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House didn’t decide to care. Not in any conscious way, at least.
But something shifted after he found Chase crying in that forgotten little alcove. Not that House suddenly turned into a nurturing, emotionally available mentor—God forbid. But he paid attention. More than before.
It wasn’t hard to do, really. Chase had always been one of those people who faded into the background when he wasn’t actively trying to be noticed. A perfect chameleon. He never made waves, never asked for help, never let people see when something was wrong. House had always known that about him, in a vague, detached way. But now he was watching for it.
And what he saw didn’t sit right.
Chase went about his day as normal—smiling, joking when appropriate, keeping his tone light. But now that House was looking closer, he could see the way Chase held himself just a little too tightly, the way his eyes didn’t quite match his expressions. He could see the exhaustion in his posture, the way his fingers curled slightly against his sleeves like he was holding something in.
House didn’t push. Not right away. But he noticed.
So the next day, when Chase handed him a patient file, and the sleeve of his dress shirt hitched up just an inch too far—House saw.
A bruise.
Dark, ugly, blooming just above his wrist.
It was the kind of bruise that wasn’t from bumping into a desk or catching himself on a doorframe. House knew injuries. He knew the shape of impact, the way force left its mark on skin. And this—this was deep, the kind of thing left by fingers wrapped too tight, pressing down hard.
House reacted without thinking. One second, he was taking the file; the next, he’d grabbed Chase’s wrist, turning it slightly to get a better look.
Chase jerked immediately, trying to yank his arm back. “House—”
House didn’t let go. He wasn’t squeezing, wasn’t holding him forcefully—just firm enough to keep Chase from pulling away.
His eyebrows lifted. “Huh.”
Chase’s whole body had gone rigid, the file still clutched in his other hand. His eyes darted around, as if checking who might be watching.
House turned Chase’s wrist slightly, examining the bruise. His thumb brushed just beside the worst of it, not pressing, just there.
He let a beat of silence stretch before speaking.
“So,” House said lightly, “what exactly did you do to piss off your furniture this time?”
Chase’s lips pressed together. His shoulders were tense. “It’s nothing.”
House hummed, unconvinced.
Chase tried to pull back again, more insistently this time. “Seriously. It’s not a big deal.”
House’s grip tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to say I’m not letting this go.
“Looks like a big deal,” House said casually. “Either you’ve taken up extreme wrestling, or someone’s got a very aggressive handshake.”
Chase gave a short, breathy laugh—too forced. “I—yeah. Just—some guy at a bar grabbed me. It wasn’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not important.”
House studied him.
Chase wasn’t lying, not outright. But he wasn’t telling the truth, either.
There was something too quick about the way he answered, the way he reached for the explanation, like he’d had one ready. People who told the truth didn’t usually have preloaded excuses.
House shifted his gaze back to the bruise.
“Must’ve been one hell of a grab,” he said, tilting Chase’s wrist slightly. “Looks like they tried to rip your arm off.”
Chase exhaled sharply, clearly losing patience. “House.”
House ignored the warning in his voice. “Did you punch him?”
Chase blinked, thrown. “What?”
“The guy at the bar.” House’s eyes flicked up to his. “You let some random drunk manhandle you, or did you at least break his nose first?”
Chase hesitated—just for a second. That was all House needed.
“You didn’t punch him,” House noted. His voice was still light, but his gaze sharpened. “Which means you didn’t fight back. Which means you either knew the guy, or you didn’t think you could stop him.”
Chase’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. His fingers twitched.
House waited.
After a long moment, Chase yanked his wrist free. House let him go this time.
Chase rolled his sleeve back down, covering the mark. His posture was stiff, his jaw tight.
“It was just some drunk guy,” he said flatly. “It’s not worth talking about.”
House tapped his cane against the floor. “You sure about that?”
Chase’s eyes flicked to him, guarded.
House didn’t say anything else. Just looked at him.
Chase was good at hiding things. Good at smoothing things over. But now that House had caught a glimpse beneath the surface, now that he was watching—he saw it. The way Chase’s fingers curled slightly against his sleeve again, the way his weight shifted just a fraction, as if bracing himself.
