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Rain hit the pavement in thin, steady sheets at first. Chase didn’t think much of it—he’d forgotten his umbrella, but it was only a few blocks to his car. What was a little water?
Then the clouds cracked open.
Within minutes, the drizzle turned violent. Wind whipped around corners like it had teeth, and the rain came in sideways, soaking through Chase’s coat like it wasn’t even there. His hair flattened against his head, and cold rivulets slid down the back of his neck, into his collar. Thunder rolled above him, low and threatening. He flinched when lightning lit up the street like a flashbulb.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, shivering as he adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, now twice its normal weight with water. His clothes clung to him, heavy and clammy. Every step squelched - his shoes had given up completely, one sole flapping with each step, the other making a horrible sloop with every puddle.
The city was already starting to flood. Water collected at every curb, creeping up over his ankles as he tried to navigate the blocks toward his car - where the hell had he parked again? It was hard to think, hard to remember. He was exhausted. He’d been at the hospital for fourteen hours, maybe more, barely sat down, barely ate.
Another flash. Another boom. The kind that rattled in his chest.
He stopped, dripping and breathless, trying to blink the water from his lashes. The streetlamps flickered in the storm. Everything felt colder.
He couldn’t go home like this. His apartment was on the other side of town, and he didn’t trust the roads in this flood. He didn’t even trust himself to drive, if he ever found the damn car.
But House's place was just a few blocks away, closer than anything else.
Chase hesitated for only a second before turning down a side street, shoes splashing. His jaw was clenched tight, more from cold than pride.
This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
But he was freezing, soaked, and tired enough to risk it.
By the time Chase reached House’s building, he could barely feel his fingers.
He slammed the heel of his hand against the buzzer three times, sharp and impatient. Thunder cracked again overhead, echoing down the empty street. A few seconds passed, and then the speaker crackled to life.
“What?” came House’s voice, grumpy and suspicious.
“It’s me,” Chase said, his voice rough, muffled slightly by the rain and the way he had to lean in close. “Let me in.”
“Who’s ‘me’? Because if it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses again, I already told them-”
“House.” Chase cut him off, teeth chattering now. “It’s Chase. I’m soaked, I lost my car, my phone’s dead, and your place was the closest. Open the door.”
Another pause. Then a buzz, and the door clicked open.
He practically staggered up the stairs.
By the time House opened the apartment door, Chase was dripping a solid puddle onto the doormat. His hoodie clung to him like a second skin, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and water streamed from the end of his nose.
House took one look at him and barked out an unfiltered laugh.
“Oh my god. You look like someone drowned a disgruntled koala.”
“Not in the mood,” Chase said flatly, shaking his head and flicking water everywhere. “It’s like a hurricane out there. My shoes are ruined, the streets are flooding, and I’m freezing.”
House leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, not bothering to hide just how much enjoying himself. “Aww. Poor Wombat.”
Chase narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to let me in or just stand there giving National Geographic commentary?”
“Fine, fine,” House grumbled, stepping aside. “But take off your shoes. And that sorry excuse for a jacket. You’re not turning my floor into Lake Michigan.”
Chase huffed but obeyed, peeling off his ruined shoes with a squelch. His jacket hit the floor with a wet slap.
House closed the door behind him with a quiet click, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The storm raged outside. In here, it was quiet, dry, and very warm.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” House said eventually, jerking his chin toward it. “You look like you’re about ten minutes away from hypothermia, and I’m not resuscitating you.”
Chase managed a tired smirk. “Not even for the paperwork?”
“I don’t care enough to lie to EMS.”
Chase snorted and padded toward the bathroom, dripping water in his wake.
House sighed and grabbed a towel from the linen closet, already regretting the entire situation.
But he tossed the towel onto the bathroom counter anyway.
As soon as Chase disappeared into the bathroom, House turned toward his bedroom with a sigh that could’ve launched a thousand complaints.
“Great,” he muttered to himself, limping toward the closet. “Emergency marsupial rescue was not on my to-do list tonight.”
He yanked the closet door open and stared at the contents like they’d betrayed him. Most of his clothes weren’t exactly guest-friendly: old band t-shirts, flannel pajama pants, jeans that had seen better decades. But Chase was soaked and shivering, and his own stuff was currently making a puddle in the hallway.
House finally grabbed a faded Princeton sweatshirt - it was huge, soft, probably from undergrad days - and a pair of black sweatpants that might’ve belonged to Wilson at some point. Or maybe Cuddy. Honestly, he couldn’t remember. They were clean; that was the bar.
He knocked once, then cracked the bathroom door open just enough to shove the clothes through.
“Here,” he called over the sound of running water. “Towel’s on the counter. These should fit your royal sogginess well enough. Try not to drown in the shower, I don’t want to fill out the incident report.”
From inside, Chases tired voice replied, “You’re a saint, House. Truly.”
“I know,” House deadpanned, already walking away. “They’ll canonize me after I mop up your footprints.”
He dropped back onto the couch with a grunt and flicked on the TV, something low volume and vaguely dramatic - just enough background noise to ignore the fact that he’d just loaned a guy his favorite sweatshirt.
Still, he couldn’t help glancing down the hall once, just to make sure he’d heard the shower turn on. Just to make sure Chase was okay.
Not that he cared. He just didn’t want to be held liable.
The bathroom door creaked open a few minutes later, and Chase emerged, steam curling out behind him. He looked marginally less miserable - still tired, still pale - but warm now, hair damp and curling slightly, skin no longer blue-tinged.
The sweatshirt hung off him like a blanket. The sleeves covered his hands completely, and the sweatpants weren’t much better - he had to fold the waistband over just to keep them from falling off.
