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Chase barely noticed the office around him as he worked, pen moving steadily over the paperwork in front of him. The Diagnostics office was unusually quiet—no bickering, no thrown markers, no House blasting obnoxious music just to annoy them. It was almost peaceful. Almost.
He didn’t even hear House come in until the older doctor’s voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.
“We’re going to the morgue.”
Chase blinked, looking up, his brow furrowing. House was standing by the whiteboard, twirling his cane like a baton, eyes sharp with something that could either be amusement or genuine interest. It was always hard to tell.
“Why?” Chase asked, reluctant already.
“Dead guy had the same symptoms as our patient,” House said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Might have some answers.”
Chase exhaled through his nose, glancing back down at the file in front of him. “Can I finish this first?”
“You have two minutes,” House said immediately, limping over to lean against Chase’s desk.
Chase sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and bent back over the paperwork. He had just enough time to finish this one file before House inevitably lost patience and started yanking it away from him.
“One-fifty-nine,” House announced.
Chase gritted his teeth and wrote faster.
“One-fifty-eight… fifty-seven…”
Chase ignored him, shoving the finished file to the side. “Done.”
House grinned. “That’s the spirit. Let’s go see a dead guy.” He turned and sauntered toward the door, cane tapping rhythmically against the floor.
Chase stood reluctantly and followed, muttering under his breath, “I hate the morgue.”
House glanced back just as they reached the elevator. “You’ll thank me in the end.”
Chase shot him a look. “You better not make this into another one of your ‘teaching moments.’”
House just smirked, hitting the button for the elevator. “Would I do that?”
Chase sighed again. This was going to be a long trip downstairs.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. House stepped inside first, leaning lazily against the handrail as Chase followed, arms crossed as if that might shield him from whatever ridiculousness was about to happen.
As the elevator began its descent, Chase gave House a sidelong glance. “Should I even ask how we didn’t know about this guy before he died?”
House smirked. “You probably shouldn’t. But since you’re a curious little koala, I’ll tell you anyway.”
Chase rolled his eyes, but House continued without waiting for encouragement.
“He came in through the ER. No insurance, no family, just some good Samaritan who found him passed out in a parking lot. ER slapped a ‘flu-like symptoms’ label on him and sent him to a bed in the corner. Then, surprise, surprise, he stopped breathing.” House tapped his cane against the floor for emphasis. “Autopsy hasn’t been done yet, which means he’s fresh, like a microwaved burrito—still hot in the middle.”
Chase exhaled sharply. “Lovely.”
The elevator doors slid open again, and House limped out, Chase following him through the basement corridor toward the morgue. The walls were a sterile white, the air thick with the faint scent of disinfectant, metal, and something underlying that Chase tried not to think about.
The morgue technician, a weary-looking woman in scrubs, barely glanced up as they entered. “What do you want, House?”
“Just paying my respects to the recently deceased,” House said, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.
The technician scoffed, pushing away from her desk. “I don’t wanna know. You two do what you’re gonna do, and I’ll be out here maintaining plausible deniability.”
With that, she disappeared into the hallway, leaving them alone with the body.
House smirked. “See? That’s efficiency.”
Chase shook his head but stepped up beside him as House pulled back the sheet, revealing the body of a middle-aged man, pale and motionless under the harsh morgue lights.
“Alright,” House said, eyes already scanning for clues. “Let’s see what our dead friend has to say.”
Chase sighed, slipping on a pair of gloves. “This had better be worth it.”
House grinned. “Oh, it will be.”
He snapped on a pair of gloves and immediately started poking at the dead guy like a kid inspecting roadkill. Chase, suppressing a sigh, followed suit, his fingers pressing against the cool, stiffened skin.
“Look at this,” Chase said, pointing to a faint, reddish rash along the man’s forearm. “It looks just like the one our patient had. He said his was from poison ivy.”
House leaned in, eyes narrowing. He reached out and ran a finger lightly over the rash before glancing up at Chase. “Good spotting.”
Chase felt an involuntary flicker of pride at the rare praise. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but House had already moved on, examining the rest of the body. Chase shook his head slightly at himself—he shouldn’t still care so much about House’s approval, and yet…
House was prodding at the man’s abdomen when the overhead lights flickered.
Chase froze. His body tensed instinctively, his head jerking up to scan the morgue, as if expecting something—or someone—to be lurking in the shadows.
House didn’t even look up.
“What was that?” Chase asked, voice just a little tighter than he would’ve liked.
House shrugged. “Power surge.” He snatched the patient’s chart from the tray beside the body, flipping through the sparse notes. “Happens. This place is ancient. You should see what happens when it rains. It’s like a horror movie.”
The lights flickered again.
Chase exhaled sharply, muttering, “I really hate the morgue.”
House rolled his eyes. “Relax. If the lights go out, I’ll let you hold my hand.”
Chase let out a short, reluctant laugh, the joke helping to shake off the tension. “That’s reassuring.”
House smirked, flipping another page. “I have that effect on people.”
Chase huffed but shook his head, feeling marginally less unsettled—at least until the lights flickered again, longer this time.
House still wasn’t concerned. But Chase… Chase wasn’t so sure.
The lights flickered again—worse this time. The fluorescents above them buzzed angrily, sputtering in and out like they couldn’t decide whether to die completely or struggle on.
This time, House glanced up.
Chase caught the movement and immediately felt his stomach drop. House not being concerned was one thing. House actually looking up —that was something else.
House, of course, recovered instantly, brushing it off as he turned back to the chart. “Huh. Maybe the hospital forgot to pay the electric bill. I knew Cuddy cutting costs would come back to bite us.”
Chase exhaled, trying to let the sarcasm settle him. He walked over to stand beside House, glancing down at the chart as well. “Alright, so what else do we—”
The lights flickered violently—then shut off completely.
Total darkness swallowed the room.