This wasn’t nothing.
But Chase wasn’t going to give it up. Not yet.
House let the silence hang a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose and leaned back slightly. “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.”
Chase hesitated again, then nodded. “Good.”
He turned quickly, moving toward the door.
House let him go.
For now.
But as Chase disappeared down the hall, House’s grip on his cane tightened.
Something wasn’t right. And House didn’t ignore things that weren’t right.
So he’d wait.
And he’d watch.
House wasn’t subtle.
Not about anything, really, but especially not when something caught his interest. And Chase—Chase’s bruises, Chase’s behavior—had caught his interest.
The wrist bruise had been the first red flag. But then there were more.
Not all at once, not all obvious. They were never the kind of injuries that would get too many questions. A darkening shadow near his elbow, just visible for a second before Chase tugged his sleeve down. A faint mark along his jawline, almost hidden by the curve of his cheekbone. A patch of mottled purple near his collarbone, barely glimpsed when Chase adjusted his tie.
And every time—every single time—Chase would pull his sleeve back down, or shift his collar, or turn his body slightly, like it hadn’t happened at all. And then, always, always, his eyes would flick around, quick and sharp, checking if anyone had noticed.
House had.
He started keeping count. Watching. Waiting.
And it wasn’t just the bruises.
Chase had always been a social guy—flirty, charming, always getting calls or texts from people House neither knew nor cared about. But lately, something was off.
The phone calls kept coming, but Chase’s reaction to them had changed.
Before, he’d glance at the caller ID and either answer with a smooth, easy “Hey,” or ignore it entirely. But now—now his whole body tensed when his phone buzzed. His fingers would grip it too tightly. His eyes would flick to the screen, then to the nearest exit. And then, after a barely perceptible hesitation, he’d always answer.
His voice would drop too low to hear, but House could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his free hand curled into his sleeve, twisting the fabric slightly.
The first time House noticed, he didn’t say anything.
The second time, he raised an eyebrow.
The third time, he started taking mental notes.
Something wasn’t adding up. Chase was hiding things, but not well enough to keep House from noticing.
And House didn’t ignore puzzles.
House sauntered into Wilson’s office without knocking, as usual.
Wilson, who was mid-bite into his sandwich, barely looked up. “No.”
House narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
Wilson chewed, swallowed, and took a deliberate sip of his drink before answering. “Doesn’t matter. It’s either unethical, annoying, or going to result in a call from HR. So—no.”
House rolled his eyes and flopped down into the chair across from Wilson’s desk, propping his cane against the armrest. “You wound me. I come here for your wisdom, your insight—”
“My lunch.” Wilson set his sandwich down with an air of long-suffering patience. “What do you want?”
House leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “How do you know when someone’s lying?”
Wilson blinked. “I’m sorry, did you just ask me that? You—the world’s leading expert on pathological deception?”
“Exactly,” House said. “It takes one to know one. But sometimes, people aren’t lying. They’re just… not telling the truth.”
Wilson gave him a dry look. “So, they’re lying.”
“Not necessarily,” House mused. “Sometimes people just… omit things. Avoid things. Say things that sound right, but aren’t.”
Wilson sighed, picking his sandwich back up. “Okay. Fine. Is this about a patient?”
House tilted his head. “Hypothetically.”
Wilson chewed thoughtfully. “Well, if someone’s avoiding the truth, it usually means they think telling it will have consequences.”
House nodded. “Interesting.”
“They could be scared, ashamed, protecting someone—or themselves,” Wilson continued, eyeing him. “Why? Who’s avoiding the truth?”
House smirked. “So suspicious.”
Wilson sighed. “House.”
House ignored him. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that someone was showing signs of something being wrong—physical signs. But every time you try to pin them down, they slip away.”
Wilson set his sandwich down again, his expression shifting just slightly. “Physical signs. Like?”
House shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Just signs. And let’s say this person also seems a little… jumpy. On edge. Always answering their phone, but never wanting to answer it.”
