Warning(s): Violence, language, sexual assault
Chapter 10
Tim Washington waited for Dr. House to pick up his phone. For a guy who wanted to be kept informed he was very difficult to get a hold of. Eventually the ringing stopped as the other end of the line was picked up.
"This is House."
The voice sounded a little strange but Washington chalked that up to a poor connection. "Doctor House, this is Mr. Washington, Doctor Chase's attorn-"
"No kidding you don't say," House interrupted.
Washington rubbed his forehead wondering what House was playing at this time. "Look Doctor Chase is-"
"I'm sorry to interrupt but it's more than likely that I don't care and you're wasting your breath. See I'm actually away from my office right now, so you can leave a message, just don't expect a response. If it's really important you can call my gopher, Wilson." A short beep followed.
Washington raised his eyes to the overcast sky and shook his head. This man was unbelievable. "I'm calling Wilson." He said into the phone. He snapped his phone closed then opened it again to call the oncologist House had introduced to him. He was a far more bearable person than House and much of the correspondence went through him since he actually checked his messages.
"Doctor Wilson, Oncology," came the introduction after only a ring and a half.
"Doctor Wilson this is Chase's attorney, Mr. Washington."
"Oh, hi!" The voice on the other side perked up. "Any good news." Washington's sigh was answer enough. "I'll take that as a no."
The caramel skinned man leaned against the hood of his car, checking first to make sure that no dirt would rub onto his suit. "I just left the hospital, Chase is stable but he left me a message that I can't understand."
"Wait! Stable? What happened to him?"
"Oh, sorry." Wilson and the others didn't know about this latest development. "He was injured in a fight with his cellmate. He sustained a pretty severe concussion but they expect him to make a full recovery. And his cellmate too." He spoke quickly to assure Dr. Wilson. He wished he knew more of the medical terms Chase's physician had used but he'd never been good with doc-speak. It was why he'd given up on personal injury cases and gone to criminal ones.
"What's the name of his doctor?"
"Millbury." Washington assumed Wilson would call for the details. "Apparently Chase wrote me a message when he was still conscious. The hand writings a little shaky, so I'm not sure if I'm reading this right."
"What does it say?"
Washington mouthed the word to himself a few times trying to get the cadence to sound like something familiar. He shrugged. "Trickogram? Triclogram?"
"Trichogram," Wilson interrupted the other man's third erroneous attempt.
"That could be it. And below it says "chem." Do you know what it is?"
Wilson sat back in his chair abandoning his charts for a problem that he hoped would have a better outcome than that of many of his patients. "A trichogram is a hair analysis."
"Do you know why he'd want one?"
Wilson was silent for a few seconds. His free hand curled into a loose fist to rest against his chin. His thumb rubbed lightly back and forth over his bottom lip as he tried to understand what Chase was trying to say. "The evidence that put him in jail, they were hairs right?"
"Yes, blond ones found on the victim's clothing. I sent Doctor House a copy of the DNA comparison. It matched."
Wilson was quiet again. "I've got to find House. I'll call you back." The line went dead.
Washington sighed. He unlocked his Mercedes Benz and settled into the driver's seat. After one glance up at St. Francis hospital he started the car's engine, the soothing whine dropping into a low rumble that exuded to anyone listening that the technology of this engine was worth the one hundred and fifty grand paid for it. He drove away heading back to Princeton and waiting patiently for the return call from Wilson that would tell him why Chase wanted his hair examined.
H
Wilson burst into the MRI control room.
"Miss me already?" House asked, not taking his eyes from patient that was currently dying from unknown causes. At the controls sat Cameron and standing off to the side was Foreman.
Wilson ignored House question and asked his own. "Would MMH show up in a hair chemical analysis?"
All three heads turned to stare at the head of oncology.
"Somebody else has been poisoned?" Foreman asked glancing at House and wondering if those people were still out there trying to kill him.
"No. Chase…" Actually he didn't want to distract them with what had happened to Chase. He'd tell them after they figured this out. "Would it show up?"
House was silently giving Wilson a strange look so Cameron answered. "It's possible. And the poison did affect his liver. Some studies have shown that caffeine levels in hair rise slightly when the liver is failing."
