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House has long since come to terms with the fact he does not have a soulmate.
He is pushing fifty and he hasn't had the swap happen to him. When he went to sleep the night before his thirtieth birthday, he had hoped that would be it, that he didn't have to question it for the rest of his life. But he woke up in his body, in his apartment, and he had accepted it.
Maybe his soulmate was a year or two younger than him. Five years younger than him. So on and so forth, until he gave up on that stupid hope. He shouldn't care about not having a soulmate, anyway— even if he did have one, the stars and their link in souls or whatever wouldn't stop the fact he's really hard to get along with. The only time that would've worked was if his soulmate was Wilson, and Wilson had swapped bodies with Amber Volakis, a woman ten years younger than him, three years ago.
He has no hope left, so he deals with work and sometimes reads theories on the subject.
It's not like he's the first person in the world to not have a soulmate. There's lots of articles on it, on people's perfect other half being too young for them (seventy year olds swapping bodies with their forty years younger soulmates), those who never swap bodies through their lifetime, as complete as it was. A theory is that some people just don't have an other half perfectly calibrated for them by the universe. Other theory is that soulmate-less people do have a soulmate, but they died before hitting thirty, or were from an era before the older party was even a thought in anyone's mind.
Whatever possibility it is, he doesn't care. He knows there's no one waiting for him, no almost-thirty year old who will get their body swapped with his. Sure, the thought is nice in theory, but in practice? It's pitiful. No one wants to be soulmates with Greg House. He can see his best friend dote on his soulmate (and soon to be wife), he can watch Cuddy as she talks giddily about Lucas, a younger guy she swapped bodies with a few months ago. He can watch Cameron long for her soulmate and for Foreman and Thirteen to be sick in love, and for Chase to also be one of the few lonely near him. He's probably the younger party of his duality, turning thirty soon.
He's not sure when Chase turns thirty. He hasn't really cared to learn his fellows' birthdays.
It's okay, really. He can be a bitter, soulmate-less man and live with it. Maybe in a few years' time he can pretend he did swap with some woman, but she died tragically of some incurable illness or some freak accident. It'd definitely add to his tragic charm.
He can deal with this.
It's a night like any other; the thought of hey, maybe this is it doesn't even cross his mind. (There was a time where it did near constantly, but it's long since gone.) He takes his Vicodin, only a few left on the bottle on his nightstand, and gets into bed.
He falls asleep with ease.
Tomorrow is Chase's thirtieth birthday, and he's practically shaking with nerves as he undresses to get into bed.
He tries to hide the fact he's lonely by hooking up with various men and women, by flirting at bars and going to whatever event he can go to. But matter of fact is that he's so damn lonely. Ever since he was a kid he's been dreaming of his soulmate, whoever they were, giving him that comfort he's craved throughout the years. But it hasn't come yet, and it will — maybe — come to him on his thirtieth birthday. The idea of it not coming to him tomorrow morning is asphyxiating.
He's been waiting for so long; he doesn't think he can wait any more without going insane.
It's always been that glimmer of hope in the distant future as he grew up in his parents' house. One day, I'll be with my soulmate and it will all be fine. One day, I'll be with my soulmate and we'll be sick in love and nothing will be able to stop that. Sometimes, he worries he's too fucked up for his soulmate. Maybe he's too much to deal with, even for his other half.
He takes his sleeping meds, he tucks himself into bed and stares at the ceiling. He's terrified of the possibility of being the older party. He doesn't want to be lonely for longer, whether it be months or years. He wants to be loved now , he wants to be held now . Hopefully he is the younger party of their duality; hopefully he gets the privilege of not having to wonder when will his soulmate appear.
He curls into bed, hugs his pillow. He wants to believe that tomorrow he'll wake up in someone else's place. That they'll be close enough to New Jersey to go meet them soon enough, to swap bodies back. That they'll be well-adjusted but not enough that they'll judge his every move, his every symptom. That they'll be funny, and a few years older, and that they'll hug him whenever he needs it. That they'll understand him.
He falls into a fretful sleep, weird dreams involving his left leg, but they're not bad enough to be considered nightmares, even though they usually would stir him awake.
As soon as he wakes up to an alarm ringing, House knows something is wrong. His apartment doesn't look like it did when he went to sleep, and when he turns around to search for his Vicodin (mostly out of muscle memory), the bottle isn't there. But most importantly, his leg doesn't hurt .
He reaches a hand to scratch his scalp in confusion, when he feels long locks against his hand. Oh, that's definitely not his hair.
He wakes fully when he realizes that he swapped bodies with someone at fifty years old— his soulmate turns thirty today. He's never claimed to have anything against age gaps (the opposite, in fact), but it's still… strange. Even stranger than the fact he does have a soulmate, a perfectly calibrated other half.. He immediately jumps out of bed (the fact his leg doesn't hurt making him feel oh so alive) and goes to the bathroom, seeing a mirror. He nearly passes out at the reflection telling him his soulmate is Robert fucking Chase, his employee and annoying Australian.
"Fuck."
When Chase wakes up, he immediately knows he's swapped bodies with someone. His body is heavier, and when he turns he sees a pill bottle and an alarm clock that reads 6 a.m. He tries to get out of bed, excitement eating at him, because yes, he'll finally get what he's been longing for through years upon years, when his leg throbs in such an incredible amount of pain he nearly doubles over.
He lets out a shrill cry as he holds onto his leg. And then he feels the missing muscle.
"Oh no ."
He's soulmates with his boss. He's soulmates with Gregory House.
House tries (and fails) to not freak out.
He has a soulmate. He has a soulmate, a soulmate who is twenty years younger than him, a soulmate who is his employee, a soulmate who is Robert Chase, intensivist, Australian, annoying. He can't believe it. He's not sure if he believes any of it, really— it all seems ridiculous. This must be a nightmare.
At least his leg doesn't hurt.
He looks through Chase's closet and puts the clothes that seem the most Chase-like, although he hadn't ever paid close attention to the man's wardrobe.
At this point, at the realization that Chase is his soulmate, everything makes less sense, while a puzzle of his life seems to fit together. It's just so… so. He and Chase have never had anything in common, and yet he's always kept him working under him, until he had to fire him because it had simply been too long— and then he strung him right back, two years later, after Kutner left Princeton-Plainsboro.
Chase has never been particularly bright, but he's been always an essential part of the team, ever since his father made a call and asked him to hire his son. Is this why? Is their connection why he's kept him around, not because of any legitimate diagnostic talents? Has his judgment been impaired by his subconscious knowing Chase is his soulmate before his consciousness did?
That bothers him. That bothers him a whole fucking lot.
But it's the cards he's been dealt, so he has to deal with it. He finishes dressing up and gives Chase's hair a cursory brush. The man probably has an entire hair care and skincare routine, but he doesn't care enough to find out, or to try and replicate it. Perhaps the state of his hair will be the first clue that something is off to other people observing the hospital's eye candy.
He's still too freaked out, but the thought that the hospital's eye candy, the handsome surgeon every nurse talks about, being his other half— it sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. He smiles smugly as he walks through the busy streets of Princeton, knowing that he has to take advantage of his leg not hurting for as long and as well as he can. He sometimes speeds up, walking faster, but makes sure to not tire himself out. It feels great, though, it feels grand.
He finally gets to Princeton-Plainsboro, and he searches for Wilson desperately.
"Wilson," he breathes when he finds him. "Fuck. Wilson, where's House?"
Wilson blinks at him. As far as he's aware, Chase and Wilson have barely ever talked. "I haven't seen him yet. Are you alright, Chase?"
"No," he answers without thinking twice. "You won't believe me, but. Soulmates." He makes a vague hand motion, hoping it conveys enough for Wilson to catch on.
Wilson's eyes widen. " House ?"
"Yes," he says dryly. "That'd be me. I'm guessing it's his birthday today."
"Yeah," Wilson nods, still looking shocked. "I remembered. You didn't?"
"I didn't. Not a big fan of birthdays. I'll just… stay around here, waiting for Chase in my body."
"He's going to have a Hell of a time," Wilson mutters.
"We get it," House says, rolling his eyes, "I'm a cripple."
He sighs and looks over, glancing off at the door, waiting for Chase in his body to come there, disoriented and limping.