Wilson frowned slightly. “You’re talking about Chase.”
House didn’t react. “Did I say Chase?”
Wilson gave him a look. “House.”
House let the silence stretch just long enough to be irritating, then stood abruptly, grabbing his cane. “Well. This has been enlightening.”
Wilson threw up a hand. “What—? That’s it? You come in here, drop a bunch of cryptic nonsense, and leave?”
House smirked. “Yep.”
Wilson groaned. “At least tell me if this is actually serious, or if you’re just screwing with me.”
House paused at the door, considering.
Then, just as he stepped out, he threw back one last comment over his shoulder—just vague enough to be frustrating, just pointed enough to stick.
“Sometimes, people don’t lie to hide something. They lie because they don’t think anyone actually wants the truth.”
And with that, he was gone.
House found him in the same damn place.
Not the exact same nook as before, but close enough—a quiet, shadowed corner of the hospital where no one ever looked twice. He might not have even seen Chase if he hadn’t already been looking.
This time, Chase wasn’t crying.
He was curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his back pressed against the wall like he was trying to disappear into it. His breathing was ragged, too fast, too shallow. His fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeves, knuckles white.
Panic attack.
House exhaled through his nose. “Oh, for God’s sake. Again?”
Chase flinched, but didn’t look up.
House crouched down—slowly, because his leg hated him—and settled onto the floor beside him, resting his cane across his lap.
“Alright,” House said. “Since this is apparently a recurring event, let’s go over the basics. Breathe in through your nose. Now, Chase. Otherwise, I’m going to start singing Celine Dion, and no one wants that.”
Chase made a strained noise that might have been a laugh in another lifetime, but his breathing was still all wrong—quick, uneven. He squeezed his eyes shut, his grip on his sleeves tightening.
House rolled his eyes, but his voice stayed even. “Come on. In for four, out for four. Don’t make me get a paper bag.”
It took a moment, but eventually Chase inhaled, a little shaky, but slower.
“Good,” House said. “Now do it again.”
Another breath, still too fast, but better.
House kept talking. Kept his tone light, steady, something for Chase to latch onto. He threw in a few sarcastic comments, because that was what Chase expected from him, and predictability was grounding. Eventually, the gasping breaths evened out, the tremors in Chase’s fingers less pronounced.
Progress.
House let a beat of silence stretch before finally exhaling. “Well, that was dramatic.”
Chase let his head tip back against the wall, eyes still closed, exhausted. “Shut up.”
House smirked. “No.” He shifted, getting comfortable. “So. You wanna tell me what this one was about, or are we pretending it didn’t happen?”
Chase’s fingers twitched against his sleeves. He didn’t answer.
House watched him. “That’s what I thought.”
Chase swallowed, looking down, shame flickering across his face.
And that—that was what hit House harder than anything. The way Chase sat there, like he was embarrassed to have needed help. Like he was expecting House to mock him, or be disgusted, or something.
And that… that sucked.
House ignored the feeling in his chest and reached for his usual tactics—pushing, prodding, getting under people’s skin until they reacted.
“Let’s see,” he mused. “The last time I found you like this, you said it was nothing. And yet, here we are. Again.”
Chase said nothing.
House tilted his head. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the mysterious bruises that keep multiplying like rabbits?”
Chase flinched—just barely, but House caught it.
Interesting.
“And then there’s the phone calls,” House continued. “Always so eager to answer. Or, well, not eager, but still doing it anyway. Almost like you’re afraid not to.”
Chase’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.
House narrowed his eyes slightly. “So. Wanna tell me what the hell is going on, or are we going to keep playing the ‘Chase Avoids Questions’ game?”
Chase shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
House scoffed. “Oh, well, if you say so—”
Then Chase’s phone buzzed.
And everything changed.
Chase went rigid. His breath hitched. His eyes snapped open, darting to the screen like it was a live grenade.
House watched it happen in real time—the way Chase’s whole body locked up, the way his pulse jumped at his throat. His fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to grab the phone immediately.