The low hum of the refrigeration units cut out. The faint mechanical buzz of the morgue died. The entire room fell into a silence so complete it was almost suffocating.
Chase froze.
“Well,” House said after a beat, voice coming from somewhere to Chase’s left. “That’s not good.”
Chase turned toward the sound, though he couldn’t see a damn thing. His heart was already hammering. “ Not good? House, we can’t open the door without power! We’re stuck in here!” His voice was edged with panic now.
“Calm down, kid.” House’s voice was infuriatingly relaxed. “The power will be back soon.”
Chase squeezed his eyes shut, even though it didn’t make a difference. The darkness felt heavy, pressing in on all sides. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to take slow, even breaths. House wasn’t panicking. House never panicked.
If House wasn’t worried, maybe Chase didn’t have to be either.
After a moment, he exhaled shakily. “So… what do we do now?”
House was quiet for a second. Then, finally, “We wait.”
Chase let out another breath, then nodded. Not that House could see it.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Chase’s breathing was shallow, his ears straining for any sound, anything to break the overwhelming void of the pitch-black room.
Then—movement. A faint rustling, the sound of something shifting.
Chase tensed. “What are you doing?”
House’s voice came lazily from somewhere in the darkness. “Finding the damn stool so I can sit down. Unlike you, I have a bum leg, and standing around in the dark isn’t my idea of a good time.”
Chase let out a breath. “Ah. Okay.”
There was another small shuffle, then a faint creak of wood as House presumably found the stool and sat. Then—nothing.
Just silence.
Chase clenched his jaw. The quiet was worse than the darkness. The morgue had never felt so lifeless before, and he had spent a good amount of time down here over the years. Now, trapped in the pitch black with nothing but House’s occasional movement, the emptiness of the room seemed to press in on him from all sides.
His chest felt tight.
Almost before he realized he was doing it, Chase took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, carefully, he moved toward where he knew House was—toward the sound of his voice, the only real presence anchoring him.
He reached the wall and slid down against it, drawing his knees up slightly as he sat beside House on the floor.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft rustling of his movement. Then, nothing again.
Chase exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. Then, hesitantly, he said, “House?”
There was a pause. Then, calmly, “Still here, kid.”
Chase nodded again, even though House couldn’t see him.
He focused on that, on the certainty in House’s voice. On the fact that if House wasn’t worried, Chase didn’t need to be.
So he took another deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just stillness, silence, and the heavy press of the dark.
Then—
A sudden clatter from the far corner of the room. Metal against tile.
Chase’s breath caught in his throat. He froze, every muscle going rigid.
“…Was that you?” he asked, voice low, unsure if he wanted the answer.
“Nope,” House said.
Chase exhaled sharply. “Great. So we’re going to die in here, then.”
House scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic.” Chase could hear the eye roll in his voice.
Silence settled over them again, heavier this time. Chase’s heartbeat thumped in his ears. The pitch black was starting to get to him—the way he couldn’t see anything at all, couldn’t tell what was around them, couldn’t even tell if something moved.
He hated it.
The pressure built in his chest, an anxious, creeping weight, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“You know, in Australia, there’s a lake that turns bright pink because of the algae in the water.”
There was a beat of silence. Then—House’s voice, slightly amused. “Seriously?”
Chase shrugged, even though House couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Lake Hillier. It’s completely pink, but if you scoop the water into a glass, it’s still pink. No one’s entirely sure why. ”
House hummed. “Sounds like Australia is trying too hard to be special.”
Chase huffed a small laugh, relieved to have something— anything —to focus on other than the oppressive darkness. “I mean, we also have giant saltwater crocodiles, jellyfish that can kill you in minutes, and spiders the size of your hand, so. Yeah.”
“Don’t forget the drop bears,” House added dryly.
Chase rolled his eyes. “That’s not a real thing.”
“Maybe that’s what just made the noise.”
Chase sighed, but House’s easy sarcasm helped pull him back from the edge of panic. He kept talking, throwing out more random facts about Australia—about how kangaroos can’t hop backward, about how wombat poop is cube-shaped, about how there are more kangaroos than people.
House tossed in his own comments, his tone still tinged with amusement. But there was something else there, too—something just beneath the surface.
Chase realized, somewhere between talking about venomous snakes and giant bats, that House knew. He could tell Chase was close to panicking, and instead of calling him out on it, he was keeping him talking. Keeping his mind occupied.
Chase appreciated it.
Not that House would ever admit to it.
Still, Chase let himself settle a little, breathing easier as their conversation filled the silence.
And if House was looking out for him—well, maybe being trapped in the dark with him wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
...
He’d still very much like to not be trapped.
Chase kept talking—about deadly animals, weird Aussie slang, random bits of trivia he barely remembered from school—but eventually, he ran out of things to say.
The silence crept back in, settling heavy between them.
Chase exhaled slowly, trying not to let the stillness bother him. But then he shivered, goosebumps prickling along his arms. He pulled his knees up to his chest, tucking his hands under them for warmth.
“…Is it getting colder?” he asked, voice quiet in the dark.
House didn’t answer right away. Then, after a pause, “Room’s designed to keep the cold in and the heat out.”
Chase groaned. “Great. So we’re going to freeze as well.”
House made a dismissive noise. “Relax. Worst case scenario, we get a bit chilly and sit in the dark for a while. Best case scenario, we get out of clinic hours.”
Chase sighed, shifting slightly and crossing his arms over his chest, wishing he’d put on a long sleeve shirt that morning. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got a jacket on.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before.” House’s voice was smug, clearly amused.
Chase rolled his eyes, though House couldn’t see it. “Thanks, that’s very helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” House quipped.
Chase huffed out a breath, curling in on himself a little more. The cold wasn’t unbearable—yet—but it was creeping in, settling in his limbs. The morgue was built to stay cold, and without power regulating anything, the temperature was only going to drop further.
And, of course, House was perfectly fine.
