Disclaimer: All familiar characters, settings and terms in this story belong to David Shore and FOX. Nothing's mine, so please don't sue.
Note: This fic has some dark themes and disturbing imagery, and reader discretion is advised. For those who do continue, please don't forget to leave your comments after reading!
The alarm clock rang shrilly from the bedside table, and Chase groaned. After a few minutes of snoozing, he opened his eyes and looked blearily at the time. The face of the clock was fuzzy and he had to blink a couple of times to focus, and when he did it took a few more seconds before he registered the time.
Ten minutes later, he was dragging a comb through his hair and knotting the first tie he could find around his neck. The air was crisp and clear when he stepped out, but he hardly noticed as he rushed down the front steps of his apartment, briefcase swinging in his hands. He was pulling his car out of the curb in less than a minute. He knew that he would probably reach the hospital a couple of minutes before House showed up, but his boss believed that office rules applied to everyone but him. He also had an uncanny knack for identifying what time someone arrived to work simply by observing their physical appearance. Chase, with his ruffled hair and rumpled shirt, knew there was no way House would overlook him.
When he reached the last crossroad before Princeton-Plainsboro, the signal turned red. Cursing his luck, he thrummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glanced at the time on the dashboard. When the light turned green, Chase stepped down on the accelerator and leaned forward.
It was too late for him to stop when he saw the claret jeep speeding on his left, and for a second all he could do was slam down on the brakes before the impact occurred. There was a screeching sound of wheels ringing loudly in his ears before it was overcome by the noise of shattering glass and splintering metal. Strangely enough, he felt no pain when something slammed into his chest and knocked the breath out of him. The world took on a hazy, dreamy quality for the few moments he could keep his eyes open, before darkening abruptly and fading into nothing.
When he regained consciousness next, he was aware of several things. The steady beeping of the heart monitor, the clear, sharp scent of antiseptic and sterilized latex in the air, the dim lights floating overhead; he was in the Intensive Care Unit. There was something in his throat, had he been chewing on something? It was strange; Chase didn't remember coming to work. He was going to, but he had nearly been late and he was driving to work –
The realization was abrupt and he heard the sudden spike in the beeping monitors as he remembered. There was a nurse coming towards him, soothingly telling him to calm down and that he had been involved in a car accident and that he would be okay. She pressed something on his left – he squinted and recognized a morphine dispenser – and there was a sudden rush of pleasure flowing into numbness, and all he could do was sigh before he slipped away.
When he came to again, he didn't open his eyes. There was someone in his room already, two people by the sounds of it. He was uncomfortably aware of the endotracheal tube in his throat, the IV line below his left wrist, and the Foley catheter much lower. The whispering was grating, distracting. All he wanted to do was to go back to sleep and never wake up.
"Poor kid," one of the voices muttered, and was that Nurse Cathy? It certainly sounded like her, and the image filled in his mind, her kindly, maternal smile.
"He hasn't had anyone to visit at all?" The other voice whispered, and it was one of the other nurses in the ICU, Chase was sure of it.
"No one," Nurse Cathy whispered back, and he could feel their eyes on him. He kept as still as possible, which wasn't very hard considering he couldn't really feel most of his body. Mentally, he wondered how much morphine he was on, and how bad his injuries were. "He's from Australia, I don't think he has any family here…"
He felt the familiar darkness creeping back into the periphery of his vision, and he struggled to make it stop because he wanted to ask what happened to him. With a stab of horror, he realized the fingers he'd been using to try and signal the nurses weren't moving. Chase tried again, but it wasn't working. He was losing consciousness again, and fast. There was nothing he could do as his vision faded, and he gave in.
He opened his eyes, and this time, his throat was clear. It was dry, yes, and painfully scratchy, but the tube was gone and he could speak again.
"Water," he croaked out, and a nurse was there, fetching a glass and tipping it slightly forward so the cool liquid flowed into his mouth. Chase swallowed it greedily, relishing the feel of it against his parched throat.
