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“Cycles.” House says, as Chase strolls into the diagnostics office, the familiar air of tension and hard work lingering over the team. Forman’s head is pressed in his hands, huffing in frustrated breaths while Cameron looks over the tests and labs sprawled across the table, her brown hair collapsing from her weak bun.
“Morning’ to you too.” Nods Chase, plopping himself into the chair beside Cameron with a smile. She gives him a tight smile, but her eyes burn into his head with warning, that he assumes means House is feeling a little extra crazy today, and their case isn’t going the way he wants (but really, when do their cases go smoothly?). The subtle look reminds him that it’s a Tuesday, that after this shift he’ll ask Cameron out right on schedule, and she’ll shake her head with a soft smile and tell him that she awaits him asking next Tuesday. Then him and Forman will no doubt get beers while he rants to Chase why chasing (no pun intended) after Cameron is stupid.
“Cycles!” Repeats House, banging his cane on the ground like a toddler demanding sweets. Chase glances to Forman, who throws a stack of papers his way with a grunt something or other.
Chase takes a moment to read over the blood work taken from the patient’s family, frowning. “Looks like their mum had the same abnormality in the blood and…” he flips the page, “Jesus, this goes back generations!”
“Looks like great-great grandpa Harold kept his condition to himself, had kids, who did the same, had more kids, did the same, and so on.” Explains House.
“Right.” Chase sighs, “Cycles. They hide it, they pass it on, then they hide it. Rinse and repeat. Cycles.”
”Our patient had no idea, as it laid dormant in her ancestors, and the ones that did know about it hid it.” Cameron supplies, helpfully.
“Hard to hide it when it’s eating you from inside out, lucky us.” Chimes Forman, nodding to the latest results of the lumbar puncture.
“More like hard to find when you don’t do the family history properly!” Shoots back House, glaring pointedly at Chase, who tries his best not to melt into his chair.
“It’s not my fault all of their mum’s side didn’t think to mention the generations of genetic dysfunction!”
”That’s the point of asking for family history.” Says Forman, and god sometimes Chase wants to throttle him.
”Everybody lies.” Defends Chase, pretending not to notice House smirking from the corner of his eye. “We need to test the patient’s child, test those in their family with the dormant blood. Find the differences.” He adds, folding his arms.
House nods, waving his cane at the other two team members. “Go on, then.” They scramble to their feet, shuffling off. Chase stands, making way for the door when House makes a noise, prompting him to turn.
”Cycles.” House says again, throwing his cane to Chase, who catches it instinctively.
It’s too early in the day for Chase to question what House means this time, or why he looks Chase up and down so intently. He runs a hand through his hair, and throws the cane back to house.
”Cycles.” Chase echoes, before going off to check on his patient.
—
The limp is temporary. That's what Chase tells himself. What he needs to tell himself to get through the day. He is totally fine from being stabbed. His legs are functioning fine, the scar is practically nothing but a mere line beneath his pec. He's the same old Chase. Even when Foreman stares at him for a little too long during the differentials with some pathetic look of pity, when House's gaze follows him as he walks wobbly across the room, when Taub keeps asking how he is, he is still just Chase. It doesn't change a thing.
It's on cold winter mornings like this when he misses his long hair, when he misses the days that it was he, Cameron, and Foreman, when all he was worried about was House being an ass. God, Chase misses Cameron. The scruffy fuzz that he tried to make a beard scratches against his cheek as he rolls onto his back, sinking into his mattress. He ignores the pain that flares over his chest with the motion, he's become used to it. His physio keeps saying that the pain will go away. But they say that about the limp as well. And that remains prominent. But it will go away. It has to go away.
Sitting up takes a bit longer than it does, but that has nothing to do with the stabbing. He is fine. Can a guy not just ache in the mornings? It's fine. He is fine. Chase doesn't use his crutches to walk to the bathroom, he doesn't need them. It's been four weeks, he is meant to walk without their aid. He can walk without them. Sometimes...sometimes Chase just loses his balance, that's all. The limp is temporary. So, he stumbles into the bathroom, leaning his weight onto the sink.