House didn’t think. He just moved.
Before Chase could react, House snatched the phone off the floor.
“House—!” Chase lunged, but House leaned away, tilting the screen toward himself.
The first thing he saw was the most recent notification.
[1 New Message]
Where the hell are you?
House frowned. Swiped up.
The rest of the messages filled the screen.
Answer me.
You better not be ignoring me.
I know you’re seeing this.
Don’t make me come find you.
House’s stomach twisted.
None of them were outright threats. Nothing that would make someone immediately call the cops. But there was a tone to them. A weight. Something that made his fingers tighten around the phone.
Chase grabbed it back before House could read any further.
House looked up, expecting anger, maybe even panic. But Chase just looked—small.
He clutched the phone to his chest like it was something precious, like House had violated something personal. He still wasn’t breathing quite right, his shoulders tense, his entire body coiled like he was waiting for a blow.
House stared at him.
Chase swallowed hard. Then, without another word, he scrambled to his feet and bolted.
House didn’t try to stop him.
Didn’t call after him.
Didn’t do anything.
Just sat there, gripping his cane too tightly, watching Chase disappear down the hall like a scared animal.
Like someone who thought running was his only option.
The next day, House noticed the bandage immediately.
It was impossible not to.
Chase had tried to act like it didn’t exist—walking in with his head down, shoulders drawn tight, his arm cradled just slightly against his side like he wasn’t even aware he was favoring it. The bandage was wrapped hastily around his forearm, loose in some places, too tight in others, like he’d done it himself. Like he hadn’t wanted anyone else touching it.
House’s eyebrows shot up. He was almost angry before he even processed it fully.
The moment Chase stepped through the door, House was on his feet. “Oh, come on.”
Chase barely had time to glance up before House was there, grabbing him—not roughly, but firmly—by his good elbow and steering him toward the office.
Chase flinched.
Not dramatically. Not like he thought House was going to hurt him. Just a split-second recoil, his body tensing under House’s grip before he forced himself still.
House didn’t mention it. He filed it away for later.
“House, I have—”
“Not interested.” House pushed open the office door, guiding Chase inside before letting go and shutting it behind them. He gestured to the chair. “Sit.”
Chase hesitated. His eyes darted toward the door, like he was considering making a run for it.
House’s voice flattened. “Sit, or I’ll make you.”
Chase sighed and sat.
House crossed his arms. “You really need me to say it?”
Chase exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on his lap. “Say what?”
House gave him a pointed look. “The part where I pretend I just now noticed you came in looking like you wrestled a grizzly bear and lost.”
Chase said nothing.
House rolled his eyes and grabbed his medical kit from the desk. “Alright, let’s see the damage.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and I’m a world-class figure skater. Arm. Now.”
Chase hesitated again, then reluctantly extended his injured arm.
House crouched slightly, resting his cane against the desk. He was gentler than usual as he unwrapped the poorly done bandage, fingers brushing against Chase’s skin.
The injury wasn’t good.
A deep, dark bruise bloomed across Chase’s forearm, nearly spanning from wrist to elbow. The skin was swollen, tender-looking. House ran his fingers lightly over the area, feeling for fractures.
Chase barely breathed, his jaw locked tight.
House’s frown deepened. “What exactly did you do?”
“I—” Chase hesitated. “I fell.”
House snorted. “Wow. Not even trying anymore.”
Chase looked away.
House sighed through his nose and grabbed proper bandages from his kit. He applied a splint—not because he was convinced it was broken, but because he wasn’t convinced it wasn’t. He wrapped the arm efficiently, movements brisk but careful.
Chase watched him warily the whole time, like he was waiting for something.
House finished and leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “There. Good as new. Now, do I even need to interrogate you, or are we finally going to be honest with each other?”
Chase tensed. “It’s nothing.”
House scoffed. “Nothing, huh? That’s funny, because I distinctly remember a panic attack, some very concerning text messages, and now—oh, look at that—a brand-new injury, conveniently hidden under a half-assed bandage job.”
Chase swallowed.
