Work Text:
The whiteboard was already covered in half-scribbled symptoms, House’s messy handwriting looping around the edges as he leaned against the table, twirling a marker between his fingers. Across from him, Chase was pacing—short, quick steps, fingers tapping against each other as he muttered under his breath.
“Fever, myalgia, joint pain, and now the rash,” Chase listed, still walking. “Could be an atypical viral presentation—dengue? Or some weird autoimmune thing?”
House exhaled loudly through his nose. “Dengue? In New Jersey? Sure, let’s test him for Ebola while we’re at it.”
Chase barely seemed to hear him, too caught up in his own thoughts. He was still pacing, fingers now drumming against his legs as he walked, his brow furrowed in concentration.
House groaned. “For the love of Vicodin, stop pacing and sit still before I have a seizure just watching you.”
Chase hesitated mid-step, his ears going a little pink as he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat and sat down in the chair opposite House, forcing himself to stay still.
But stillness wasn’t good for thinking. His brain felt stuck now, like he’d shut off a motor that was supposed to be running. His hands twitched before his fingers found the edge of the desk, tapping against the wood. “What if it’s serum sickness? He was on antibiotics last month—delayed reaction?”
House tilted his head, watching him with that sharp, knowing look. “Could be. Run a complement panel. And while you’re at it, see if you can sit still for more than thirty seconds. I’ll bet you fifty bucks you can’t.”
Chase rolled his eyes, but his fingers didn’t stop tapping.
House tapped his cane against the floor, considering. “Or—what if it’s a drug-induced lupus? He was on hydralazine last year for that blood pressure spike.”
Chase’s fingers stilled for a second before picking up speed. “Right—lupus-like reaction. That would explain the joint pain and the rash, maybe even the fever. But no kidney involvement, and his ANA was negative. What if it’s something mimicking lupus? Like mixed connective tissue disease, or some weird vasculitis?”
House tilted his head, intrigued. “Not a bad idea. Put it on the board before we forget and end up diagnosing him with alien parasites instead.”
Chase pushed himself up, grabbing a marker and picking a different color from the mess of half-used ones littering the table. His handwriting was neater than House’s, more controlled, but his focus wasn’t on that—his brain was moving too fast. He didn’t sit back down after writing it, just stood in front of the board, staring, bouncing a little on his heels, fingers tapping together as his mind whirred through possibilities.
He could feel House watching him. He ignored it at first, but when it didn’t stop, he turned his head slightly, catching House’s squinting gaze.
“Did you take your meds this morning?” House asked, tone casual but knowing.
Chase blinked. Paused for half a second. Then shrugged, resuming his tapping. “I don’t know. Probably.”
House rolled his eyes. “Good job at remembering. Gold star.”
Chase smirked, turning back to the whiteboard, already halfway through another thought. “What about an autoimmune disease? Maybe something throwing off his immune system—”
House huffed, but there was something almost amused in his expression. “See, now you’re just showing off.”
Chase barely registered House’s comment, too caught up in his next idea. “Or it could be a paraneoplastic syndrome. If he’s got an occult malignancy, maybe a small cell lung cancer we haven’t caught yet, that could trigger an immune response. Could explain the fever, the rash—hell, even the joint pain if there’s a neuropathic component.”
As he spoke, his body moved on autopilot. His feet started carrying him back and forth across the room, his hands gesturing as he ran through the logic out loud. “If it’s small cell, we should check for anti-Hu antibodies, maybe even Lambert-Eaton signs—he did say he’s been feeling weaker lately. Could be nothing, but if we’re missing a tumor—”
House let him finish, waiting until Chase had reached the far end of the room before cutting in. “That’s actually not the dumbest thing you’ve said today.” He tapped his cane against the floor. “But if you don’t sit down and stay there, I’m going to handcuff you to the desk.”
Chase exhaled sharply, half an eye roll, but he made his way back to his chair and dropped into it. He didn’t stay still for long, though—after a few seconds, he leaned back, tilting the chair onto its back legs so it rested against the wall. The angle let him balance just enough to keep from feeling restless, and his fingers found the armrests instead of the desk.
House gave him a once-over, then nodded in approval. “Much better. Now I can focus on the nonsense coming out of your mouth without getting motion sickness.”
Chase smirked. “Glad I could accommodate you.”
House waved a hand. “Don’t get too comfortable. If you fall and break your neck, I’m not diagnosing you.”
He leaned back in his chair, lazily spinning the marker between his fingers. “Or, it could be Still’s disease,” he mused. “Explains the fever, joint pain, rash—fits better than your tumor theory.” He took a sip of his coffee, watching Chase over the rim of his mug.
Chase was only half-listening—House drinking his coffee triggered a realization in his brain. Where the hell did I put mine?
He glanced around the room, scanning the desk, the whiteboard ledge—nothing. Then, finally, he spotted it sitting next to the coffee machine, still completely full.
With a small huff, he pushed himself up, walked over, and grabbed the cup. The second he took a sip, though, he grimaced. Cold. Annoyed, he dumped it down the sink.
The sound of water swirling down the drain made his stomach twist slightly, and another thought surfaced—he hadn’t eaten breakfast. When was the last time I ate?
Shrugging to himself, he started up the coffee machine again, then rummaged through the cabinet, grabbing a granola bar. He tore it open with his teeth just as the machine gurgled to life.
House, still watching him, smirked. “Snacking already?”
Chase grinned around his mouthful. “Forgot breakfast.”
