure you could object. Or we could risk brain lesions. Or, I don’t know, encephalitis.” His eyes flicked to Chase and back, just a second of signal. “Better safe than sorry.”

She hesitated, visibly shaken. Then nodded stiffly.

House turned to Chase with a falsely cheerful smile. “You take the boy. I’ll keep mommy entertained.”

Chase bent down and held out his hand. “Come on, Liam.”

The boy looked to his mother, uncertain. She gave him a small nod, her jaw tight.

As Chase led him out, a lump rose in his throat. The chill hadn’t left his spine. He didn’t know what he would find.

◉◉◉

Chase had taken Liam up to an empty patient room on a different floor. It seemed quieter there,  fluorescent lights softer, the hallways still. He had pulled the curtain close and dimmed the overheads. The boy sat on the hospital bed, legs swinging nervously, tiny hands gripping the edge.

Chase crouched beside him, knees popping softly. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, but his chest was tight, breath catching with every inhale. He tried to keep his voice even. “I just need to take a quick look inside your mouth before we can run any more tests,” he said. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”

Liam didn’t speak. Just stared at him with wide, unreadable eyes. Chase caught his own reflection there, small and strange in the boy’s pupils. He hadn’t even started the exam yet, but the dread was already rising. Crawling up from somewhere old and familiar.

His hands began to tremble, almost imperceptibly. His body already reacted to the memories 

“They itch, don’t they?” Chase asked gently, trying again. “Those bumps in your mouth? I bet they sting when you eat, or drink something warm.”

Liam nodded, barely.

“If I can see them, I might be able to help. Just a peek. Nothing scary.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the boy whispered, so soft Chase had to lean in to hear it: “Mommy said I’m not allowed to let you look.”

Chase’s breath caught. His throat tightened like a vice.

“But they itch a lot?” he asked, his voice still soft.

Liam nodded, fingers twitching at his sides.Scratching the space in between his fingers raw. . Chase gently placed a hand over the boy’s, stilling the movement.

“Okay,” Chase said, crouching so their eyes were level. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll take just a tiny peek and we won’t tell your mum. This is just between us. Is that alright?”

The boy hesitated. Then, slowly, he opened his mouth.

Chase raised the light, careful not to move too fast. He angled the beam inside and froze.

The soft flesh of Liam’s inner cheeks and tongue were speckled with the same papules. Small, flesh-colored domes embedded deep in the mucosa. He knew the diagnosis. Knew what it meant. Knew it wasn’t supposed to be there. Not in a child. Not like this.

Chase sat back on his heels., heart pounding in his throat, but his limbs felt distant, heavy. His body wanted to move, to leave, to be anywhere else. But he stayed.  He had known before the light even touched the boy’s skin. And now he had proof.

He didn’t want to ask the next question. Everything in him resisted it. But he had to.

“Liam,” he said quietly, “does your mum ever… do things you don’t want her to do?” His voice barely made it out. “Things that grown-ups aren’t supposed to do?”

The boy’s gaze dropped to the floor. He didn’t speak, just started scratching again, harder this time, almost frantic. Chase covered his hand once more, firmer now, grounding them both.

“Did she ask you to keep a secret?” he asked.

There was a long pause. Then Liam gave a small, broken nod.

Chase closed his eyes. The air in the room felt too warm. Too thick. His own voice sounded far away as he said, “Sometimes… sometimes it’s okay to break a promise. Especially if it hurts. Especially if it makes you scared.”

Liam looked up at him then. Really looked. And in that quiet, awful moment, Chase saw something he hadn’t expected. A flicker of hope. Of fragile, trembling trust.

Then Liam leaned forward, mouth close to Chase’s ear, his breath warm and shaking.

◉◉◉

Cameron and Foreman stood just outside the glass window, watching the conversation unfold in the e xam room. They had eavesdropped from the adjacent room when Chase burst into House’s office, his peculiar insistence, House’s uncharacteristically subdued reaction. They’d hurried after them, convinced that anyone would be better equipped to handle this than House.

Now they watched as Chase spoke to the boy. He hadn’t even noticed them outside. There was a tenderness in him that Foreman hadn’t expected. What was even stranger: Chase actually seemed to care. Not the usual performance, no bright smile, no soft Australian accent laid on for comfort. This was real.

And that was when it happened.

Chase went still.

They both saw it, the way the color bled from his face, the sudden rigidity in his posture. His mouth pressed into a hard, white line, but he forced a small, reassuring smile for the boy. It didn’t reach his eyes. His hands trembled at his sides.

“He looks like he just got hit by a truck,” Foreman muttered, eyebrows knitting.

Cameron didn’t respond right away. Her gaze was locked on Chase, concerned.

“What the hell did the kid say to make him fall apart?” Foreman added, voice low. “Mr. Heartless looks like he’s about to pass out.”

“He’s not heartless,” Cameron replied sharply. “You think this doesn’t affect him just because he doesn’t show it the way you do?”

Foreman scoffed. “Come on, this is the same guy who barely blinked when that father was sleeping with his fifteen-year-old daughter. Suddenly he's got a conscience?”

Cameron turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Maybe this time it’s different.”

Before Foreman could push back, the exam room door opened.

Chase stepped out, his jaw clenched, eyes distant. The blood had not yet returned to his face. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, every breath measured like it might break him.

“Cameron,” he said, voice tight and flat, “can you sit with Liam for a bit?”

She nodded immediately and stepped inside without a word. Chase turned to Foreman.

“Tell House to call CPS,” he said, already moving. He didn’t wait for a response. He just walked past him, head held down.

“Where the hell are you going?” Foreman yelled after him but Chase had already disappeared around a corner. 

◉◉◉

The bathroom door flew open and slammed against the wall. The sound echoed through the room, but Chase barely registered it. He stumbled into the nearest stall, locking it with fumbling hands, and collapsed onto the closed toilet seat like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He pressed them between his knees, but that only made the trembling worse. His thighs bounced restlessly, like they were trying to shake the panic loose.

What has he done?

His heart was hammering  inside his ribcage so hard it hurt. He could feel every vein pulsing, feel the rush of blood rising quickly. It filled his ears, his throat, his skull.

I helped him. I helped Liam.

He repeated the words. Tried to pin them down like facts. Like a diagnosis.

He could still see the boy sitting in front of him when he closed his eyes, his small frame, sunken in eyes. He remembered the boy’s voice. Quiet. Raw. The way it seemed to collapse inward as he spoke. The pain in it. The shame.

You did the right thing. That’s what he was supposed to think.

But the words felt weightless. They floated, paper-thin. Dissolved the second they brushed against the panic.

You betrayed her.

That’s the thought that wouldn’t go away. That burrowed deep and stayed there, cold and certain.

Mrs. Hendrickson. He saw the way she clung to Liam, arms wrapped around him like armor. The way her entire face softened when she talked about him. The fierce kind of love people rarely survive losing.

She loved him.

She had nothing else. And now, because of him , she didn’t even have Liam.

The nausea came in waves, twisting his gut like a knife. He bent forward instinctively, swallowing hard.

You did the right thing.

Then why did he feel like a monster?

He pictured her face. Not angry. Not pleading. Just… shattered . That quiet kind of break people don’t come back from. That silence .

She was alone now.
No husband.
No son.

And it’s your fault.

She might—
She might do something to herself.
People do, when there's nothing left.

You ruined her.

He clutched his forehead with both hands, fingers pressing hard into his temples like he could physically contain the spiral. But it was too late. It was unraveling. Fast.

What’s wrong with me?

Who feels sorry for someone who hurt their child?

The clinical part of his mind, the one that still remembered med school lectures and ethics training, tried to surface. This isn’t about her. It’s about Liam. He was suffering. He needed help.

But it wasn’t her fault.

She was desperate. She loved him. 

He should have protected her. He should have protected them both.

You promised, Robbie. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.

I know. I promised I know . 

He could feel a tear running down his cheek. He had betrayed her. He had left. Broken his promise. His breath shortened into shallow, panicked gasps, each one sharper than the last. 

He was the same scared kid in the same impossible place, and no matter how old he got or what job title he wore, he would always be the same disappointment. 

The guilt was festering inside him, acidic and thick, eating him from the inside out. And when the nausea hit, it came fast and violent.

He stumbled to his feet, vision tunneling as black spots bloomed at the edges.His legs buckled beneath him, and he dropped to his knees just in time.

The sound of the flushing toilet rang loudly in his ears. Chase leaned his forehead against the cool wall to soothe the throbbing pain in his head. The fatigue which he had been fighting off all day was finally catching up to him as the caffeine wore off. He longed for a hot bath and soft bed.

“Did you just throw up?”

It took Chase a few heartbeats to recognize Formans judgemental voice. He should feel embarrassed that his colleague had heard that. Had heard how much exactly?

But Chase felt like someone had hollowed him out, left nothing but a tired and empty husk behind.

“Go away,” he said weakly. His mouth still tasted like bile. 

There was a long stretch of silence. Chase imagined Foreman wringing his hands uncomfortably. They both knew that Foreman regretted stumbling after Chase. Now he was obligated to pretend like he cared. That he was concerned. 

“Are you alright?” Foreman asked hesitantly, breaching the strict boundaries he had built around his colleagues. 

“Peachy,” Chase muttered, wishing Foreman would just leave.  “Ate spoiled toast. Noticed the green spots too late.”

“So this is just food poisoning?” Foreman asked in a measured tone.  “Nothing else?”

“Yes,” Chase managed to say, his voice threatening to crack at any moment. He knew what Foreman was hinting at. “I am the heartless monster you think I am and I would like to puke in solitude now. If that’s alright with you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the soft sound of Foreman’s shoes shifting on the tile.

“Alright,” he said at last.

The door creaked open. Then shut.

Merciful silence fell, wrapping itself around Chase.Chase folded in on himself on the cold bathroom floor, his body trembling despite the stillnes

◉◉◉

Cameron looked up the moment Foreman walked back into Diagnostics. She had been pacing, nervously chewing the bottom of her lip.  “And? Where is he?”

Foreman sighed. Chase was going to hate him for this. Then again, it was Chase , so how big a loss could that be?

“He’s in the bathroom. Hugging the toilet. Claims it’s food poisoning.”

House didn’t even bother to look up from his computer game.  “So while Chase is saying goodbye to his breaky, we’re left cleaning up the mess he made. Fantastic. I mean he discovered that mommy loved her little boy a bit too much. But we are stuck dealing with Cuddy and the police.”

Cameron chose to ignore House before her anger got the better of her. Only House dismissed the sexual abuse of an eight year old, as a lengthy paperwork process. 

“You don’t really believe it’s food poisoning, do you?” Cameron said, thinking of Chase's face. The pale stiffness of it after he had talked with Liam. 

“Obviously,” House and Foreman said at the same time.

They paused. Blinked. Looked at each other.

“That was weird,” House muttered. “Never do that again, Foreman. It’s unsettling.”

“But,” he added, tapping his cane against the floor, “the more important question is, why is he lying?”

“Because he doesn’t want us to find out the truth,” Foreman replied. “Better question: what’s he hiding?”

The three of them looked toward the whiteboard. It loomed large and blank, waiting.

House pushed up from his chair with a dramatic grunt, grabbed the black marker like a sword, and wrote in bold, theatrical strokes:

LYING

VOMITING

Cameron leaned against the table, arms folded. “Should we really be doing this? He’s going to walk in at any moment.”

House shrugged. “That’s what makes it exciting. Think of it like emotional strip poker. Except Chase is the only one naked.”

Foreman chuckled. “He might actually deserve this.”

“Okay, what else?” House said, tapping the marker against his lip. “What symptoms does the patient present with? What do we know about our dear, mysterious kangaroo?”

