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House knew something was off the moment Chase walked into the conference room that morning.
It wasn’t obvious. Not to the untrained eye. He was still dressed immaculately, his tie knotted with that practiced neatness, his posture straight, his hair combed into that effortless Australian prince look. But House had spent years picking people apart, years noticing the tiniest inconsistencies in his patients, his colleagues, his friends—though he’d never admit to having those. And right now, Chase was broadcasting all sorts of red flags.
His shoulders were stiff, too controlled. His smile was too tight. And his eyes—House had seen that look before, just not on Chase. He’d seen it on patients who flinched when a hand moved too fast, who smiled because they’d learned it was safer than frowning.
House leaned back in his chair, twirling his cane. “So,” he drawled, “why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
Chase glanced up, startled, then schooled his expression. “What?”
“Puppy. Small animal, big eyes, very sad when kicked,” House said. “Yours seems particularly dead today.”
Cameron frowned. “Are you okay, Chase?”
“I’m fine.”
House’s eyes narrowed. Too fast. Too dismissive.
Foreman smirked. “Bet it’s his dad. You’re seeing him today, right?”
Chase’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yeah.”
Bingo.
House hadn’t forgotten Rowan Chase. The great Dr Rowan Chase, world-renowned rheumatologist, absentee father, charming son of a bitch. House had liked him, actually. He had that rare quality of being able to see through people’s bullshit while exuding enough of his own to get away with it. Chase, predictably, hated him. Daddy issues galore.
But this wasn’t the usual mild resentment. This was different.
When Rowan Chase arrived, he was as put-together as House remembered. Expensive suit, impeccable manners, that effortless arrogance only the old-money medical elite could pull off. He shook hands with Cuddy, exchanged pleasantries with Wilson.
And then there was Chase.
House had been watching for it. The moment of eye contact. The tell. And there it was—Chase stiffened, just slightly, shoulders locking. His hand curled into a fist at his side before he forced it to relax. His expression smoothed out, but House caught it before it did. Fear.
Not irritation. Not frustration. Fear.
And then Rowan spoke, and House saw the knife twist.
“Robert,” he said, voice rich with something House couldn’t quite place. “Still playing doctor, I see.”
It was a joke. A ribbing comment. Nothing overt. But Chase flinched. It was tiny, barely there. But House caught it.
By lunchtime, House had parked himself in the observation lounge overlooking the clinic, where Rowan and Chase sat in uncomfortable proximity. He watched as Rowan talked, gestured, smiled his politician’s smile.
Chase barely spoke.
House had always known Chase had a complicated relationship with his father. The man had practically abandoned him after his mother’s death, and House had assumed—like everyone else—that Chase’s issues boiled down to neglect. But this wasn’t the reaction of someone dealing with an absent father.
This was something else.
House had seen abused patients before. People who’d been conditioned to shrink, to second-guess themselves, to anticipate pain before it came.
And Chase—his golden boy, his arrogant, insufferable, talented little duckling—was doing all of that.
House’s stomach turned.
He leaned forward slightly, straining to hear through the glass. He caught snippets.
“…still a disappointment…”
“…never had the discipline…”
“…always weak…”
Chase sat frozen, his face carefully blank, his hands pressed into his lap like he was physically keeping himself from moving.
And then, Rowan reached out.
House expected a pat on the shoulder, some insincere gesture. But it wasn’t. Rowan’s hand brushed Chase’s wrist, deliberate, fingers curling for just a second before he pulled back.
Chase twitched violently, yanking his arm away before he could stop himself.
Rowan smirked.
House’s vision went red.
He was moving before he realised it, pushing open the door, cane slamming into the floor louder than necessary. Both men looked up, Chase with wide eyes, Rowan with mild amusement.
House pointed directly at Rowan. “Out.”
Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” House’s voice was low, deadly. “Get the hell out of my hospital.”
Rowan looked genuinely surprised. “Gregory, this is hardly—”
“I don’t care.” House took a step closer, his limp barely noticeable in his fury. “I don’t care how many awards you’ve won. I don’t care how important you think you are. You’re done.”
Rowan glanced at Chase, who was staring at the floor, hands gripping his knees like he wanted to sink into the ground. He smirked again. “Robert’s always been sensitive.”
House’s grip on his cane tightened. He wanted to hit him. He really did. But instead, he turned to Chase. “You want him here?”
Chase didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
House turned back to Rowan. “I will personally make sure Cuddy has security escort you out if you don’t leave in the next thirty seconds.”
Rowan exhaled sharply, shaking his head like House was being ridiculous, but he stood. “Fine. Enjoy your little rebellion, Robert.” He looked at House, a glint of something cruel in his eyes. “He’s always needed someone to protect him. You’ll tire of it eventually.”
House said nothing. He just stared, unblinking, until Rowan walked out.
And then, silence.
Chase didn’t move.
House sighed, rubbing his face. “You gonna sit there all day?”
Chase exhaled shakily. “You didn’t have to do that.”
House dropped into the chair across from him, stretching his leg out. “Yeah, I did.”
Chase was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. “You don’t know the half of it.”
House didn’t push. Not now. Instead, he leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah. But I know enough.”
Chase swallowed, staring at the table. His hands were still clenched.
House sighed. “I’m not gonna hug you, you know.”
Chase let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Thank God.”
House tilted his head. “But I will make fun of you slightly less for the next twenty-four hours.”
Chase huffed, shaking his head. “That’s generous.”
House watched him for a moment. Still too pale. Still too stiff. But he was breathing. That was something.
House stood, grabbing his cane. “C’mon, kiddo. You look like you need a beer.”
Chase hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
As they walked out, House made a mental note to dig deeper later. Because Chase had spent his whole life surviving. Maybe it was time someone else took a turn watching his back.