House rolled his eyes. “Forgot your coffee too, apparently. Don’t forget that one again. ”
Chase had already started walking back toward his seat but froze mid-step. He glanced back at the machine, where his fresh cup of coffee was still sitting.
With a sheepish look, he doubled back, grabbed it, and then returned to his seat.
House shook his head, amused. “There may be hope for you yet.”
Chase took a sip of his coffee, leaning back in his chair again. “So, which one do you actually think is most likely?”
House shrugged. “Write them all on the board. We’ll tick them off one by one.”
Chase sighed but got up anyway, marker in hand. He listed each theory in his neat, controlled handwriting: Drug-induced lupus. Mixed connective tissue disease. Vasculitis. Paraneoplastic syndrome. Still’s disease.
Once he finished, he stood beside the board, absentmindedly tapping his pen against the edge of it as he thought. “I’d say paraneoplastic is least likely, but—”
“Stop tapping.”
Chase cut off mid-sentence, blinking. He looked down at the pen in his hand, then let out a small sigh before setting it down on the tray under the board. Without thinking, his fingers went back to tapping against his legs instead—this time, quieter.
House noticed, of course, but he didn’t say anything. Silent fidgeting was better than rhythmic clicking.
Chase took another sip of coffee, refocusing. “Okay. So, if paraneoplastic is unlikely, we’re left with Still’s, vasculitis, or some kind of autoimmune overlap. I’d put Still’s at the top—high spiking fevers, rash, joint pain. It fits.”
House nodded slowly, considering. “Yeah, but Still’s doesn’t usually present with this much muscle pain. Could be vasculitis screwing with the small vessels.”
Chase tapped his fingers a little faster, thinking. “We could check for cryoglobulins, ANCA panel. If it’s vasculitis, that’ll point us in the right direction.”
House pointed at the board with his cane. “Fine. But if it’s Still’s, I’m making you buy me lunch.”
Chase smirked. “And if it’s vasculitis?”
House smirked back. “Then I’ll let you buy me lunch.”
Chase rolled his eyes, leaning his weight against the desk. “Fine. What tests do you want to run?”
House didn’t miss a beat. “CBC, CRP, ESR—basic inflammatory markers. ANCA panel for vasculitis, ferritin for Still’s. And throw in a rheumatoid panel while you’re at it, just in case we’re dealing with some weird overlap syndrome.”
As House rattled off the list, Chase started pacing again, his brain working faster than his body could sit still. He was halfway across the room when he caught House’s glare—not a word spoken, but the message was loud and clear.
With a small sigh, Chase sat back down, bouncing his leg instead. Pacing helped him think, but if it annoyed House, then he’d have to try to stop. House was, after all, the smarter of the two of them.
Satisfied, House continued. “If the ferritin’s through the roof, we’re looking at Still’s. If the ANCA’s positive, vasculitis. If everything’s normal, then congratulations, we wasted a bunch of time and insurance money.” He waved a hand. “Now go fetch me some lab results.”
Chase pushed himself up and strode toward the door, already mentally running through the tests as he went.
House’s eyes flicked to the desk. Chase’s coffee was still sitting there, half full. Again.
As the door swung shut behind him, House shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, he definitely forgot to take his meds.”
Chase moved quickly, drawing blood from the patient and labeling the samples before sending them off to the lab. He knew better than to waste time—House had no patience for delays, and neither did he when it came to solving a case.
Once the samples were processed, Chase pulled up the results, scanning them carefully. Some numbers stood out immediately—CRP and ESR were both elevated, pointing to inflammation. Ferritin was high. Not absurdly high, but definitely above normal. The ANCA panel, however, was negative.
He frowned slightly, turning the numbers over in his head as he printed them out and headed back to the office. House would want to go over them together, weigh them against their theories. But when Chase stepped inside, he stopped short.
The room was empty.
That was… unexpected. He hadn’t been gone that long—maybe an hour or two, tops. House rarely left the office unless he had a reason, and Chase had expected to find him lounging at the desk, playing with his cane, or making some sarcastic comment about how long it had taken him.
Instead, just silence.
With a small shrug, Chase walked over to the whiteboard and picked up a marker. House would be back eventually, and when he did, it would help to have everything laid out. He started writing out the results beside the symptoms and theories, organizing them so they could cross-check everything once House returned.
As he worked, he absently tapped the marker against the board, the rhythmic sound filling the otherwise quiet room.
Chase had just finished writing up the results when he started pacing again, running through the numbers in his head. The ferritin was high, but not absurdly so. The inflammatory markers were up, but ANCA was negative. Still’s was looking more likely, but something still felt off.
The door swung open behind him.
“I got the results,” Chase said, glancing over his shoulder. Then he frowned. “Where were you?”
House dropped into his chair, setting a brown paper bag on the desk. “Getting lunch.”
Chase blinked. “It’s only—” He checked his watch, expecting to see something close to 10 a.m. Instead, it read 1:07 p.m. His frown deepened. How the hell had it gotten that late?
House sighed dramatically, as if he’d been expecting this. “Did you eat lunch?”
Chase hesitated, then gave a sheepish shrug. “Didn’t realize the time.”
House let out another, deeper sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was dealing with a particularly slow child. “And this is why we take our Adderall.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “I did take it.” He paused, then added, “Probably.”
House gave him a pointed look.
Chase sighed and went to the cupboard, grabbing another granola bar.
House watched him with clear disapproval. “You can’t eat that for breakfast and lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Chase muttered, unwrapping it anyway.
House didn’t push, but he did gesture toward the mini-fridge. “Fine. But drink something that isn’t coffee before you shrivel up and die of dehydration.”