Chase shivered again. “If I freeze to death in here, I’m haunting you.”
“Please. I’m already haunted by the souls of all the clinic patients I’ve avoided.”
Chase let out a small laugh, shaking his head. The amusement helped. At least one of them was enjoying themselves.
Now, if only the power would come back on.
The silence stretched on again. Longer this time.
The cold was creeping in steadily now, settling deep into Chase’s bones. His fingers curled into fists, but it didn’t do much.
And worse than the cold was the dark.
It was the kind of pitch-black that played tricks on your mind. The kind that made the edges of your vision feel like they were shifting, like something was there just out of sight.
Chase knew it wasn’t real. He knew that. But his brain wasn’t convinced. Every time he blinked, he swore he saw something move. A shadow darker than the rest. A flicker of motion in the corner of his eye. His pulse picked up, his body tense and rigid as he stared into the void.
He was trying to keep calm. Trying to tell himself it was fine. House was right there.
But without being able to see him or hear him…
It felt like he was completely alone.
Chase sucked in a breath—but it caught in his throat. His chest felt tight, panic curling its way into his ribs, clawing up his spine. His breath stuttered, shallow and uneven, and for a terrifying moment, he couldn’t pull in air properly.
His fingers dug into his arms. Calm down. Just breathe. You’re fine. You’re fine.
But he didn’t feel fine. He felt like the darkness was closing in, like there was something just watching him from the shadows, like—
“Chase.”
House’s voice cut through the silence, steady and solid.
Chase flinched.
“You still breathing over there, or did you actually freeze to death?” House asked, his usual sarcasm present, but—something in his tone was different. Measured.
Chase forced himself to exhale. It came out shaky.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”
House was quiet for a second. Then: “Yeah, sure. That sounded convincing.”
Chase swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, trying to focus on House’s voice and not on the way his own pulse was hammering in his ears.
“…You know,” House said, a little more casual now, like he hadn’t just called Chase out for nearly having a panic attack, “you never told me why you became a doctor. I mean, aside from the whole ‘overbearing dad’ thing.”
Chase blinked in the dark. It took his brain a second to shift gears, to register the question.
“…I dunno,” he said, voice quieter than he wanted. “Guess I never really thought about it. Just… always seemed like what I was supposed to do.”
“Huh,” House said, as if he was actually considering that. “So, what, no childhood dream? No ‘I wanted to save lives’ speech?”
Chase hesitated. Then, after a pause, “I liked solving puzzles.”
He could practically hear House smirking. “So, medicine was your backup career after failing to become a Sudoku champion?”
Chase huffed a small, unsteady laugh. “Something like that.”
The tension in his chest didn’t disappear completely. The dark still pressed in. The cold still bit at his skin. But House was talking, and that was enough to keep him grounded.
At least for now.
House kept talking, the conversation switching to something random again.
Chase wasn’t even sure if there was a point to what he was saying—half of it seemed like nonsense, sarcastic comments about med school, the ridiculous things patients had told him over the years, some offhand remark about how Wilson once tried to talk him into a yoga class.
Chase listened, focusing on the familiar rhythm of House’s voice, letting it act as an anchor.
Then, suddenly—House stopped, having run out of things to talk about.
The silence was back.
Chase’s heart slammed against his ribs.
The shift was instant, like his body had been tricked into calm and was now trying to make up for lost time. His breath quickened, his skin felt too tight, and the darkness pressed in again, suffocating, overwhelming.
His nails dug into his arms.
The sharp bite of pain cut through the noise in his head, grounding him. There. You’re here. You’re real. House is here.
But it wasn’t enough. His fingers twitched, nails scraping against his skin. The pressure helped—it was something solid , something he could feel in a room where he couldn’t see a damn thing.
The silence stretched. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
Then, finally—House spoke again.
“You know, I was once trapped in a storage closet for four hours with Wilson,” he said, his voice lazy, unconcerned, like he hadn’t just stopped talking and sent Chase spiraling. “Worst experience of my life. He kept trying to ‘connect.’”
Chase exhaled shakily, his fingers loosening slightly, still digging in, but not as hard. The sting in his arms remained, but he wasn’t scratching anymore.
House kept going.
“The man has a gift for making things awkward. Spent half the time asking me about my ‘hopes and dreams.’ I told him my only dream was to get out of that closet before he started singing Kumbaya.”
Chase let out a breathy, almost-laugh. He could hear House smirking, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
House wasn’t an idiot. He noticed things, and Chase was starting to think the whole point of this conversation was less about filling the silence and more about keeping him from unraveling.
Chase appreciated it.
Even if House would never admit to it.
The conversation helped, for a while, but eventually, House ran out of things to say again, and the silence crept back in, heavier than before.
Chase tried to brace himself for it, to keep himself steady. But the moment the quiet stretched too long, the panic clawed its way back into his chest.
His fingers twitched. Then curled. Then scratched .
His nails dragged hard down his forearms, sharp enough to sting. It didn’t matter. It was something —something real, something he could feel when everything around him was too empty, too dark.
His breath hitched. He tried to suck in a proper inhale, but it turned into more of a wheeze, shaky and thin.
The sound must’ve caught House’s attention, because Chase heard him shift—probably turning toward him.
“…Chase?” House’s voice was different now. Not teasing. Not lazy. Focused. “You alright?”
Chase tried to answer— Yeah, I’m fine, I’m good —but the words got caught somewhere in his throat, tangled up with his uneven breathing. The only sound that came out was a weak, wheezing whine.
“Shit,” House muttered, and Chase could hear him move again, the faint creak of his chair as he leaned forward. “Chase, you’re alright. It’s just a bit dark and cold.”
Chase nodded automatically, even though House couldn’t see him. But it didn’t stop the panic still gripping his lungs, making every breath feel like it wasn’t enough.
His fingers dug into his arms again, nails pressing so hard into his skin it burned. His chest was tight, too tight, like the darkness itself was suffocating him.
