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Chase exhaled sharply as he stepped into the elevator, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to ease the tension creeping up his spine. He’d been on his feet all morning—first running tests, then getting dragged into clinic duty, and somehow, he’d managed to miss every opportunity for a break. His stomach was running on caffeine alone, his energy stretched thin, and the dull pressure in his bladder had been nagging at him for at least an hour now.
This was his chance. The plan was simple: ride up one floor, duck into the bathroom just outside their office, and finally get some relief before he had to head back to work.
The doors started to slide shut, the quiet hum of the elevator a small reprieve from the noise of the hospital...
And then the doors suddenly lurched to a stop, then slid open again. Chase barely had time to register the motion before House stepped inside, his cane wedged against the doorframe.
“Change of plans,” House announced, tapping the button for their floor with the end of his cane. “Patient’s got new symptoms. You’re needed.”
Chase tensed. “What symptoms?”
House shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Oh, you know. The usual. Spontaneous human combustion. Complete loss of all bodily functions. The occasional extra limb.” He leaned against the wall and glanced at Chase. “Or maybe just a rash and a fever. But I like my version better.”
Chase exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight. House didn’t sound particularly worried, which meant it probably wasn’t urgent. Maybe he could slip away for thirty seconds before heading up—
The elevator doors shut again, and the lift began to move. Chase rocked on his heels, his knee bouncing before he even realized it. His foot tapped softly against the floor, the sound barely noticeable over the hum of the elevator.
Was it just him, or was this ride taking longer than usual?
His bladder throbbed dully, and he bit the inside of his cheek, stealing a glance at the floor indicator. Still two levels to go.
House’s gaze flicked downward. Chase felt the shift immediately. Sharp blue eyes locked onto his bouncing leg, then darted up to his face.
Chase forced himself to still, locking his muscles and gripping the railing behind him like he was simply bracing for the stop. House tilted his head slightly, but didn’t comment—yet.
The elevator lurched to a sudden stop with a harsh, grating sound, jerking both of them forward. Chase barely managed to keep his balance, his fingers tightening on the railing behind him. But the real problem was the sharp, jarring pulse in his bladder, a painful reminder of just how badly he had to go. He clenched his jaw, biting back a hiss.
A heavy silence hung in the air for a beat.
“…Are we stuck?” Chase asked, already dreading the answer.
House shot him a flat look. “How should I know? I’m stuck in here with you.” He rapped his cane once against the elevator wall, as if that would somehow produce an answer, then sighed dramatically.
Chase exhaled slowly through his nose, mentally cursing his luck. Of all the times for the elevator to get stuck, it had to be now—when he was already pushing his limits.
He swallowed, shifting slightly. “So… what do we do?”
House leaned back against the wall, perfectly at ease, and smirked. “Nothing. We wait.”
Chase remained standing next to the wall, keeping his back straight and his muscles tense. He refused to lean against it—he couldn’t afford to. Any extra pressure on his bladder would only make things worse. Instead, he shifted his weight lightly from foot to foot, keeping his movements slow, subtle. If House noticed, he could pass it off as boredom. Maybe even claustrophobia. Anything but the truth.
God, he hoped they wouldn’t be in here long.
But time dragged. What felt like hours was, according to House’s occasional updates from his watch, only ten minutes. Ten. Miserable. Minutes.
Chase had given up on stillness entirely. He was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet now, thighs pressing together and then loosening in a steady rhythm. The dull, nagging pressure in his bladder had grown into something worse—a sharp, pulsing ache that refused to be ignored. Every shift sent a fresh wave of discomfort through his body, tightening his muscles and making it harder to think about anything else.
His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling, wanting so badly to press against himself—to do something to ease the mounting urgency. But he couldn’t. If he did, House would know. If he didn’t already.
Chase exhaled slowly through his nose, staring hard at the floor as he clenched his jaw. His bladder throbbed insistently, a deep, insistent pressure that was quickly approaching unbearable.
He really, really needed to pee now.
House sighed, pushing himself upright from where he’d been casually leaning against the wall. He tilted his head, watching Chase with that infuriatingly knowing look, and said, “You need to pee, don’t you?”
It wasn’t a question.
Chase stiffened, forcing himself to stand still, his fists clenching at his sides. He willed his body to cooperate, to stop the bouncing, the shifting, the subtle tremors that were giving him away. He swallowed hard and kept his voice as even as possible. “I’m fine.”
House raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Really?” He gestured vaguely at Chase’s restless stance. “Because it looks to me like you’ve needed to pee this whole time.”
Chase pressed his lips together and crossed his arms tightly against his chest, as if that would somehow hide the way his legs kept shifting, his weight transferring constantly from foot to foot. He forced himself to meet House’s gaze. “I’m fine.”
House’s smirk faded slightly, replaced with something that almost looked like concern—or as close as House ever got to it. “I really don’t care if you go in the corner or whatever.”
Chase’s stomach twisted. He shook his head immediately, even as a sharp pang from his bladder made his thighs clench tighter. His legs were beginning to tremble from the constant effort of keeping control. “I can wait.”
He had to. There was no way in hell he was going to embarrass himself like that—especially not in front of House.
House studied him for a second longer before sighing and shifting back against the wall, seemingly done with the conversation. “Have it your way then.”
It didn’t take long for the pressure to become unbearable. Every second that passed chipped away at Chase’s resolve, his body betraying him little by little. His bladder ached fiercely, the fullness pressing down like a weight inside him, making it harder and harder to keep control. His legs trembled from the sheer effort of holding back, muscles clenching so tightly they burned.
He shifted again, subtly, just trying to relieve some of the relentless discomfort—but the movement backfired. A sharp wave of urgency crashed over him, so intense that his entire body seized up. His stomach clenched, his thighs pressed tightly together, and for one terrifying second, he nearly doubled over.
He barely managed to stop himself, but the sheer force of it had him gasping through his teeth. A weak, involuntary whimper escaped before he could stop it, and his eyes stung as hot tears sprang up, blurring his vision.
God. No. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in front of House.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose, struggling to fight off the waves of desperation wracking his body. But it was so, so bad now. His bladder throbbed with every beat of his heart, pulsing painfully, and he could feel the terrifying, undeniable pressure at the very edge of his control.
Movement caught his attention, and when he blinked his eyes open, House had stepped away from the wall, his usual flippant expression replaced by something quieter. His hand landed on Chase’s shoulder—solid, grounding, and disturbingly gentle.
“Chase, kid, just go in the corner,” House said, his voice softer than usual.
Chase shook his head immediately, fresh tears spilling over as he sucked in a sharp breath. His body was giving up on him, and without thinking, his hand shot down to his crotch, gripping himself tightly in a last-ditch effort to hold on. The relief was immediate—but it wasn’t enough. He was barely holding on by a thread.
His face burned with shame as he managed, in a small, broken voice, “That’s embarrassing.”
House let out a heavy sigh. “You think I care?” he said simply. “You’re in pain. Just go.”
Chase let out a shaky breath, still desperately gripping himself, his entire body trembling with exertion. His face was hot with shame, but he forced out a weak, breathless argument. “There—there are cameras.” His voice wavered, and he could barely get the words out past the sheer panic clawing at his chest.
House didn’t hesitate. “And? What, you think he’s gonna frame it and put it on his wall?” He scoffed, but his tone lacked its usual bite. “No one cares, Chase.”
Chase barely had time to register the words before it happened. A sudden, warm trickle slipped past his exhausted muscles, dampening his underwear. His breath hitched sharply, panic surging through him like ice in his veins.
No. No no no.
His body was giving him a choice, but it wasn’t much of one. Either he went in the corner—or he went in his pants.
A frantic whimper tore from his throat as he jerked his other hand down, fumbling desperately at his zipper. His fingers trembled as he tried to tug it down, but— it wouldn’t budge.
His heart pounded wildly as he yanked at it harder, but nothing happened. It was stuck. Oh, God.
In his desperation, he pulled his hand away from himself to use both hands, giving the zipper one last desperate tug—
And that was it. His resolve shattered.
The dam broke.
Chase let out a choked gasp as warmth suddenly flooded his pants, soaking through instantly. A soft, humiliating hiss filled the silent elevator as the hot liquid streamed down his legs, darkening the fabric and pooling at his feet. His entire body sagged as overwhelming, blissful relief crashed over him, forcing his eyes shut and his lips apart in a shaky, silent exhale.
It felt like it lasted forever. His bladder emptied with no sign of stopping, the pressure finally releasing in wave after wave, his knees nearly buckling under the sheer force of it. The shame burned, mortifying and all-consuming, but the relief was just as powerful, leaving him lightheaded and breathless.
He was distantly aware of movement, and then—House’s hand on his shoulder again, steady, grounding.