Chase grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off while chewing on the granola bar. As he ate, he kept pacing, the movement helping him focus.
House was looking at the whiteboard, reviewing the results, and didn’t notice at first. But then he did.
He exhaled loudly. “I will chain you to the desk.”
Chase sighed but sat back down again, crossing his legs in an attempt to keep himself still. His knee still bounced slightly, but at least he wasn’t pacing.
House smirked. “Good boy.”
Chase rolled his eyes and took another sip of water, and then another. And then, before he really thought about it, he was drinking half the bottle in one go. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now, and the cold water felt ridiculously good.
House rolled his eyes. “You know you don’t have to chug it like you just crawled out of the desert.”
Chase set the bottle down with a small shrug, licking a stray drop from his lips. “Didn’t realize I was that thirsty.”
House made a vague of course you didn’t gesture, then turned back to the whiteboard. “Alright, results. Ferritin’s up but not crazy high. Inflammation markers elevated. ANCA’s negative. No sign of infection, no malignancy markers. Still’s is looking better, but vasculitis isn’t completely off the table.”
Chase nodded along, absently tapping his fingers against his knee. As he listened, another sensation registered—he needed to piss. Not urgently, but enough to notice. He told himself he’d go later. Don’t forget.
His brain immediately moved on.
House turned to him. “Did you fill out the paperwork for the tests?”
Chase stilled, blinking. Paperwork?
“…No.”
House exhaled through his nose. “Of course you didn’t.” He waved a hand toward the desk. “Get on it.”
Chase sighed, getting up to grab the forms. He sat back down and started filling them out, already forgetting entirely about his plan to use the bathroom.
He got through one page of the paperwork before realizing he needed a file from the cabinet. He pushed himself up, grabbed it, and sat back down to keep going.
A few minutes later, he was up again, this time fetching a pen he liked better than the one he was using. When he sat back down, his knee immediately started bouncing, and his fingers tapped a rapid rhythm against the desk without him even thinking about it.
House, still reviewing the whiteboard, sighed dramatically. “You’re like a hyperactive toddler.”
Chase glanced up, smirking slightly. “Maybe I did forget to take my meds.”
House gave him a deadpan look. “ You think? ”
Without another word, he pushed himself up with his cane and limped toward his adjoining office. Chase watched him go, curiosity piqued as House sat down at his desk and started rummaging through the drawers, muttering under his breath as he searched for something.
Chase was about to stand up again, a small frown tugging at his lips as he reached for the stack of papers on the desk, but just as he moved, House’s voice cut through the air.
“If you get up one more time, I will handcuff you to the desk.”
Chase froze, slowly lowering himself back into his seat. He couldn’t help but let out a groan of frustration. “Seriously?”
House, from the other room, glanced over with a smirk plastered on his face. Without missing a beat, he held up a pair of handcuffs, clearly meant to chain patients to their beds, as if they were just another one of his everyday office supplies.
Chase’s eyes widened. “Why do you have those?”
House shrugged nonchalantly, the smirk not leaving his face. “Why not?”
Chase let out another frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms tightly. “You’re a psychopath.”
House only chuckled, tossing the handcuffs back into the drawer as he continued rummaging through his desk. "And you're a walking distraction." He turned to glance at Chase. “Now, sit still and finish your paperwork. Maybe we’ll both survive this encounter.”
Chase managed to focus for a few minutes, his pen moving steadily across the pages. For once, he was doing alright, keeping his hands and legs still. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the results paper he needed sitting on the counter by the coffee machine. It was just out of reach.
With a quick glance toward House’s office to make sure he wasn’t watching, Chase slid out of his seat and moved toward the counter. He grabbed the paper and quickly returned to his desk.
As he sat down, House’s eyes snapped to him, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “What did I tell you, Chase?”
Chase spluttered, defensively holding up the paper. “I needed it!”
House’s grin only widened as he slowly got up from his desk, one hand casually pulling the handcuffs out of his drawer.
“No, no, no,” Chase muttered under his breath, knowing exactly what was coming.
As House approached, the grin never left his face. “You were warned, Chase.”
Panicking slightly, Chase tried to sit on his hands, hoping it might stop House from cuffing him. But House was already too quick. He grabbed Chase’s wrist with ease and snapped the handcuffs around it before Chase could even pull his hand away.
“Seriously?” Chase groaned, his face contorting in frustration. “What are you, my mother ?”
House didn’t respond, instead securing the other end of the chain to the table leg. The cuffs clicked into place with a finality that made Chase’s stomach drop.
The chain was just long enough for Chase to keep his hand on the desk, but not nearly long enough to allow him to stand. He could barely move without feeling the tension in his wrist.
Chase groaned loudly. “This is ridiculous.”
House, with an exaggerated sigh, walked back to his office, casting a glance over his shoulder. “You were warned. Finish the paperwork.”
Chase rolled his eyes, looking down at the stack of forms still left to complete, resigned to the fact that he couldn’t escape. He better be grateful I’m getting this done, Chase thought, annoyed but still grudgingly determined.
Chase grumbled under his breath as he reluctantly turned his attention back to the paperwork. He grabbed his bottle of water, feeling a bit more aware of his dehydration now that it was right in front of him. He took a long sip, savoring the coolness. Maybe it was a good thing House had insisted on him drinking something other than coffee. He could definitely use the hydration, especially if he was going to survive being handcuffed to the desk.