House exhaled, and a second later, there was movement—then Chase felt something bump against his foot.
House’s cane.
It was barely anything—a light tap, a reminder of space and presence—but it helped.
“Hey,” House said, his voice lower now, a little steadier. “Breathe, alright? Deep breath in, hold it, then out. None of that wheezing crap.”
Chase tried. He really did. But his lungs still felt too tight, like he was breathing through a straw.
House sighed. “Okay, new plan. If you pass out, I’m stealing your watch.”
Chase let out a breathy, weak huff of laughter—barely even a sound, but something. His nails eased slightly from his arms.
“Come on,” House said. “Slow it down. You can do that, right? Unless you’d rather keep hyperventilating, in which case, I’d love to see how dramatic you can get.”
Chase exhaled shakily, trying to follow the instructions—deep breath in, hold, out. His hands were still clenched, but he wasn’t scratching anymore.
House kept talking, voice steady, keeping Chase tethered to something that wasn’t his own spiraling panic.
Chase shivered again, violently this time. His breathing was still shaky, shallow, not quite under control. The cold was getting to him now, sinking into his bones, making his muscles lock up. He tried to curl in on himself more, but it didn’t help.
His fingers twitched, then scratched —harder this time. His nails raked down his arms, his skin stinging under the pressure, but he barely registered it. The darkness and silence pressed in, crushing and suffocating, making his pulse pound in his ears.
Somewhere in the haze of panic, he heard House shift again. Then—movement beside him.
Chase felt rather than saw it when House slid down the wall to sit next to him, legs stretched out in front of him. The warmth of House’s presence was barely noticeable in the freezing morgue, but it was something .
House sighed, sounding put out, like Chase’s panic attack was an inconvenience he hadn’t planned on dealing with today. “You really need to learn how to chill out,” House muttered.
Chase didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. His heart was still racing , his nails still digging into his arms, the burn of broken skin barely enough to ground him.
House must have noticed .
Because suddenly, strong hands grabbed Chase’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his arms. Chase tensed, startled, but House didn’t let go.
“Yeah, no,” House said firmly. “As much as I love self-destruction, let’s not go full emo in a morgue, huh?”
Chase swallowed, chest still too tight, his fingers twitching against House’s grip.
House hesitated for only a second. Then, still holding one of Chase’s hands, he moved it—pressing Chase’s palm flat against his own chest.
Chase froze.
House took an exaggerated breath in. Slow. Controlled. Let it out just as deliberately.
“Follow along, Koala Boy,” House said. “Unless you want to keep doing that hyperventilating thing, in which case, I can just let you pass out. Your choice.”
Chase swallowed again. Focused.
House’s breathing was steady beneath his hand, slow and even. Chase tried to match it, pulling in a breath when House did, exhaling at the same pace. It helped—a little. His pulse was still too fast, but it wasn’t out of control anymore.
House must’ve noticed, because he nodded slightly. “See? Not completely useless.”
Chase let out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. House was still holding onto his wrist, his grip loose but there , keeping Chase from retreating back into himself.
But the dark was still there , too. So was the silence. It pressed against Chase’s skull, heavy and suffocating. His anxiety spiked again, his fingers twitching against House’s shirt.
And House must’ve picked up on that , too.
Because, without missing a beat, he started talking.
About absolutely nothing .
Something about Wilson’s terrible taste in movies. How Cuddy had banned him from three separate coffee places in the hospital. Some nonsense story about the time he nearly got arrested at a medical conference.
Chase focused on the sound of his voice, let it fill the silence, let it ground him.
And, slowly, his heart stopped racing quite so fast. His breathing evened out just a little more.
House kept talking.
His breathing started to even out. The panic was still there, a lingering weight in his chest, but it wasn’t crushing him anymore. His hands had stopped twitching, no longer itching to scratch at his arms.
His forearms burned , stinging from where his nails had raked over skin, but other than that, all he could really feel was the cold . His thin dress shirt did absolutely nothing to keep him warm, and the freezing morgue air felt like it was sinking into his bones.
House must have noticed that Chase had calmed, because he let go of his wrists, the pressure of his grip disappearing.
Chase instantly crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits in a poor attempt to trap any heat he had left. Not that there was much.
Secretly, he mourned the loss of House’s hands. They’d been warm —or at least, warmer than Chase .
House finished whatever story he’d been telling, his voice trailing off. And then—silence.
Chase gritted his teeth, already hating it.
It stretched between them, cold and empty , pressing into Chase’s skull, into his chest. His skin crawled with it, the shadows feeling heavier, thicker.
He shivered.
It was half from the cold. Half from everything else .
For a second, he thought about trying to get House to start talking again. But even House had run out of things to say, which was honestly kind of a miracle.
So instead, Chase hunched his shoulders, arms tight around himself, waiting .
For the power to come back on.
For the silence to stop crushing him.
For something .
Chase let out a slow exhale, trying— really trying —to keep his breathing in the pattern House had set for him. In, hold, out. Controlled. Steady.
But he was losing it again already.
The darkness was shifting. Moving. He knew it wasn’t real, knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but that didn’t stop his body from reacting.
His muscles locked up . His breath hitched. His fingers dug into his arms, not scratching this time, but pressing , grounding himself in something real.
House must have noticed, because his voice cut through the silence. “You good?”
Chase swallowed. Forced a nod, even though House couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he said.
But his voice betrayed him. There was a faint tremble, barely noticeable, but enough. Enough that House probably heard it.
Chase didn’t realize he was leaning toward House until he felt it—the slight shift in space, the way his shoulder angled ever so slightly toward the warmth beside him.
House didn’t comment.
Didn’t shift away.
Just let Chase sit there, barely leaning into him, as the silence stretched on.
Then, another clatter from the corner of the room.
Chase went completely tense , his breath catching in his throat. The darkness twisted around him, shifting, flickering—he knew it wasn’t real, knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but knowing didn’t help . His chest went tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.
His vision swam with imagined movement in the dark.
He was losing it again.
“There’s nothing there, Chase,” House said, his voice calm. Steady.
Chase swallowed hard and nodded , even though it came out more as a jerky, uneven motion. “I know,” he whispered.
But it sounded more like a wheeze .
Because logically, yeah, he knew there was nothing there. But his body wasn’t listening to his brain. His hands curled into fists against his arms, nails pressing into his skin—not scratching, not yet , but threatening to. The panic was rising again, fast and overwhelming, drowning out reason, drowning out everything.
There was a shift beside him. A moment of hesitation.
Then—
An arm draped around his shoulders.
Chase stiffened . His breath hitched, his entire body coiling even tighter—
And then, just as quickly, he melted into it.
Into the warmth .
House was a lot warmer than Chase. He had a jacket, and Chase had… well, not a jacket . Just his thin dress shirt, useless against the cold of the morgue.
The contact and warmth helped. Grounded him.
Didn’t fix it, not completely—his chest was still too tight, his hands still twitching with lingering anxiety—but it stopped him from completely spiraling. Kept him from slipping under entirely .
House didn’t say anything.
Didn’t joke, didn’t tease, didn’t call Chase out for leaning into him.
He just… let it happen.
Chase’s breathing was still wrong —shallow, halting, uneven . Panic still raged through him, pressing in from all sides, making his skin feel too tight, his chest too small .
His hands twitched, jerking back toward his arms before he could even think about stopping them.
Digging in. At first, just pressure—grounding, anchoring .
And then—
Scratching.
Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to hurt .
Hard enough to bleed .
He let out a wheezing exhale, and his nails dug in deeper .
Scratched harder .
And then, suddenly— hands .
House’s hands, grabbing his wrists, holding them, stopping him.
“ Stop. ” House’s voice was firm. Not sharp, not angry—just steady . Grounded.
Chase’s hands twitched in House’s grip, his breath catching in his throat. His chest ached with how tight it was, his lungs squeezing too much air in and not enough at the same time.
He didn’t even know why he was so afraid.
It was just—
Just dark . Just cold . Just quiet .
Nothing dangerous . Nothing that should have had his heart racing like this, his body shaking with overwhelming fear.
But he was afraid.
Terribly, terribly afraid.
Panicked.
Anxious.
And it wasn’t stopping .
Chase’s hands kept twitching in House’s grip, his fingers flexing as if they were itching to dig into his skin again. The panic was still there, still tight in his chest, still pressing down on him like a crushing weight.
He barely even noticed that he was leaning further into House’s side.
House shifted, adjusting his grip so he could hold both of Chase’s wrists in one hand. His other arm moved back around Chase’s shoulders, pulling him in just a little closer. Not quite hugging him, but solid , warm , steady .
“You’re alright, Chase,” House said, his voice still that steady, grounding calm. “It’s just a bit dark and cold.”
Chase knew that.
Logically, he knew .
But his body still wasn’t listening .
House’s hand slid down Chase’s arm, rubbing up and down, like he was trying to get some warmth back into his skin.
Then House paused .
His fingers pressed in just a little harder, feeling the ice-cold skin beneath them.
“ Christ , you’re freezing,” House muttered.
Chase just nodded , his forehead barely brushing against House’s side. He didn’t mean to, but he was trying— really trying —to ground himself, to focus on something real .
House was real .
The warmth was real .
The weight of House’s arm, the firm grip on his wrists, the steady up-and-down motion of his hand over Chase’s freezing skin—
All of it was real .
Chase latched onto that, forcing himself to focus .
To breathe .
Chase’s breathing started to even out , the shallow gasps slowly smoothing into something more controlled. Without even thinking about it, he matched his rhythm to House’s—slow, steady, measured.
His hands still twitched now and then, but House didn’t let go .
Didn’t loosen his grip.
Didn’t give Chase the opportunity to start scratching again.
The burning sting in his forearms was constant now, sharp and hot, and he was pretty sure he could feel some blood dripping down his skin. The thought made his stomach twist, but he pushed it down, just like he pushed down everything else.
The silence settled in again.
And it wasn’t helping .
It was pressing in on him, wrapping around his chest like a vice, smothering him.
Chase hesitated, then—quietly, hesitantly —blurted out another random fact. “Did you know, octopi have 9 brains.”
House huffed a quiet laugh, then threw out a random fact of his own. “I did indeed. Did you know that chainsaws were first invented for childbirth?”
Chase felt something unclench in his chest when House kept talking.
House was doing this on purpose . Trying to keep him calm .
Chase was grateful for it.
And hated that he needed it.
Hated that he was this weak , that he couldn't handle a simple power outage in a cold, dark morgue without spiraling into this . Hated that House had to sit here and hold his wrists like a damn child to keep him from hurting himself even more .
The thought stung worse than the scratches on his arms.
His throat tightened.
His eyes burned.
And then, before he could stop it , his vision blurred.
Chase teared up .
Jesus Christ , he was actually tearing up.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, staying quiet so House wouldn’t hear the crack in his voice. Wouldn’t hear that he was falling apart even more .
But after a couple minutes of Chase’s silence, House paused in his endless supply of fun facts.
“…You alright?”
Chase swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
His voice cracked .
Dammit.
House didn’t comment on the crack in Chase’s voice.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t make a joke at his expense.
Instead, he just gave Chase’s shoulder a light squeeze— brief , just for a second, like he wasn’t even sure why he was doing it—before going right back to spouting off random, meaningless fun facts.
Like nothing had happened.
Like Chase hadn’t just choked on his own words.
Chase squeezed his eyes shut , trying— really trying —to keep his body still. To stop his hands from twitching, from clenching and unclenching, from straining against House’s grip.
But they wouldn’t stop .
