Safe Asylum

I hope this update is soon enough, because all of fourteen hours have passed since the last one... And thanks for the corrections. (Wilson's "I heart Chase" thing made me laugh.)

Oh, and Pon(s)-chan... What the hell are snicklebits? And... glompamagation? (FYI: It's hard to pull up pants when you aren't wearing any--"Pants are for the weak!") Eye, eye, eye... I what?!

Voila, chapter drei:


House couldn't sleep at all that night, so when he woke up after a half-hour nap and realized it was still only 7:45 am, he shoved himself out of bed and unwillingly went into work. If he had only slept in ten minutes longer, he may have missed the event that seemed to set the pace for the rest of the day.

Maybe it was karma, woken from its hibernation and eager to kick his ass, but as soon as House got past the front desk and headed for the elevators, his stomach did that new flipping trick it had learned ever since Chase showed up at his apartment as the Aussie himself appeared, bandaged but groomed.

House's cane reached the elevator button just before Chase's outstretched arm did. The diagnostician grunted smugly in greeting, trying not to look too closely at the surgeon. Chase merely nodded, a terse and nervous twitch, and swallowed.

The silence between them while they waited felt nothing like silence, as if a whole conversation, almost an argument, was taking place without their consent. Chase shifted his weight from one side to the other and winced; House couldn't help but notice the tiny movement, or the way Chase rubbed his swollen wrist as he stepped through the elevator doors, or the way he dropped his gaze when their eyes met for an instant.

He shouldn't have been worried—he was House—but it bothered him, and he wasn't even sure what 'it' was. Whatever had made him write Chase's so-called symptoms on the board last night didn't feel like the usual frustration of a puzzle unsolved, it felt… personal.

When Chase turned away to look politely at the elevator doors, House leaned back against the wall and openly stared the blonde down, his eyes once again roving his entire body.

The bandage on his wrist over the handprint-shaped bruise stuck slightly out of his cuff, and from the way Chase was holding his bag it was clear that it ached. He had wrapped his broken finger and put House's metal splint over it, and had taped a very white bandage over the gash on his forehead.

For a moment, House wondered if Chase had had stitches, and then he immediately dismissed the worry and continued his glance-over.

The white of a bandage peeked conspicuously from the collar of his shirt, just over his left shoulder, but the wound must have been on his stomach; Chase wasn't moving as if his shoulder was the injured part.

The elevator doors suddenly dinged open and Chase moved out of the way, letting House out. House suddenly realized that there was no reason for him to be on the elevator—the operating rooms were all on the first floor and so was the OR lounge—but passed him without comment, once again avoiding direct eye contact.

For the next two hours, everything seemed to return to normal in the diagnostics office. The underlings took assorted positions around the room, doing word searches and playing hangman on the whiteboard, waiting for another case to come up. Cuddy stopped by to take a picture of House beside a clock that read 9:00, making remarks about him coming in early, and Taub made the worst batch of coffee in history, but that was it.

Until, of course, 10:00 rolled by and Cameron appeared at the door, looking frustrated in her scrubs. She shoved into the room, silently ushering House into his own office and ignoring the rest of the team.

"He won't tell me what happened to him!" she said as soon as the door closed. "Chase, I mean—he came by my apartment yesterday, thankfully already bandaged, but the first thing he said was, 'Could you stitch up my forehead?'!"

"And… did you stitch up his forehead?"

"Obviously!" she hissed. "But I have no idea what happened—he broke his finger, his face is all scratched up, his eye looks puffy, he looks like he got in a fight and—"

"He probably did get into a fight, then," House shrugged, kicking his feet onto the desk.

"And you have no idea what he got himself into?" Cameron swayed, crossing her arms. "No idea? At all? You're the diagnostician with the Rubik's complex, you must have some—"

"For the last time, I don't know what happened." His eyes caught on the woman speaking to his team in the other room. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it looks as if the scary administratoress is trying to seduce members of my team."

Cameron rolled her eyes and stormed from the office, leaving House to get back to his job. Cuddy looked up as soon as he walked in, her face brightening.

"Case for you," she said, handing him a file. "Budding model has heart complications. We're testing her right now for anything common, but I figure you'll want an ogle even if she's completely healthy."

House nodded, tossing the file at Foreman. "I'll get right on that."