“It’s alright, Chase,” House murmured, and for once, there was no teasing, no sarcasm. Just quiet, undeniable sympathy.
Chase swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick with humiliation.
The elevator seemed to close in around him, his vision tunneling until the only thing he was aware of was House’s hand on his arm.
House sighed, his voice quieter than usual, softer in a way that caught Chase off guard. “It’s alright, kid,” he said. “It’s their fault for keeping us in here this long.” His hand stayed firm on Chase’s shoulder, a steady presence amidst the crushing weight of Chase’s shame.
Somewhere beneath the layers of humiliation, a part of Chase was stunned. House —the same House who never passed up an opportunity to be an ass, who mocked and prodded and pushed people’s buttons for fun—was being gentle. There was no sarcasm, no smirking, no sharp-edged remarks. Just quiet reassurance.
But the rest of Chase couldn’t focus on that. The rest of him was too overwhelmed, too mortified, too utterly humiliated to process anything else. His breathing hitched, and the few stray tears that had slipped out before quickly multiplied, spilling freely down his face. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep it together, but it was useless. His chest heaved with silent sobs, his whole body trembling—not just from exhaustion, but from sheer emotional overload.
House shifted, and the next thing Chase knew, he had leaned his cane against the wall. Then, without a word, House wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a firm, steady embrace.
Chase broke.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked and uneven. Then again, a little shakier. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
House just tightened his hold, his grip secure and unwavering. “It’s alright,” he repeated, his voice calm, steady, unwavering. “You’re alright.”
But Chase didn’t feel alright. He felt small. He felt helpless. He felt like he had just shattered into a million pieces, and House was the only thing keeping them from scattering across the floor.
They stood there for a few moments longer, Chase trembling in House’s arms, tears still slipping down his face even as his breathing slowly, shakily evened out. The warmth of House’s steady grip was oddly grounding, something solid amidst the overwhelming shame pressing down on him.
Eventually, House pulled back, his hands sliding off Chase’s shoulders but not moving too far, as if making sure Chase wasn’t going to crumble the moment he let go. Then, with a sigh, House gestured vaguely to the floor.
“We should sit down,” he said. “My leg hurts.”
Chase knew that was just an excuse. House’s leg always hurt, and that had never stopped him from standing just to be difficult. But Chase didn’t call him on it. Instead, he nodded, wiping at his damp face with his sleeve before lowering himself onto the floor. House followed suit, groaning slightly as he stretched his bad leg out in front of him.
Chase sat a little closer to House than he normally would, close enough that their arms almost brushed. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the lingering humiliation, the vulnerability that still clung to him like a second skin. Maybe it was just the fact that, for once, House had been nice —genuinely, inexplicably nice —and Chase was still trying to wrap his head around it.
Part of him was embarrassed to be seeking comfort from House of all people. He wasn’t someone you went to for reassurance. He was someone who pushed, who pried, who mocked weakness. But right now, House hadn’t done any of that.
And right now, Chase still felt small.
So he sat there, closer than usual, staring at the far wall as he tried to will away the lingering shame curling in his stomach. House didn’t comment on it. Didn’t shove him away. He just sat there too, cane resting at his side, silent and steady.
Sometime after that, a low hum filled the elevator, followed by the faint clunk of machinery re-engaging. The lights flickered slightly, and the floor beneath them vibrated as the elevator powered up again.
Chase stiffened. A whole new wave of embarrassment surged through him, crashing over the dull remnants of his earlier shame. He was about to have to walk out of here. To face whoever was outside—his colleagues, maybe even Cuddy or Wilson—people who would see what had happened.
His hands began to shake, his breath hitching in his throat. He wanted to say something, anything, but before he could, a faint hissing sound reached his ears.
Chase turned his head sharply toward House, eyes wide in confusion.
House just met his gaze, completely unbothered, and shrugged. “What?” he said casually. “Now you’re not the only one with wet pants. Besides, they can’t say anything about the cripple pissing himself.”
Chase just stared. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing—what House had done.
It took a moment, but then, something strange happened. The crushing humiliation in Chase’s chest loosened, just a little. A shaky breath slipped from his lips, and a warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment spread through him.
House was covering for him. In the most ridiculous, House-like way possible, sure—but still.
Chase swallowed hard, blinking rapidly against the fresh sting in his eyes. A wave of gratitude washed over him, unexpected and overwhelming.
House didn’t do things like this. Not for anyone.
But he had for Chase.
And for the first time since the whole nightmare started, Chase didn’t feel quite so small.