“This is clearly psychological,” Foreman said. “We should write down family history.”

House nodded and wrote:

DADDY ISSUES
ALCOHOLIC MOTHER

“Excellent,” he said. “Textbook trauma. Repressed and imported all the way from the sunny shores of Australia. What else?”

They all paused, the silence suddenly feeling a little heavier than usual. It struck them just how little they really knew about Chase. He had always been… just Chase. 

House was the cynical, Vicodin-addicted misanthrope they all tolerated or admired in turns.

Foreman? An overly ambitious ex-thief always trying to prove he was better than where he came from.

While Cameron had her idealism, her picture-perfect upbringing and faith in humanity that she clung to like armor.

But Chase... he was just there . Professional. Polished. Pleasant. Always Chase.

Sure, they knew his father had died. Knew the relationship had been cold, maybe nonexistent. His mother had been an alcoholic, but she was long gone by now. That was about it. The rest? A blank space. No history, no stories, no obvious wounds.

In some ways, he was harder to read than House. At least with House, the damage was right there on the surface.  Chase had never shown anything. Never offered anything.

“He hates nuns,” Foreman said.

“And fat people,” House added. “An equal-opportunity snob. I respect that.”

House grinned and wrote:

HATES NUNS AND FAT PEOPLE

He began pacing slowly, chewing the cap of the marker as his mind turned over the clues. “Now, what made him puke?”

Cameron’s voice softened. “ Maybe it was empathy. He really cared about that little boy.”

House turned, eyes narrowing like a spotlight. “First of all, ew. Second, you’re usually the one leaking emotions all over the floor, and you’re not tossing your cookies. So either Chase is pregnant or it’s personal.”

But behind his smirk, Cameron caught something: the shift in his tone, the dart of his eyes toward the hallway Chase had disappeared down. A thread of interest. Real concern, carefully hidden, twisted into something cruel.

She exhaled slowly.

He would never tell them. Cameron knew that. Not voluntarily. Kindness, vulnerability, those were things House and Foreman trampled over without thinking. They didn’t know what to do with softness except crush it under sarcasm or suspicion.

And House would get it out of him. Sooner or later. Cameron knew that, too. He’d pick at Chase until something gave way.

But Cameron wasn’t naive. Not anymore. She’d seen the way Chase moved lately, how tired he looked, how pale he'd gotten, his silences stretching longer than they used to. This wasn’t sudden or random. It was something old, rotting quietly beneath the surface.

Chase had to let someone before House could crack him or let his own silence consume him first. 

“He asked me for sleeping pills,” she murmured. “Said he hasn’t been sleeping. Not properly. Not in weeks.”

The words felt like betrayal. But letting him suffer alone would’ve been worse.

House stopped pacing. Wrote:

INSOMNIA

POSSIBLE DEPRESSION

“Alright, class. Final theories?”   House stepped back, admiring the warped little psychological case study they'd begun to assemble.

“He’s projecting,” Foreman said, raising an eyebrow. “The kid’s trauma reminded him of his own mother, how she broke his trust, started drowning in bottles when she was supposed to be taking care of him.”

House gave a small grunt. “Plausible… but lame.” He tapped his cane for emphasis. “I’m going with repressed Catholic school trauma. Big, scary nun who smacked him with a ruler. Mommy Dearest probably had the same haircut, triggered the whole spiral.”

The room quieted slightly as the weight of their speculation settled.

Cameron stared at the board. “We’ve all been working with him for years. And we don’t know him at all, do we?”

House raised his cane, pointing it at her like a lecturer. “We’re doctors, not therapists. If we actually understood each other, we’d all be unemployed.”

At that moment, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Cameron looked toward the door.

“He’s coming.”

“Showtime,” House said with a smirk. 

◉◉◉

The air in the room was thick, laced with anticipation and in some cases apprehension. Three pairs of eyes stared at Chase as he slowly opened the door. He appeared no different than usual. 

The bright smile and smug expression were still plastered on his face, Foreman noted.

But he moved without the usual spring in his step, Cameron thought and his eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. 

House saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders hunched slightly inward. And most of all, he saw how Chase’s hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, not casual, but clenched, like he was hiding something. Or holding himself together.

Confused, Chase looked at his three colleagues, his eyes drifting over their faces until they landed on the whiteboard. 

He stopped in his tracks.

LYING

VOMITING 

DADDY ISSUES

ALCOHOLIC MOTHER

HATES NUNS (AND FAT PEOPLE)

INSOMNIA

POSSIBLE DEPRESSION

His breath caught. His expression faltered for half a second, jaw clenched, lips parted just slightly. Then his face slid back into neutrality, but his eyes betrayed him. They were narrowed now, searching.

“Is this a joke?” His voice came out low, almost hoarse.

House tilted his head, one brow arched. “Well… do you find it funny?”

Breathe. Chase told himself. In and out. He was used to this. He had been through worse, hadn’t he? House would taunt and terrorize him, if he gave in for just a split second. But eventually he’d grow bored, if Chase proved that there was nothing to see. Then he’d move on, torment Foreman next. 

But something about the words on that board, how uncomfortably close they sat to the truth, made it feel like House had opened him up and started rearranging his organs for fun.

He laughed, thin and too bright. “Hilarius.”

“Good,” House said cheerfully. “Then share your diagnosis with the class.”

He held out a black marker like an offering. Chase ignored it. Marched stiffly to the board and snatched up the red one instead. In shaky letters he wrote:

FOOD POISONING

“Case solved,” he said, backing away, voice clipped. “What’s next?”

House blinked, almost disappointed. “Nothing. Since you've cracked two mysteries in one week, I’m giving you a reward.”

Chase lifted one tired eyebrow. “You’ll let me wash your Vette?”

“Tempting. But no. Just a question.” House’s tone shifted, sharper now. Probing. “Why did you suspect the abuse?”

Chase blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“You had her bring her son in,” House said slowly, each word calculated. “Why?”

Chase hesitated, visibly faltering now. “ You told me something was off,” he answered, his tone defensive. 

“I tell you a lot of things,” House said. “I was just jerking you around. Honestly, I thought you’d come back with some juicy widow sex life gossip.”

Chase’s lips parted slightly, like he meant to say something but forgot how. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, like it was still catching up to the words. “So… all of this was just me?”

“All fame and glory are yours alone,” House said, lightly. “Congratulations.”

Chase nodded absentmindedly. No smug grin followed. No flicker of self-satisfaction for House to squash. Just blankness. And House, tilting his head slightly, noticed Chase wasn’t playing. That, at least, was new.

“Well, good job then,” House said, awkwardly. He didn’t enjoy handing out praise,  it threw off the balance. They worked better, uncertain and desperate to prove something. And Chase, more than the others, usually jumped at scraps of approval. Like a well-trained spaniel.

Sometimes House even praised Cameron or Foreman just to keep Chase working harder. A little rivalry kept the gears turning. But Chase didn’t even blink. The words slid right past him, like he hadn’t heard them at all.

House clapped his hands, sharp and sudden. Chase jolted, a small, involuntary motion. 

House smiled. “Chase gets to nap in my office while you two handle the paperwork. It’s gonna be a long night.”

“And where will you be?” Foreman asked, exasperated.

“Filming furry porn with Cuddy,” House called over his shoulder. “She’s a total freak. But love means sacrifice.”

And with that, he was gone.

“Did he just compliment Chase by insulting us?” Foreman muttered.

“Yeah,” Cameron sighed. “Now get to work.” But her eyes were still on Chase

He had wandered into House’s office, moving like someone underwater. The blinds rattled faintly as he drew them shut.

She couldn’t see his face anymore.

◉◉◉

Chase had done well. Even House had said so. On another day, that rare scrap of praise might have stirred something in him: a flicker of pride that came from pleasing someone so difficult to impress. But tonight, there was no warmth. No pride. Just the sick, churning weight in his gut.

Restless he paced the dark office. The quiet helped, a little. Soothing the fried ends of his nerves. Only now the words on the whiteboard fully sunk in. Foreman had told them about the vomiting, the panic. And the first thing they’d done in response was this; dissect his life like some amateur psych experiment. 

Chase rubbed his temples. A sharp, throbbing ache was beginning to press behind his eyes.

Maybe he should just resign now. Walk away before House put the pieces together, because he would, eventually. And once he did, it wouldn’t just end Chase’s job. It would gut whatever was left of his dignity. 

His stomach twisted. He didn’t want to think about it, but the image was already there: House’s face twisted in that mix of anger and disgust. Cameron and Foreman turning away, silent, ashamed of him.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even blame them.

He’d lied to all of them. Built a version of himself, well-bred, polished, clever, and sold it as real. If he left now, maybe that version could stay intact. Maybe no one would dig deep enough to see what he was really hiding.

A dry cough clawed at his throat, squeezing his lungs a bit tighter.

He needed to sleep. He knew that much. And there was no better place, no safer place, than House’s office. It was warm. The low hum of the hospital just beyond the walls was oddly soothing.

His eyes landed on the armchair. He knew what would come. He would dream of her. Of the past. Those memories crept in during REM sleep, when he was at his most vulnerable, slithering up from the dark.

His hand brushed against something in his coat pocket.  The sleeping pills. He should have let Cameron prescribe the antidepressants, but he wasn’t depressed. Not really. He just needed sleep. Just needed to stop thinking.

His fingers curled around the bottle. The wall between him and the others was thin, he could hear someone groaning faintly. One pill might not be enough. He took three. Just to be sure. 

Then he sank into the armchair and shut his eyes. After a few minutes, the drag of unconsciousness began to pull at him.

He was home. Back in Australia. Sitting at the dining room table in the house he and his mother had shared. The room was washed in the warm yellow light of the chandelier, casting soft shadows across the polished wood and expensive tableware. Outside, night pressed against the windows.

Chase was both fifteen and twenty-eight. He could feel the body of a teenager, thin lanky limbs but thought with the mind of a man. Somehow, both versions of himself sat there, trapped in the same moment, experiencing everything twice.

His mother sat across from him, elegant and poised. Her eyes were painted in sultry makeup, the red of her lipstick matching the wine in her glass. Her hair fell in soft, deliberate waves around her shoulders. 

She raised her glass, watching him. He hesitated, then lifted his own, the wine dark and ominous. He drank. At fifteen, he hadn't yet developed a taste for it but the numbness it brought was welcome. A heavy warmth spread through his body.

"You’re the man of the house now," she said, voice thick with drink.

Chase froze. Then raised his glass again. A long sip. Just to push it all down.

“You have to take care of things,” she added. “It’s just us now.”

There was no need to explain further. He knew what she meant. His father was gone, and with him had gone everything else. No more dinner parties. No more friends. No more quiet company or outside voices. It was like the house had closed in on itself and taken them with it. People in their neighborhood had stopped stopping by. Some whispered things when they thought he wasn’t listening. Dr. Rowan Chase wouldn’t have abandoned his family. Not like that. He had always been so friendly. Kind. They must have done something to drive him away.

His mother reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass without asking. Her fingers brushed his wrist, a little longer than necessary. Her smile softened.

She reached for the bottle and refilled his glass, her smile soft and too knowing. "You look so tense," she murmured, fingers grazing his arm. Her touch wandered. Light. Gentle. 

He couldn’t move. The wine dulled everything. His limbs, his voice. His vision blurred, chandelier lights smearing across his retina. He focused on the fixture above. The intricate metalwork. The flicker of bulbs. Anything to keep his gaze from meeting hers.

In those first few months, he’d prayed his father would come back. That he’d walk through the door, reclaim his seat at the table. Be the one to deal with this. To protect him.

"This will make you feel good," she whispered, and her voice echoed, past and present overlapping in the dark.

