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House wasn’t looking for Chase. In fact, he was looking for Wilson, mostly to irritate him, but also because he’d run out of reasons to procrastinate doing clinic duty. Wilson had an uncanny ability to look disapproving no matter what House did, which, for reasons House didn’t care to examine, made it fun to keep pushing.
But Wilson wasn’t in his office. The lights were off, the door locked. House would’ve barged in anyway, but breaking and entering was too much effort today. So he wandered back down the hallway, mind idly flipping through alternative ways to waste time—until he caught something in his peripheral vision.
It wasn’t much. Just a glimpse of a hunched figure in the tiny, dim alcove by the supply closet. It was the kind of spot people ignored because it wasn’t really meant to be there, just an awkward architectural oversight where the walls didn’t quite meet at a right angle. Normally, nothing of interest. But House had an eye for what didn’t belong, and a doctor curled in on himself in the shadows like a kicked puppy? Yeah, that was off.
So he backtracked, planting his cane with deliberate slowness, and took a better look. Chase.
Chase, sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, forearms resting loosely over them. Chase, staring hard at the ground, as if sheer willpower could make House go away. Chase, whose face was slightly too red, whose breath hitched just a little too much.
Crying.
House rocked back on his heel, considering.
A dozen things passed through his mind, most of them sarcastic. Hey, if you’re going to have a breakdown at work, at least do it in a room with Kleenex. Or , Finally realized your hair isn’t actually that great?
But he didn’t say any of those things.
Instead, he just tilted his head. “So, what’d the floor say to make you this upset?”
Chase startled, a quick intake of breath as he immediately turned his face away. The movement was sharp, defensive. Like a kid caught doing something shameful.
“Nothing,” he muttered, voice thick. He sniffed once, quick and quiet, like he was trying to erase the evidence.
House just hummed.
Chase scrubbed at his face, fingers pressing into his eyes for a second before dropping his hands. When he looked back at House, his expression was forcibly neutral, but his eyes were still too bright.
“I’m fine.”
House raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sure. Most people take their lunch break curled up in the fetal position in dark corners. Very normal.”
Chase set his jaw. “I’m fine, House.”
House didn’t move. He just watched, gaze sharp, noting the way Chase’s hands flexed against his pant legs, the way his shoulders held tension like a violin string drawn too tight.
“Right,” House said, “so you won’t mind telling me why you’re down here looking like a tragic Victorian heroine.”
Chase’s mouth twitched, just slightly. “Screw off.”
That was a little better.
House rocked forward and leaned on his cane. “Look, if you wanna pretend you’re not crying, at least put in some effort. Maybe don’t pick the one place no one else is likely to walk by. Maybe wipe your nose before it does that little, pathetic sniffly thing.”
Chase scowled, but, despite himself, his sleeve twitched up to his face for a second.
“Or, I don’t know, you could just tell me what happened.” House made a vague gesture with his free hand. “Get it over with. Confess your sins. Is this about your dad? ‘Cause, let’s be honest, you probably should’ve started therapy, like, fifteen years ago for that one.”
Chase flinched, just barely. House saw it anyway.
House exhaled through his nose, less amused now. Okay. So, Dad, then.
He settled in, shifting his weight, letting the silence stretch between them. Chase, predictably, didn’t take the bait right away. He just sat there, face turned away, jaw set.
House knew Chase. Knew how he tried so hard to act like things didn’t bother him, like they just slid right off his expensive suits and carefully put-together demeanor. But House also knew how deep things ran under that. How Chase had spent his whole life trying to prove himself, first to a father who barely noticed him, then to anyone who might see him as something more than a pretty boy with nepotism luck.
House didn’t press. Not really. He just let the moment hang, let Chase’s own stubbornness fight against itself.
Eventually, Chase sighed. It was a quiet, defeated thing.
“Got an email from my aunt,” he muttered. “About Dad’s estate.”
House made a noncommittal noise.
Chase exhaled again, rubbing at his temple. “She—” His voice caught, just a little. He swallowed. “She forwarded me a letter. From him.”
House watched him carefully, taking in the way Chase’s fingers clenched against his sleeve.
“He wrote it before—” Chase stopped, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
House tilted his head. “Yeah, that’s the kind of thing people say when it does matter.”
Chase huffed a tired, humorless laugh. He rubbed his eyes again, as if that might erase the redness.
House shifted, letting his voice go just a fraction quieter. “You read it?”
Chase hesitated. Then nodded, barely.
House considered that. Thought about how much baggage was probably crammed into a single letter. Thought about how Chase had spent years pretending he was fine about his dad, when he so obviously wasn’t.
“Let me guess,” House said finally. “He either said he was proud of you in a way that made it sound like an afterthought, or he left you with one final passive-aggressive guilt trip from beyond the grave.”
Chase huffed a breath. It might’ve been a laugh, if it weren’t so bitter. “Something like that.”
House nodded.
They lapsed into silence again, but it was different now. Chase wasn’t hiding anymore. He just looked exhausted, like he’d spent too much energy trying to keep it together.
House studied him, then, slowly, dropped down beside him with a wince, stretching his bad leg out.
Chase blinked at him, surprised. “What are you doing?”
House shrugged. “Making sure the floor didn’t actually insult you. Gotta hear its side of the story.”
Chase rolled his eyes.
They sat there for a long moment.
Eventually, House nudged Chase’s knee lightly with his cane. “Hey.”
Chase looked at him warily.
“Want me to tell you you’re a disappointment to balance it out?”
Chase huffed a breath, shaking his head. “No.”
House smirked. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”
Chase didn’t say anything. But the tension in his shoulders had loosened just a little.
They sat there a while longer, not talking. Just existing in the quiet, until Chase finally sighed and scrubbed his face one last time, looking steadier.
House didn’t say anything. Just got up with a groan, then glanced down at him.
“C’mon. You can go pretend you weren’t crying in the locker room for ten minutes before Foreman sees you and gets that concerned older brother look.”
Chase hesitated, then pushed himself up with a sigh.
As they started walking, House nudged him lightly with his cane again.
“You’re not a disappointment, by the way.”
Chase blinked at him, startled.
House didn’t look at him. Just kept walking, like he hadn’t said anything.
Chase hesitated—then, quietly, almost too softly to hear—
“Thanks.”