Taking a deep breath, he went back to the stack of forms, carefully filling them out with a bit more focus now that he had water to keep him somewhat grounded. He was almost done, just a few more lines to go, when House suddenly stood up from his desk.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” House said, grabbing his cane and adjusting his posture.
Chase looked up, raising an eyebrow. “What? Where are you going?”
House glanced back over his shoulder with a smirk. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Great,” Chase muttered sarcastically. “And you’re just going to leave me here, huh?”
“Yep,” House replied, turning toward the door. “Unless you want to keep bouncing around the room like a kid on a sugarhigh. It’ll help you focus , won’t it?”
Chase glared at him, frustration bubbling up. “Are you seriously not going to unhandcuff me? At least give me a little freedom.”
House paused in the doorway and shot him a pointed look. “No. I’ll be back in a minute. You need to focus.”
Chase sighed heavily, already exhausted by the situation. "You’re unbelievable.”
House just smirked, and then, with a final glance, left the room.
Chase muttered to himself as soon as the door clicked shut, grumbling more than he’d ever realized he could. He took another sip of water, trying to calm his nerves, and forced himself to turn his attention back to the forms. There was nothing else he could do but keep going.
He let out a satisfied sigh as he finished the last bit of paperwork, stacking the forms neatly before tossing his pen down on top of them. Finally.
Reaching for his water bottle, he tilted it back and finished off the last few sips, the plastic crinkling slightly in his grip. He squashed it in his hand, the bottle crinkling satisfyingly and tossed it into the bin. Without thinking, he pushed himself up to grab another from the mini-fridge—only to be yanked back down with a sharp clink of metal.
He barely managed to catch himself before he fell back into his chair.
“Right. Of course, ” he muttered, shooting an annoyed look at the handcuff keeping him tethered to the desk like some misbehaving child. He flexed his fingers, contemplating trying to pick the lock, but he didn’t exactly have the tools—or the patience—for that right now.
With a huff, he leaned back in his chair and scanned the desk for anything remotely entertaining within his limited range of movement. His eyes landed on a folded newspaper at the edge of the table. He stretched his arm as far as it could go, fingers barely brushing against it. After a few more tries, he managed to hook it with his fingertips and drag it closer.
Unfolding it, he found the unfinished crossword from earlier that morning. He’d gotten about halfway through before getting distracted.
He glanced at his watch. He wasn’t sure exactly how long House had been gone, but surely, he’d be back soon.
…Right?
Chase tapped his pen against the crossword page, filling in a few answers here and there, but his focus was starting to slip. His leg had begun bouncing under the desk again—habitual, rhythmic, an outlet for the restless energy that always seemed to simmer under his skin.
But then, as the movement continued, something clicked in his mind.
Oh, right.
He needed to piss.
He had completely forgotten, even though he had told himself not to. The realization made his stomach clench in frustration. And now, of course, it was worse. Not quite an emergency, but bad enough that he was aware of it—constantly, annoyingly, undeniably aware.
He shifted in his chair, adjusting his position slightly to ease some of the pressure. The handcuffs clinked softly against the desk leg as he moved, reminding him that he wasn’t going anywhere until House decided to return. Chase exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to ignore the way his bladder throbbed with the movement.
His knee bounced harder. He clenched his thigh in an attempt to stop, only to start tapping his fingers against the desk instead.
He really should have gone earlier. He’d known he should go earlier. But between the paperwork, the water, and House being… well, House , he had completely lost track of time. And now he was stuck, restless energy turning into a growing discomfort that he couldn’t do anything about.
He subtly squeezed his thighs together, shifting again in his seat, trying to find a position that relieved some of the pressure. No luck. The worst part wasn’t even the discomfort itself—it was knowing that if House didn’t come back soon, things were going to get a lot more uncomfortable, fast .
Chase sighed, glancing at his watch again.
How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty?
He had no idea.
He swallowed, trying not to let himself focus too much on the growing urgency pressing low in his abdomen.
House better come back soon.
Chase dragged his focus back to the crossword, gripping the pen a little too tightly as he tried to think of an eight-letter word for “obstinate.” Stubborn, he thought immediately, but it didn’t fit with the letters he already had. He tapped the pen against the page, trying to work it out, but his thoughts kept slipping away—always circling back to the dull, insistent pressure in his bladder.
He shifted again, rocking slightly in his chair, but it didn’t help. His usual restless energy was merging with something else entirely—this need to move, not out of habit, but out of sheer necessity. The discomfort was growing steadily, and he knew that if he weren’t handcuffed to the damn desk, he would have already gotten up and gone to the bathroom ages ago.
He bounced his knee, his movements getting twitchier by the second, and bit his lip as a sharper pang shot through his lower abdomen.
Shit.
He was really starting to need to piss bad .
Chase squeezed his thighs together, leaning back in his chair for a moment before leaning forward again, trying to find some position— any position—that alleviated the pressure. Nothing helped. His bladder was full, heavy, the constant nagging sensation now bordering on genuine urgency.
He shifted his hips restlessly, pressing his heels into the floor as if that might somehow help him keep control. Every slight movement sent another pulse of discomfort through him, making it harder to sit still.
His eyes flicked toward the trash can in the corner of the room, remembering the water bottle he’d finished earlier.
If he hadn’t thrown it away, would he actually…?
His face burned at the thought, and he quickly shoved it aside. No. No way. He wasn’t that desperate. Yet.
Chase exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping his pen tighter as he tried to force himself to focus on something other than the growing pressure inside him.
House had to be back soon.
He had to.