He tried to speak, but his tongue felt too thick. His limbs too far away. The chandelier had begun to breathe, he could see it moving, rising, falling, its glow pulsing with the rhythm of his own racing heart.

Her hand was on his thigh now. Not forceful. Just there.

He told himself it wasn’t real. That it was just a dream. He just had to wake up. But the chair was solid beneath him, the wine still on his tongue. Her perfume was thick in the air. Everything around him felt too real, too familiar. 

Chase gasped a dull pain in his shin, jerked him awake. He blinked frantically, eyes wide and unfocused. Instinctively he recoiled into the armchair, away from the dark figure looming over him. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry, his throat aching as he swallowed. 

Slowly his vision cleared and the dark shadow took House’s form. The knowledge did not slow his thundering heartbeat. The dark mix of anxiety and shame still coursed through his veins, as if reality hadn’t caught up with him yet. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” House said, grinning. His cane hung from two fingers, the same one he’d clearly used to jab Chase awake. “Next time, only take one pill. Or you’ll miss your alarm.”

Chase forced himself to inhale. His fingers dug into the armrests as he nodded, slow and stiff, trying to push down the thunder in his chest. His pulse was racing. House circled behind his desk and dropped into his chair, still watching.

“So,” he said casually, “you speak Czech.”

Chase blinked. His brain felt foggy, not ready for one of House’s interrogations. “No.”

Goosebumps climbled Chase’s spine. Why was he asking him that? Why did House’s lip curve into this devious grin?

“Well you have to, a little.”

“Why?” 

“You were mumbling in your sleep. I’m guessing that wasn’t Italian.”

Chase's throat closed. His limbs felt too heavy, thick and uncoordinated, as though he were sinking in his own skin. An icy feeling gripped his spine and he could feel himself shivering in the warm room. 

“What did I say?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

House didn't answer at first. Just leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin. His gaze was sharp, calculating. But Chase already knew.

It could only be this one phrase. One phrase that ever came easy in this foreign language. It had worn itself into him through repetition, blunted by use. Like water rounding out stone.

Tati, pomoz mi, prosím.

Dad, help me, please.

Chase didn’t even react. He couldn’t. His vision tunneled briefly, a prickling cold breaking out under his skin as his lungs tried to regulate themselves. He curled his toes inside his shoes. Ground his back deeper into the chair.

Hold it in. Keep it small. Stay normal.

House’s voice cut through again. “Kinda weird though, that you’d call for your dad. Always thought you were more of a mama’s boy.”

The words hit like ice water.

Chase’s breath caught, and his body tensed involuntarily, just for a second. But it was enough. House would see that. He always saw too much.

That old, buried feeling surged back. He had thought it hidden way deep enough, safely out of reach. But now it crashed over him again, heavy and relentless, threatening to drag him under. Expectation. Guilt. Fear. Suddenly, he was fifteen once more.

Chase looked down quickly, his voice low and even. “Why did you wake me?”

House squinted at him. Chase knew he was being dissected. Parsed for weak points. One flick of the scalpel, and House could crack him open without a single drop of blood.

“Aww, distracting me with work,” House sighed, theatrically disappointed. “So boring.”

But Chase didn’t bite. He just stared at a spot on the desk, unblinking, as if he could stay frozen long enough to make the moment pass.

House studied him for another beat. Then he asked in a very soft tone, “Bad dreams?”

Chase’s eyes didn’t move. “Just tired.”

The lie sat between them like a landmine. 

House didn’t push, not yet. But he wouldn’t let it go, either. That would’ve been too kind. Chase knew that. 

◉◉◉

The four of them were in the diagnostics room, circling around the table. Cameron and Foreman were already sifting through the patient's file eager to propose their theories. Chase gripped the edge of the table to steading himself, trying to mask the slight tremor in his legs.

“Patient’s a 26-year-old female,” House began, spinning his cane once before resting it against the table. “No prior medical history, started seizing in her cell three days ago. Since then: episodes of extreme paranoia, vivid auditory hallucinations, autonomic dysfunction.”

Cameron looked up sharply. “Cell?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” House’s voice was cheerful. “She nearly beat her roommate to death with a desk lamp. For not washing her dishes, apparently.”

“Psych case,” Foreman muttered, already closing the folder. 

“That’s the leading theory,” House agreed, “which is exactly why it’s boring. Except…”

He drew it out, letting their skepticism hang in the air for just a second too long.

“…you can fake hallucinations, even fake a seizure if you're committed enough. But you can’t fake a paradoxical pupillary response.”

Cameron frowned. “Her pupils dilate in response to light?”

House nodded. “Exactly the opposite of what they’re supposed to do. It’s not just wrong, it’s wrong in a way that shouldn’t be possible.”

Chase rubbed at his temple, then leaned in to study the file more closely. His head still felt foggy, and the tightness in his chest lingered, like the tail end of a sprint.

Probably just leftover static from the panic attack  and whatever was still in his system from the sleeping pills. Nothing serious. Probably.

“Does she have any history of violence before this?” He rasped and cleared his throat. 

“None,” House replied. “No priors, no warnings. Philosophy major, likes Russian literature and almond croissants. Completely average, until she snapped. Claims it’s because of a drug she took.”

"Tox screen came back clean," Cameron announced, flipping the chart shut with a snap of finality.

Foreman didn't glance up from his notes. "So our honor student lied about taking something. Probably trying to plead temporary insanity." His pen tapped out a bored rhythm against the clipboard. 

“Thought of that,” House said, pulling a small plastic bag from his pocket. Inside were several smooth, unmarked pink tablets, innocuous as candy. “Police found these on her. Ran the screen. Nothing. Absolutely no chemical signature matching anything in three separate databases.” He rolled one between his fingers. “Either we’ve got the world’s most boring contraband, or someone’s getting very creative.”

Chase picked up the evidence bag, holding it to the light. “Designer drug? Some new bath salt variant?”

“If it is, it’s playing a very different game,” House said. “Roommate knew she was taking them. Claimed for a few hours she went into overdrive, hyperfocus, hyperenergy. Until the sweating started. Then the irritability. Then she nearly killed her with a lamp.”

“Could be a toxin,” Chase offered. “Heavy metal poisoning can cause—”

“—symptoms we already ruled out with the second tox panel you apparently didn’t read,” House snapped. “This isn’t poisoning. This is rewriting.”

A long silence settled like dust. The team exchanged uncertain glances, hesitation lingering in their eyes. House limped over to the observation window and looked down at their patient. The girl sat hunched on the edge of the bed, her hands twitching, eyes darting nervously. Rocking back and forth she seemed like a frightened child with big tears streaming down her cheeks. 

But above all, she looked small. Scared. Not like someone who could bludgeon another person into unconsciousness.

“You don’t actually think the drug made her do it,” Chase said quietly, coming to stand beside him.

“I think something did,” House replied, voice low. “Normal people don’t go from Tolstoy and tea to attempted homicide overnight.”

“It could be psychosis,” Cameron offered. “A first break. Sometimes it’s sudden.”

“But there’s no family history,” Foreman countered. “And if the drug is causing it, we can’t rule that out unless we know how it works.”

They worked through the night, running on caffein and desperation. The EEG scrawled across the monitor in jagged peaks, more like the readout from a seismograph than a brain. Something was firing in there, but it wasn’t following any rules they knew.

The MRI results didn’t offer an answer either. No tumors. No hemorrhages. No swelling. Nothing structurally wrong to explain why the patient’s brain was waging war on itself.

Then the spinal tap results landed.

Foreman stared at the dopamine values, his brow furrowing deeper with every line. “These levels are through the roof,” he muttered, holding up the chart. “This isn’t withdrawal. This is sustained hyperactivity, like the system’s locked in overdrive.”

Chase leaned over his shoulder, frowning. “Triple baseline levels? That’s not residual. Something’s still driving it.”

Cameron bit down on her lip. “Could explain the violence. Dopamine surges can trigger—”

“—parkinsonian symptoms, not homicidal rage,” House cut in from his perch on the rolling stool. He’d been silent for twenty-three minutes, hunched over the pills beneath a microscope. “These aren’t just dumping dopamine. They’re teaching her brain to crave it differently.”

The silence that followed hung heavier than before.

Chase felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He swallowed. “You’re talking about permanent neural restructuring.”

House looked up, eyes alight with that terrible flicker equal parts wonder and recklessness. “I’m talking about the pharmaceutical equivalent of a back-alley lobotomy.”

“We need to find her dealer,” Foreman said, already reaching for his coat.

“Waste of time,” House replied, holding up the evidence bag. “She gave us everything. No contacts. No street name. Just these little brain grenades.”

Chase’s breath caught. His skull throbbed, and that cloudy sensation had only worsened as the day stretched on. He closed his eyes for a second, reaching back into memory, where something didn’t sit right. “I think… there’s more than one pill missing.”

The silence shifted. This one was thicker. Cameron’s face paled. “You didn’t,” she said, breathless.

House adjusted his cane. “Differential diagnosis requires data. Currently, we have two data points: her reaction…” He tapped the bag. “And mine.”

Foreman’s clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. “House, that’s insane. Even for you.”

“A doctor performing vital medical research? Scandalous,” House said with mock outrage. He stood with a wince, his bad leg already trembling slightly. “Relax. If I start quoting Pisarev and strangling people, you have my permission to tase me.”

As he limped toward the door, Chase stepped in front of him.

“This isn’t some antibiotic trial, House. We don’t know what these things do.”

House paused. For a heartbeat, his tone was laced with excitement. “Exactly.”

◉◉◉

An hour into the dangerous and highly unethical drug trial, things began to shift. It started small. A spark in House’s eyes, a twitch in his fingers, a low hum of movement that hadn’t been there before. House appeared brighter, livelier, the tension in his shoulders easing. And then he began talking, without an end in sight. 

His thoughts came in torrents, one bleeding into the next, ideas crashing into each other faster than his mouth could keep up. The three fellows watched him from the monitoring station, the air in the room growing heavier with each passing minute.

"Vitals still normal," Foreman muttered, frowning at the screen.

Chase didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on House, trying to observe what the machines couldn’t monitor. Those small unconscious movements, the twitching in his right eyelid, or the self soothing storking of his arm. House would never tell them if something went wrong. So Chase watched. Closely. None of them had any idea how the drug worked. And House’s vicodin dependent system wasn’t an ideal test subject, but the only willing one. 

A shrill chorus cutting through the tension. Their pagers went off, all three at once.

“Mass casualty in the ER,” Foreman read, already moving.

“We’ll be quick,” Cameron added, though it sounded more like hope than promise.

But when they returned, the room was empty. Only House’s cane lay abandoned by the chair.  For a moment, no one spoke, as if they were waiting for House to jump out of a corner and yell “surprise”. 

“He’s loose,” Chase said, almost to himself. “This is bad.” 

By noon, House had diagnosed six patients in unrelated departments. He burst into Pediatrics to call out a misdiagnosed case of Kawasaki disease, then stormed Cardiology and chewed out a senior attending for missing a rare arrhythmia on an EKG. 

“Cognitive function increasing exponentially,” he muttered to no one, moving at a near-jog down the hallway. “Sensation of time dilation. Smell and sound amplified. Color brighter. Focus is—God, it’s like caffeine and coke had a baby.”

He didn’t stop moving. Didn’t stop talking. His voice was a machine gun of observations, insults, and half-baked theories. Every glance gave him something new, a limp, a rash, a misread chart. He scribbled diagnoses on napkins, surgical gloves, the backs of x-rays. He corrected nurses mid-step. Hijacked clipboards. Snatched charts like they were lifelines.

The three fellows finally caught up with House on the oncology floor. He was stalking the hallways in a quick, uneven pace, looking possessed. His pupils were blown wide, his breath ragged, his hands twitching with a restless energy that had nowhere left to go.

Without breaking stride, he tore a clipboard from a passing nurse, scanned it in seconds, and shoved it at a startled intern.

“Possible carcinoid,” he barked at an intern, shoving the clipboard into their chest. “Run a 5-HIAA. Or don’t. You’d probably screw it up either way.”

“House, stop,” Cameron said, reaching for his arm. He jerked away like her touch burned him. Suddenly he spun around, eyes flashing like a cornered animal. “Touch me again and I’ll sue you for harassment,” he snarled, his jaw tight. His entire frame was shaking now, like he could barely contain the emotions rising inside of him. 

Gently Chase pulled Cameron back and pushed himself in front of her. If what the roommate had told them was true, House was a ticking time bomb. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Foreman said, stepping forward, next to Chase. “We’re supposed to be monitoring you. That was the point of this experiment. Remember?”

“You don’t monitor me,” House snapped. “You orbit me. You survive off of me. Don’t you get it? You’re the ballast. You drag everything back to average. I live out here–” he jabbed a finger at the ceiling “–on the edges. That’s where the truth is.”

Then he pushed forward, trying to shove past them. But Chase moved, stepping directly into his path. They had no choice now. House had to be contained, before he did something he couldn’t take back. 

“House,” he said, calm but firm. “You’re sweating. You’re rambling. Just sit down.”

House stopped mid-step. His whole body seemed to lock into place, as if Chase had triggered something primal. He stared at him, too still, quiet and  for just a second too long. Then came the laugh. A low, bitter bark of sound that had no humor in it.

“You.”

Chase’s stomach dropped. His throat closed up sticky with adrenaline.

House took one slow step forward. His eyes gleamed with something manic, the whites showing too much. Chase felt the instinct to retreat crawl up his spine, but he forced himself to stay put, to step in instead of away. He raised the flashlight and flicked it on, aiming it straight into House’s face.

The pupils blew wide in an instant swallowing the color of his eyes. 

Fuck .

If they were right,  if the drug had driven that girl into a state of uncontrollable violence, then House wasn’t far behind. It wouldn’t be hours. It might not even be minutes . The damage was already visible, smoldering under the surface.

Startled, House recoiled, his voice dropping into something cold and venomous. “You sanctimonious little lab puppy. Always waiting for praise. Do you even realize how pathetic that is? Following me around like a dog hoping I’ll pat your head and say ‘Good boy.’”

“House–”

“No.” The word cracked like a whip. “No interruptions.This is about you now.”

House stepped in again, closing the space between them. The kind of movement that came from a man holding just enough control to keep from lunging .

 Chase didn’t move. Didn’t dare to take a single step back. They stood so close now, that he could smell the sour-sweat on House. 

“Why do you think you’re still here?” House sneered. “Still on training wheels? Because no one else would take you. You’ve been here the longest, and even Cameron’s left you in the dust. Hell, I should’ve listened to your father and never hired you in the first place.”

Chase blinked, stunned. His mouth parted, but no words came. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. His heartbeat had moved up into his throat now, thick and uneven.

“You think I don’t notice?” House spat. “The flinching. The shaky hands. The little disappearing act. What’s with this ‘food poisoning’ crap.”

“Stop,” Chase managed to say, his voice surprisingly calm. It wasn’t House talking, he told himself, only the drugs hijacking his nervous system. 

House’s voice climbed, sharp and slicing. “So what’s the diagnosis, Chase? Hm? Something fungal? Something foreign? Or maybe it’s just good old-fashioned you, disappointing like always.”

He stepped closer again, movements jagged, barely restrained. His breath hitched like each inhale came with its own cost. With the  cane gone, discarded in the hospital room, House stood taller. Meaner. Chase felt it like a shift in air pressure. A heaviness that settled on his chest.

“Maybe it’s an infection,” House continued, voice pitching lower now, more deliberate. “Maybe it’s guilt. Or maybe Daddy issues finally chewed their way through whatever was left of your spine.”

Chase looked away. His vision swam, a slick blur of too-bright hallway lights and the looming shape of House’s silhouette. His lungs tightened again, this time sharper, enough to make breathing an effort. You’re fine, he told himself. You’ve heard worse. Useless, pathetic, stupid, that was practically his entire childhood.

So why did it feel different now that House was saying it?

House's eyes swept over him again, cold and invasive, like an MRI made of judgment and spite. “Well,” he spat, “if you can’t come up with a diagnosis, I guess I’ll have to do it for you. Like always.”

Chase took a small step back, almost reflexive. Every cell in his body told him not to let House finish that train of thought, not in front of Cameron, not in front of Foreman. Not anywhere it could become real.

But House was watching him closely now, like he was reading a chart only he could interpret. And then, almost softly:

“It’s not from your father.”

That alone landed like a blow. And then the pause. House blinked slowly. Thoughtfully.

“No,” he murmured. “That’s the decoy. That’s the big, bad distraction you’ve been waving around so no one ever looks deeper.”

Something in him stilled completely.

And then, with a quiet exhale, one that sounded almost satisfied, House said:

“Oh.”

Just that. Just one syllable. But the sound of it made the floor tilt under Chase’s feet.

And then House smiled.

“You motherfucker.”

The words didn’t hit like an insult. They hit like exposure. Chase didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore. He stood locked in place, nausea clawing up his throat. It all collided in his chest at once, hot and breathless.

But Cameron and Foreman didn’t respond the way Chase had braced for. No sharp intake of breath, no stunned silence. Just puzzled expressions, Foreman’s brow creasing slightly, Cameron tilting her head, trying to decipher the outburst like it was a riddle instead of a rupture.

They didn’t understand.

Not yet.

"I don’t care if we get fired,” Cameron said, her voice tight with urgency. She pulled out her phone with shaking hands. “I’m calling security.”

House barked a laugh  wild and echoing, loudly in the narrow hallway. He threw his arms out wide like some deranged prophet about to deliver his final sermon.

“You people really don’t get it!” he bellowed. “He’s a sick mother—!”

His fist connected with House’s jaw, sharp and clean, splitting the word on his tongue in two. House staggered back a step, more surprised than hurt, one hand rising instinctively to his face. 

Chase’s knuckles throbbed. His chest was tight, breath coming fast. For a suspended second, the world went utterly still. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Then House’s eyes locked onto his.

In that gaze, something shifted.

The shock that had flickered there vanished, swallowed whole by a sudden, blinding rage. It was fierce  like a wildfire consuming whatever trace of humanity remained.

Chase’s instincts screamed at him to move, to get out while he still could. But his legs wouldn’t listen. He stood rooted to the spot, frozen in the terrible realization that he’d just unleashed something he couldn’t control.

House’s voice dropped to a low growl, thick with something twisted and bitter. “Your daddy left before he taught you a real punch. Mine didn’t.”

Then he lunged.

Faster than Chase could have anticipated the first blow struck him square in the chest, the air violently ripped from his lungs. Before he could catch his breath, the second hit, sharp and precise against his jaw. The world tilted beneath him, and suddenly the floor was rushing up.

He crashed down hard, ribs flaring with sharp, searing pain. But House was already on him, fists driving down again and again, not random, not sloppy. Deliberate . Calculated. As if he knew where it would hurt most.

When Chase dared to lift his eyes, the man he’d known vanished. In his place was a wild, feral creature, eyes blazing with something untethered and savage.

Everything else blurred. The sting of pain radiating through his ribs, the metallic taste of blood pooling on his tongue, the burning fire beneath his skin, all of it closed in, squeezing his world down to this brutal moment.

His mind struggled to catch up, to make sense of the relentless violence falling over him. But  his body was slow, sluggish beneath the assault. It was like fighting gravity itself. Somewhere, distantly, he heard someone shouting.

But House didn’t stop.

Strong hands gripped Chase by the collar, yanking him off the ground. His back scraped the floor, pain lighting up down his spine. He could feel House’s breath, hot and ragged, ghosting against his cheek.

Chase closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He prayed for it to be over.

Then, without warning, he crashed back down. The air filled with a grunt, the heavy thud of bodies slamming against the floor.

Foreman had launched into House with full force, tackling him backward and slamming him against the opposite wall. 

“Get off him!” Foreman barked, one arm shoved hard against House’s chest, pinning him.

House writhed, teeth bared, still caught in that frenzy, but Foreman didn’t flinch. He pinned House against the wall, squeezing so hard he was sure it would bruise. 

“I said enough, House!”

House snarled something in response or tried to, his words an indistinguishable slur of fury. Still in shock, Foreman stared into the blue eyes, widely dilated underneath the harsh neon light.  

Chase was on the floor, trying to sit up, his whole body trembling. Cameron was there instantly, hands hovering, voice tight with panic. “Don’t move—Chase, don’t—”

“I’m okay,” he lied, swallowing down the bile crawling up his throat. “I’m—”

House, still pinned, never ceased to struggle against Foreman but his movements seemed sluggish now.  But his eyes remained locked on Chase, unreadable now,  a thousand cruel thoughts flickering too fast to catch.

And then he laughed.

A dry, broken sound.

“Guess I hit a nerve.”

Foreman had tried to control the anger rising in his chest. Whether it was the drugs or not didn’t matter. House had taken them. That was his choice and everything that followed was still his fault.

He still didn’t  fully understand what had passed between House and Chase. Not in the moment. He’d been too stunned by the scene unraveling in front of him. Too shocked to stop it.

And truthfully, he didn’t care much about Chase.

But you didn’t have to like a man to recognize the sound he made now. That raw, broken noise when pain stops being physical. 

You didn’t have to like Chase much to hit House hard enough that it finally knocked him out cold.

Cameron had helped Chase to his feet. Foreman had winced the moment he got a full look at his face, a mess of swelling and blood. They all knew the worst hadn’t even settled in yet. The bruises would come later, dark and blooming.

“You should sit back down,” Foreman said quietly.

“I checked. He’s not concussed,” Cameron added, though her voice was thin and tight. She looked like she might cry at any moment. “But we need to clean you up.”

She had one hand pressed gently to his temple, trying to stanch the bleeding with a handful of gauze from the emergency kit. Blood had soaked into his collar and streaked down the side of his face, drying against pale skin.

But the injuries weren’t the worst of it. It was the way Chase wouldn’t look at either of them. How he held his body slightly turned, like he was trying to shrink out of view.  Slowly he began to walk, mechanically, his body working from old muscle memory. 

“Were are you going?” Cameron tried to grab his arm but Chase flinched away. 

He stood still for a moment, like he needed just a few extra seconds to catch up to his own body. Then, without lifting his eyes from the floor, he said:

“When House wakes up… tell him I quit.”

Chapter Text

For once, Chase welcomed the cold. The way it slipped past the gaps in the windows, spread across the floor, and sank into his skin. Slowed his erratic heart with an icy grip. It numbed the ache inside him better than anything else could. 

He stood still in the dark, breath curling in pale clouds that vanished before they reached his chest. The apartment was silent. Still. As if it had been abandoned for years, not hours.

He was alone .

The thought settled slowly, like dust. Then it pressed deeper. He stayed there, in the middle of the room, letting it spool out, a slow, terrible unraveling.

Alone. 

Again. 

Still.

But the realization didn’t get easier to bear. No matter how many times Chase tried to turn it over in his mind, dissect it, reason with it. His hands were trembling again, the telltale signal of the next surge of adrenaline flooding his system. Noradrenaline close behind, setting off the familiar chain reaction: tight chest, shallow breaths, the edges of his vision blurring. 

He recognized it for what it was, a panic response. But the knowledge didn’t make it stop.

His body moved on autopilot, trying to outrun the spiral. Feet carrying him down the hall, toward the bathroom. The light switch clicked under his fingers, bright fluorescents igniting overhead.