It wasn’t voluntary . His body was doing it on its own , out of his control, like it was betraying him in the worst possible way.
And that made everything worse.
Made the tears burn hotter .
He bit down on his tongue, hard , trying to keep them from fully spilling over .
Trying to force himself to stop.
It didn’t really work .
For the first time, though, he was glad that it was dark.
Glad that House couldn’t see him like this .
Couldn’t see the way his shoulders kept trembling.
Couldn’t see the way his eyes were shining, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it ached.
Couldn’t see just how completely he was falling apart .
House paused again.
For a second, there was only silence—heavy, suffocating silence—before House spoke.
“…Are you crying?”
Chase flinched .
His throat tightened even more , and he instinctively tried to swallow it all down, to shove everything deep inside, where it wouldn’t spill out and make him look even weaker .
“No,” he muttered.
It was an obvious lie.
House didn’t call him out on it.
Didn’t mock him, didn’t throw out some sarcastic remark about how much of a fragile little koala he was being.
Instead, House just sighed , and his hand squeezed Chase’s shoulder again.
A little firmer this time.
Then, without a word, House’s hand started moving— slow , steady movements up and down Chase’s arm, the warmth seeping through his too-thin dress shirt, grounding him.
“It’s alright,” House said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You’re okay.”
Chase wanted to believe him.
Wanted to believe that he was okay.
But his breath hitched again, and he could feel himself spiraling—could feel the walls of the dark, silent morgue closing in, the cold sinking into his bones, his hands still twitching uselessly in House’s grip.
Chase tried to take a deep breath, to steady himself, to calm down .
But it caught in his throat, turning into a sharp, shuddering inhale that did nothing to ease the suffocating weight in his chest.
Everything felt like too much .
Being trapped here.
The silence.
The darkness.
The cold.
Everything was too much .
House knew .
Knew that Chase was barely holding on. Knew that if the silence stretched any longer, if the weight of the dark kept pressing down on him, he’d completely unravel.
So, House talked .
Not about random medical facts. Not about Australia or stupid trivia.
This time, he actually tried to be comforting.
His voice was different . Lower, softer—almost gentle , in a way that Chase wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before.
“You’re alright, Chase,” House said. “I know it feels like you’re not, but you are. You’re safe. You’re not alone. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Chase froze .
His breath hitched slightly at the words—at the sincerity in them.
House never talked like this. Not really .
And yet, right now, he was .
It threw Chase off—completely unsettled him in a way that wasn’t entirely bad.
And as much as he hated to admit it…
It was helping.
Even just a little.
Chase tried again— really tried —to take a deep breath in and out, just like House had been telling him to do.
But all that came out was another wheeze.
House’s hand squeezed his shoulder again, firm and grounding.
“Don’t think about where we are,” House said. “Just focus on my voice. That’s it. Just me. Not the dark, not the cold, not the silence.”
Chase tried .
Tried his best to focus , to listen to House’s voice and only House’s voice.
But it was hard .
The panic was still there , still curling tight around his chest, still pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.
His body was still trembling, his hands still twitching, his skin still crawling with the overwhelming feeling of being trapped .
His instincts kicked in before he could even think about it.
He shifted, leaning further into House’s side—drawn to the warmth, to the steady presence, to something that could ground him before he slipped too far under again.
House didn’t comment on it.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t make some snide remark.
He just let Chase stay there, solid and steady beside him, and kept talking.
House felt it when Chase’s hands twitched again in his grip—felt the way his whole body jerked , just slightly, like a live wire sparking in the dark.
Then his neck twitched, a sharp, involuntary movement that made him tense even further.
House’s fingers tightened around his wrists—not painfully, just firmly , like a reminder.
A silent You’re alright.
Chase tried to stop it, tried to shove down the panic still thrumming through him, but it wasn’t working. His hands kept twitching , his breathing was still ragged, his mind kept playing tricks on him, making it feel like the darkness was moving—pressing in— suffocating him.
He barely thought about it before he did it.
He turned his face slightly, pressing it into House’s side, into the warmth of his jacket, trying desperately to ground himself.
House kept talking.
Didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t tease him for it, just kept speaking—low and steady, a constant anchor in the overwhelming, suffocating blackness.
Chase hated this.
Hated how weak he felt.
Like a child —scared, panicked, completely unable to control himself.
And he hated that he needed House’s help. That he couldn’t just handle this on his own, that he was sitting here in the dark, shivering, practically curled into House’s side, barely holding himself together.
But no matter how much he hated it…
The panic wouldn’t stop .
His chest still felt like it was caving in. His body was still trembling. The silence and darkness still felt too much , too heavy , pressing in on all sides.
House sighed , his thumb rubbing absently against Chase’s wrist.
“You’re not weak, you know,” he said, like he could hear Chase’s thoughts. “You’re just a person. And people get scared sometimes. Even the blonde, pretty, ex-seminary, surfer boy types.”
Chase let out a shaky breath.
House wasn’t supposed to be comforting.
But somehow, he was .
Chase slowly, finally , started to feel grounded.
House’s voice, the warmth of his side, the firm hold on his wrists—it was steady , real , something to hold onto in the overwhelming darkness.
His breathing, once shallow and wheezing, started to even out again. Not perfect, not completely normal , but at least no longer coming in those sharp, ragged gasps that made his chest ache.
He matched it to House’s without thinking—breathing in when House did, exhaling when House did. The rhythm helped. Gave him something solid to cling to.
House was still talking.
Low and steady, a constant stream of words Chase could focus on.
At first, Chase barely registered what he was saying. Just let the sound of it wash over him, grounding him further.
But then, after another long moment, his brain actually caught up .
“—And if you tell anyone about this, I will make your life miserable,” House was saying. “Not that it isn’t already, but, y’know. More than usual.”
Chase let out a shaky exhale that was almost, almost a laugh.
