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Chase jiggled the doorknob one more time, his frustration growing as it refused to give way. The cramped storage cupboard felt even smaller now that he was stuck, the faint smell of bleach and cardboard stifling. His hand lingered on the knob for a moment before he sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket. There was only one person he could call—though he dreaded the inevitable barrage of sarcasm.
“House,” came the familiar, amused drawl when the line connected.
“House, it’s Chase. I’m locked in a storage cupboard on the second floor. Can you come let me out?”
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. “Did you trip over your halo on the way in? Or were you looking for a new hobby?”
Chase gritted his teeth. “House, can you just help? I’ve been in here for ten minutes already.”
Another pause. “Fine. But I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
The line clicked dead. Chase let out a groan, lowering the phone and sliding down to sit on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned his head back against the wall, trying to stay calm. Surely House would come. He wouldn’t just leave him there. Probably.
Minutes passed, and irritation gave way to restlessness. He glanced at his watch—seven minutes since the call. Chase shifted, crossing one leg over the other, but the new position only seemed to draw his attention to a faint pressure in his lower abdomen. He frowned. The coffee he’d chugged during rounds earlier was catching up to him, and the small annoyance was quickly becoming impossible to ignore.
He straightened up, planting both feet on the ground. It’s fine. He’ll be here any second. But another five minutes passed, and with every tick of the clock, the need became sharper. Chase adjusted his position again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, clenching his thighs together tightly.
The ache in his bladder was constant now, a heavy, throbbing pressure that seemed to grow worse every time he moved. Chase gritted his teeth, inhaling deeply through his nose. The cupboard felt smaller with every passing second, the silence amplifying his discomfort.
Fifteen minutes since the call. Chase shifted again, this time tucking one leg underneath him, bouncing his other knee anxiously. His bladder felt painfully full, a dull, stretching sensation radiating through his abdomen. He pressed a hand discreetly against his stomach, wincing at how hard and bloated it felt under his palm.
“Come on, House,” he muttered, his voice tense. “Where are you?”
His legs jiggled restlessly, the movement providing the slightest relief, but it wasn’t enough. He was sweating now, his breathing shallow as he clenched every muscle he could think of to hold back the flood threatening to break free. A hot, tingling sensation spread low in his abdomen, warning him of what was to come if he didn’t hold on.
The cupboard was unbearably silent. The only sound was his shallow breathing and the faint creak of the floor as he shifted positions yet again. His thigh muscles burned from tensing so much, and his toes curled inside his shoes. He was running out of options. The pressure was unbearable now, like a balloon stretched to its limit, ready to burst at the slightest nudge.
Thirty minutes. He could feel the first telltale spasms as his muscles began to give out. A sharp jolt of urgency forced a gasp from his lips, and Chase instinctively pressed his hand between his thighs, rocking forward to try and suppress the urge.
But it was too much. A small, warm trickle escaped before he could stop it, dampening his boxers. Chase froze, his heart racing as panic overtook him. He clamped down as hard as he could, trembling with the effort. His entire body was tense, every ounce of his focus on holding back the growing flood.
Another spasm hit, and this time, he couldn’t stop it. A sudden rush of liquid escaped, soaking into the fabric and spreading warmth across his thighs. He whimpered softly, his face flushing with humiliation. His control slipped completely, and the dam burst. He felt the hot, relentless stream flood through his pants, pooling beneath him on the tile floor.
“No, no, no,” Chase whispered, tears stinging his eyes as the shame washed over him. He tried to stop it, but his body wouldn’t listen. The relief was overwhelming, even as mortification clawed at him.
The puddle beneath him spread, the sound of liquid hitting the floor unbearably loud in the silence. Chase buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as tears spilled over. The reality of what had just happened hit him like a freight train. He’d wet himself—trapped, humiliated, and completely powerless.
Footsteps echoed outside the door, followed by the familiar tap of a cane. Chase scrambled to his feet, wiping his eyes and backing against the wall as the door swung open.
House leaned casually in the doorway, his smirk faltering as his gaze swept over Chase and the puddle on the floor.
“Well,” House said slowly, his tone lacking its usual sharpness. “I guess I took too long.”
Chase turned away, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Don’t,” he choked out, his voice breaking.
To his surprise, House didn’t respond with a quip. Instead, the older man stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It’s okay. It happens.”
Chase shook his head, his chest tight with shame. “Not to me,” he whispered. “Not like this.”
House stepped closer, setting his cane aside and placing a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “You’ve been through worse,” he said simply, his voice steady. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He handed Chase his jacket, motioning for him to wrap it around his waist. Chase hesitated, then took it, draping it over himself before following House out of the cupboard. The silence between them was almost comforting. No jokes, no teasing—just quiet understanding.