It isn't his own face he sees when he looks in the mirror, not his sunken cheeks, his pale skin, nor his ghostly eyes. But rather, even if just for a split second, he recognises House's miserable old face. It forces him to stagger back a step, hardly keeping his balance, as he sucks in shaky breaths. He isn't House. Chase blinks harshly until he can see his own reflection in the mirror instead of his boss'. His limp is temporary, House's is not. He isn't House. House fixed Chase’s legs, made sure that he could feel them again, could move them. Could walk with them.
He's still same old Chase. Bags forming under his eyes happen all the time for doctors, especially those that work under House's schedule. Besides, eye bags have been permanent residents on his face ever since Dibala. But he shook that off, he got over it. Just like he then got over Cameron leaving him. Just as he'll get over this. Chase is fine. He grabs whatever not-too-wrinkly shirt he finds, pulling on the closest pair of trousers with one of his only undamaged belts left. Chase doesn't check to see if his shoes match his belt, if his tie is done correctly. He simply...just doesn't care anymore. Still, same old Chase, right? There's no time to eat breakfast, there rarely is nowadays. It doesn't matter.
House is turning down every case that Foreman drops on the table when Chase eventually waddles in, beelining straight for the coffee machine. Sometimes he wishes he had just stayed in Australia, then he wouldn't have to deal with these awful winters. Then he would never have stepped foot in this cursed hospital. "What time you call this?" Pipes up Taub, looking him up and down. God, his voice has been grating his brain lately. Most people have annoyed him lately: his team, his patients, his endless rotation of bimbos. Why will no one leave him alone?
He looks at his watch. "Nine fifty." Chase states, plopping down into the chair across from House, sipping his coffee slowly. House glances up, raising an eyebrow, before continuing to disregard the pile of case files that is scattered over the table. "Right...and what time does your shift start?" Taub pushes. God, Chase resists an eye roll. He is really not in the mood for Taub to be a little know it all, not today, not lately. Chase just can't find it amusing anymore, not like he used to, and he doesn't bother pretending not to mind either.
"When we have a case, when there's work to be done." He shoots back, scowling as he flicks through the mountain of cases. Foreman sighs heavily, looking at Chase with some weird look of disappointment. It's weird to think of Foreman as Dean of Medicine now instead of his team mate, someone part of their group. Then again, even when Foreman was with him in diagnostics, he always had an air of cocky superiority about him. "Ladies, ladies, break up the cat fight. ME-OW." Mocks House, grinning insincerely. Park and Adams watch silently, as they so often tend to do.
"You've got to pick one, House." Foreman sighs, arms folded.
House gasps melodramatically. "Oh my god, did Foreman vanish and become Cuddy?!". Chase snorts, but the rest look unimpressed, Foreman in particular. "Jeez, at least someone kept their sense of humour." House nods at Chase, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. Chase ignores it, clearing his throat and holding up one of the files.
"Teenage girl presenting with sudden amnesia. Zero sign of head trauma, no history of mental illness, no drugs, no alcohol…nothing." He announces, wincing at the way holding the file tugs at his stitches. The pain is temporary. House sucks his teeth, snatching the file from Chase and scanning it over. Foreman nods subtly at Chase, with an expression that he thinks is the closest Foreman will get to a proper smile. Adams suggests that they just pick a case at random, but nobody acknowledges it. "We'll take it." House eventually decides, planting the file in the centre of the table. Foreman thanks them for finally making a choice, and leaves.
House spouts off a series of orders to the team, and all of them rise from their seats. "Not you, ‘Home and Away’." House adds, just as Chase is reaching for the door. Damn it. He reluctantly drops back into his seat, scowling. House stands up, whistling some annoying tune as he hovers over Chase.
"Sorry I was late." He mumbles, already preparing to tune out whatever rubbish House is about to unleash upon him. But it doesn't come. He glances up from where he had been staring at the floor, finding that House is simply...well, just staring at him. He shifts in his seat, but doesn't break the eye contact, doesn't speak. He waits. And so does House. But eventually the tension gets too much. House is far more practiced in making people uncomfortable than he is. Abruptly, he stands up, plastering on a tight smile. "I'm gonna go draw blood from our patient."