House, still sprawled on the couch with one arm draped dramatically over the back, glanced up, and immediately turned his head away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Don’t,” Chase said, narrowing his eyes.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You look like you mugged a college freshman and then shrank in the wash.”
Chase dropped into the armchair with a dramatic flump, pulling the sleeves over his hands like a sulky kid. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw something at you.”
House snorted, then pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Alright, Tiny Tim. You want food?”
“You’re offering me food?”
“No,” House said dryly, limping toward the kitchen. “I’m offering you poison. But it’s warm poison, and it comes with bread.”
Chase raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you’ve been a very bad boy.”
Chase stared at him, deadpan. “I should've just let myself drown in the storm.”
“Good,” House called over his shoulder. “Means I’m doing something right.”
Despite the sarcasm, House actually opened the fridge and started rummaging. Leftovers, random bits of takeout, a sad looking tomato - then he pulled out eggs and bread, and started cracking them into a pan like this was something he did more than once a year.
Chase watched from the chair, half-buried in a blanket now, both skeptical and weirdly touched. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I can’t,” House said. “But I can scramble eggs and not burn toast. That’s all tonights menu requires.”
“Thanks.”
House didn’t look over. Just shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. If Wilson finds out I fed you, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Chase smiled, just a little, and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
The thunder was still rumbling outside, but it felt distant now.
By the time House shuffled back into the living room, the storm had mellowed into a steady rhythm against the windows - just rain now, less violent. The kind of sound that made everything feel a little quieter.
Chase had migrated to the couch in the meantime, curled up on one end under the blanket House had dumped there earlier. His legs were tucked under him, arms folded, head resting against the back cushion.
The sleeves of the oversized sweatshirt had slipped down again, covering his hands. He was definitely on the edge of sleep, eyes half-lidded, body still and heavy with exhaustion.
House eyed him for a second, then dropped the plate of food on the coffee table with a dull clink. Scrambled eggs, toast, a little salt. Nothing fancy, but it smelled good, and it was steaming.
Chase blinked, lifted his head slightly. “Smells edible.”
“Don’t insult the chef or I will poison the next batch.”
Chase gave a small, sleepy huff of amusement and sat up enough to take the plate. His movements were slow, stiff with leftover chill and fatigue. But he took a bite, and then another, without saying much.
House sat beside him - not too close, just the other end of the couch - and flicked the TV back on. It was some random old sitcom rerun, volume low enough to fade into the background, laugh track and all.
For a while, they sat in silence. Just the clink of the fork against the plate, the distant murmur of the TV, the steady patter of rain.
Chase eventually stopped eating and just held the plate in his lap, eyes slipping closed again.
“You’re gonna fall asleep and spill eggs all over my couch,” House muttered without looking over.
Chase didn’t respond. He was already half-asleep again, tucked into the corner like a cat, blanket hiked up over his chin.
House glanced at him once, then reached over, carefully taking the plate from his hands and setting it back on the table.
He stared at Chase for a long second, then flicked his gaze back to the TV.
“Idiot,” he said softly, almost fondly.
Then he settled in, one arm resting on the back of the couch again - close enough to brush Chase’s shoulder if either of them moved. But neither did.
An hour passed. The rain softened into a whisper against the windows, and the thunder had long since drifted away.
Chase, unsurprisingly, hadn’t moved. He’d slumped further sideways, curled into the cushions now, mouth slightly open in sleep. The blanket had slipped down a little, one arm poking out.
House noticed. He didn’t say anything, didn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment. Just quietly reached over and pulled the blanket back up, tucking it around Chase’s shoulder. His hand lingered for half a second, as if debating something, then withdrew.
The sitcom had switched to something else now - some boring late night procedural. He wasn’t even watching it. Just sitting there, vaguely aware of the quiet and the weight of someone else's presence in his space, and the weird, fuzzy warmth of it not being completely horrible.
Then, a series of knocks came. House’s head snapped toward the door.
Another knock, louder this time.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, dragging himself off the couch. “If that’s a Girl Scout, she better be selling Valium.”
He opened the door to find Wilson standing there, umbrella dripping, hair a little damp, holding a duffel bag.
“The power’s out at the hotel,” Wilson said, brushing past him. “They said it might be hours before it comes back. I figured I’d crash here if you hadn’t already locked the doors and faked your own death again-”
He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on the couch, then widened.
“...Is that Chase?”
House closed the door behind him and limped back toward the living room. “No, that’s just a stray I found outside. Figured I’d feed him and put him down if he bit me.”
Wilson stared at him, then back at Chase, who was dead asleep, bundled in House’s clothes, looking like a half-drowned golden retriever in a hoodie two sizes too big.
“House.” Wilson turned, voice half-accusation, half-delight. “Is Chase nesting on your couch?”
“It’s not like I planned it.”
Wilson grinned. “You gave him clothes.”
“They were gonna end up on the floor anyway.”
“A blanket.”
“He was dripping everywhere. It was either that or mop.”
Wilsons smile grew ten sizes. “You tucked him in.”
“I will shove you out that door with your own umbrella.”
Wilson turned back to Chase, hands on his hips, grinning like a kid who just found out what Playboy is. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m calling Cuddy.”
House’s face twisted. “Do that and I’ll tell her you were the one who broke her chair."
They both stood there a moment, watching the peaceful pile of Wombat on the couch.
Wilson lowered his voice. “You okay with him staying the night?”
House glanced over. “He’s out cold. It’s either here or I throw him in the stairwell.”
“So,” Wilson smirked, “you’re keeping him.”
“I rescued him from a thunderstorm. I didn’t adopt him.”
Wilson threw his duffel down in the hall. “Uh-huh. I’ll take the recliner.”
House sighed, limping back toward the couch, and sank down beside the sleeping Chase once again.
“He drools,” he warned.
Wilson grinned and sat down with him.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “You’re a terrible influence.”