There was a pause throughout the room; Cuddy spoke first, eyes wide in disbelief. "You're dismissing a model? She's pretty, she's underage, she's one of those people you can be creepy towards without getting arrested!" She threw up her hands. "What, are you sick? Is Wilson dying?"

Kutner interrupted her before she could continue. "Well, Dr. Chase is—"

"Everyone knows Chase is injured, and no one knows why," Cuddy said, "but that's obviously boring to House because it's not diagnostically mysterious; Dr. Chase just got into a fight and is too embarrassed to tell his girlfriend he lost."

"Actually," Thirteen murmured, "I think he was going to say that Dr. Chase is—"

"A model, House." Cuddy shook her head and turned to leave. "Take the case if the tests come back negative, or I'm admitting you."

"House," Taub tried, "Dr. Chase really is—"

"He's in trouble, I get it!" House spat, smacking his cane onto the glass table. "Stop talking about it! I don't give a da—"

"House!" Foreman barked. The diagnostician glared at him, but was surprised when the neurologist pointed back toward House's personal office. "Chase is here to see you."

House had the strong urge to merely collapse into the nearest chair and completely ignore the surgeon, but he knew that Chase would just come into the room and awkwardly have the conversation in front of the team. Eventually the news would get to Cuddy, and then House would have Cameron in his face, yelling at him for keeping information about Chase from her.

House sighed. It was better just to deal with one angry, girlish person now than the ranks of them he'd have to battle later.

He turned toward the glass, unmoving, hoping that a simple glare would scare the blonde off. But his glare turned soft once he actually saw Chase's expression. He looked exhausted—not physically, but mentally, as if Cameron had just lectured him for hours on end—and guilty, as well as a little scared. As soon as House looked at him, Chase winced and took a slow half-step back, lips pursed.

Reluctantly, House opened the door to his office and stepped inside. "Yes?"

Chase opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced twitchily into the other room, where all four doctors were frankly eyeing him.

House followed his gaze and threw a smirk at Foreman before yanking the blinds shut. Without a glance at Chase, he sat at his desk and picked up the eight ball, toying with it in his hands. "Yes?" he said again, bringing Chase back. "You called?"

"Yeah…" Chase muttered, sitting in the chair across from House. He pushed the chair against the wall, more willing to face the blinds than the icy stare of his ex-boss. "Well… I think I should tell you why…" He paused, and after a second he grabbed the red ball from the desk and tossed it between his hands. "I think I should explain—"

"No way," House read from the eight ball.

Chase's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "But—"

"No," House said again, dropping the toy back onto the windowsill. "No need for explanations. I don't want any."

The intensivist stared at him, shaking his head slightly, the ball idle in his palm. "But I… I just appeared in your—"

House held up a hand to stop him, and then used the same hand to gesture toward the door. Chase set the ball back on the desk but hesitated, staring open-mouthed for a second before he gingerly eased himself from the chair.

When he was a foot from the door, House suddenly murmured, "Chase…"

The surgeon stopped, turned. Expression completely open, his eyes held both relief and anxiety.

But House couldn't remember what he was about to say. He closed his mouth and simply stared at Chase, blue eyes smoldering with that feeling that made him write on the whiteboard, that made his stomach twinge when he saw Chase had disappeared from the apartment, that made him unable to sleep last night.

Abruptly, the blinds at the glass rattled and Cameron appeared, forcing Chase to look up. House's gaze didn't stray from Chase, but he growled, "Cameron."

"Cuddy gave you a short shift this morning," she said quietly to Chase, realizing she interrupted something. "I said I'd give you a ride home… Don't you remember?" She reached out to his bandaged forehead, but Chase recoiled. "Amnesia? Are you okay? Nauseated? Cold?"

"No…" He took a deep breath in and then sighed a slow, "Cameron… You should get home without me. I feel fine—I need to get some things done here." When she tried to argue, his eyes narrowed. "They need to be done now, I'm sorry."

Cameron looked to House for aid, but House's eyes were still trained on Chase.

"Is your shift running late, or something?" She held out a hand to Chase, touching his arm gently. "Do they need you for another surgery?"

"I just have work to do," Chase said. He looked back at House and became caught in the blue stare again; his next argument against Cameron was completely forgotten.