"Cameron was right." Why must House always wait until he's about to leave the room before he says some bullshit. Chase turns hastily on his heels, sighing. House doesn't offer much clarification, in fact he doesn't say anything. Just watches Chase, searching for a reaction. Because that is all that House ever wants- a reaction, some entertainment, an experiment.
"She normally was." He says, refusing to give him space to dig into his answer. Whatever House is trying to play at, Chase doesn't want in on it. God, he just wants to be left alone. Shouldn't House of all people get that? House tilts his head to the side, squinting at him. How is Chase's blatant refusal not to join his antics still amusing to him?
"You're corrupted." Right. Dibala. God, Chase thought that they had long-since moved past this debacle. Why is he bringing it up now? His knuckles turn white as his grip tightens around the back of his chair. Fuck. He isn't having a panic attack, not like he used to at the very thought of Dibala- that doesn't mean he loves thinking about it though. Besides, doing what was best for hundereds of thousands of people hardly makes him corrupt. Chase doesn't respond, but his scowl deepens. "She said that I ruined you." He adds, shrugging. Chase tries to keep his face stoic, though he's fairly certain he lets his mouth drop briefly agape in surprise.
"And why are you telling me this?" He asks, trying to ignore the way his throat tightens at the mention of Cameron. It's fine. Their divorce was for the better. House stews quietly, rotating his cane around in the air like a bo-staff.
"Because I think she was right." House gestures to Chase, as if there in lies the evidence of him being so called, 'ruined'. Chase scoffs at the ridiculousness of it all. House hasn't ruined him- whatever that means. The only way Chase has changed is that now he's a better doctor, now he's more realistic. He isn't corrupt. He isn't ruined. Nothing is wrong with him. "Look at yourself." House orders, lightly tapping the end of his cane in the centre of Chase's chest.
"What, you think me getting a hair cut makes me corrupt?" He says, snidely.
House sees through his deflection the way he so cockily sees everything else. "No, but a limp and miserable attitude makes you me." He knew House had been acting weird ever since Chase had been stabbed. He'd assumed it was guilt or worry, or any normal human emotion. But no. Just morbid interest, of course. Chase releases his iron-clad hold on the back of the chair, furrowing his brows. He walks- walks, not limps, because he doesn't limp- a step closer to House. Is his breathing quickening with panic or is he just out of breath from the strain of walking? He isn't House. Not in the slightest.
"I'm not you." He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, almost forgetting how short it now is, old habits die hard. "I'm not some junkie, a pill popper." The words start tumbling out, "My limp- my pain- is temporary. You're crippled for life, House. I'm not you." He doesn't even know what he's saying, but Chase thinks he begins to shout at some point. "I don't- I don't toss away every person that's cared about me!" Memories of Allison push to mind, the sight of her walking away, officially his ex-wife. Maybe he does push people away, but not like House. "I'm not you; I'm not miserable to everyone about everything!" When was the last time he went out and had fun? Or was consistently nice and excited to his patients? "I have friends," does he? Foreman and Taub rarely invite him to drinks anymore- or maybe they do, and Chase just doesn't answer. "I have a social life!" Does he? "I have a sex life!" Yes, because an endless rotation of nameless women is fulfilling, exactly as he envisioned his future. "I'm. Not. You." But whose reflection flashes into his sight in the mornings? Are his eyes welling up? Jesus.
House sighs, as if he was just defeated in a tremendously exhausting battle. "Okay, since you seem so convinced...You're not me." He raises his hands in surrender, biting his bottom lip. God damn it. Chase hates House. Really, he does. But does that mean he hates himself too? Chase is panting from his little speech.
"I..." He isn't House. Not if he apologises, not if he builds the gap between them. "I'm sorry. For- for what I just said." He cringes, but whatever. He's apologising. That changes things. That proves that Chase is not House. Not in the slightest. House would never apologise to them. "It wasn't fair to you." See? Accountability! "But..." Chase quickly shakes his head, deciding it best not to go down that path. House stares at him for what, realistically, must be less than ten seconds, but it feels like hours stretched agonizingly slowly.