Chase takes over an hour to get used to the pulsing pain, even after downing multiple capsules of Vicodin. He sees the cane on the floor and gets out of bed, it tight on his hand as he limps toward the bathroom. He only realizes after a few seconds that, naturally, House has none of the products for his hair and skin care routine, so he simply washes his face. He doesn't want to learn how to shower while in House's body, so he settles for feeling vaguely sweaty as he puts on House's clothes, including that leather jacket he loves to see on him dearly.
He's always felt… a pull towards House. He juggled what that pull entailed, exactly, for years. Admiration from a professional point of view, sexual attraction, a little crush, simple admiration, so on and so forth. He never liked to settle on one explanation for why he felt good whenever he worked under House.
Now he knows. Not that the answer calms him any more, mind you.
Being soulmates with Gregory House will be hard work.
As much as he's tried to imagine it all as being rosy colors, bubblegum sweet, he knows that's not how it will be, even if his soulmate wasn't House. He too has issues, he too has struggles. He's read enough about marriage counseling and how to make your soulmate feel like your soulmate to know that he won't be alone in that process, either.
It's not like they're the first soulmate duality that looks like, at first sight (and at second, and at third) like mixing oil and water. They can deal with it, they can learn from it. They can even fall in love away from the initial soulmate pull.
He thinks he can. He hopes they can.
He goes outside his apartment and hails a cab. He's not sure what House usually does, but it's the first thing that comes to mind. Soon enough, he's at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
He feels incredibly awkward in this body. Like a stranger. He knows all of the intricacies of House's scar, in a way he never had before. He knows every crevice of his body because, for a few hours, this body is his own. It's strange. His steps are clunky, even while ignoring the limp, because of the height difference.
He limps toward the hospital, opens the door.
And there's House in his body, waiting for him, talking with Wilson.
"There he is," House says, immediately hurrying over toward him.
"House," Chase says, in his body still, examining him, looking down at him. For a brief second, he understands Chase, his search for approval, how he stays by his side no matter what. Eyes looking down at him… it's a good feeling. He can't blame him. Even more so when it's his soulmate's eyes.
"Chase," he says, in Chase's body still.
"Do you want to switch back immediately?"
He grins. "I still haven't taken the time to check your junk out, so—"
Chase interrupts his crude comment by grabbing his arm. There's a blur, akin to motion blur on a picture, before he's watching Chase and not himself. He smiles. "I see you didn't like my comment. Insecure?"
"House," he says, tiredly. "You can't pretend everything's the same and go back to your same old quips of always. We're soulmates ."
"That's even more reason for me to go back to my old quips of always," he says, grinning at him. "But sure. We can get steamy."
"I don't —" Chase hisses. He rubs his face in annoyance. "I just want to talk. And figure out what this means for us, and where to go from here."
House's face softens a little. "We can go to my place. I've got scotch and bad reality tv." He pauses. "That's the best opener I can give to our soulmate-hood, I'm afraid."
Chase rolls his eyes at him. "It'll be good as any. Are we taking the day off?"
"I guess we are. D'you think Cuddy will buy that we're soulmates?"
"Oh, not a chance in Hell."
He laughs.
Maybe being soulmates with Robert Chase can't be all that bad.
They manage to get out of work early, but Cuddy doesn't really buy it. He's not surprised she doesn't— they go together like oil and water do, and House is good at pulling stupid pranks which he'd tag along with in most cases. So he half-listens to Cuddy telling them to stop playing around and then they get out of work early into their shifts.
House's place is just as he left it. He sinks into the sofa with ease.
"You're the young, abled one," House tells him as he searches for his favorite kind of scotch. "You should be the one looking for the alcohol."
"Sorry," he says, not really meaning it. After a few minutes, House comes back and sits down, handing him a bottle of scotch. He downs some of it immediately.
They're dancing around the issue. They are.
"So… soulmates," he starts, awkwardly enough.
"Yeah," House nods.
"I didn't… expect it."
He chuckles. "God, me neither."
"Are we going to, uh, let something organically develop, or is this the part where like in the movies we have sex while coming to terms with the fact we're each other's other half?"
House looks at him, looks through him. "Can't we have sex and let something organically develop?"
He shakes his head and leans in to give him a peck on the lips. He hates to admit it, but the eye roll House gives him makes him feel smug. Denying him works. "No, we can't. We're going to watch shitty reality TV, drink scotch, and we'll let something develop normally."
House scoffs, but he reaches over and squeezes his hand.
Yeah. They can work with that.