House sat in the passenger seat of Wilson's car, gingerly rubbing his leg, before finally giving into temptation and popping another Vicodin. As Wilson glanced at him sidelong, House shot him a defiant look.
"That's the third in 45 minutes House. We've been driving for hours. You have no idea where he could be. Don't you think we should get back?" Wilson tried.
"No." House responded, then after a brief pause, he added, "Did you ever see that movie Cast Away, Tom Hanks stranded on a desert island?" Wilson blinked in confusion, then answered hesitantly, "No."
"It had a Wilson in it," House elaborated. Wilson gritted his teeth, sure that he wasn't going to like where this was going. "Wilson was a volley ball. He didn't speak much." House paused. "You could learn a lot from Wilson."
Wilson sighed, giving up on any chance of getting House to listen to the voice of reason. They had indeed been driving for hours, so that now it was five o'clock in the evening, well and truly dark, with snow piling up against walls. They had returned to Chase's apartment twice, to no avail, and to House's too, with the same result. He hadn't turned up at the hospital, either, not at PPTH or at Princeton General, either as a doctor or as a patient.
Wilson was worried about House. He didn't know why he was getting so emotionally involved; it simply wasn't like him, and it certainly wasn't like him to show it so overtly. Though Wilson was concerned about Chase, too, he couldn't believe that the younger man was simply wondering around outside in this. There must be someone that he knew, somewhere, who had taken him in for the night.
Eventually Wilson broke the silence. "I can't take any more time off work, House". He had made an unconvincing phone call to Cuddy earlier in the morning, when it became apparent that he was supposed to be House's chauffer for the day, informing her that he had the flu. Cuddy had sounded half suspicious, given the sufferers so far, and half concerned that she was going to have to shut the hospital down owing to the apparent flu epidemic.
"All the more reason not to give up now, then" House mumbled. If Wilson hadn't been concentrating on controlling the car through the icy, slippery roads, he would have stared at House in amazement. He had never realised the sense of… whatever it was that House felt towards Chase, was so strong. Sighing resignedly, he turned down a side street he didn't think they'd tried yet, and switched on the radio.
Chase awoke suddenly, bolting forwards, before realising that he had no where to go. At the sound of a shouting voice, Chase looked around and realised what had awoken him. Collected on the pavement were a group of hooded youths, drinking beer and flashing cigarettes as they boisterously strove to outdo each other doing wheelies on bikes. Chase huddled further into the doorway, wanting to avoid confrontation. He had a bad feeling about this.
Over the next half hour or so, Chase sat pulled back into the doorway, stifling the chattering of his teeth and the increasing urge to cough, wishing that he had had the sense to get out of here before night fell. Though earlier, it hadn't seemed to matter where he went, or what he did, suddenly, Chase found that he had begun to care about his safety again. He had really picked a time for it, he contemplated almost idly as one of the youths picked up a stone from the side of the road and threw it up at the building. All the windows had long been broken, quite possibly in this very same way, Chase realised, but now the youths turned there competition towards seeing who could throw a rock highest. Chase felt a flare of anger. They had yet to show any real malice, but this kind of petty, mindless crime was almost as bad to his mind. It was just a waste.
As one of the rocks fell, hitting a particularly brawny boy (it wasn't really right to call him that, that suggested innocence) on the forehead, the mood changed. Squaring up, the youth flicked his cigarette aside (as it landed a metre or two away from Chase, he realised that it was no normal cigarette), he walked up to another yob, and shoved him roughly from behind. Though Chase couldn't hear the words exchanged, he could see that the party just got nasty. As the two broke into a scuffle, the others looked nervously on, until the first youth pulled something out with a flash, and Chase realised it was a knife. Suddenly, all the banter stopped. The fighting pair pulled apart from each other, and Chase could see from the look in the eye of the armed one that this wasn't something he'd ever really done before, at least not with any more intent than to scare someone. But now he was surrounded by a group of his "friends", aware that he was being judged.
"Hey man, back off, it was just a stupid game," one of the surrounding youths said. Chase sat helplessly looking on, still unwilling to call any attention to himself, and aware that there as probably very little he could do anyway. But as he sat, as motionless as possible, Chase felt a cough rise within his throat that he was too late to stop, and his attempt only made it worse. He let out a strangled choke, followed by a whole bout, and suddenly, all the attention of the group was focused on him. Hysteria rose within Chase, brought on by panic, and he almost felt an urge to laugh again. He was turning into a living stereotype, a cartoonist's creation. A bubbling laugh rose within him, coming out somewhere half between a cough and a giggle, and Chase found himself muttering to himself "It must be a dream, it has to be a dream!" His eyes flickering over the now menacingly approaching youths, Chase bit back his mirth, suddenly finding that in an instant, the feeling had been replaced by the cold weight of fear in his gut.
"What ya laughing at? You fucking crazy or something?" the lead youth, who was now flicking the knife in and out of it's casing, asked vehemently. Chase lowered his eyes, drawing his knees in protectively, realising that any avenue of escape had been cut off by the circling youths. Considering they didn't seem to have much between the ears, Chase wondered how they had come together so strategically. He thought with trepidation that it was probably practice.
"I asked you a fucking question," the kid repeated, his voice slowly measured. Chase glanced around the circle, as if hoping to see a get out clause, then opened his mouth and whispered, "I'm not laughing. I'm not doing anything." Chase was aware that this probably wasn't the right thing to say, but he had a feeling that whatever he said would be wrong. These guys were just looking for an excuse for trouble, and they had found one, albeit a pretty rubbish one.
"Don't. fucking. Lie." Spat the kid, and then his foot shot out, and he delivered a vicious kick to Chase's side, the force of which caused his knees to flop sideways, leaving his mid section exposed. Chase realised with inexplicable clarity that he had just become the new focus of attention for the angered youth, hyped up on alcohol and dope. Whilst the youth hadn't really wanted to attack a member of his own group, Chase was fair game, and an opportunity for the brute to prove that he could hold his own. Chase tried to tune out of the world around him as the second kick came, and then the third, but it didn't work. As always, all he could feel was the pain.
A/N: sorry that this is a rather short chapter, but I felt that this was the best place to cut it off. Nice and cruel. Plus it's come a little earlier than usual. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed!