Work Text:
1.
Chase sits at the desk, eyes fixed on the patient’s file in front of him, skimming over the lab results for the third time. His stomach growls softly, but he’s too focused to notice. The room is quiet, aside from the tapping of his fingers as he flips through the pages, looking for the missing link in the case.
After a few minutes, House enters the room, cane tapping rhythmically against the floor as he strolls over to Chase's desk. He pauses, glancing at the clock on the wall and then at Chase, who hasn’t moved.
"Chase," House says, leaning against the back of the chair, his voice a touch mocking. "You’ve been glued to that file for hours. I hate to break it to you, but the patient's not going to get any better by you starving yourself."
Chase looks up, blinking in surprise. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed. He reaches for his stomach instinctively, realizing just how empty it feels. "I... I didn't even notice," he admits, his voice tinged with embarrassment.
"Yeah, well, you won’t be able to think straight if you don't feed your brain," House quips. He reaches into a bag at his side and tosses a sandwich at Chase. "Here. Take a break, eat, and come back when you're not in danger of passing out."
Chase stares at the sandwich for a moment, then reluctantly grabs it. "Thanks, House," he says quietly, pulling off the wrapper and starting to nibble. The tension in his shoulders eases as he takes a bite, and he feels a small pang of gratitude for House’s subtle reminders. It’s not just about food—it’s about making sure he doesn’t lose himself in work to the point where he neglects his own well-being.
House, noticing the shift in Chase’s posture, gives a half-smile. "Don’t mention it. Just remember, your brain’s like a car. If you run it on empty, it’s going to break down."
Chase nods, taking a real break for the first time all day.
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2.
Chase is talking a mile a minute, running through a complicated case he read about the night before. His excitement is palpable, his words tumbling out faster than he can think them through. But as he speaks, his fingers start drumming a rapid, almost frantic beat against the desk. Tap, tap, tap, tap—a steady rhythm that echoes throughout the room.
House is sitting nearby, trying to pretend he’s not listening, but the constant tapping is starting to get on his nerves. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward, and catches Chase’s eye as he rambles on without skipping a beat.
“Chase,” House interrupts, his voice dry, “I get it. You’re excited about the case. But for the love of God, stop playing the drums on my desk.”
Chase blinks, momentarily distracted. "Sorry, I didn’t even realize," he admits, rubbing his forehead.
House, ever resourceful, reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a tennis ball. He tosses it over to Chase. "Here. Squeeze this. It’s either that or you’re going to drive me mad with your tap-dancing routine."
Chase catches the ball, looking at it in surprise. "You want me to play with this while I talk?"
“Exactly,” House says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "If you need to fidget, do it quietly. The ball won’t annoy anyone—well, anyone who’s not overly sensitive to constant noise."
Chase laughs, feeling a little embarrassed but grateful for the distraction. He squeezes the tennis ball in his hand, the repetitive action helping him focus more on what he's saying and less on his nervous energy. "I guess I’m a bit more distracted than I thought," he mutters, but the words no longer feel like a confession. With the ball in hand, he feels slightly more grounded.
House just watches him for a moment, then smirks. "Better. Now, tell me again about the case. But less tap-dance, more actual medical content."
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3.
Chase is sitting at the desk, bent over a patient's file, his focus entirely on the data in front of him. He’s so absorbed in his work that he doesn't notice the slow, repetitive motion of his teeth gnawing on the cap of his pen. The slight clicking sound of his teeth against the plastic fills the silence in the room.
House enters the office, a grin tugging at his lips as he watches Chase for a moment. He’d noticed this habit of his before—Chase tends to chew on his pens when he’s concentrating. It’s not the most appetizing way to focus, but House knows that Chase often does it without thinking.
“Chase,” House says dryly, his voice cutting through the quiet, “You’ve been gnawing on that pen for the last five minutes. Are you really that hungry, or is it just a new form of oral fixation?”
Chase immediately freezes, realizing he’s been chewing on the pen again. "Oh. Right. Sorry, I didn’t realize I was doing it."
House just smirks, unfazed. "Here," he says, pulling a brightly-colored lollipop from his pocket and tossing it to him. "Take this. It’s much more sanitary than whatever’s left on that pen cap."