"Fine." Nods House, propping his chin under the top of his cane. "Maybe you aren't me."
"Thank you, I-"
"But you will be." Jesus Christ, can't he ever just stop? "You wouldn't be this angry unless you thought I was right, which I am." Chase doesn't respond, instead looking down at the floor. He doesn't dare look House in the eye, refuses to acknowledge the truth in his face. House waits a few beats. "I don't want you to be me." Of all the things he expected House to say, that wasn't one of them.
"It's...miserable. Which, I mean, you said so yourself." The guilt that pangs in his chest means nothing. House is fine. "You're a good doctor and..." House takes a deep breath, battling with his words. It's uncanny to see him stumped or struggling with what to say. "And a good- well, decent- person." Chase looks up, ready to see some sarcastic expression on House's face. But instead he is met with sincerity. "Don't waste it." Chase stays quiet, wrestling with how the hell to reply to that when House adds: "Don't be me."
He shakes his head slowly. "I won't..." From the look in House's eyes, he can tell that his boss knows what he will say before he even does. "I need to quit. I need to run my own team." Chase mutters, sinking into the nearest chair. He has to get away from here if he wants to change his fate, his doom. House nods, and even if Chase can tell that House had anticipated him saying that, he thinks that he can spot disappointment in his eyes. "Everyone else has moved on. It's time that I do too." He's worked with House for a decade, longer than any other fellow. And what of it has he made? Cameron is head of ICU in Chicago, Foreman the Dean of Medicine, Amber and Kutner dead, Cuddy gone, Wilson dying, Thirteen god-knows-where. Everyone who has worked with House for long periods of time but him has left or is leaving. (Expect maybe Taub.)
"I know." House sighs, frowning. "It was...fun working with you."
Chase chuckles. "Fun?" He echoes.
House rolls his eyes dramatically. "I thought it better than: 'We have shared numerous different situations together over the years." He admits, smirking. House extends his hand out to Chase to shake it, but Chase shakes his head and shakily rises to his feet. House clicks his teeth, retracting his hand in what Chase swears is some form of hurt. But it doesn't last long, not when Chase instead envelops him in a hug instead.
"It was fun." Chase repeats, forcing his voice to remain monotone. House mumbles something that Chase doesn't quite hear, but he thinks is an agreement, as the man slowly returns the hug.
"It was fun."
-
Chase is still in his funeral attire when he limps into the office, into House's office, into his new office. It all feels wrong now, knowing that it isn't House's anymore. That this office in which so many insane, incredible, awful things took place in, now belongs to Chase. The sight of House's name still on the door is enough to make Chase want to boke. Maybe he's in over his head, maybe he never should have accepted Foreman's offer to take over the diagnostic department so soon after House died. Or maybe he just shouldn't have drank so much after the funeral service- after seeing Allison- he muses, sipping from the flask in his blazer pocket.
He slowly lowers himself into the chair at House's- at his- desk, doing his best not to aggravate his leg. "God damn it." He sighs into his hands, holding back the tears that threaten to well at his eyes. House is dead. It feels unreal, fake, some crazy plot twist in a far-fetched tv show. After all, he'd always viewed House as the type of guy to fake his death simply for the fun of seeing people's reactions. Maybe this is that, he tries to convince himself, trying to silence the rational part of his mind with more booze. He's not an alcoholic, okay? Chase is just...in mourning. It's alright then.
Him falling to the ground when he tries to stand up is only due to the booze, only that, not his leg, not his limp. "Fuckin' slippery carpet." He mumbles to nobody in particular, using the desk to yank himself to his feet. That's when it catches his eye. Something...odd sticking out from behind House's shelves. He stumbles towards it, trying to get a look at in the dark of the office. Chase reaches out, fumbling for whatever it was he saw. His hand closes around something wooden and smooth, as he yanks it out. A cane. Weird. He turns it around in his hand, noticing the post-it-note attached.
'For the prodigal son -H'
Chase can't help his small smile, nor the way it turns into a beam, and eventually an actual laugh as he shoves the note into his pocket, feeling over the cane’s shape.
"Thanks, House." He says, walking out the office with the cane in hand. “Fucking cycles.”