Chase sighed, as the bed bounced a little.
House was trying not to wake him, he knew...
Chase rolled over, gently putting his hand out until it reached House's elbow.
He scooted closer, resting his arm across House's chest, head on the older doctor's shoulder.
House had been cutting back on the drinks, and the younger doctor knew it was probably for Chase's benefit, but it was making it harder and harder for him to get to sleep.
The increasing pain, coupled with the insomnia he had said he had anyway, make it almost impossible for him to drift off, and even when he did, he woke up every time his leg twinged worse than the baseline pain.
Chase had found one solution to help with the falling asleep, but it didn't keep House from waking up afterwards.
"Dammit," came, muttered softly by the older doctor.
Chase frowned, spreading his fingers lightly over House's face.
House was panting, grimacing, clenching...
Chase bit his lower lip.
"Tomorrow."
The face beneath his hand shook side-to-side.
"House. This isn't good. You need to talk to Wilson."
"Wilson can barely breathe."
"I know. But, House... this is too much. You said it yourself, last night."
House sighed, sliding his arm around Chase's waist.
"Just... I don't want to think about it."
"Neither of us do. But it's happening."
House sighed heavily, then rolled on top of Chase.
Chase pushed him off, patiently.
"No. We're going to talk about this, House. No matter how nice that feels."
House laughed shortly.
Chase sighed, scooting closer again.
"I'm not going to talk to Wilson about it."
"Why not? And don't tell me it's because he's sick."
House sighed.
"Because every time I talk to Wilson, he tells me it's in my head, or there's no change on the MRI, or... he never wants to face it."
Chase nodded, rubbing his hand over House's chest, "you wanna see a pain specialist, instead?"
A pause.
"I..."
"You don't want to face it. Too bad. Wilson or a pain specialist."
House sighed.
"Wilson."
Chase shrugged.
"Ok then. And by the way, there's no way it's psychological."
He felt House turn slightly.
"How do you know?"
"Your leg gets a little bit swollen when it's bad. The scar gets puffy and hot. It's probably not enough to see, but... I can definitely tell."
He heard House swallow, and knew he had said the right thing.
House would never admit it, but he was afraid of his brain doing things he didn't control—like conversion disorders.
"Are you sure *cough* it's not just stress?" asked Wilson, voice hoarse.
"I'm not under any stress."
"Huh?"
"Wilson..."
"It's not in his head, Wilson."
Wilson blinked at Chase.
House turned around, gripping Chase's hand on the way out, tugging him out after him.
"House..." started Chase, turning around so he wasn't walking backwards, "he's just worried--"
"He's just not facing it."
Chase sighed.
"That's probably true. But either go back there and make him face it, or make an appointment with a pain specialist."
House sighed, tugging him over to the row of chairs along the wall.
Chase sat down to House's left, leaning close.
"House."
"Just... I don't...."
House's voice was upset.
Chase sighed, feeling his way down House's arm to the hand, then gripping it reassuringly.
"You're scared of what might happen. Don't be. It's nowhere near that. Even if it is, there are other solutions."
"What?"
"I was reading... it's possible to sever the nerves going to one particular place. There's about a fifty percent chance of a lingering neuropathy, and a thirty percent chance that there would be numbness or motor problems below the site, but the muscle pain would be gone. They usually only do it for severe chronic pain, which I don't think this counts as yet, but if it gets close to what's scaring you, it would be an option."
"Where did you read that?"
"Podcast. Technically not reading, but whatever."
House sighed, leaning into Chase's shoulder.
That made it... that made it just a little bit easier to face.
"Ok."
Chase smiled.
"Good."
"It's not showing on the scans because it's not degeneration, or even nerve regrowth. There's just not enough muscle here to support your weight without damage. The constant damage and healing can only go on for so long before the pain starts getting worse.
"I know this is hard to hear, but you need to use a wheelchair for a while, until the muscles have a chance to really recover. Then you'll be on crutches for a while, slowly increasing the amount of weight you're bearing on that limb.
"Eventually you'll probably be able to get away with a single forearm crutch, but I'm afraid the cane is out. The good news is the pain will be cut almost immediately, as soon as you stop using the cane."
Chase, standing next to the exam table as the woman talked, gripped House's hand.
House squeezed back, upset.
"How long for each part?" asked Chase. House had shut down at the beginning of the explanation.
"That's not really my area, I'm afraid. I can tell you that it depends on how much you follow the instructions, as well as how well your body heals. I'm going to refer you to a physical therapist. He's very good, and he specializes in chronic injuries."
Chase nodded.
The woman tried to hand the referral to House, who had closed his eyes and stopped responding, then touched Chase on the shoulder.
Chase opened his palm; she placed the slip of paper in his hand.
He nodded.
"Well, any other questions?"
Chase shook his head, House was silent.
She turned to go.
"Can you give me something that doesn't have acetaminophen in it."
"It doesn't make sense to give you a stronger narcotic, the pain is going to—"
"Same dosage. Just without the acetaminophen."
"Without acetaminophen the temptation to overdose is much stronger, and given what I've heard...."
"I'm not looking to get high. I'm looking to still have a liver by the time I'm done with all the PT."
The woman was silent for a while, then Chase heard her sigh.
"I shouldn't have let what I've heard cloud a medical decision. You're right, House. I'm sorry."
Chase felt House shrug, and smiled slightly to himself.
House probably wouldn't have trusted himself with non-acetaminophen-containing painkillers a year ago.
"Alright. Here's the script. I'm going to get a wheelchair."
House got off the table; Chase heard him stumble a little bit.
The younger doctor didn't move to catch him.
He sighed, righting himself.
The door opened, and Chase caught the sound of a familiar voice explaining his insurance coverage to the receptionist.
He froze.
The door shut.
His hand, still loosely gripping House's, received a quick, awkward squeeze.
He took a deep breath, and nodded.
"House, what happened?" asked Cameron, as he and Chase entered the differential room, Chase's hand on the back of the wheelchair.
"Tore my hamstring running the hundred-meter dash."
Chase snorted.
"House…" said Cameron, voice sounding like a child being told they couldn't have any candy, "what happened?"
"The thigh isn't strong enough to bear my weight without damaging the muscle. It just got magnified over time," he admitted, grudgingly. Better they knew the fairly benign truth than have them bugging him because they were worried it was something more serious.
"You in pain?" asked Foreman's voice.
"Given the completely obvious straight answer to that question, I'm gonna assume you meant to ask whether my judgment is going to be compromised. It isn't."
"You *cough* saw a pain *cough* specialist?" asked Wilson, swallowing.
House frowned, watching the oxygen saturation wavering on Wilson's status monitor.
"Yeah," he said, distractedly, "Marian Chang."
Wilson frowned, watching House watch the monitor.
"Why the look?" he asked, then started coughing.
"Because you should be getting better by now."
Wilson sighed, which provoked another bout of coughing.
"Not really. It turned out to be viral pneumonia."
House groaned.
"Better you than me…" he muttered, shaking his head.
Wilson smirked tiredly.
House sighed, watching him.
"Get better," he ordered, then turned the wheelchair around and pushed himself out of the room.
Wilson laughed quietly to himself, then started coughing again.
Chase yawned, leaning against House on the couch, as lethal weapon four played for the eightieth time, the 'borrowed' heating blanket from the hospital draped over top of him, Wilson's laugh sounding from the easy chair.
House's hand wedged itself down in-between his side and the couch, checking Chase's temperature.
He was fine, still. The cold air of the apartment and the heating blanket he was under were balancing out.
Chase yawned again, which earned him an arm over his shoulder, as he snuggled down, head resting in the corner of House's hip.
He felt himself drifting off, and didn't fight it.
A warm hand was rubbing back and forth over his arm as he slipped into sleep.
He jumped, as a loud crash sounded through the apartment.
"What? What happened?" asked Chase, sitting bolt upright.
"House, are you ok?" asked Wilson's voice, sounding worried.
Chase stood.
"What happened?"
"I think his leg gave out."
Chase worked his way over to where Wilson's voice was coming from, until he could hear the sound of House's slightly labored breathing.
He accidently ran into Wilson's side, and stopped.