Chase catches the lollipop mid-air, looking at it in surprise. "Uh, thanks," he mutters, quickly unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. The candy sweetness replaces the pen in his mouth, and he finds it oddly calming.
"You’re welcome," House says with a small shrug. "Next time, just make sure to bring your own candy. I don’t want to be your personal candy supplier."
Chase chuckles, the tension in his body dissipating as he focuses on the lollipop, his mind a little clearer without the pen to chew on.
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4.
Chase has been at his desk for hours, barely moving except for the occasional swipe of his pen across the page. His concentration is laser-focused as he works on reviewing test results, trying to piece together a pattern in the data. But in the back of his mind, his bladder is growing increasingly insistent. He ignores it, convinced he’s too close to solving the case to take a break.
House enters the office, as usual, limping in with his cane and his usual knowing smirk. He immediately notices Chase’s posture, tense and unmoving, and the fact that he hasn’t stood up for a while. House crosses the room with ease and leans against the desk.
“Chase,” he says casually, tapping his cane against the floor. “When’s the last time you went to the bathroom? You’ve been in here for hours. Are you trying to turn yourself into a human cactus?”
Chase looks up at him, confused at first. Then, realization hits. He hadn’t even thought about it. His body feels stiff, and now that House mentioned it, he’s suddenly very aware of the discomfort building in his lower back. "I... I guess I’ve been too focused to notice."
House raises an eyebrow. "Focus is fine, but you’re not going to think straight if you’re in pain or your bladder’s ready to explode. Go. Now. You’ll thank me later."
Chase stands up immediately, a little embarrassed, and thanks House for the reminder. As he walks toward the bathroom, he can’t help but feel grateful for House’s subtle, almost parental nudges. House might not say it directly, but he knows Chase needs these reminders—whether he realizes it or not.
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5.
The office is quiet except for the occasional sound of typing. Chase’s eyes are glued to the screen as he types out a report, intent on finishing it before he heads home. The clock on the wall ticks past the hour—7:15, then 8:00, then 8:15—but Chase is so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t even notice.
House, walking by on his way out of the office, glances at the clock and sees that Chase is still there, completely engrossed in his screen. He raises an eyebrow and stops in his tracks. Without a word, he heads into the room.
"Chase," House says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I get that you like to work, but you do know that your shift ended over an hour ago, right?"
Chase looks up, startled, his face reddening as he checks the time. "I didn’t realize it was that late," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just got caught up in finishing this report."
“Optional report, by the way,” House points out, tapping his cane against the floor. "It can wait until tomorrow. You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends. You’ll just end up a pile of goo by the weekend."
Chase stands up slowly, gathering his things. "Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the reminder. I’ll head home."
House nods, the slightest smirk on his lips. "Don’t mention it. Go get some sleep, or I’ll be treating you for exhaustion next."
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+1
A few weeks after his diagnosis, Chase enters House’s office, holding a letter in his hand. He looks unsure, shifting from one foot to the other before speaking up.
"House, I got diagnosed... with ADHD," he says quietly. "I guess it explains a lot of things, like why I get so distracted and why I can’t seem to focus sometimes."
House doesn’t show surprise, though. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking over to Chase. "Yeah, I kind of figured," House replies nonchalantly. "You’ve been a bit all over the place for a while now. Plus, I’ve seen you get lost in your head. And your habits, the tapping, the chewing on pens, the working without taking a break—it’s all there."
Chase blinks, surprised. "You knew?"
House gives a lazy shrug. "I’ve worked with enough people to spot the signs. You’ve been struggling for a while, but it’s not exactly something you announce."
"I didn’t want to be a hassle," Chase admits, his voice tinged with guilt. "I didn’t mean to make things difficult for you with all the reminders and... you know, the tennis balls."
House’s eyes soften slightly, though his tone remains dry. "You didn’t inconvenience me. I liked helping you out. It’s what I do."
Chase looks down at his shoes, still feeling a bit bad. "But you didn’t have to... I didn’t want to be a burden."
House shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Chase, you’re not a burden. It’s not a big deal. And besides, if I can make your life a little easier, why wouldn’t I? Don’t worry about it."
For the first time, Chase realizes that House truly does care in his own way—subtle, offbeat, and full of dry humor. He feels a strange sense of relief, grateful not only for the diagnosis but for the quiet support that House had been giving him all along.