Chase let out a slow breath, pressing his lips together tightly as he stared down at the crossword, his pen hovering uselessly over the page. The words swam in front of him, completely meaningless now. He had long since given up any hope of focusing on it—his mind was entirely consumed by the relentless, aching pressure in his bladder.
He shifted again in his seat, his movements growing more urgent, more restless. His knee bounced erratically, his free hand gripping the edge of the desk as he rocked subtly back and forth. Nothing was helping. If anything, the pressure was getting worse .
His bladder throbbed with every passing second, heavy and full, the kind of full that made it impossible to think about anything else. He squeezed his thighs together tightly, shifting his hips forward in the chair, then back again, searching desperately for some position that would provide even a shred of relief. But there was none. The need was pressing down on him relentlessly, making his stomach tense, his entire body wound up and on edge.
His fingers twitched on the desk, then drummed anxiously against his thigh. He could feel the faintest tremor in his leg from the sheer effort of holding it in. His bladder gave a sharp, insistent pulse, and he exhaled through his nose, gripping the desk even tighter.
God, how long had House been gone?
Chase glanced at his watch, but the numbers barely registered. However long it had been, it was too long. He wasn’t sure he could wait much more.
A fresh wave of urgency hit him, and he tensed, his whole body briefly going rigid before he forced himself to keep it together. Shit. This was bad . He was rapidly losing confidence in his ability to hold it until House got back.
He rocked forward again, pressing his thighs together so tightly his muscles ached. His bladder throbbed in protest, every nerve screaming at him to just get up and go , but— he couldn’t . He literally couldn’t.
He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his jaw clenched. He had to hold it. He didn’t have a choice.
Chase gritted his teeth, his entire body taut with tension. His bladder throbbed angrily, so full it felt like a solid weight pressing down on his abdomen, sending sharp, urgent pulses through him with every slight movement. His leg bounced uncontrollably, and his breath came in short, shallow exhales as he clenched his thighs together, but it wasn’t enough .
He had to do something .
Desperation clawing at his nerves, Chase turned his attention to the handcuffs. He yanked at them, twisting his wrist and trying to wriggle his hand free. The metal bit into his skin as he contorted his hand at different angles, attempting to force it through the cuff, but no matter what he did, it wouldn’t budge .
Shit, shit, shit—
He pulled harder, his pulse spiking with panic, but all he got for his effort was a sharp jolt of pain as the metal dug in even tighter. He hissed through his teeth, chest rising and falling rapidly as he flexed his fingers, trying to shake out the sting. Damn it.
His bladder pulsed violently at the movement, and his entire body tensed as a wave of pressure crashed over him. He sucked in a sharp breath, his free hand snapping down to his lap instinctively.
His fingers pressed firmly against himself through his pants, squeezing hard, releasing, then squeezing again in a frantic rhythm. He could feel his own pulse pounding in his palm, his entire lower body tense with the effort of keeping it in .
His breath hitched as he rocked forward slightly, pressing harder into his own grip, trying to use the added pressure to hold off the unbearable, growing need. His hips rolled subtly in time with his squeezing hand, his movements small and controlled, just enough to keep himself together.
But it was getting so much harder .
The overwhelming fullness was relentless, pressing down on him like a vice, every nerve screaming for relief. His entire body was caught in a constant state of tension, muscles clenched so tightly they ached, and his mind was completely overrun by a single, panicked thought—
I need to piss. I need to piss. I need to piss.
He had no idea how much longer he could last.
But with every passing second, he knew— it wasn’t much.
A sharp, urgent wave of pressure crashed over Chase, and before he could stop it— fuck —a sudden, hot spurt of urine leaked into his boxers.
His entire body seized up in panic.
His free hand clamped down harder, fingers digging in so tightly that it hurt , his nails pressing through the fabric of his pants as he curled over himself. His breath hitched, his muscles locking up as he fought desperately to regain control.
No, no, no—
He forced himself to hold it , to squeeze every muscle tighter, to not let another drop escape.
His bladder throbbed violently, furious at being denied relief, pulsing in tight, painful bursts that sent fresh waves of desperation washing through him. His breath came in short, uneven pants, and he could feel a fine tremor running through his legs from the sheer, unbearable effort of keeping everything in.
His heart pounded in his chest. His pulse was a frantic drumbeat in his ears. His mind was drowning under the singular, all-consuming need to piss.
He couldn’t do this much longer.
The pressure was unbearable—his bladder felt like a rock-solid mass, heavy and swollen, pressing down with an urgency that made it almost impossible to think, to focus on anything except holding it just a little longer . His thighs were shaking, his whole body tense, every muscle clenched so tightly it was painful.
He pressed his hand down harder, rocking into the pressure, trying anything to keep himself together.
He really, really needed House to come back.
Now.
Chase let out a quiet, strangled sound of frustration as he tried to bring his cuffed hand down to his lap, only for the cold bite of the metal to stop him short. He pulled at it instinctively, fingers twitching with the need to press down, to do something , but the restraint held firm.
He swore under his breath and shifted in his seat, wincing at the sharp, unbearable throb the movement sent through his bladder. He shuffled his chair closer to the table leg, the small, jerky motions jostling him painfully, making the already unbearable pressure spike. His bladder ached , swollen and rock-hard, every nerve inside it screaming for relief.
Finally, finally , he managed to bring his cuffed hand down to join the first, pressing both against himself, palms digging into the front of his pants as he squeezed hard .
The added pressure helped— a little .
But then another wave of urgency surged through him, fierce and unrelenting, and before he could stop it—
Shit—
Another hot spurt of piss forced its way out, seeping into his boxers, the damp heat blooming beneath his fingers.
