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The sterile, clinical light of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was a far cry from the warmth and comfort Chase desperately needed. The diagnostics department buzzed with its usual controlled chaos—papers rustling, pens clicking, the faint hum of medical equipment in the background. But beneath the surface, Chase felt something dark and suffocating beginning to bubble up.
He could feel House's eyes on him as the team discussed the latest case: a 29-year-old man presenting with severe migraines, dizziness, and unexplained bouts of confusion. House's sharp voice cut through the room like a scalpel, slicing through hypotheses with brutal efficiency.
"The symptoms don't fit with a simple infection, and if I hear one more of you suggest lupus, you're fired," House snapped, his cane tapping impatiently against the floor.
Chase’s mind should have been focused on the case, on coming up with something that would impress House, but he couldn’t shake the memory of his last conversation with Vogler. The billionaire had cornered him in the hallway, his voice low and threatening as he laid out his ultimatum: one of the team had to go, and if Chase didn’t prove his worth, it could very well be him.
"Chase, you got something useful to add, or are you just practicing your deer-in-headlights look?" House’s voice was laced with sarcasm, but Chase could barely hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.
He tried to speak, to answer, but nothing came out. His heart was racing, his thoughts spiraling as he imagined losing his job, his career, everything he’d worked so hard for. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, the air thick and heavy.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
It hit him all at once—a full-blown panic attack.
His vision blurred, spots dancing in front of his eyes as his lungs seized up. Every breath was a struggle, as if the air was being sucked out of the room. His chest tightened, pain shooting through his ribs like a vice grip. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t—
"Chase?" Cameron’s voice was softer than House’s, but no less urgent. He vaguely registered her reaching out to him, her hand brushing his arm.
He jerked away from her touch, the sensation too much, too overwhelming. He needed to get out. He needed air. Without another word, Chase stumbled out of the room, his legs unsteady beneath him. He could feel everyone’s eyes on his back, but he couldn’t stop. He just needed to escape.
---
Chase barely made it to the stairwell before his legs gave out. He collapsed against the cold, hard steps, gasping for breath. His vision swam, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might pass out. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block out the world, to pull himself together.
Minutes passed—maybe hours, he wasn’t sure—before he felt a presence beside him. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
"You're hyperventilating," House’s voice was low, more subdued than usual. "Breathe through it."
Chase tried to follow House’s instructions, forcing air in through his nose, out through his mouth. But it wasn’t working. He was still spiraling, still drowning in his own panic.
House sighed, the sound heavy with something Chase couldn’t quite identify. "Put your head between your knees," House ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "Now."
Chase obeyed, folding himself over, his chest resting on his thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the sound of his own breathing. Slowly, the dizziness began to fade, and his heart rate started to slow.
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that—House standing over him, silent, watchful—before Chase finally lifted his head. He was exhausted, drained, his body trembling from the aftermath.
"Why didn’t you say something?" House’s voice was still unusually soft, lacking its usual bite.
Chase stared at the floor, unable to meet House’s gaze. He wanted to answer, to offer some explanation for why this had happened, but the words were stuck. He couldn’t tell House about Vogler’s threat, about the suffocating pressure that had been building inside him ever since. Admitting that he’d cracked under the pressure might only make things worse, might push House to choose him as the one to be cut.
"I… I don’t know," Chase finally whispered, the lie heavy on his tongue.
House was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was more understanding than Chase had expected. "Sometimes things break," House said quietly, almost to himself. "Doesn’t mean they can’t be fixed."
Chase finally looked up, meeting House’s eyes. There was no mockery there, no sarcasm. Just an understanding that made something in Chase's chest ache.
"Next time," House continued, "when you feel like the world’s closing in on you, don’t wait until you’re about to keel over. Come to me. I’m not completely heartless, you know."
It wasn’t an apology, but coming from House, it was close enough. Chase nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Thanks," he said, the word rough and raw.
House didn’t respond, just gave him a curt nod before turning on his heel and limping back towards the diagnostics room. Chase watched him go, the knot in his chest loosening just a little.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, Chase took a deep, steady breath. The panic attack had left him shaken, and though the fear of losing his job still loomed over him, he wasn’t sure if or when he’d ever be able to tell House the truth. For now, he’d keep it hidden, keep the pressure bottled up inside, and hope that it wouldn’t break him again.
But at least he knew he had someone who understood—someone who, despite all the bluster and biting comments, actually cared.
And that, Chase realized, might just be enough.