House leaned forward slightly. “Want to guess what I’m thinking?”
Chase didn’t answer.
House didn’t need him to.
“Someone’s hurting you.” He said it plainly. Matter-of-fact. No room for argument.
Chase’s fingers twitched against his good knee.
House’s voice lowered. “A girlfriend, maybe?”
Chase’s throat bobbed.
But he didn’t deny it.
And that—that was what made House’s chest tighten.
His grip on his cane firmed. His jaw clenched. He kept his voice even. “Chase.”
Chase’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he whispered, “It’s fine.”
House felt something ugly coil in his stomach.
He huffed a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Fine. Right. Because, yeah, this—” He gestured broadly at Chase’s arm, his bruises, all of this— “This is totally normal. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Chase’s gaze snapped up, suddenly defensive. “I said leave it.”
House met his eyes. “No.”
Chase exhaled sharply, pushing out of his chair. “Jesus, House, just—drop it!”
House straightened, his fingers drumming against his cane. His chest burned with something he didn’t want to name.
He watched Chase for a long moment. The tightness in his posture. The way his hand hovered near his bandaged arm, like he was trying to guard it from everything.
House exhaled slowly.
Then, finally—he dropped it.
For now.
House didn’t like losing.
And this—this felt like losing.
He sat at his desk, cane resting across his lap, fingers drumming against the wood. The office was dim now, the usual artificial glow replaced with the soft, fading light from the windows. The workday was over. Everyone had gone home.
Except Chase.
House had waited. He knew Chase would be here late—he’d made sure of it, conveniently dropping extra paperwork on him, giving him just enough to keep him from slipping out the door unnoticed. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but subtlety had never been House’s style.
Now, he just had to make sure Chase actually listened.
The knock at the door was hesitant.
House didn’t bother looking up. “Come in.”
The door cracked open, and Chase stepped inside, his movements wary. His arm was still bandaged—properly this time, thanks to House—but he was cradling it slightly, like it still ached. Which it probably did.
He didn’t sit.
Didn’t speak.
Just hovered there, waiting.
House let the silence stretch for a moment before sighing. “Look. I could do the whole song and dance again—interrogation, sarcasm, wild deductions—but let’s be honest, I already know.”
Chase’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything.”
House ignored that. “So. How long’s it been?”
Chase crossed his arms, favoring the uninjured one. “House—”
“How long?”
Chase exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s not—”
“How long?”
Silence.
House stared at him, something heavy sitting in his chest. “That’s what I thought.”
Chase looked away, his fingers flexing slightly. “It’s fine.”
House’s grip on his cane tightened. “You really like that word, huh?”
Chase didn’t answer.
House leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His voice wasn’t sharp now—wasn’t laced with his usual bite. If anything, it was… quieter.
“You need to leave her.”
Chase’s breath hitched.
House saw it. The way his whole body went still for a fraction of a second, like he’d been caught off guard.
Then, just as quickly, he masked it. “I—”
“No excuses.” House shook his head. “No ‘it’s not that bad,’ no ‘you wouldn’t understand,’ no ‘he doesn’t mean it.’ Just leave her.”
Chase’s fingers curled against his sleeve. He still wouldn’t look up.
House exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. God, he was bad at this. Terrible at this. Wilson was the one who knew how to handle people when they were hurting—House just knew how to poke at them until they broke.
But Chase was already breaking.
And House didn’t want to be the one to push him over the edge.
He leaned back slightly, his voice leveling out. “Look. I know you think no one’s paying attention. That no one sees this. But I do. And I know what this is.”
Chase shifted his weight, uncomfortable. “It’s not—”
“Don’t,” House said sharply.
Chase’s mouth snapped shut.
House tapped his cane against the floor. “I don’t do this. The whole… concern thing. But you’re sitting there, pretending like this is normal, like you just have to deal with it, and it’s pissing me off.”
Chase swallowed, his throat bobbing.
House sighed. “I’m not gonna give you some heartfelt speech about self-worth. I’m not Wilson.” He tilted his head. “But I am a guy with an apartment. And a couch. And a spare key.”