Chase sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body going rigid, his legs snapping together as he clenched every muscle hard , desperate to hold back any more from escaping. His jaw tightened, his breath coming out in short, unsteady pants.
He could feel the wetness now, could feel the way the fabric of his boxers stuck to him, warm and damp. His pants had been mostly spared— for now —but he knew he was so close to losing it completely.
His bladder pulsed again, a deep, agonizing throb that made his stomach clench, his whole body trembling with effort. He was this close to bursting.
If House didn’t get back right now , Chase wasn’t sure he’d make it.
Maybe— maybe —if he was lucky, he could still reach the bathroom.
Maybe.
A fresh wave of unbearable pressure slammed into Chase, and this time, he couldn’t stop it.
A sharp, hot stream of piss surged out of him, the sudden release so intense it made his whole body shudder. The relief was insane —a dizzying, euphoric rush that sent shivers up his spine, his overfilled bladder finally, finally letting go—
— No. No, no, no—
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stop.
Pain exploded through his lower abdomen, a white-hot, searing sting that made his entire body tense like a live wire. His hands clamped down even harder, fingers digging in with a force that was borderline painful , his grip bruising as he squeezed —desperate, frantic, anything to keep the rest in.
The relief was gone in an instant, replaced by something so much worse .
His bladder ached , burning with the effort of cutting off the flow, a deep, pulsing throb that sent relentless, agonizing spasms through his entire body. His legs trembled, muscles locking up as he pressed his thighs together as tightly as they would go.
He was shaking, breath coming in uneven gasps, his pulse hammering wildly in his ears. He could feel the heat spreading in his pants now, the wet fabric clinging to his skin, warm and damning . The leak had been too much —his boxers were completely soaked, and the dampness had started to seep into his pants.
But he hadn’t fully lost it.
Not yet.
His body was screaming for release, every nerve alight with desperation, his bladder throbbing like a drumbeat of pure agony. He was at his absolute limit .
He needed House to get back.
Right. Now.
Another spurt escaped, small but damning . Chase barely managed to cut it off this time, his entire body clenching so hard it hurt . A quiet, strangled sound escaped his throat as he rocked desperately into his own grip, his hips shifting back and forth in frantic, jerky movements. His legs were bouncing relentlessly, muscles burning from the sheer, unrelenting effort of keeping everything in .
His bladder was a rock-hard mass, throbbing violently, stretched far past its limit, pulsing with an unbearable pressure that sent fresh waves of urgency crashing through him over and over again. Every inch of him was tense, wired , his skin prickling with sweat, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He couldn’t sit still, had to keep moving, had to do something—anything—to stop himself from fully losing it.
And then—
A sound.
The sharp, familiar tap-tap-tap of House’s cane against the linoleum floor.
Chase’s whole body sagged in pure, overwhelming relief .
House was back.
House was back .
Chase’s head snapped toward the door, his entire being focused on the sound of approaching footsteps. His heart was racing— faster now, desperate not with panic, but with hope. He was barely hanging on , barely keeping himself together, but if House would just hurry the hell up , he could still make it .
The door swung open, and Chase was already speaking before House could get a word out—
"House, you need to let me out. Right now."
House blinked, cane hovering in midair. "Oh yeah," he mused, voice light, amused. "I forgot you were here—"
Then he stopped.
The amusement vanished instantly as his sharp blue eyes zeroed in on Chase.
Chase, who was miserably hunched over in his chair, face taut with strain, both hands shoved between his legs in a desperate, shaking grip. Chase, who was squirming non-stop , rocking urgently into his own touch, his legs bouncing frantically, his entire body a trembling mess of barely-contained agony .
House’s gaze flickered downward—took in the way Chase’s thighs were pressed so tightly together they were shaking , the way his fingers dug into the fabric of his pants with a force that had to hurt . The way his entire body was tensed to the breaking point .
House’s expression changed.
His brows furrowed, the usual snark and sarcasm wiped clean from his face as realization clicked into place.
" Oh. "
“ House -” Chase hissed through clenched teeth, voice tight and urgent . His entire body was wound up like a spring, every muscle locked up, shaking with the unbearable, torturous effort of holding back.
House seemed to jolt at the sound, snapping out of whatever trance had frozen him in place. "Right," he muttered, turning on his heel and limping toward his office. "I’ll grab the key."
Chase groaned softly, head tipping forward as a fresh, searing wave of desperation slammed into him. His bladder was beyond full, a solid, pulsing mass that throbbed viciously inside him, aching with the effort of keeping it all in. Every nerve in his lower body was on fire, buzzing with relentless pressure, the kind that made his thighs tremble and his stomach clench involuntarily.
He squeezed himself even tighter, fingers digging in with a force that was painful now—but pain was good . Pain helped him focus on something other than the unbearable, crushing need to piss. He was so close. Just had to hold on for a few more seconds.
House reappeared, the small key glinting in his hand as he approached. His gaze flickered down, and Chase knew the exact moment he noticed . House’s usual sharp, assessing stare landed on the darkened patch of fabric on the front of Chase’s pants, just barely visible against the material, but there . A clear sign of his losing battle.
House said nothing, just crouched slightly to reach the cuffs. "Alright," he said, voice almost neutral. "Move your hand so I can get these off."
Chase hesitated. His grip tightened involuntarily, body screaming at him to keep holding on . If he moved his hand, even for a second—
He swallowed hard and forced himself to let go . His fingers trembled as they uncurled, slowly, reluctantly, slipping away from their vice grip against his lap.