House huffed , his hand still wrapped around Chase’s wrists. “Oh, so you do have a sense of humor. Good to know.”
Chase didn’t have the energy to roll his eyes, but he wanted to.
Another long pause.
House’s grip finally loosened slightly—not fully letting go, just easing up now that Chase wasn’t actively trying to scratch his own arms raw.
Chase curled his fingers slightly, testing them. They still twitched faintly, but the overwhelming urge to scratch, to claw, to do something had finally faded into the background.
It was calm , for the first time since the power had gone out.
Still cold. Still dark. But calm.
House was still talking, something low and quiet, and Chase— finally —felt like he could breathe again.
The calm held.
Chase slowly, gradually, stopped twitching . His hands stopped jerking in House’s grip. His shoulders weren’t so tense anymore. The overwhelming panic that had gripped him so hard had finally started to loosen , fading into the background like a dull ache instead of something sharp and unbearable.
House had stopped talking at some point, but—for the first time since the power had gone out—the silence didn’t send Chase into a full-blown panic.
It was just…quiet.
Still unnerving, still too much , but not enough to make his breathing spiral out of control again.
The cold wasn’t as bad now, either.
House was warm against his side, and even though Chase still shivered every now and then, it wasn’t as awful as before. He could manage it.
House didn’t move, didn’t pull away, didn’t make some sarcastic comment about Chase practically leaning into him for warmth and comfort.
He just stayed .
And Chase was more grateful for it than he could put into words.
Then, a sudden bang, the loud, harsh clanging echoed through the morgue, bouncing off the cold walls and slicing through the quiet like a knife.
Chase flinched —hard —his whole body going rigid as his breath hitched. His instincts kicked in before his mind could catch up, and he curled further into House’s side, his fingers twitching like they wanted to scratch again but couldn’t because of House’s grip.
House barely reacted, aside from tightening his hold on Chase’s shoulder and wrists. His voice was calm, steady—practically bored when he said, “Relax. Probably just the power being fixed.”
Chase nodded quickly, not trusting himself to speak, his chest still too tight with the rush of panic.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to breathe evenly again. He’d just started to calm down—he would not let himself spiral all over again.
House didn’t let go.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t mock him for clinging .
He just stayed there , solid and warm and real , as Chase tried to steady himself all over again.
Chase slowly untensed, forcing himself to take deeper breaths, trying to push the panic back down. His fingers twitched once more, but it was weaker this time, more of an aftershock than a real attempt to scratch.
House must have noticed, because his grip on Chase’s wrists loosened—not fully letting go, but easing up, like a silent acknowledgment that Chase was getting there .
Chase focused on matching his breathing to House’s again, forcing himself to steady it. He could still feel his heartbeat thudding too hard in his chest, but at least now it wasn’t out of control.
The silence settled over them again, and Chase let out a slow exhale. His body ached from all the tension, his arms burned from the damage he’d done, and he was still cold , but the overwhelming terror had dimmed to something more manageable.
And then, inevitably, annoyance kicked in.
Because it felt like every damn time he managed to get himself under control, something else happened to send him spiraling all over again.
He let out a breathy, frustrated laugh, shaking his head, and muttered. “This is ridiculous .”
House hummed in vague agreement, still not letting go of Chase’s wrists entirely. “Yeah, well. Your ability to completely lose your mind in mildly inconvenient situations is pretty entertaining, so, y’know. Silver lining.”
Chase huffed, rolling his eyes even though House couldn’t see it. “You’re so helpful.”
“Hey, I am helping. You’re panicking less, aren’t you?”
Chase wanted to argue, but…House wasn’t wrong.
He sighed, shaking his head. “I hate the morgue.”
House smirked. “Yeah, I got that.”
It was quiet for a moment, then-
The lights flickered—just once—but after so long in the absolute dark, it felt like a camera flash going off right in their faces.
Both House and Chase winced at the sudden brightness, their eyes instinctively trying to adjust.
Then, just as quickly, darkness swallowed the room again.
Chase barely had time to process before the lights flickered again , this time in an erratic, annoying pattern—flashing in and out of existence like some kind of sadistic Morse code.
His hands tried to dart up to shield his eyes from the disorienting on-and-off glare, but House’s grip around his wrists kept them locked down. So instead, Chase squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face against House’s side, trying to block it out.
House exhaled through his nose—somewhere between an amused huff and an actual sigh. His grip on Chase’s wrists didn’t tighten again, but he didn’t let go either.
"Great,” House muttered dryly. “Now the morgue has mood lighting.”
Chase huffed against House’s jacket, voice muffled. “Make it stop .”
House tapped Chase’s wrist. “I’ll just call up to maintenance and—oh, wait.” He made a show of patting his pockets. “That’s right. No phone service in the big metal box full of corpses .”
Chase groaned. “I hate this place.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”
The lights flickered again, brighter this time, lingering for just a second longer before plunging them back into darkness.
Chase gritted his teeth. “I swear, if this turns into a horror movie—”
“I call final girl.”
Chase snorted , despite himself. “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
House smirked. “Maybe, but I’d get the best one-liners before I went.”
The lights flashed again, and Chase flinched—but it wasn’t quite as bad this time. The stupid conversation had distracted him just enough.
House must have noticed, because his grip finally eased up, his hand sliding away from Chase’s wrists. He still didn’t move away, though—still kept his arm around Chase’s shoulder, like he knew Chase needed the warmth more than he needed to act like he wasn’t freaking out.
Chase swallowed hard, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes for a second before lowering them. He took a slow, even breath. "If we do die down here, I'm haunting you first."
House grinned. "Fair. But if we don't, you owe me so much clinic duty for having to babysit you through this."
Chase groaned again, but he wasn't panicking anymore. "I really hate you."
House just smirked. "You're welcome."
The lights flickered one last time, and then, miraculously, they stayed on .
Chase squinted, his eyes still adjusting to the sudden brightness after so long in the dark. His vision blurred for a second, but the more he blinked, the clearer it got.