He winced at the glare but didn’t step inside. He lingered in the doorway instead, fingertips pressed against the cool frame, grounding himself.

The clinical part of his mind noted the symptoms. The rest of him just tried to breathe.

Nothing felt real. Everything that had happened at the hospital, like a bad dream. Perhaps it was only a dream. A bizarre chemical reaction to the sleeping pills. 

But then his fingers brushed the bruise along his cheek. The pain flared, sharp and clear. Not a dreamlike echo of a sensation. 

Slowly, Chase stepped into the bathroom. His eyes drifted across the space, noticing details that had blurred into the background for weeks. Black mold creeping through the grout lines. Empty shampoo bottles littering the floor of the shower. The curtain rod sagging where the plastic had cracked.

It felt like he hadn’t really looked at the room in ages. But the distraction only carried him so far. His gaze kept pulling toward the mirror, bright and gleaming under the harsh light. A tight knot formed in his chest. He would have to face it eventually.

Reluctantly, he shuffled closer. Each step heavier than the last. His hand braced against the cold porcelain of the sink as he finally lifted his head.

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t the drawn, ghostly outline of a man he’d grown used to seeing these past weeks. It wasn’t Dr. Chase, either with his bright, practiced smile and clean white coat. The person looking back at him now was someone else.

Robert.

For the first time in nearly a decade, he saw himself.

He reached up, fingertips brushing the bruises that marbled his skin deep reds and angry purples blooming along his cheek, his jaw. When he pressed lightly against the bone beneath his eye, pain flared. Fractured, his mind supplied, clinical and detached. The ache echoed down his neck, into his chest, and he held onto it.

It grounded him. Gave shape to everything inside.

A long breath left him. He felt different now. Almost relieved. Like some part of him had finally stopped pretending.

He turned the faucet, expecting the familiar rush of water, but nothing came. Just a hollow creak of old pipes, stubborn with ice. The temperature outside was still plummeting. The blizzard pressing closer. His fingers hovered under the tap for a moment before falling away.

So this was how he stayed. Marked . Blood dried against his skin. 

Maybe that was fitting. It felt overdue.

He’d spent years hiding the truth, what happened after his father left. Years of silence. He’d kept their secret. Even after her death, he never spoke. Not about the way she blurred the lines. Leaned in too close. Warped everything.

So, he passed as clean. Smart. Good. Virtuous.

But now it was out. Someone had looked too closely. Peeled back the layers and found the rot beneath. The filth and damage he worked so hard to bury.

And he’d been punished.

He pressed his hands against his face, harder this time, until pain exploded behind his eyes, down his jaw. His knees trembled under the pressure. Still, he didn’t stop. Not until the sting behind his eyes blurred his vision, not until his legs nearly buckled from the weight of it.

He let out raspy, shallow breaths. His hands dropped from his face, limp at his sides. His skin throbbed where he'd pressed too hard, but the pain was duller now, distant  just another thread in the noise roaring through him.

House knew.

Of all people. House.

It made his stomach twist, a sick churn of shame and something worse, something traitorous. Relief. Thin and bittersweet, buried in the same dark place he kept everything else. But House had seen it. Had seen him . 

When he finally moved, it was because his body demanded it. Not out of will just the slow surrender of flesh to temperature. His breath came in tight, smoky curls as he stepped through the apartment. The light from the bathroom stayed behind him, the shadows deepening with every step until the hallway was swallowed whole.

In the bedroom, the cold was sharper. The windows had frosted over completely, thin veins of ice threading across the glass like scars. Even the floor seemed to resist his steps, unwelcoming and brittle with cold. It was the kind of temperature that didn’t just settle on the skin, it pressed deeper, until it felt like his bones were being hollowed out.

His fingers had gone stiff, the tips numb and unresponsive. He didn’t bother looking down. He already knew what he’d see: waxy pale skin. 

Vasoconstriction , his mind offered automatically. The body pulling blood inward. First sign of frostnip. 

A flicker of alarm stirred somewhere beneath the fog. But it was faint,  distant,  easy to silence in the cold that was pressing in from every side.

He didn’t bother with the lights. Or the blankets. Or even his shoes.

He dropped onto the mattress fully dressed, limbs heavy and clumsy, like his muscles had given up remembering how to function. The sheets were like paper left in a freezer, stiff and almost damp from the humidity of breath meeting air.

His breath shook. Not from crying. Just from cold. And maybe from the quiet weight of everything that had broken inside him tonight. It was unbearable in that muted way, the kind of pain that didn’t scream, didn’t demand attention. It whispered, slow and relentless, wearing him down one breath at a time.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The pillow beneath his cheek might as well have been stone. His limbs were heavy, uncooperative. The ceiling blurred, stretched, distorted, distant, like it was floating miles above him.

The confusion crept in, slow but insidious.

He should’ve felt afraid. Or humiliated. Or angry. But those sharp edges had dulled, swallowed beneath the creeping frost that spiderwebbed through his chest and limbs. His thoughts tangled, looping back on themselves, fragmented. Time warped. Minutes stretched thin, seconds hiccupped.

It was hard to string things together. Harder to care.

Peace settled in his bones. The kind of still, traitorous calm that came when your body started shutting down. Like his brain had quietly agreed: enough.

His throat burned, dry and raw. He swallowed against it but the movement felt foreign, delayed. His cheek pressed harder into the mattress. His knees curled closer in a clumsy, disjointed motion. Everything lagged. Even his heart.

A sluggish, faltering rhythm thrummed through his chest, the unmistakable slowing of a system powering down, conserving what scraps it had left, abandoning what it couldn’t protect anymore.

Chase welcomed it.

Welcomed the chill that threaded deeper, the creeping numbness that dulled the ache, the exhaustion that crushed down like wet, heavy wool.

Somewhere, just a half-formed thought – he reached out. His fingers fumbled awkwardly in his pocket. The bottle rattled. He turned it over in his palm, stared, and for a moment couldn’t recall why he’d grabbed it. The label blurred. His name or maybe someone else's  danced across it in double vision.

One pill. Just one. 

That seemed… right. 

Necessary? 

Maybe.

The cold was in his lungs now. A hollow, biting stillness. But it was easier this way, quieter. He let it happen.

The world blurred again, walls stretching, sounds muffling, breath slowing.

The final, encroaching silence felt like a mercy.

◉◉◉

The door to the security control room creaked slightly as Wilson peeked inside. He sighed when he spotted not a security officer, but House slouched in a chair in front of the glowing wall of surveillance screens. At least he’d finally found him after checking the cafeteria, men’s bathroom, even the morgue.

House was still in the hospital gown, thin fabric loose around his frame. They’d been forced to sedate and restrain him yesterday, after the idiot made the brilliant decision to swallow the mystery drugs which almost turned a woman into a murderer. Wilson could already feel the edges of a migraine pressing in just thinking about it.

“Don’t suppose you brought popcorn,” House muttered, eyes still glued to the screens. The flippant tone landed, but barely. It was thin, automatic, worn around the edges. 

Wilson’s gaze lingered on him, studying the sunken lines etched deeper into his face, the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes that looked darker than usual.

“Why aren’t you in your room?” Wilson asked carefully.

House’s gaze flicked up for a fraction of a second. “Convinced Cuddy I wouldn’t beat anyone else up,” he muttered, his eyes drifting back to the monitors.

Wilson inched closer, uncertain. If he was honest, he didn’t know what to feel. House was a reckless, abrasive bastard – but violent? That had never been a part of the mixture. 

Then yesterday he beat Chase to a pulp. 

“I won’t bite,” House muttered, sensing Wilson’s hesitation.

That’s right. It was only the drugs , Wilson reminded himself. As if that made any of this easier to stomach.

The screen in front of House played security footage from yesterday, grainy black-and-white images of House and his team standing stiffly in the hallway. Wilson’s breath caught. He barely recognized House. And he’d seen the man at his absolute worst: after Stacy left, in the depths of his pain, when the bitterness hollowed him out. But this… this was different.

The figure on the screen was jittery, brittle with tension, crackling with a violence Wilson never imagined seeing in House.

When House lunged for Chase, Wilson’s stomach flipped. His eyes jerked away. He couldn’t watch it, couldn’t watch the man he shared his bed with unravel into something so ugly, so dangerous. Couldn’t face the reality that House was capable of –

“I wish I could look away too,” House said quietly, voice thin and frayed around the edges. “Fifth time I’ve watched this… Still can’t believe –” He cut himself off, jaw working. “I knew the risks… I just… never thought it’d go that far.”

Wilson hesitated, then reached out, laying his hand gently over House’s. The instinct to protect him, even now, even after everything, was impossible to suppress. House never made vulnerability easy, but here it was. Raw. Exposed. Regret bleeding out in the open.

“You should talk to Chase,” Wilson offered softly, though he felt the tension coil under his hand as soon as the words left his mouth.

“No point,” House snapped, eyes glued to the screen. “He quit.”

They lapsed into silence. The room buzzed faintly with static as the footage looped again, Chase standing there, the moment before impact stretched taut with inevitability. House’s eyes stayed fixed on it, dissecting every frame, every mistake, as if replaying his own disgrace, wounding himself often enough might serve as an atonement. 

In House’s twisted world, maybe it did.

“Look at him,” House said in a hoarse voice. “He doesn’t put up a fight. Just takes it.” 

Wilson forced himself to look at the screen, at Chase, lying motionless on the floor, shock etched across his face. Panic flickered there for a moment, then drained into resignation. He felt relief flooding over him when Foreman finally sprang into action, tackling House off of Chase.

Lightly Wilson’s fingers brushed over House’s bruised knuckles. “You have to apologize.”

House pressed his lips into a thin line, jaw tight. He wasn’t used to this.  Sure, he’d always been a jerk, hurting people’s feelings came naturally. But this… this … was different. He had never been so completely, irrefutably in the wrong.

“It’s not like he’d come back,” House muttered.

“You don’t know that.”

House’s voice rose abruptly, brittle with frustration. “Of course I know that! What, he’s just going to show up, pretend nothing happened, work for the guy who beat him to a pulp and broadcast his personal trauma?” His lip curled faintly. “I’d lose all respect for him if he did.”

Silence fell. Only House’s uneven, shaky breaths filled the space. Wilson opened his mouth, closed it again, there were no words that could fix this, no tidy solution. His gaze caught on House’s face, the glassy sheen in his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. 

“What did you do?” Wilson asked softly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

House gulped, pulling his hand back from Wilson’s. His eyes stayed locked on the screen. “I had Chase cover my clinic duty. There was this patient. Straightforward, really. Woman got an STD, kind of boring. So I figured I’d jerk Chase around a little. He’s been… off, lately. But I didn’t know that there was actually something to it.” His voice faltered.

“That was the woman who abused her son?” Wilson supplied. Cuddy had informed him of the basic details. House gave a small nod.

“That should’ve been the end of it,” House continued. “Except… it set off a panic attack in Chase. Made him puke.”

Wilson’s brow furrowed. “Why would that make Chase panic?”

House let out a dry, bitter huff. “That’s what I thought too. So… I sort of conducted a differential on Chase.”

Wilson’s headache bloomed instantly. He rubbed at his temples, dread prickling in his chest. “Please don’t tell me you did what I think you did.”

House’s silence was answer enough. His eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Chase did seem oddly composed, all things considered,” House muttered under his breath.

“He found out?!” Wilson’s voice cracked in disbelief.

“I sort of… confronted him,” House admitted, voice small.

“I’m assuming you did a couple of other insensitive things that I would strongly disapprove of?” Wilson prompted, already knowing the answer.

House nodded without hesitation.

“But to be fair, you disapprove of most things.”

“That’s because you’re insensitive most of the time,” Wilson shot back automatically.

No sarcastic retort followed. Wilson blinked, studying House’s drawn, closed-off posture. He looked almost… ashamed. And if even House was ashamed, that couldn’t mean anything good.

“Just tell me.”

For a long, suffocating moment, House said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on the frozen image of himself on the screen, his own face, twisted in rage, looming over Chase.

“We figured he had a panic attack because the case reminded him of something similar,” House began quietly. His eyes flickered nervously toward Wilson. “But we were wrong.”

Wilson’s chest tightened.

“It wasn’t similar,” House said slowly  “If I’m right… it’s almost identical.”

The words hung in the air taking up an uncomfortable amount of space. Wilson’s mind stumbled over their meaning.

“You mean—”

“Yes,” House cut in harshly.

“Oh God. And you—”

“Yes.”

Wilson stared at the blank wall in front of him, trying to absorb the reality of it. His head felt heavy, sluggish, unwilling to accept the weight of what House had just admitted. When he finally turned his gaze back, his heart stuttered.

A wet trail marked House’s cheek.

◉◉◉

It was dark around him.

The sun had been out just a moment ago, blinding and hot. But now, the world was drenched in shadow. Only the moon spilled its pale light across the room. Chase blinked, his eyes struggling to focus. Cool sheets clung damply to his skin, slick with sweat.

He couldn’t move. Not yet. His limbs felt heavy, distant, like they belonged to someone else entirely. Carefully, he curled his fingertips, but he didn’t feel them moving, not until he lifted his hand to his face and saw it. 

At some point, he must have stood, must have crossed the room, but he couldn’t remember the moment his feet touched the floor. 

Heat and hot steam were coiling around him now. The sharp hiss of the shower filled his ears. He stood beneath scalding water, skin flushed raw. Red as an open wound. But there was no pain. Only numbness, and the relentless motion of his hands, scrubbing harder – harder – until crimson bloomed beneath his fingernails.

The filth clung to him. Invisible, but suffocating. He felt it in his pores, his breath, radiating shame. He was sure it showed. That people could see it just by looking at him.

Sin had weight. Not metaphorical. Weight like wet cloth, pressing, seeping in.

The water kept running. His fingers wrinkled slowly, skin folding inward in soft, translucent ridges. He watched it happen, quiet and still, his breath barely touching the air. It was the autonomic nervous system, he recalled, sending signals that made the arterioles and capillaries shrink. That shrinking changed the volume under the skin, pulling the surface into folds. 

He clung to that knowledge, something that gave this world shape. It was easier to think about blood flow and skin elasticity than the weight of the damp sheets against his back.

The towel was rough, dragging across his arms and chest, catching on places scrubbed raw. He didn’t stop. His body floated, weightless, like it didn’t belong to him. 

The mirror was a soft blur, silvered fog erasing the edges of his reflection. He leaned closer, searching for himself in the smudged glass. All he saw was a figure shifting behind a veil, flickering in and out like static. 

Last step of his ritual. 

From beneath the sink, his hand found the small wooden box. The contents rattled softly. Inside: the blades. Most wrapped in their delicate wax cocoons. One unwrapped, gleaming faintly.

He sat on the edge of the tub. His breath caught. The kind of breath you hold when you’re trying not to speak. Not to scream.

He could still hear her voice. Sweet. Calm. Almost tender.

“It’s okay, darling. You’re special. Don’t pull away.”

He pressed the blade to his skin, dragging it with clinical precision across the thin, scarred lines carved into his thigh.

The pain was sharp, clear. The only thing real. It bloomed hot, red, clean. Sweeping away the fog for a fleeting moment.

This is what I deserve.

The words looped, steady, practiced, like catechism.

I didn’t stop her.
   I just stood there.
     She wasn’t herself.
       But I knew it was wrong.
         And I let it happen.

But no one knew. No one could ever know.

So there was no one left to punish him.

Except himself.

◉◉◉

The world outside was a blur of tumbling white, snowflakes swirling like static against the windshield. The wipers struggled to keep pace, smearing streaks across the glass. Wilson squinted, leaning forward, trying to pick out the vague outlines of cars and headlights ahead.

They drove in silence.

Normally, car rides were House's stage; half-hour tirades about Cuddy, cafeteria food, patients, or him fiddling endlessly with the radio. But tonight, he sat unusually quiet, glowering at the road, his jaw set, eyes fixed ahead.

“I thought,” Wilson began carefully, “we could stay at my place tonight.”

House grunted, low and disapproving, not bothering to look over.

Wilson sighed, unsurprised. He’d expected that response. They had only stayed at his place a handful of times since the start of – whatever this was – mostly when House’s apartment was overrun with handymen or unlivable for some reason House refused to explain.

Most nights, Wilson didn’t mind making the trek to House’s cramped apartment, where books, clothes, and dishes seemed to accumulate in every available space, toppling over each other like a chaotic art installation.

But tonight, the cold had burrowed deep into his bones. He missed his place, the quiet, the soft lighting, the simple pleasure of walking barefoot across floors heated beneath his feet. For a man so easily bored, House was often stuck in his routines. 

“Cuddy should fire me.”

House’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the engine. He didn’t look at Wilson, just stared straight ahead through the windshield like the road might offer a cleaner truth than whatever sat between them now.

Wilson glanced over. The words had landed strangely  too measured, for House to just be provoking. There was weight to them. Remorse, maybe. Not something House often allowed into the open air. And rarer still: he wanted to talk about it. With him.

“Cuddy won’t fire you,” Wilson said, cautiously, buying time. He knew House didn’t throw that kind of statement around unless he meant it.

“That’s why I said she should fire me,” House snapped, fingers drumming restlessly against the side of his leg.

Wilson let out a quiet sigh and turned his attention back to the road. “You still want to work there. Otherwise you would’ve already handed in your resignation.”

House’s hands stilled. “From all the evils, Cuddy’s the lesser. Bureaucratic, sure, but at least she’s predictable and those boobs. Wowza.  Foreman and Cameron though…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I might have to fire them both.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “They won’t talk to you?”

“Not a single word beyond what’s absolutely medically required,” House muttered. “It’s like a monastic vow of silence. Cameron even canceled the cable subscription in the lounge. Apparently, punishment is communal now.”

Wilson couldn’t help the small, rueful smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know there’s an easy solution to all of this, right?”

House groaned audibly and slumped further into his seat like a teenager about to get scolded.

“Just talk to Chase,” Wilson said. “Apologize.”

“It won’t bring him back,” House replied flatly.

“No,” Wilson agreed. “But it’s not just about Chase. It’s about the rest of your team,  Foreman and Cameron. If you don’t make an effort Cameron will leave, you know that. Then Cuddy will make you hire two more recruits. Do you really want to go through the hassle of breaking them in?”

A long silence followed. The kind of silence Wilson had learned not to push through too quickly. House didn’t respond well to being cornered even if cornered by good intentions. 

The car rolled to a stop on a quiet, frozen street. House barely noticed. He was lost in thought, staring ahead at nothing in particular, one leg jittering.

Wilson shifted into park and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Alright,” he said, too casually, “give me a second.”

House frowned; this wasn’t Backerstreet or any other familiar place he knew. The street seemed grim in the flickering street light, the kind of place you’d expect to pick a hooker up. 

“What are we doing here?”

“I just need to drop something off,” Wilson said, already halfway out of the car. “Won’t take long.”

House squinted at the windshield. “You’re doing late night house calls in this run down part of town now?”

Wilson didn’t answer. He simply stepped around the front of the car, popped open the passenger door, and gestured. “Come on. Stretch your leg. Get some air.”

“The air is trying to kill me,” House muttered but climbed out anyway, grabbing his cane for support. Even in the dark, the buildings looked wrecked, graffiti smeared along crumbling brick, windows cracked or boarded up.

Wilson, ever the gentleman, latched onto House’s arm despite his grumbled protests, steering him across the icy sidewalk. The ground was slick, uneven, and as much as House hated to admit it, the steady grip spared him from eating pavement.

They stopped in front of a sagging apartment building. Wilsons eyes began flickering over the nameplate. Absent-mindedly he began chewing his bottom lip, something he only did when he was nervous. 

House leaned closer, squinting. There were only two names. 

“You manipulative bastard,” House said under his breath.

The name Chase stared back at him, neat against rusted metal.

Wilson didn’t flinch. “Come on. Just walk to the door. Talk to him.”

House turned, glowering. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s also the right thing to do.” Wilson’s voice stayed maddeningly calm. “Besides, we’re not leaving until you two have had a conversation.”

House shifted his weight onto his good leg, scowling harder. Wilson had no right – absolutely no right – to ambush him with morality. For a moment, House debated simply standing there, waiting Wilson out. It was a contest of sheer stubbornness. One of them would fold.

Unfortunately, a bitter gust of wind ripped down the street, slicing through House’s thin hospital trousers like knives of ice. House hissed under his breath.

“I’m in pain,” he snapped.

“Then go inside,” Wilson shot back, deadpan. “I’m sure it’s nice and cozy in Chase’s apartment.”

House grimaced but didn’t move. The wind howled again, and with an exaggerated sigh, a long-suffering groan reserved for martyrdom, he turned and limped toward the stairs.

“Don’t wait for me,” he muttered.

But Wilson stayed rooted in place, watching. Just in case.

House dragged himself up the steps, every joint stiff and aching from the cold. His thigh burned, but his pride burned worse. He cursed Wilson under his breath, for dragging him here. Forcing House to do something, he knew, he couldn’t. At least not properly.

Apologies weren’t his thing. Even if they were, there was nothing he could say to heal the damage.

He paused at the door, fishing a Vicodin from his pocket, popping it dry for courage. His hand hovered, ready to knock,  then he caught sight of his knuckles.

Bruised. Swollen.

The same hands he’d used to—

He swallowed hard, flicked another Vicodin onto his tongue. For safety measures.

Then he knocked.

Silence.

“Pizza delivery,” House called sarcastically, knocking again. Still nothing.

“Chase. It’s me. Open up,” he tried, voice edging toward hoarse. Of course Chase wouldn’t open. House wouldn’t either if the roles were reversed.

“Kangaroo… come on,” he coaxed, leaning his forehead lightly against the door. “You open up, Wilson’s happy, I can leave you alone. Win-win.”

The door stayed stubbornly shut.

House sighed, defeated, tugging his phone from his coat pocket. He dialed.

“He won’t open up.”

Wilson’s voice crackled through the line.“And that’s stopping you?” 

“I’m not breaking into his apartment.”

“Since when?” Wilson sounded genuinely curious.

“Since I probably traumatized him,” House snapped.

“You have a key. Use it.”

House’s mouth opened, ready with another protest  but the biting wind crept under his collar again. He sighed, long and heavy, because Wilson had, infuriatingly, won.

He fished the key from his pocket, weighing it in his palm.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if I get emotionally eviscerated in there, I’m making you buy me dinner.”

And with that, he unlocked the door.

◉◉◉

At first, it was only the smell.

The sharp scent of pine aftershave drifted through the air causing the hair at the back of Chase’s neck rise on instinct. It was muscle memory now, that reaction. The twisting pulse beneath his skin, the tight coil knotting his stomach. Years of conditioning, buried so deep it barely registered anymore.

A long time ago, when he was younger, stupider , he would’ve whipped around at the scent, frantic, desperate to locate the man it belonged to. That foolish hope, surging up before he could crush it down.

But eventually, even that impulse faded. Too many strangers wore the same brand. Too many false alarms. It wasn’t worth it. Getting his hopes up. Not when they shattered every time.

But then—

Then, suddenly, there he was, standing in the Diagnostics room as if he belonged there: tall and broad-shouldered, tanned skin taut over muscle, that same unbearable confidence etched into every line of his posture. 

It couldn’t be real. His brain fizzed, static crawling across his thoughts, distorting reality like ripples on the surface of water. But there he was Rowan Chase. Eleven years since he had walked out. Three years since that cold, disinterested voice last echoed in his ears.

And now, as if summoned from the depths of some private hell, his father stood among his colleagues, speaking to them, slipping back into Chase’s life without hesitation.

Chase stood frozen, words stuck in his throat, muscles locked rigid beneath his skin.

How dare he show up.

After all this time, after disappearing, after leaving him to deal with the wreckage alone.

The world blurred. Fluorescent lights bled together. Clinical white walls dissolved into haze. His vision narrowed as his mind stumbled over fragments of sound and color.

He caught flickers; a boy with a rash, the shimmer of anxious eyes, voices low and warped, bleeding together like sound underwater.  But none of it mattered. None of it reached him beyond the crimson smear of his father’s sweater, pulsing quietly with fury at the edges of his vision.

Time slipped sideways.

The floor tilted beneath him, weightless, strange. The hallway, the hospital, the frozen ache tangled in his limbs all blurring into something formless and far away.

Only the words mattered.

“I missed you.”

Three simple words he’d longed to hear more than he’d admit.

Years spend muttering half-formed prayers into the dark. Years of unanswered voicemails. Endless attempts to stitch together some illusion of worth, of being seen, of being enough.

Now the words stood before him — supposed to untangle everything, to ease the suffocating pressure in his chest.

But there was no relief. No forgiveness.

Just anger. Bitter and hot, simmering beneath his skin like acid, prickling behind his eyes, tightening his jaw. Clawing through the cracks in his carefully rehearsed indifference.

Because he had waited. Waited and hoped, begged for his father to care. To come back.

And now, Rowan Chase dared to stand here, to offer those words like some kind of absolution, as if silence and absence could be patched over with sentiment. 

He didn’t need Rowan Chase anymore. Didn’t need saving.

But the memory shifted again — bleeding into another cold, familiar place. His apartment that night, shadows heavy in the corners, the sting of unshed tears clinging to his skin.

The cigarette burning low between his fingers, bitter smoke curling through the stale air, filling his lungs with ash. He wanted to believe he didn’t care. Didn’t need rescue. But the lie tasted as bitter as the smoke on his tongue.

Beneath the anger, beneath exhaustion, that hollow ache pulsed — stubborn, heavy, impossible to outrun.

Why did he still ache for rescue from a man who never came?

◉◉◉

House’s breath curled into long, pale streams as he hovered in the doorway of Chase’s apartment. This… couldn’t be right.

He had expected something comfortably disheveled, worn brown leather furniture, dark wood, the reliable hallmarks of a young male doctor clinging to the illusion of adulthood. Maybe a framed rugby jersey. A few overambitious self-help books collecting dust. The kind of space that put men at ease and quietly repelled most women.

But the reality was colder. Literally.

House’s boots scraped faintly against the hardwood as he stepped inside, his cane tapping in rhythm. A thin layer of frost had crept across the floor and furniture, coating the sofa, coffee table, and even the spines of the books on the shelf with a silvery sheen.

House tugged his coat tighter around himself, a feeble attempt to ward of the invasive cold. 

“Chase?” His voice echoed faintly in the apartment’s quiet hollowness. “It’s me,” he added, just in case the wombat came barreling out of the shadows with a baseball bat. But the apartment stayed silent, heavy with absence.

A small knot of relief settled in his chest. Good . Chase wasn’t home. He had probably done the sensible thing and found a hotel room, somewhere warm, with functioning heat. From the looks of this place, Chase had played things down significantly when he had lied to House about the broken pipe. It seemed like the entire boiler was out of commission.

House flipped a light switch. The bulbs overhead flickered to life, casting the space in a dull, warm yellow that felt entirely at odds with the chill in the air.

The apartment was… sparse. Spartan, even. No clutter, no high school rugby memorabilia House had imagined. The sofa was plain, the TV modest, the bookshelves lined with neat rows of medical journals.

House lingered, weighing his options. His leg throbbed dully, the cold biting deep into the muscle, already stiffening the joint. He should probably leave. But if he bailed now, Wilson would corner him, drag him across the city to Chase’s hotel  or worse, his new job. Because Wilson wouldn’t let this go until House had delivered the obligatory, humiliating apology or convincingly faked one.

It would be easier for everyone involved, House decided, if he stayed here a little longer and later spun Wilson a story about Chase cursing his name and slamming the door in his face.

Leaving the living room, House hobbled down a narrow corridor, the apartment’s strange, elongated layout forcing him to shuffle awkwardly.

The kitchen was as stripped down as the living room. A few mugs cluttered the sink, and the trash bag was sagging dangerously, overdue for a trip outside. The counters were mostly bare, save for a coffee maker, a cutting board, and the faint ring stains of hastily placed cups.

For good measure, House opened the refrigerator, the rubber seal peeling back with a faint hiss. Inside was a sparse wasteland – the same bleak, utilitarian landscape as his own fridge, minus the beer and the occasional sad-looking vegetables Wilson insisted on buying.

But here, not a single drop of alcohol. No six-pack tucked away for bad days, no half-empty bottle of wine collecting dust in the door, not even a neglected bottle of bourbon saved for ‘special occasions.’

Interesting.

House closed the fridge, leaning on his cane, gaze drifting thoughtfully across the barren kitchen. He’d seen Chase have a drink before. It had been one of the first little experiments House ran after finding his mother’s obituary buried in the search results.

Chase had only ever done it in a casual, polite manner, just to blend in with his social surroundings. A beer at the bar with colleagues, a glass of wine at some dull fundraising event, even that time they shared scotch in House’s office under the guise of “team bonding.”

It appeared that Chase was a better actor than House gave him credit for – raising a glass with the same practiced ease he used to nod along to authority figures. Another people pleaser, cut from the same cloth as Wilson, though Chase wrapped it in more deflection and less self-righteousness.

Houses gaze drifted to the kitchen table, where a stack of paper lay, “Confidential” stamped in bold letters. House reached for them his fingers slow, calculating, utterly indifferent to the concept of personal boundaries.

He skimmed the documents, eyes flickering over numbers and legal jargon. Promissory notes. Lots of them.

House let out a low whistle, impressed despite himself. Chase owed someone hundreds of thousands  and not the friendly neighborhood bank, either.  He shuffled through the pile, the pieces falling into place with disturbing ease. It looked like Chase had inherited more than grief from Mommy Dearest – debts stacked high enough to crush anyone.

House set the letters back down. He inhaled deeply, the cold apartment air expanding in his lungs like smoke, bitter and biting. Over the past twenty-four hours, he’d been forced to reevaluate the neat little picture he'd constructed of Chase; the privileged upbringing, the summer camps, the perfect accent and polished med-school resume.

It was all still there, technically. But now, cracks were showing, fragments of something rougher, more complicated. A difficult childhood buried under designer clothes and that irritatingly effective teflon facade.

House found himself wondering who Chase really was beneath it all. Or if that even mattered. He knew better than anyone how easily a lie, if told long enough, could harden into reality.

His leg throbbed insistently, reminding him to keep moving. Enough time had passed for Wilson to believe he'd had a heartfelt conversation with Chase. But House wasn’t done exploring yet.

As he limped down the narrow corridor, a sliver of light caught his eye, spilling weakly from beneath a door.

Strange. He was certain no one was home.

House approached quietly, startling an intruder with a bum leg wasn’t exactly strategic, but curiosity always outweighed survival instinct. He eased the door open, only to find the bathroom empty. The overhead light flickered ominously, casting a harsh, cold glare across the sterile white tiles.

House was ready to move on, nothing much to see here, while the bedroom still held the enticing promise of a bedside drawer filled with illicit materials.

Then he noticed a faint, rust-colored smear across the edge of the sink.

Blood.

The playful curiosity drained from his expression, replaced by something sharper. His eyes narrowed, assessing. There was only one logical conclusion: Chase had been here. Recently.

House’s first instinct – rationalisation – kicked in. Chase had been here, sure. But he couldn’t still be anymore. He would've heard House rummaging through his kitchen, limping around like an unwanted houseguest. He would've come out, wielding a cricket bat or at least slinging some passive-aggressive Australian sarcasm.

But the apartment had been silent.

And the temperature? Sub-zero. Even Chase wasn’t dumb enough to stick around in a freezing apartment with a broken boiler.

House huffed, leaning on his cane as he turned away. Only an idiot would have stayed. One that was drowning in depth, barely scraping by. Someone who’d had everything – control, pride, stability – ripped out from under them in less than 24 hours.

The thought crashed over him with uncomfortable clarity.

His pulse surged.

A flicker of disbelief crossed his face, quickly drowned by the surge of urgency that overrode the ever-present throb in his leg.

He pivoted on his cane, nearly stumbling in his haste, and shoved through the bedroom door without a second thought.

◉◉◉

The letters were blurring in front of his eyes. He blinked hard, squinted at the page, but the symbols refused to arrange themselves into anything coherent. Frustrated, but the book down, placing it next to the others already piling up on the kitchen table. Old textbooks. Medical journals. 

He was supposed to be a doctor. That had always been the plan, his father’s ambition, pressed upon every aspect of his life. But he had never argued. What would’ve been the point? He couldn’t imagine another path. Everything felt equally flat, equally dull.

His days washed over him like static. The world bled of color. No hobbies. No passions. No bright spots, just the same dim, grey hum. Even his body felt foreign at times, until he read about it. That was the one thing that sparked a faint curiosity. Learning how muscles tensed with fear,  the precise mechanisms that kept his heart beating, the quiet orchestration of cells mending torn skin. 

But even that clarity was dissolving now. His thoughts tangled into knots, the edges of the room tilting strangely, like reality was slipping from his grasp. 

Then he heard them.

Footsteps. Slow. Uneven. A dragging rhythm he recognized too well. His shoulders tensed before his brain registered why. The faintest scent curled into the room – sharp and acidic – before her figure even appeared. 

Goosebumps prickled down the back of his neck. His limbs locked into place, rigid on the kitchen chair. As if, by staying perfectly still, he could melt into the room, vanish from plain sight. 

But it was too late. 

“Why?”

The word was barely more than a slurred whisper, but Chase understood. He had long ago learned to untangle her drunken fragments into sentences.

“Why did you leave?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, brittle with accusation. She hovered behind him now close enough for him to feel the heat of her body, the sour stink of wine and stale breath.

Slowly he pushed his chair back and turned.

The woman swaying in front of him hardly resembled the person she used to be. Her hair clung to her face in greasy strands, eyes glassy and feverish, her skin blotched red with broken capillaries and anger. Her expression flickered between grief and confusion, as if she wasn’t entirely sure where or when she was.

“Mum… it’s me,” Chase whispered, keeping his voice soft, careful. But her glassy eyes drifted past him, seeing someone else entirely.

She swayed forward, shoulders shaking with a breathy sob. “I still need you,” she murmured.

He took a step back but she followed, her movement unsteady.

“Come back to me,” her voice cracked, trembling with desperation as his back collided with the wall.

Panic prickled beneath his skin. An ancient instinct to run . 

She moved in closer.

Chase held his breath, his muscles frozen. He’d seen her drunk countless times; crying, shouting, collapsing into incoherent apologies,  but this was different. There was a dangerous tilt in her gaze tonight, a wildness that sent icy fear trickling down his spine.

Her hands shot out, fingers clawing into his shoulders. She shook him, her grip surprisingly strong despite her frail frame.

“Why did you leave? Why did you leave?” she cried, voice raw with rage and grief.