The loss of pressure was instant .
And so was the leak.
A short, sharp burst of liquid escaped, spreading further into the already-damp fabric of his boxers. Chase sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his other hand clamping down immediately, pressing in with all the force he had left. His knuckles went stark white, nails digging in as he rocked desperately into his own grip, barely choking off the leak before it turned into something worse.
House didn’t comment. His fingers worked quickly, unlocking the cuff, and the second Chase felt it click open, his freed hand darted straight back to his lap.
He hunched over even further, legs pressing together so tightly they ached , his entire body wound so tight that he felt like he might snap. His bladder throbbed , hot and heavy, a solid, burning weight inside him, seconds from giving out completely.
He needed to go. Now.
Chase tried to stand, moving too fast in his panic, and the moment he lifted himself out of the chair, another hot leak burst free, soaking into the already-damp fabric. His breath hitched sharply, and he froze , knees knocking together as he fought to clench every muscle he had left.
House’s hand caught him by the elbow, steadying him before he could stumble back into the chair. "You alright?" House asked, voice uncharacteristically even.
Chase nodded quickly, barely trusting himself to speak. His entire body was trembling, thighs pressing together so hard they ached, his hands still buried between them, gripping like a vice. He forced himself to straighten up—his back stiff, his steps careful and deliberate —and started the slow, painful walk toward the bathroom.
House didn’t let go of his elbow. He kept his grip firm , guiding him forward, and every time Chase’s legs buckled under another violent wave of desperation, House held him up , keeping him from collapsing right there in the middle of the office.
The hallway was mercifully empty. The only nurse down the corridor had her back turned, focused on whatever chart she was holding.
Chase didn’t dare breathe in relief. Every step sent another agonizing pulse of pressure through his lower abdomen, and he could feel himself leaking with each tiny movement.
A thin, slow trickle slipped past his exhausted muscles, warming his boxers, and the hiss of it was painfully loud in his ears. He squeezed himself, hard , fighting to cut it off. He succeeded—for all of three seconds—before another, stronger leak forced its way out, soaking through to the front of his pants. The wet patch was growing, spreading.
Oh, fuck.
Another step, another spurt , and he whimpered before he could stop himself, biting down hard on his lip. His muscles were done . His body was betraying him , giving in to the unbearable, crushing pressure.
His next step sent another hiss into the air, louder this time, and he knew House could hear it. Knew he could see the way Chase was barely holding it together.
Chase had to make it. The bathroom was right there. Right there .
But his control was slipping. Fast.
Chase practically staggered into the bathroom, and the moment his eyes locked onto the urinals, his bladder spasmed .
A sharp, uncontrollable leak forced its way out, hot and fast, completely soaking through his boxers. Chase groaned , his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back the inevitable flood. He hobbled the last few steps to the urinal, hands already fumbling with his belt, but the second he was close enough— the second he let go of himself to yank his zipper down—his control snapped .
A heavy, unstoppable stream of piss rushed out of him, and for a horrifying moment, he was just standing there , pissing full force into his pants.
No, no, no—
He scrambled to get himself out, his wet hands struggling with the zipper, and finally managed to haul himself free , directing the rest of his piss into the urinal.
The relief was indescribable . His whole body shuddered, his knees nearly buckling as the unbearable pressure in his bladder vanished in an instant. He barely held back a whimper at how good it felt to finally let go. His head dipped forward, forehead thudding against the cool tile above the urinal, his eyes squeezed shut.
The stream went on forever .
The damage was already done—his pants and boxers were completely ruined—but he couldn’t stop the way his whole body sagged with the overwhelming relief. His breathing was shaky, and his vision blurred slightly with unshed tears, humiliation burning in his chest.
I didn’t make it.
The moment the last of it trickled out, Chase quickly tucked himself back in, hands shaking as he zipped up. The wet fabric clung to his skin, cold and disgusting , making him cringe as he flushed the urinal and stepped back.
His pants were soaked , the wetness sticking to his thighs, and when he turned toward the sink to wash his hands, the heavy dampness shifted against his skin, making his stomach churn with humiliation.
House was still standing near the door, watching him with an unreadable expression. Chase swallowed hard, keeping his gaze firmly on the sink, afraid that if he looked up, he’d completely lose it.
A firm hand landed on his shoulder, warm and solid.
“I’ll go grab you some clean clothes,” House said, voice uncharacteristically gentle.
Chase nodded quickly, too quickly, still not trusting himself to speak. His throat was tight , and his chest ached with the effort of keeping himself together.
House lingered for half a second, then turned and left. The second the door shut behind him, Chase moved fast , rushing into the nearest stall and locking it behind him.
His back hit the wall as he slid down to sit on the closed toilet lid, his hands gripping his soaked thighs, and his breath finally shuddered out of him.
God.
He squeezed his eyes shut, humiliated .
And now he just had to sit here and wait .
Sitting there, trapped in his own disgusting wet clothes, Chase felt the damp fabric starting to dry against his skin.
At first, it was just cold —a clammy, awful sensation that made him shudder —but then it started to itch. The drying material clung to his thighs wrong , the stiffening fabric rubbing uncomfortably every time he so much as shifted. His boxers felt even worse , sticking unpleasantly to his skin, and no matter how much he squirmed, he couldn’t escape the feeling.
A sharp breath shuddered out of him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay together , but the lump in his throat only grew.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
He was humiliated . Absolutely humiliated. He was a fully grown adult— a doctor , for god’s sake—and he’d pissed himself like some helpless little kid. And now he was sitting here, damp and miserable, legs bouncing almost frantically as if that would somehow shake off the itchy, awful feeling crawling up his skin.