Chase’s eyes snapped up, startled.
House shrugged. “If you ever need it.”
Silence.
Chase looked like he wanted to say something. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
House didn’t push.
Just held his gaze, letting the offer settle between them.
Finally, Chase nodded—barely, just the smallest dip of his chin.
House nodded back.
It wasn’t enough. Not yet.
But it was something.
Weeks passed. Weeks of concern and too many bandages for House's liking.
The knock came just past midnight.
House had been sitting on his couch, half-watching some late-night infomercial about a miracle hair regrowth serum, contemplating whether it was worth getting up for another beer. The rain hammered against the windows, a steady, relentless downpour that made his leg ache worse than usual.
So when the knock came—hesitant, barely audible over the rain—House’s first instinct was to ignore it.
He hadn’t ordered food. Wilson had a key. Anyone else who knew where he lived wouldn’t bother coming over unannounced, especially not this late.
Another knock.
Slightly firmer this time.
House sighed, groaning as he pushed himself to his feet. His leg protested immediately, but he ignored it, grabbing his cane and limping toward the door. He considered not opening it—just pretending he wasn’t home and letting whoever it was deal with the fact that normal people didn’t knock on doors at midnight during a damn monsoon.
But something made him pull it open.
And there, standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, was Chase.
Soaked to the bone.
Shivering.
Beaten to hell.
House’s stomach dropped.
Chase swayed slightly where he stood, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his face pale and drawn. Dark bruises bloomed along his cheekbone and jaw, and there was dried blood near his temple, smudged by the rain. His knuckles were split. His lip was too.
His eyes—red-rimmed and glassy—met House’s.
“I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, then tried again. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
House didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed Chase by the wrist—not tightly, just enough to pull—and yanked him inside, shutting the door behind them.
Chase staggered slightly, unsteady on his feet. House caught his arm, guiding him toward the couch before he could collapse outright.
Jesus Christ.
House had known. Had seen this coming from a mile away. The injuries, the deflections, the phone calls that left Chase looking like he’d seen a ghost—he’d pieced it all together long before this moment.
But knowing something was inevitable didn’t make it any easier to see it unfold.
House grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at Chase, who caught it clumsily. “Dry off before you get pneumonia and I have to do actual doctoring.”
Chase made a weak attempt at rubbing the towel over his hair, but his hands were trembling too much to do much good. House rolled his eyes, taking it back and scrubbing Chase’s head like he was a damn golden retriever.
Chase let him.
That alone was enough to twist something in House’s chest.
When House was satisfied Chase wasn’t about to drip all over his couch, he disappeared into his bedroom, rummaging through drawers before coming back with an old T-shirt and a pair of sweats. He tossed them onto Chase’s lap. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Try not to drown in the shower.”
Chase didn’t argue. Didn’t make a snarky comment.
He just stood, swayed a little, then steadied himself and trudged toward the bathroom.
House watched him go, jaw tight.
Fifteen minutes later, Chase emerged looking marginally better—his hair damp but no longer dripping, his face scrubbed clean, though the bruises stood out even worse against his pale skin. The sweats were too big on him, hanging loose around his hips, and House realized belatedly that Chase had probably lost weight over the past few weeks.
He really wasn’t taking care of himself.
House didn’t comment on it. Instead, he gestured toward the couch. “Sit.”
Chase obeyed without question.
House retrieved his medical kit—he really needed to stop having to use this thing outside of work—and crouched in front of Chase, carefully examining his injuries. He pressed his fingers lightly along Chase’s ribs, feeling for fractures. Chase winced but didn’t pull away.
“Anything broken?” House asked.
Chase shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
House nodded, continuing his assessment. He cleaned the dried blood from Chase’s temple, patched up his knuckles, and applied an ice pack to the worst of the bruising. Chase sat through it all in exhausted silence, his eyes half-lidded.
When House was done, he sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “You’re never going back.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Chase exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the ice pack. He didn’t argue.
Just nodded. Miserably.
House’s chest ached.