"Do you want to leave by yourself?" she asked; House noticed Chase flinch at the words by yourself and filed it to the back of his mind. "I'll leave now, if you need more time…"

"Yeah," Chase said, swallowing. He turned to her, eyes lingering on House's. "Yeah, could you? I'll call you when I get—"

"I have the nightshift tonight, so I won't be home then anyway," she said, waving a hand as if it didn't matter. "Just leave a message on my cellphone, it's fine…" She stood there for a moment and awkwardly excused herself, nodding to House before she hurried out of the office.

But as soon as she was gone, Wilson appeared at the door, brow twitching with curiosity. "Want brunch, House?"

"Oh, you're just so kind," House faux-giggled, standing. He looked down at Chase when he passed him, but the surgeon turned away, dropping his gaze to the desk. "Sorry Wilson," House continued, limping into the hallway with a glance over his shoulder. "I need to watch people run arbitrary tests for six hours."

"I should tell Cuddy… She thinks you're sick," Wilson muttered, following him, also glancing back at Chase. "Why is he in your office?" he asked, in an undertone.

"Planning an engagement party," House shrugged. "Between you and your next wife. We're hoping her name is Henry, because that's what we wrote on the cake."

"Interesting, you're avoiding anything to do with Chase." Wilson stopped in front of the elevators and watched House keep walking. "House, don't you want brunch?"

House shooed him with a hand.

"Are you actually going to watch your team in Pathology?"

House stopped, opened his mouth, but saw Chase peering out through the glass at him and decided better of it. Waving his cane, he turned and kept limping toward Pathology. "If by Pathology, you mean that hot new stripclub on fourth and Chester…"

House had lied. Of course, that wasn't as shocking as some other things he'd done, but he had lied, and it wasn't even to save a patient. It wasn't for Wilson's benefit, it wasn't to keep himself—or anyone else, for that matter—out of jail, and it wasn't even to evade clinic duty. He had lied for the sheer purpose of avoiding Chase, and he knew it.

But even more importantly, it didn't work. After a few hours of sitting quietly in Wilson's empty office, House returned to his own office, only to find the Australian surgeon still inside.

House stopped before the door, peering in at the blonde sitting limply in a chair by the desk. Very quietly, House went into the room, trying to move without waking up Chase. The other doctor's presence wasn't unwanted; instead, House felt a strange twinge of compassion for him. Asleep, Chase seemed boyish and vulnerable, but finally content.

House sat at his desk, about to turn to the computer when he realized the keyboard might wake Chase. He paused, considering—if the doctor should be woken, if House should care about Chase's odd habits, if House should listen to Chase's explanation—and then grabbed a book off his desk and opened to the first page.

He got to page twelve when Wilson appeared at the door, slipping a pen into his pocket protector. House raised a finger to his lips and then gestured for him to come in, jerking his chin toward Chase.

"Why is he in here?" Wilson whispered, leaning against the windowsill. "And why is he sleeping?"

House shrugged, putting his book on a stack of files. "He was like that when I got here. Don't ask me wh—"

"Why was he at your apartment the night he got beaten up?" Wilson asked. He leveled his stare with House. "Don't lie and say he wasn't, because that's not going to convince me. He even has your finger splint on—I hope you didn't beat him up…"

The diagnostician ran a hand through his hair, then looked at Wilson again and gave a slight shrug. "He didn't wake up before I left and he was gone before I got home. He tried to explain, but I—"

"House, if you say that he tried to explain and you refused to listen…" When House nodded, he gave an aggravated sigh. "You're an idiot!" he hissed, still quiet. "I don't know why he's coming to you and not Cameron, but if he's willing to talk…"

"I don't know if I want to be his confidant," House said slowly. He picked up a pencil and absentmindedly twirled it between his fingers, until he realized that it had bite marks on it and froze. He held it up to the light, thinking, and then put it back on the desk with a glance at Chase.

"You have considered what might've happened," Wilson said hesitantly, "haven't you? If it wasn't just a fight, I mean. Opening up to one person—a close father-figure—and distancing himself from his loved ones… House, you know that's classic behavior of a rape victim."

"He wasn't raped," House sneered. "He's not weak, he's not female, he's not—"

"You also know that those factors don't discount the possibility." Thinking for a second, Wilson tilted his head to one side. "Didn't some girl a few years ago open up to you about being raped? I guess you have a father-figure thing—"

House shook his head. "She opened up to me because I seemed damaged, not because I'd make a great foster father."