"Sorry."
"Not a problem," said Wilson, reaching up and guiding Chase's hand down to House's shoulder.
"House?" asked Chase, frowning. House was warm beneath his hand, and his shirt was damp.
And he wasn't answering.
"House, come on. Say something."
"Something," House grunted.
Chase sighed, shaking his head, and he and Wilson helped House stand.
"Are you ok? You're shaking?"
Movement.
"House…" said Chase, tiredly.
"Kinda."
Chase bit his lip, then let go as House started to move.
If he tried to help House walk, he would probably end up running one or both of them into the coffee table.
"I know what you're gonna say," said House, without prompting. Chase guessed Wilson had been about to say something, "but I'd rather fall than use a wheelchair in my own home. Ok?"
"Not ok. The point isn't to keep you from falling in public; it's to give your muscles a break."
"Dammit, Wilson! Enough's enough, alright? Just leave it alone!"
"What?" started Wilson, "why are you so upset?"
"You don't wanna feel like it's dictating your life," said Chase, suddenly.
Wilson fell silent.
"You're rejecting as much change as you can. You're just trying to retain as much normalcy as you can. Too bad. You'll get back to it, but right now, you gotta run into chairs."
There was a long silence, while Wilson tried to figure out what the hell Chase was talking about, and House considered Chase's admonishment.
House sighed, finally.
"Yeah, fine."
Chase smiled, as he heard the familiar knock on the door.
He stood, walking over to answer it.
"Hi guys," he said, grinning, "I just need to get my shoes on."
"How did you know it was us?" asked Foreman's voice.
Chase grinned.
"I'm psychic."
"Uh-huh," said Cameron, and Chase could hear the smile in her voice as he sat down, locating the smaller, less fancy sneakers set neatly together next to the pile by the door and pulling them on his feet.
"House," called Chase, "I'm going!"
"Don't get too drunk to drive!" came back from the direction of the kitchen.
Chase laughed, shaking his head, and followed Foreman and Cameron's footsteps down the stairs, extending his stick as he went.
"So," started Foreman, as they sat at the bar, "how is he?"
"How is who?" asked Chase, taking a sip of his beer.
"House. In bed."
Chase spluttered.
"What?!"
Cameron laughed.
Chase was silent for a while.
"He's… not like you would expect. He's not rough. He's not… I don't know, selfish. I think… I think he just likes being that close with someone he is close to personally."
Silence, other than the noise of the bar.
"Well, that was… less amusing than I was guessing it would be," said Foreman, awkwardly.
Chase snorted, slightly miffed at their reaction.
"How's Foreman?"
Cameron choked.
Foreman swallowed, loudly.
"Uhh…" said Cameron.
Chase smirked, "House now officially owes me fifty bucks."
Foreman groaned.
Chase curled up against House on the couch, cold.
"I don't like winter," he said, frowning.
House laughed.
"Move back to Australia."
Chase rolled his eyes.
House put an arm around the younger doctor's shoulders, yawning.
"I don't like it either," he admitted, "makes my leg hurt more."
Chase sighed.
"Yeah."
They sat there for a while, in companionable silence.
"You talk to your dad?"
Chase shook his head.
"No. I don't know what to say. Every time I hear his voice, I feel all the anger and stuff rising up. I feel like I'm gonna explode."
"You… wanna talk about it?" asked House, sounding apprehensive.
"No… I just… I wish I could get past it."
House was silent for a while.
"Maybe he doesn't deserve for you to get past it."
Chase raised his head.
"What?"
House hesitated, then sighed.
"He hurt you. He's never apologized, just said he didn't mean it. Too bad for him, he caused it."
Chase swallowed.
"You don't like your dad. You don't… I mean you just don't get along with him. I really do love my dad, I just…."
"I loved my dad," interrupted House, "I loved him for years. But there's only so much a person can forgive."
Chase frowned.
"What?"
"There's only so much a person can forgive," repeated House, calmly.
Chase was silent.
He knew House would come out with it if he wanted to. That he could have just been making a point, and trusting Chase to not make him say more than he felt comfortable saying.
House said nothing further.
Chase didn't push.