"The morphology would also change. Dystrophic hair looks different," Foreman added.
"You forgot colour." House glanced at his employees. "The B -six we gave him to counter the methylhydrazine caused hyper-pigmentation of his hair. I won two hundred dollars in a bet that Chase dyed his hair."
Cameron looked up at her boss. "Chase doesn't dye his hair,"
"I guess you would know. But Cortez in admitting doesn't."
"Why did you want to know about MMH?" Foreman asked Wilson.
"Because if it shows up in the hair found on the two people Chase was accused of killing it would prove that the hair was planted after the fact," House explained for the benefit of those who hadn't caught up yet. "Clever."
"You can say that to Chase when he gets out. It was his idea." Wilson didn't wait around. He exited almost as quickly as he'd come in. Cameron and Foreman glanced at each other.
"You two finish this. Page me if you find something interesting." House followed the path Wilson had taken and caught up with him. "So he finally decided to come out of hiding," House commented as he walked next to Wilson.
Suddenly Wilson was no longer next to him. He'd stopped walking. "He's in a hospital, unconscious with a severe concussion," Wilson finally divulged whilst glaring at his friend. When House opened his mouth to say something Wilson quickly spoke first. "I don't want to hear it. I have to call Washington." He continued to the elevator. House followed.
Wilson had to wait several seconds for an elevator giving House ample time to catch up with him. The taller man stood next to him, staring forward. When the doors open revealing the empty elevator car they both embarked. Wilson pressed for the third floor.
"I was just going to say," House began when the lift started moving, "that we need to get a hair sample from Chase now and one from before he was poisoned."
Wilson's eyes slid over to him. "We?"
"Yes, we," House said tersely not wanting to have to explain himself. He was actually feeling pretty, well, not-so-smart. Chase had figured out that that evidence used to incarcerate him might also be able to set him free. That seemed like more of a House-type of epiphany.
"Most people don't keep hair around from three months ago." Wilson avoided the touchy subject of House's participation in the Free-Chase effort and instead focussed on the problem. They both stepped out when the doors opened to the third floor.
"Almost two months he's been in Trenton. Before that he was recovering from the poison. We find out what gym he belongs to, find his locker, find his comb. There's no way he was going to the gym to torture himself on the treadmill the way he usually does when he was feeling like crap."
"How do you know he goes to a gym?" Wilson asked.
House huffed in derision. "He can't not go to the gym and look like that. Have you seen those legs?" House practically yelled the last sentence.
Wilson was about to ask him if there was a history of Turret's in the family when he noticed Cuddy approaching. She was wearing a skirt and her legs did look quite nice even if they hadn't been talking about her. "I swear we weren't talking about you," House said to the hospital administrator.
"House, why is Chase still being paid? I told you to file the papers putting him on leave."
"Oh, yeah! The papers. Well you see-"
The curly-haired brunette raised a hand stalling his explanation. "I don't want to hear it! Fill out the forms and give them to accounting! And get your patient out of the MRI. How many scans does she need?" She walked between them and away not believing for a solitary moment that all four MRI's the woman had were necessary. Those scans weren't free.
H
"Tabitha Grant?"
The woman looked to the office door where the tall man stood. "Yes," she responded cautiously.
"I'm detective Drew Freedman." He flashed his gold shield. "I have a warrant to see a will."
H
Robert Chase contemplated the consequences of his actions. He'd spent several days in the hospital for observation then he was brought back to the max security prison and he'd spent a two weeks in 1-left. 'The hole' as most inmates refer to it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been expecting. He had a small room to himself, his meals were delivered to him and most importantly he was safe. Release from 1-left into the general population was for most something to look forward to, a return of the few freedoms they had. For Chase it meant going back to where this had begun.
Yarrow had recovered from his injury and been brought back to his cell with only a day-long stay in 1-left. He hadn't pressed charges, not that Chase thought he'd really done anything wrong. He'd defended himself. Still, no charges meant Yarrow planned to take his own revenge.
A corrections officer walked Chase to the main doors of 4-Wing. As soon as he walked in all heads turned to him. Taking care to avoid looking directly at the many eyes on him Chase took the stairs to the second level hoping to see Montrose. His path was blocked by two inmates, one black one white. Chase recognized them as part of Yarrow's gang and knew that they were his escorts. He cast a look to Montrose's cell and wondered briefly where the man was. With his escorts Chase climbed the stairs to the third level. There seemed to be crowd of people in front of his cell. He could list the name of all them and their roles in Yarrows criminal army. He'd picked up quite a bit of information from his tailing of Yarrow, probably more than Yarrow wanted him to know. None of that was going to help him now.
The group cleared as Chase stood before the cell. Inside Yarrow sat on the lower bunk smirking at him. He stood and made a vague gesture to somebody outside the cell to Chase's right. "This old place just isn't the same without your pretty face," Yarrow said with a shake of his head. Murmurs of agreement floated through the air. "I thought I'd welcome you back in a special way." A snap of his fingers and Chase's arms were suddenly grabbed and held behind him. "Don't struggle. We wouldn't want a repeat of last time would we? I still have a memento of that encounter." Yarrow raised the front of his shirt to show the scar left by the homemade knife.
"You heal fast for a man your age," Chase jibed.
Yarrow glared and with slight motion of his head, Vin, the man behind him, and Yarrow's most trusted henchman, forced the younger man into the cell. When he was within reach Yarrow ran a hand down Chase's side, his eyes half closed in an anticipatory lust. Montrose had tried to talk to him, to talk him out of what he planned to do. He'd offered what Yarrow had initially wanted but the scheming convict had figured out a way to get what he wanted and do what he wanted. Montrose had changed his will. That little bit of foresight made Montrose expendable and Chase even more vulnerable. Montrose probably thought he was doing the opposite. Poor bastard.
"I think Vin and I can get it right this time," said Yarrow, his thumb stroking across he handsome man's jaw.
Chase spit in his face.
In return Yarrow punched him twice, face then stomach. Only the large man behind him kept Chase from toppling over. While Chase tried to recover from the blows Yarrow walked past. He put the sheet across the cell bars.
H
It'd taken three weeks to get the results from the hair analysis back. In order to maintain the chain of custody Washington had filed a motion through the courts for more tests. With the suspicion of evidence tampering the judge had ordered that another set of detectives to go through Chase's locker at his gym to get his comb.
There were three hairs in total "found" on the victims. With the DNA testing done on one, two were left for comparison. They'd also taken hair from Chase while he was in the hospital giving three sets for comparison. The tests were a little time consuming, since they had to be done very carefully. What caused the delay though was the backlog in the labs. This wasn't like television there was one lab dedicated to each case or each set of detectives. They all had to share and the hair comparison was given low priority. Wilson and Washington barely managed to keep House from making harassing phone calls in an attempt to bully the technicians into getting the job done faster.
Once she heard about what was going on Cuddy offered to get the tests done at PPTH. Being a teaching hospital they had access to numerous testing apparatus. A hair test wasn't that complicated. Washington however knew it was better to wait. It may mean that Chase was in prison for longer than necessary but it also meant that the findings, should they come out in their favour, which everyone was sure would happen, could not be contested. PPTH as Chase's workplace was not impartial.
So they waited a grand total of twenty-three days for the results to come back. When they did Judge Callister had no choice but to dismiss the charges. The detectives originally on the case, Morrison and Freedman were raked over the coals by the DA, their chief in the station and the Internal Affairs Bureau. They both professed their innocence and it fell on deaf ears. Now they knew how Chase felt. Morrison was in shock that his career as a detective, his short career, was going to have a huge ugly mark on it. Freedman just raged. He went to ADA Spencer, the prosecutor, and urged the man to keep their suspect in jail for just a little longer so that he could fix this mess. Spencer, who'd been looking forward to giving some closure to the now angry and tired Islington family reluctantly agreed.
"It's just a filing error," he said to himself as he "lost" the release form in a stack of papers.
H
"Where the hell is he?" House yelled into the phone. On the other side of the glass wall Cameron and Foreman watched as House tore into Washington. It'd been five days since the evidence exonerating Chase came back from the lab and the case dismissed.