Neither he nor House moved for a long moment, the hum of the lights the only sound filling the room.
For a second, it was almost like time had paused . The world seemed still—unnaturally so.
Neither of them said anything. Neither made a move to pull away or stand up.
They just sat there, the normal silence of the morgue wrapping around them like a soft, almost comforting blanket.
Chase hesitated, his gaze slowly drifting down to his forearms. The red, angry lines from his nails were stark against his skin, and as he looked closer, he winced. The marks were still fresh, some of them bleeding still, and it made his stomach turn.
He whispered under his breath, barely audible, "Oops."
The quietness between them stretched a little longer before House, ever perceptive, glanced down at Chase's arms. He grimaced at the sight of the scratches and blood, his expression hardening slightly in that quiet, disapproving way he had when he wasn’t exactly angry, but concerned enough to show it.
"Chase..." House’s voice was lower now, softer than before, as if the weight of seeing the damage was sinking in. “You really gotta stop doing that."
Chase looked away, feeling the flush of shame spread across his face. He didn’t answer at first, but his hands twitched slightly, still wanting to scratch despite everything.
"I know," he said finally, voice strained, as if admitting it made it feel even worse. He let his hands fall into his lap, curling into loose fists.
House exhaled, shaking his head slightly, but his gaze softened. "You're not weak for needing help, Chase."
Chase didn’t respond, but the quiet sincerity in House’s voice made his chest tighten. The words were simple, but they hit harder than he expected. He wasn’t used to hearing things like that from House, and it made him feel exposed in a way he couldn’t shake.
It was quiet again for a moment, the two of them sitting there in the muted light of the morgue. Neither of them made a move. Neither of them said anything else.
The silence in the morgue was broken when the door finally creaked open. A sliver of light cut through the room, and both House and Chase stood quickly, eager to leave the confined space.
As they stepped out into the hallway, the stark, fluorescent lighting above them felt almost blinding after the dark they'd been trapped in for so long. Chase blinked, his eyes still adjusting, though the air felt a little fresher now—still chilly, but not nearly as oppressive.
The technician was gone, most likely already off to deal with the chaos caused by the power outage. House didn’t seem surprised by the absence, nor did he hesitate. He motioned for Chase to follow him as they walked down the hallway towards the elevator.
"Come on, let's go wrap your arms so they don’t get infected," House said, his voice matter-of-fact, but with a hint of something softer in it, something that almost passed for care.
Chase nodded, keeping his arms close to his body, not wanting to draw attention to the scratches. He felt the sting now more than before, the burn of his forearms reminding him of how close he'd come to losing control.
They walked in silence down the hall, the only sounds the muted echoes of their footsteps and the occasional hum of the overhead lights. Chase’s head felt clearer now, the worst of the panic behind him, but a heavy quiet lingered between them.
As they reached the office, House pushed the door open, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Chase was still following. Chase stepped inside, feeling the tension in his body start to fade, even if the remnants of it still clung to him.
House motioned to the table. "Sit down, I’ll get the bandages."
Chase did as instructed, perching on the edge of the chair, his arms resting awkwardly on his lap. His fingers twitched again but he kept them still.
House moved around the room, gathering what he needed. As he worked, the familiar presence of his attention—focused, professional—calmed Chase even further. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make the day’s chaos feel like it had slipped into the background.
The scrape of bandages being opened filled the room, and House glanced at him briefly. “You gonna make it, or do I need to call in a consult for emotional trauma?”
Chase let out a dry laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”
House raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but said nothing more as he moved toward Chase with the bandages in hand.
Chase reached out to grab the bandages, but House moved quicker, expertly pulling them out of his reach and holding them out of Chase's grasp. Chase gave him a sideways glance, but didn’t push the issue. He knew House wouldn’t give in this time.
“Stay still,” House said gruffly, as if it were just another medical procedure, and not something that involved a little more than just the physical. His tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t comforting either—it was the usual detached professionalism House often wore like armor.
Chase sighed and leaned back into the chair, trying to relax, even though the memory of the panic attack was still a little too fresh. As House gently cleaned the scratches, the sting of the antiseptic made Chase flinch, and he involuntarily pulled his arm away for a second.
“Hold still,” House repeated, his voice firmer this time, and Chase let out a shaky breath. He didn’t argue. He didn’t want to make this harder than it needed to be.
The burn of the antiseptic was sharp, but he didn’t complain. He just watched as House worked with a methodical precision, swabbing at the cuts with gentle but firm movements. Every now and then, he’d glance up at Chase, his expression unreadable, but Chase could feel the care behind each motion, even if House would never admit to it.
Chase let out another quiet breath as House finished cleaning the first arm and started on the second. The sting was just as bad, and this time, he couldn’t help but wince, but he didn’t pull away. He just sat there, watching House's steady hands, trying not to focus too much on the discomfort.
House’s hands were warm as he wrapped the bandages around Chase’s arms, each motion deliberate and practiced. When he finished, he sat back and inspected his work.
“All done,” House said, his voice softer now, almost like he was talking to himself as much as to Chase. “Try not to scratch them up again.”
Chase nodded, not trusting his voice just yet. The faint heat on his face had nothing to do with the bandages. The silence stretched between them, comfortable for a moment.
“Thanks,” Chase finally said, his voice low and sincere. It wasn’t just about the bandages. It was about everything—the way House had stayed with him, the way he'd helped pull him out of that dark place.
House met his eyes briefly before glancing away, a small, almost imperceptible smirk on his lips. “Don’t mention it. Now, next time you decide to have a little meltdown, try not to end up bleeding all over the place, okay?”
Chase snorted softly, shaking his head. “I’ll try.”
They both sat in the quiet of the office, the tension of the past hour slowly dissipating. Chase was still tired, still worn out from everything, but at least he didn’t feel so alone in it anymore.