And then, before he could stop himself, a few hot tears slipped free.
Chase dragged a hand down his face, angrily wiping them away, but more followed. His breath hitched, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard, forcing himself to swallow it down . He refused to sit here and cry over this.
Get it together, get it together, get it together—
His body didn’t listen.
His hands clenched into fists against his thighs, frustration bubbling under his skin as the restless energy fought with the overwhelming shame pressing down on him. His legs wouldn’t stop bouncing, his body desperate to move , to do something , but all he could do was wait .
Hurry up, House. Please, just hurry up.
"Chase? Where you at, kid?"
House's voice echoed through the empty bathroom, casual as ever, like nothing had happened. Chase swallowed hard, willing his voice to sound normal. "I'm in here," he called, unlocking the stall door.
House was standing just outside, leaning slightly on his cane. Without a word, he held out a pair of pants and boxers from Chase’s locker, and a pack of wet wipes. Chase took them quickly, muttering a quiet, "Thanks," without meeting House’s eyes. He knew he probably still looked like he’d been crying, but thankfully, House didn’t comment.
He shut the stall door again and immediately set to work peeling off the damp, clammy fabric clinging to his skin. The second he stripped off the last piece of wet clothing, he felt a wave of relief—like he could breathe properly again. He grabbed a wet wipe and ran it over his legs and stomach, shivering slightly at the coolness against his overheated skin.
Once he was finally dry, he pulled on the clean boxers, then the pants. The difference was immeasurable . The light, dry fabric was a stark contrast to the awful wetness from before, and Chase let out a slow, steady breath. Only now did he realize how overstimulated he'd been—every inch of him tense, his skin crawling, his brain stuck on the unbearable sensation of damp clothes pressing against him. Now, in clean clothes, he felt almost human again.
He bundled up his soaked pants and boxers, trying to keep as much of the wetness contained as possible, and unlocked the stall door. House was still standing there, leaning casually against the neighboring stall, watching him with his usual unreadable expression.
Without a word, House held out a plastic bag. Chase exhaled silently and took it, shoving his wet clothes inside, keeping his movements quick and deliberate. His hands shook slightly, and he hated that, but if House noticed, he didn’t say anything.
Chase clenched his jaw and focused on tying up the bag, ignoring the way his eyes still stung. He needed to pull himself together. This was already humiliating enough—he wasn’t about to fall apart in front of House.
"You good?"
Chase nodded, though he was sure it was obvious he wasn't . His throat felt tight, and his eyes were still stinging from unshed tears, but he forced himself to hold it together. He focused on adjusting his grip on the plastic bag, on the cool air against his face, on anything other than what had just happened.
House exhaled, shifting his weight on his cane. "I didn’t mean to leave you stuck for so long," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I actually did forget you were in there."
Chase nodded again, just for the sake of responding, then swallowed and forced out, "It's alright."
But it wasn’t alright, not really. And as soon as he said it, his eyes betrayed him, welling up again before he could stop it. He wiped at them quickly with the back of his hand, muttering, "Sorry."
House didn’t say anything at first. Then, after a beat, he rested a hand on Chase’s shoulder. It was uncharacteristically gentle, and somehow, that was what did it.
The momentary warmth of comfort, the acknowledgment that something had happened—that House had noticed—shattered the last bit of control Chase had left. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled sharply, but it was too late. A few more tears escaped, slipping down his face faster than he could wipe them away. And now that he had started , he couldn’t stop . His breath hitched, his shoulders tensed, and suddenly he was crying —humiliating, uncontrollable tears spilling over, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back.
"Shit," he whispered, voice breaking. He turned slightly away, like he could hide it somehow, his free hand gripping the bag so tightly his knuckles went white. "Sorry—God, I'm—"
House just squeezed his shoulder, "Yeah, yeah. Shut up," he said, but his voice wasn’t mocking.
Chase let out a shaky breath, chest heaving as he tried to pull himself back together. But the weight of the last few hours—the exhaustion, the overstimulation, the sheer humiliation —was pressing down all at once, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to stop .
House sighed—not his usual exasperated kind of sigh, but something softer, something almost resigned. Then, without a word, he leaned his cane against the wall and, to Chase’s complete surprise, wrapped his arms around him.
Chase froze. House wasn’t touchy . House barely tolerated physical contact on a good day, let alone initiated it. But the warmth of it, the steady pressure of House’s arms around his shoulders, was grounding in a way that Chase hadn’t realized he needed. Slowly, cautiously, he let himself lean into it, arms wrapping around House in return. He let his head rest against House’s shoulder, feeling the tension in his chest ease just a little.
“Thank you,” Chase mumbled, voice still thick with emotion.
House scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. “Don’t mention it.” Then, after a beat, he added, “Seriously. Don’t. I have a reputation to maintain.”
A soft laugh escaped Chase before he could stop it. He felt House exhale, then a firm pat on his shoulder before House pulled back, reaching for his cane again.
"You good now?" House asked, studying him with something almost like concern.
Chase wiped his eyes one last time and nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." Then, after a pause, he added with a small smirk, " You give good hugs."
House immediately went a bit pink, eyes narrowing slightly like he regretted every decision that led to this moment. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. "Go take a break, then come back to the office. And don’t make me regret being nice to you."
Chase smiled, the embarrassment of earlier still lingering, but somehow not quite as suffocating anymore. "No promises," he said, before turning to go.