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“I can’t eat,” Is the first thing out of Chase’s mouth when House shuts his office door behind him. House hadn’t expected him to give up what was wrong so quickly, it was uncommon for Chase, though he did look horrible. He had heavy bags under his eyes, his cheeks hallowed. Of course House had suspected that he wasn’t eating, but if he was saying it then maybe it wasn’t an eating disorder in the general sense like he had suspected.
He points at the couch, and Chase obediently sat down, watching House join him and set his cane aside.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Chase takes a shaky deep breath, not responding. He looks away from House’s intense gaze. “I mean, I haven’t had a..” His face reddens and his eyes find the floor, “..bowel movement,” he half whispers and House snorts, “In a week. And I’m terrified if I eat, it’ll.. Go wrong.” He mutters.
“Go wrong how?” House asks pointedly, and Chase just shrugs half heartedly. House sighs, “Okay, well when did you last eat?”
“..I had a smoothie this morning,” Chase confesses, tugging slightly at his shirt. House had originally called him in there for looking like he was about to collapse. He still looked like he was on the brink of passing out.
“Well ‘this morning’ was seven hours ago,” House bites, “Is that how you’ve been eating this past week?”
Chase’s eyes snap to his, “It– the problems started earlier, I’m just taking action–” He tries to defend himself for some reason, but House cuts him off,
“You haven’t given your body anything to process. No wonder nothing’s come out, nothing’s gone in.” He snaps, digging around in his pocket to take out his bottle of Vicodin. He pops a few before snatching his cane to stand up.
“Where are you going–”
“To get you a sandwich. Stay there, for God’s sake.” He grumbles, hobbling off out of the office. Chase sat there, eventually drawing his knees up to his chest as his stomach rumbled. He inhales and exhales slowly, trying to expand his stomach with air. If he did it in just the right way it could make the noise subside momentarily, though the hallow feeling didn’t go away.
His lower stomach hurt badly, cramping to the point where he had to drag himself out of bed. He had taken an ibuprofen, but it was wearing off and the ache was letting itself be known. The worst part were the dreams, or nightmares, to be more accurate. He had woken up crying four nights in a row, the nightmare nonsensical, all some variation where his organs stopped functioning, repeating prior cases.
Chase glances at the office door, contemplating leaving but not seriously considering it, he was just reminding himself he had the option. House took that moment to walk in, tossing a wrapped sandwich to him. He was fairly certain that he had just stolen this out of the fridge, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty alongside all of the other problems he was facing.
“Eat.” House sat back down next to him, and Chase stares at it. It seemed weird, slightly disorienting, the texture more interesting through the plastic wrap then it would be in his mouth. He felt a wave of nausea cross him, head shaking no before he even realized it.
“It’s not that simple,” His voice came out more choked than he had hoped, breath catching on the last word.
“It’s a sandwich. Eat.” House pressures, “Unwrap the damn thing and eat. I didn’t go to the effort of stealing that just for you to get cold feet.”
“Its not that easy–!” His voice didn’t sound his own when he heard the twinges of panic. House grabbed the sandwich from his almost limp hands, unwrapping it with ease. “I– I can’t, I feel nauseous.”
“Because you haven’t eaten– God, were you always this stupid?” House retorts, shoving the sandwich back into his hands.
“I can’t–”
“You told me immediately,” House interrupts, “And you knew I was going to make you, so you will.”
“My stomach hurts,” Chase chokes out,
“Yes– because it’s empty!” His eyebrows raised like Chase should be getting this, but he made no move to bring the sandwich to his mouth. He sighs heavily, deciding to approach this differently. “Okay. How about this?” He mutters, and Chase looks at him and not through him. It made a surprising amount of difference.
“What?” He asks, voice almost meek. House gestures to the sandwich.
“Just one bite. Just one. For me, alright?” He says, and he could practically see the wheels turning in Chase’s head. Slowly, he brings the sandwich to his mouth. The bite he took was basically non-existent, but it was progress. “Good.” House grumbles, “Now chew the recommended amount of times, and..” He watches as Chase chews methodically, fear flickering behind his eyes. “Swallow.” He prompts since he had suddenly frozen after chewing 20 times.
“Swallow.” He repeats, keeping his voice calm. It looked like it physically pained him to do it, but he did it.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” Chase forces out, a tremor going through his voice.
“Don’t throw up. Take another bite.” House sighs, motioning to the sandwich. He sprawled out on the couch, informing Chase that he was staying to watch the entire thing.
“I can’t,”
“Just one more bite.” He orders, watching as Chase takes another small bite. He chews slowly and carefully, but for longer, and then he stops like he had before, swaying forward slightly. “Swallow it.” He says, but Chase doesn’t respond.
And then he was forcing the sandwich into House’s hands, flinging himself up to the nearest trashcan. House grimaces as he hears retching.
“Not even two bites,” He muses, half sure that all that was coming up was water and a singular bite of a sandwich. House frowns, standing up, “Am I supposed to hold your hair back?” He asks, not expecting an answer. Chases shaking fingers were clinging to the bin like his life depended on it. House huffs, placing the sandwich down on his desk. He hovers over him, waiting for him to be done.
When Chase finally sinks back onto his heels, face tear streaked and lip quivering, House motions for him to get up.
“I’m sorry,” His voice was rough. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, entire posture pathetic. He wobbles up.
“That’s it,” House decides abruptly, grasping Chases arm, “We’re heading down to ER.” He starts leading Chase out, who follows to the door before realziing whats happening. “You can pick between a feeding tube or a needle.”
“No!” Chase cries out, yanking his arm free.
“Well then you’re going to sit back down,” House raises his voice to match Chase’s, “And finish the goddamn sandwich!” He shouts, staring Chase down. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.
“I can’t–”
“If you say ‘I can’t’ one more time, I’m going to smack you with my cane.” House says, gesturing violently at the couch, “Sit down.”
“I’m sorry,” He hiccups, which wasn’t much of an improvement.
“Sit down.” He orders again, and Chase obeys this time. He slumps back onto the couch, watching House with a worried expression as he picks the sandwich back up. He brings it to him.
“One bite. You managed one bite before, you can do it again.” House says, holding it out. Chase wipes his nose with his sleeve, hesitating before he takes it.
He took a bite and chewed it, forcing himself to swallow as House stood, leaning heavily on his cane and staring down at him. His eyes flick up to House, who nods.
“That’s good. Now one more bite. Just one.”
Chase forced the sandwich to his mouth, fighting tears and fear, the complete feeling of wrongness. All of the voices in his mind told him that if he kept eating he was going to die, even if he logically knew that he needed to eat. He tried to turn off his logic, and he swallows. He really didn’t want a feeding tube.
“Good.” His voice softens, “Now another.”
It went on like that until the sandwich had been polished off. House was rummaging around for a juice box or something, and he returned with the juice. He hands it over, and Chase accepts that more readily. He did his best not to look at the calories listed on the side, telling himself that he needed calories to live, that if he didn’t get them he would starve. His head prickled with each slow sip that House watched him take down, trying to tell him that if he ate too much he would have a heart attack, or choke, or get diabetes.
“There we go.” House breathes when the cardboard box crinkles. He sat down next to Chase. “From now on– for however long this goes on, you’re eating with me.” He says, expecting protest from him. Instead he was met with a resigned nod and a half smile that told him that he was grateful.
“Okay.” And then after a pause, “Thank you, House.”