"What happened?" he asked after he was done. The nurse hesitated, but after he assured her that he was a doctor and that he could handle it, she rattled off a list of injuries. Three cracked ribs, dislocated left shoulder, broken left femur, various other odd bruises and lacerations. She took a deep breath and mentioned their suspicion of SCI, and Chase swallowed painfully. The implications were clear as day. He didn't want to think anymore. He just wanted to sleep. The nurse understood, and upped his morphine. He muttered a fervent thank-you before losing consciousness.
There was something different about the next time he woke up. Someone was sitting on a chair next to his bed, and when he caught sight of the wooden cane resting across his knees he knew who it was. But it wasn't House that had woken him up. There were flames licking along his extremities, stirrings of agony that were rising rapidly and garishly up his body.
With a start, he realized that it was House who had woken him up – by lowering his morphine.
"House," he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting off waves of pain-induced nausea. "Please."
"Sorry," House said quietly, reaching forward to press a few buttons. There was a rush of opiates into his body, and the pain reduced. Chase was still conscious, however, and he could still feel the pain though it had been dampened significantly. "Doesn't make sense to talk to you while you're asleep, does it?"
He settled back into his chair, and stared at Chase with inscrutable blue eyes. There was a few seconds of silence during which Chase wondered why House was there, after all this time. As far as he could glean, the elder man hadn't bothered any time earlier.
"Why are you here?" he said with a bit of effort, after the stillness became intolerable.
"Just checking up to see if I need to start interviewing again," House answered easily, and even though Chase recognized the familiar tint of sarcasm, he felt a pit of dread start up somewhere in his gut.
"And -" he swallowed before continuing, "what did you find?"
"Pretty much have to, yeah," House said, and Chase took a moment to discern whether his boss was joking. It didn't help.
"What?"
"As much as I despise interviewing," House reiterated, "I really have no choice. Can't have a paralyzed intensivist sitting on his ass all day and doing nothing, can I? That's my job."
The dread was building, and Chase couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I'm paralyzed? But – you – but you can't -"
"I can," House interrupted, "and I am."
Chase stared at the dead calm in those deep blue eyes, for a sign, any sign that House was joking. But there was no mocking tone, and the remnants of the earlier sarcasm was gone. House was staring back at him seriously, more serious than he had ever seen him. Chase could feel the nausea rising, and this time, it had nothing to do with the pain simmering just beneath his skin.
"You're not really that irreplaceable, Chase," House said, shrugging and leaning back. "I don't know what gave you that impression. I don't need you that much, if you get my drift."
Chase wanted to protest, but the words were dying in his throat. He stared at House, trying to spot a crack in that cold, unperturbed armour.
"Tha' – that's not true," he said hoarsely when he found none. "Why would you have hired me -"
"Yeah," House said, "I don't even remember why I did. I think it was because your dad made that call? Oh wait, he asked me not to hire you. I really should've listened to him." He paused, scratching his chin musingly. "I guess he'd know."
The words were biting, but it was the casual nonchalance in House's tone that drove in deeper. Chase felt something shrivel inside him under that chilly gaze; he had never seen those blue eyes so cold.
"That's not true," he tried again, "Foreman -"
"Foreman's twice as smarter as you, and Cameron twice as hard-working. Come to think of it, I probably don't need to hire anybody new. They'd make up for you just between the two of them."
Chase lay still, holding his breath. He had no idea why House was choosing this particular moment to lay it all in. The words were piercing, hurtful. If he focused on his physical pain, maybe he could block the voice out.
"It was fun in the beginning, I admit it," House said unrelentingly, "hiring an ass-kisser who doesn't dare go against you. Drunk mommy did a great job on you, that's for sure. But it got old a long time ago. Besides, you've ended up making so many mistakes I coulda' hired a plumber instead. Not really worth it, don't you think?"
House leaned forward and lifted his cane off of Chase's blanket, getting to his feet.
"You're not worth it, Chase," he said coldly. "You were never worth it."
It was when he turned to leave that Chase understood what was happening.
"No – no, wait!"