"But she opened up to you," Wilson said, a little too loudly. Chase's eyelids seemed to flutter, but they stayed shut and his breathing stayed slow and even. "Maybe he's doing the same thing. Let him talk to you—"

"Let him talk to a counselor," House groaned, grabbing the book again. "Let him talk to Cameron—she's desperate for that anyway—or even Cuddy, I don't care. He should know I'm not good with—"

"You are good with it," Wilson contradicted. "You changed that girl's mind; she got an abortion in the end, didn't she? And she talked to the police and opened up to others, because of you."

"Because I'm such a saint," House murmured, shaking his head. He flipped open the book, trying to end the conversation. "He wasn't raped, so leave it."

"How do you know that? Did he tell you what did happen?"

"He didn't," House admitted, sighing. "But he doesn't… seem like a rape victim." He held up a hand when Wilson's expression turned sour. "I don't mean by gender or musculature; people who have been raped are secluded, not just evasive of overly-anxious Camerons, and their eyes are different. Their eyes are… empty, hollow."

Wilson stared at Chase for a moment, exasperated, and let out a breath. "Well… I have work I should be doing."

"Jimmy, Boy Wonder Oncologist." House pretended to wipe a nostalgic tear from his cheek. "Always helping those baldies…"

"Yeah, yeah… Seriously though. House, you should at least try to listen, if he tries to talk again. I'll see you later."

After Wilson left, House glanced at Chase to see if they had been too loud; the surgeon was still asleep.

House went back to his book, but he could only read a few paragraphs before his mind wandered, his eyes blind to the text in front of him. He began to wonder what Chase would've told him, if he had allowed the blonde to explain himself. As much as House had protested Wilson's theory, rape was a probable diagnosis to Chase's mysterious wounds.

But what would Chase have said? Well, I was going to a bar and just happened to be picked up by two guys who thought my hair was pretty, and then we ended up in an alleyway with our pants down, and things just escalated from there? Or would he stumble over his words and only manage a very quick, I was raped before he broke down, stuttering and crying?

House's head jerked up as Chase shifted in his chair. The surgeon's eyes were blinking open, squinting against the light, as his limbs stretched to relieve the ache of sleeping in a chair.

House diverted his eyes back to the pages of his book before Chase could see him staring. But then he felt Chase's eyes on him anyway, and he looked up.

"Why are you still here?" Chase grumbled, his voice hoarse with sleep.

"This is my office," House answered easily. "Why are you still here?"

Chase didn't reply. He grabbed the little square clock off the desk and checked the time. "It's already 3:20?"

"Try 4:15." House snatched the clock back and tried not to let out a chuckle. "Didn't they teach you how to read clocks in the UK?"

"Australia," Chase corrected half-heartedly. "I guess not. Don't you have a case to be working on?"

House shrugged, pretending to be interested in his book. "My peeps are running tests for Cuddymeister to see if a hot chick has no heart. But they're wasting their time; the tests will declare her healthy."

"You have to stay here until they're done?"

House glanced at the clock. "If they're still testing past midnight, I'm leaving anyway. To hell with budding models and their heart complications, I need my own beauty sleep."

"Can I hang out here, then?"

House's head snapped up—he couldn't have heard that right. "What?"

A slight flush ran across Chase's face, but he repeated, "Can I hang out in here?"

"With me?"

Chase nodded.

House exhaled in some mix of sighing and laughing. "Doing what?"

Biting the inside of his lip, Chase shrugged. "Do you have any magazines?"

"You know where they are better than I do…"

The surgeon's face brightened, taking this as the affirmation he was looking for. He went into the other office and returned with a few medical journals, stopping abruptly in the doorway. He hadn't realized until then that House was watching him wander around the office.

The diagnostician hadn't realized it himself until Chase froze, at which time House jerked his eyes back to his book. Chase gave the tiniest quirk of a smile and sat down, flipping to an article about ancient herbal medicine.

Four hours and seven journals later, House snapped his own book shut and briskly stood, limping toward the door. Chase jumped at the sudden movement, startled, but immediately followed House into the hallway.

"Where are you going?" he wondered, uneasily shifting his weight.

"Dinner," House rumbled. He stopped after a few steps and turned back to the Australian. Analyzing the guarded look on Chase's face, House waved his cane and nodded. "And yes, you may tag along."


Chapter four is my favorite chapter, with all its awkward-romantic-tension-ness, but I'm making you guys wait a little before I post it. I'll put it up by Thursday, heh heh. Expect obscure coffee-making and even more obscure face-touching! Whoop!