He turned toward the kitchen. “Stay there. I’ll get food before you pass out and force me to shove a granola bar down your throat.”
He heated up some leftovers—not that he really cooked, but there was enough takeout in his fridge to scrape something together. Chase barely ate, but House didn’t comment. At least he tried.
Afterward, they sat on the couch in silence, some old sitcom playing on the TV.
The kid was visibly fighting sleep. His body swayed slightly, his eyes fluttering closed before he forced them open again.
House huffed. “Just crash already. You look like you’re about to faceplant into my shoulder.”
Chase made a vague noise of protest. He lasted another minute before his head drooped—right onto House’s shoulder.
House tensed.
Chase was already out cold.
House sighed, resisting the urge to shake him off.
Instead, he shifted slightly, making it a little more comfortable—not just for Chase, but for himself, too.
Something settled into his chest, unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome.
It wasn’t much.
But it was a start.
House’s apartment was a mess. Not in the disaster-zone way that sent Wilson into a fit every time he visited, but in the lived-in kind of way. There was an extra blanket tossed over the back of the couch, a second toothbrush in the bathroom (though neither of them had mentioned it), and Chase’s shoes were by the door, haphazardly kicked off like he’d lived there for years instead of just staying for… however long this was.
Wilson, of course, had plenty to say about it.
“So,” Wilson started, nursing his beer from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, “should I start calling you Dad now, or—?”
House scowled. “I will literally kick you out.”
Chase, curled up in the corner of the couch, snorted into his coffee.
Wilson grinned. “I mean, come on. The kid’s practically playing dress-up in your clothes. Look at him.”
House did.
Chase did look ridiculous. He was drowning in one of House’s T-shirts, the neckline hanging loose and the sleeves nearly reaching his elbows. The sweats were even worse—they bunched at his hips, held up only by an aggressively tightened drawstring, and were still too long, pooling around his ankles.
House smirked. “Should’ve given him a cane to complete the look.”
Wilson hummed. “Mini-House.”
“Oh, screw off,” Chase muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying his amusement.
House leaned against the back of the couch, stretching his bad leg out with a groan. “Nah, I’d never let you copy me. You’d actually have to be good at the job.”
Chase rolled his eyes but didn’t bite back, which House considered a win. Wilson just shook his head, sipping his beer.
The rain had stopped sometime during the night. The apartment was warm, lit only by the soft glow of the TV and the occasional flickering streetlights outside. It was peaceful in a way House wasn’t used to.
Too peaceful.
“Alright, get out,” House said, waving vaguely at Wilson. “You’ve been here long enough. Go do oncologist things.”
Wilson sighed dramatically. “Kicking me out in favor of your new son. It’s fine. I understand.”
Chase groaned. “Oh my God.”
Wilson grinned, grabbed his jacket, and made his way to the door. “Take care, Chase.” His voice lost its teasing edge, settling into something quieter. “You know where to find me.”
Chase hesitated—just for a second—then nodded.
Wilson left, and the apartment fell into easy quiet again.
House glanced at Chase, who was fidgeting with the sleeve of his borrowed T-shirt.
“So,” House said, “how’s it feel? Stealing my wardrobe.”
Chase snorted. “Like I’m a kid trying on his dad’s clothes.”
House stilled.
It wasn’t much—just a joke, an offhand comment—but something about it made his chest tighten.
He swallowed it down.
“Well, you can stop feeling special. Wilson does it all the time.”
Chase huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Then, after a long pause, he murmured, “Thanks.”
House looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“For what?” he asked, like he didn’t already know.
Chase didn’t answer right away. He just tugged at his sleeve again, looking down, then back up at House with something careful—something softer—in his expression.
“For everything,” he finally said.
House exhaled.
That dreaded paternal feeling was back again, curling around his ribs, settling somewhere behind his heart. It was uncomfortable in the way new things always were, but—
He could get used to it.
He knocked Chase lightly on the side of the head. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all emotional. It’s gross.”
Chase rolled his eyes but smiled, and House figured that was enough.
For now.