His heart hammered against his ribs. His mind scrambled for logic, for reason, for anything steady, but all he could feel was fear. His limbs locked, rooted to the floor.

Her face twisted with anguish, her grip tightening. “Why did you leave me, Rowan?”

Chase’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m not Rowan,” he croaked, barely recognizing his own voice. He pressed the words between his teeth like a lifeline. “I’m Robert. I’m Robert. I’m Robert.”

But she wasn’t listening. She wasn’t here – not really. Her eyes burned with memories of a different man, from a different time.

◉◉◉

There he was. Curled up on the bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Chase.

House forced his aching leg to cooperate as he limped over, heart hammering louder than his footsteps. The scene could’ve been peaceful, golden hair tangled over pale skin, eyes shut, chest barely rising. But the reds and purples ruined it, the ugly, blooming bruises along his jaw, the faint crust of oxidized blood beneath his nose, the darker stains at the corner of his mouth. 

Violence painted over vulnerability.

“Chase,” House called, forcing steadiness into his voice. He hovered his hand above Chase’s shoulder, resisting the instinct to shake him, to jolt him awake.

No reaction.

House dropped to his knees by the bedside, ignoring the shooting pain up his thigh as he pressed two fingers against the pale, clammy skin of Chase's neck. His pulse fluttered weakly under the pads of his fingers, slow, thready. His skin was ice cold, alarmingly so, the kind of cold House only felt in the morgue when he'd pull back a sheet

House clenched his jaw. If I screw this up, Chase ends up slab-side with a toe tag .

Tearing off his coat, House draped it over him, fumbling in the pocket for his phone.

“House?” Wilson’s voice came through, shivering from the cold and worry. “Did you talk to—”

“Shut up. Call an ambulance. Now.” House didn’t wait for argument. His words came clipped, clinical. “Severe hypothermia. Likely Stage 3. Bradycardic, hypoventilating, peripheral vasoconstriction. Possible impaired consciousness. ETA?”

“House, what happened—”

House hung up. Fingers trembling as he scanned the room. Frost clawed up the windows, crystals spiderwebbed across the walls, even the goddamn bookshelves glittered with condensation like the inside of a freezer. Everything he touched felt damp, heavy with the invasive cold. Useless .

No external heat source. Can’t risk aggressive handling , the body’s a landmine at this stage. Rewarming the extremities first triggers peripheral vasodilation. One bad rush, and cardiac arrest’s a coin flip.

House muttered a curse under his breath, teeth gritted as his leg protested the crouching position next to the bed. His flashlight beam trembled slightly as it swept over Chase's face, pale, almost waxy, with a faint bluish tinge around the lips. His fingers ghosted up to his eyelid, gently lifting it. The pupil constricted, sluggish but reactive.

Alive. Barely.

“Chase…” His voice cracked, unusually raw, the panic curled under the surface. “Stay with me, kangaroo.”

He pressed his hands against Chase’s chest, right over the sternum, trying to share whatever miserable body heat he could generate. His palms burned cold against the frozen fabric of Chase’s clothes.

It wasn’t enough. 

His mind spun through the clinical steps as if reciting them might steady his own pulse.
Passive core rewarming only. Insulate, prevent further heat loss. No active warming unless under monitoring. Risk of V-fib off the charts. 

House’s eyes flitted over the room again. Nothing but frost and broken heating. His jaw clenched.

He hated this. The forced helplessness. The waiting. The knowledge that even the ambulance might be too late if the cold had sunken deep enough. Judging by Chase's skin temperature, the idiot had been lying here since yesterday. 

His brain ran the brutal metrics like background noise:

Below 32°C – spontaneous movement rare. Neurological decline. Cerebral hypoxia creeping in. 

Then, in the dense, brittle silence, a noise. Faint and fractured. House’s head snapped down. Chase’s lips moved, dry and cracked, whispering sounds that barely qualified as words. The syllables slipped out, warped and unintelligible.

“Chase, stay with me,” House muttered, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “We’ll get you to the hospital… and after that, I can give you a proper spanking for this level of idiocy.”

But it felt wrong. The usual rhythm, the dry comeback, the eye-roll from Chase, the heavy sigh, was absent. Just the shallow rise and fall of Chase’s chest. Behind Chase’s fluttering eyelids, his eyes jerked back and forth, rapid and disorganized. His limbs twitched weakly, like faulty wiring. His lips kept shaping broken, garbled fragments, House couldn’t untangle them. 

It looked straight out of some cheap horror flick,the kind he made Wilson watch because it gave him nightmares.

“Stay still,” House ordered, instinct overriding panic. Movement wasted energy. Worse, it could trigger afterdrop – cold blood flooding the core, heart crashing into arrhythmia.

But Chase’s hands fumbled against House’s coat, stiff, clumsy. The sound came again, choked, guttural, rough-edged. An involuntary sound, perhaps a spasm of his throat muscles, or the desperate, distorted vocalization of a mind losing its grip. House’s brow furrowed. 

Repeated “R” sounds, struggling past barely-functioning vocal cords. His system was shutting down, his body seizing against his will. God knew what kind of neurological misfires were happening inside that frostbitten Aussie skull.

Before House could analyze further, heavy footsteps pounded down the hall, the door slammed, boots squeaking against the frost-slick floors.

Finally. His pulse kicked up with bitter relief. But it wasn’t the medics.

“House?” Wilson’s voice cracked like ice underfoot as he stumbled into the room, wide-eyed, skidding to a stop.

Wilson’s expression twisted in horror as his gaze landed on Chase’s motionless form.

“Coat. Now,” House snapped, one hand out, not bothering to look up. Wilson, pale and reeling, stripped off his jacket and handed it over without a word.

“What– what do we do?” Wilson’s voice stuttered, already knowing the answer. There wasn’t much to do. No miracle, no clever workaround. Just prevent further heat loss and pray the ambulance got through the snow.

But House wasn’t God, even if Wilson still looked at him like he was auditioning for the part.

“Kitchen. Scissors. We have to cut him free.” House’s voice sharpened, falling into his doctor cadence, the one people obeyed without thinking.

Wilson disappeared and returned fast, panting, clutching a pair of kitchen scissors. House began slicing away at the damp, ugly dotted shirt, those horrendous brown slacks and the unforgivable red tie.

A weak, rasping whimper escaped Chase’s lips, barely more than a breath. Wilson’s hands were gentle as he peeled away the sodden layers, careful not to jostle the fragile, freezing skin beneath.

“R—R—Ro—Robert…” The name fractured in Chase’s mouth, raw and barely formed.

Wilson’s brow creased. “Why’s he… he’s calling himself?”

House’s stomach tightened in a way he didn’t appreciate. 

“Chase, we’re getting you out of those clothes,” Wilson said, voice soft but urgent like he thought the kid might actually hear him.

Chase writhed weakly, curling in on himself like a wounded animal. 

“Stay still,” House snapped. “Your heart doesn’t want a surprise dose of cold blood flooding back in right now.”

Chase didn’t hear him. Didn’t seem to register anything.

“You have to calm him,” Wilson pressed, eyes darting between Chase’s paling face and House’s.

House opened his mouth with a retort loaded, but Wilson’s glare cut him off – sharp, uncharacteristically venomous. House exhaled through gritted teeth.

The guttural noises came again. “No… -wan… -m…R…R…Robert…”

House’s fingers tightened around the coat. Unease prickled up his spine.

“Robert.” He forced the name out, foreign on his tongue. It felt clinical. Stiff. But to House's suprise, Chase stilled, barely, but enough.

“It’s alright, Robert,” House coaxed, awkward. “You’re gonna be fine. Just… stay like that.”

Miraculously, Chase quieted, motionless now except for the faintest tremor under his skin. Wilson peeled away the last of the damp layers, bundling him tightly in their coats.

The medics weren’t here yet. The room still smelled faintly of frost, old fabric, and sterile anxiety.

It felt strange, saying his first name. House rarely got personal; not with anyone. Hell, he still called Wilson by his last name, even though they shared a bed more nights than not.

And “Robert” – ugh. Too formal. Too church registry. Didn’t fit the half-broken, quietly brilliant mess in front of him.

Suddenly there was the tremendous noise of several booted feet stomping up the stairs. He shared a look with Wilson, the same wave of strained relief painted across both their faces.

“We’re here!” House barked, voice cracking against the brittle quiet, directing the paramedics to the narrow room at the end of the apartment.

The medics flooded in, sharp, practiced movement; high-visibility jackets, trauma bags slung over shoulders, portable monitor clutched tight. The room, already too small, shrank further as they pushed inside, displacing the lingering cold with the chaotic press of bodies and clipped commands.

“I’m his doctor. Male, late twenties, prolonged exposure,” House rattled off, his voice clipped, all sarcasm stripped away, leaving only the raw clinical edge. “Unresponsive, bradycardic, hypothermic. Suspect core temp’s barely scraping the low thirties. No active rewarming attempted.”

One medic dropped to Chase’s side, fingers pressing to his neck, jaw tightening. “Pulse is weak… thready. Pupils?”

“Sluggish but reactive,” House confirmed, stepping back as another medic unpacked a mylar blanket, silver sheen flashing in the low light.

“Let’s get him onto the board,” the team lead ordered. “Full passive rewarming. Blankets, insulation only. No external heat.”

House and Wilson barely cleared the space before the medics slid their hands under Chase’s limbs, movements meant to be careful, but not careful enough. House’s breath caught with every awkward angle, every slight jolt of Chase’s body that threatened to shatter what was left of him.

He could feel the dread boiling under his ribs, raw and unreasonable—but reason had nothing to do with it. This wasn’t just anyone. This was Chase.

“Careful,” House barked, voice cracking like a whip, sharp enough to make one of the younger medics flinch. “Or do you want to send him into afterdrop, you absolute moron?”

One of the paramedics stumbled slightly, the stretcher leg grazing the floor, jarring Chase slightly. House’s pulse slammed against his ribs. Wilson’s hand settled on his shoulder, firm, grounding but House shrugged it off, jaw locking tight.

He knew he was being impossible. Obnoxious. Out of control.

Didn’t matter.

Not with Chase like this.

The team leader’s tone cut through the tension, cold and practiced. “Everyone stay focused.” They resumed, more cautious now, as though handling glass.Chase didn’t stir. His skin remained pale, bluish at the edges, lips faintly parted, breath so shallow it nearly disappeared between seconds.

The cardiac monitor crackled to life a sluggish rhythm, irregular, teetering on the edge.

House’s stomach twisted into knots, but he buried it. Kept his face neutral. Detached. He couldn’t afford anything else right now.

“We’ve got him,” one of the medics confirmed, voice steady but stretched thin with quiet urgency. “Critical, but stable enough for transport.”

Stable enough. The words meant nothing. House had stabilized patients with hours left to live before.

House hovered near the door as they wrapped Chase in layers of insulation, the oxygen mask slipping over his pale, barely breathing face, wires and monitors trailing behind like fragile lifelines. The bitter, sterile air shifted with their exit, replaced by the faint buzz of the radio and distant sirens outside.

His leg flared, muscles seizing with every uneven pulse of pain, but he barely noticed. His fingers curled tighter around Wilson’s shoulder.

“You go with them,” House ordered, voice tight. “I’m not fast enough. You make sure they don’t fuck it up.”

Wilson hesitated for half a heartbeat, then shoved his car keys into House’s palm. “Okay. I’ll ride with him. See you at the hospital.”

House watched them move, grateful that Wilson didn’t waste time with pointless comfort. No empty promises like he’ll be alright , when none of them knew if Chase would even make it.

The cold weight of failure settled deep in House’s chest, heavy and unforgiving. This was on him.

And if Chase died... House shook his head, the thought choking him. He wouldn’t let it happen.