House's face was oddly muddled and indistinct, and either the world was shaking or Chase was trembling. The implications of what was happening – what had already happened – were ricocheting wildly in his mind, and he didn't think he would be able to grasp it alone. As long as he was not alone, he would make it, he knew he would…
But House laughed in his face when he valiantly attempted to explain himself, muttering a fervent 'you're pathetic' and turning away again. The image was familiar, one last look of disgust and contempt plain on his face. Chase found out in his rising agony that he couldn't move at all now; he was paralyzed completely, and there was nothing left for him to do. He tried to scream but his voice was gone too, and there was nobody left to help him. There was nobody left for him.
When he opened his eyes again, however, there was somebody there. He vaguely recognized Nurse Brenda, leaning over him and adjusting his IV. When she noticed that he was awake, she set down the clipboard she had been scribbling upon and looked at him.
"What -" Chase cleared his throat and tried again. "Am I -"
"The spinal cord injury is permanent," Brenda said, folding her arms in front of her. "I'm sorry."
There was something about her tone, though. Chase squinted to see her expression, but it was as indifferent as House's had been earlier. Chase didn't understand; she had always been perfectly cordial to him before.
"But I hurt all over, I can still feel pain in my extremities," Chase protested, and she responded by muttering something about residual pain and psychological trauma. It didn't make any sense to Chase, no matter how much he tried to twist it.
"What's going to happen now?" he asked, and she paused in the doorway.
"I don't know. You don't have any family. No one's come to visit except Dr. House. I guess the only alternative is an institution that deals with -"
"No," Chase croaked out forcefully, hating that his voice sounded so weak.
"There's no other way," she said, "I'm sorry."
"You don't sound it," he replied back, bitterly.
There was a pause. Brenda took a few steps closer, and he felt like he was looking into two black pits of ice that were her eyes.
"I don't. And there's a reason for that," she said. "In some ways I think you deserve this."
"Why -"
"Kayla," she said, and Chase froze. "Her girls. Her brother Sam. I lived right next to them. I used to babysit Dory and Nikki when they were a few months old." She looked off at the far wall, smiling a bitter, reminiscing smile. "Kayla loved them, and they loved her."
Every breath was painful, but Chase forced himself to take deep gulps of air anyway. "I didn't know -"
"You didn't. You ruined their lives, and you don't think there should be any kind of penance for that?" She looked back at him. "You deserve this, Dr. Chase. You've never had a family, I get that. But there's no excuse for destroying another one."
She was gone before he could say anything else. Chase looked down, and caught sight of a set of keys before him. Tiny, untarnished silver slung on a thin hoop, lying innocuously on his duvet. He'd seen them before, during rotations as the intensivist-on-call. Had Brenda left them there? He reached forward and grabbed them, didn't wait to spare one thought to his sudden ability to do this. His fingers stumbled through several ones before he found the right one – and he knew the right one, but he didn't know how – and pushed it into the morphine pump on his side.
He pressed once, twice, thrice, watched as the reading on the meter went lower and lower, until he couldn't sense anything but the pain. Every inch of his being, every nerve was on fire, as though a hundred, poker-hot knives were stabbing him simultaneously. His vision was becoming blurry but he knew that for once, he was not drifting away.
After what felt like hours, his finger was pressing insistently against the control board again, but on the other button. The meter rose, reached critical and ventured beyond.
Chase closed his eyes and lay back, and this time he knew there was no coming back.
*
The alarm clock rings shrilly again from the bedside table, and Chase wakes with a start. It's not the alarm clock, however; there is another cacophony of bells coming from somewhere outside the room, and Chase realizes his phone is ringing. He sits up stiffly, mindful of the aches in his body, and when he withdraws his hand from his face, he's surprised to find it wet.
The answering machine is going off; he can hear his voice asking whoever's called to leave a message.
"Chase. If you're under the impression that a one-week suspension is like a one-week vacation, you're horribly mistaken. You're not allowed to come in late on the first day. Get your ass in here now, or you're fired."
Small strands of comprehension are seeping into his mind, and the relief gushing inside him in response is enough to give him a high. Chase jumps off the bed and hastens to get ready, grabbing the first tie within reach and noting dimly that he's already twenty minutes late.
*