"File a writ of habeus corpus or something and get him out!" The phone slammed down and House crashed into this chair. He drew his hands down his face, looking up at the ceiling and letting his vision blur as his bottom eyelids were pulled down for a short second. This nightmare should have been over. Chase was supposed to be out and okay. God, three months in a maximum security prison with a face like Chase's was…was cruel and inhuman. Wasn't there something against that in the Charter of Rights? Leaving him in there when he was innocent and they knew it, wasn't only a gross miscarriage of justice –like the whole process that got him in there in the first place –but a big, fat, juicy, sue-able mistake. When Chase did get out House would get Washington to file suit for wrongful arrest. The city would settle and Chase's money problems, wherever they stemmed from, would be taken care of.
First, though, Chase needed to get out.
"Would you please take him somewhere?" Foreman demanded more than asked of the oncologist next door. "He's going nuts, or more nuts than usual."
Wilson was standing by the glass window to his balcony looking out at the sky counting the hours until Chase was free again. Alive and whole he hoped.
"I've already tried to talk to him, tried to take him to a bar, tried food."
"Have you tried a hooker?"
Wilson looked at Foreman trying to determine if the neurologist was serious. The wide eyes and expression said that yes, he was. And Wilson sighed. "I tried a hooker too. Nothing works. He's inconsolable." Wilson felt that House was closed off, to him, his best and pretty much only friend. Why wasn't he worthy enough of House's true emotions? How come all he got was the façade of infuriating indifference or, more recently, extreme irritation?
"So, wait. For the first time that I can recall House is feeling bad about something?" Foreman asked in disbelief. "Feeling bad about Chase being in jail? He's been there for three months. House only stopped making jokes two days ago."
"He's complicated," Wilson shrugged.
"That's not an excuse! Complicated is for tortured heroes of romance novels!"
"You read romance novels?"
"House is just a jerk! There's nothing complicated about that."
"He feels guilty about Chase's incarceration," Wilson huffed. "There was an email. A threat to him…and to Chase."
Foreman was going to say something but he paused, his mouth hanging open. He hadn't heard anything about a letter.
"I gave it to the cops a few weeks ago. They traced the IP address to Trenton Prison. They couldn't identify the specific sender." Wilson moved away from the window to his desk. "There are too many cons and not enough security. We did find out about somebody in the prison though. Y'know the guy who shot House?"
"He's there?" Foreman couldn't believe this. First House is shot. Then Chase drinks the poison meant for House (the assailants of that episode were still free). Then Chase is framed for a crime he didn't commit in what might have been an attempt to hurt House. It would have been unbelievable if it weren't right in front of his face.
Wilson nodded. "He's there."
Moriarty had been pretty adamant in his resolution that House should suffer. Trying to get him through Chase however was a plan that Foreman wasn't sure was the best way to go. House seemed to like Chase in his own strange way. Then again everyone seemed to like Chase. Whether with patients, or their families, or with other doctors, Chase didn't even have to try and he got the respect and positive reviews that Foreman said he didn't care about.
So what was it about House and Chase, Chase and House? Out of all of them Foreman thought he was the most like House. Cameron was too soft and Chase was just…too Chase. His easygoing, laidback style seemed to work well for him. It got him through med school, which any medical student will tell you is, mostly full of type-A over-achievers. He wasn't sure what Chase's GPA was or whether they even used GPA's in Australia but if he got a fellowship with House it must have been pretty good. Chase had been in PPTH the longest. Maybe it was a seniority thing. He shrugged to himself drawing a contemplative look from Wilson who wasn't anywhere aboard his errant train of thought. Somehow Chase and House just clicked despite their differences.
"This is a God-damn mess."
Wilson agreed. "No kidding."
H
Even to his own ears his breathing was loud and raspy. Each one also came with a stab of pain in chest and Chase had to wonder where there were any cracked ribs along with the other tokens his assailants had left. Wasn't it enough that they debased him? Why did they have to leave lasting marks of the encounters? His right hand was already slippery with his own blood, which seeped out of a fairly shallow wound on the lower left side of his abdomen. Shallow though it might be, that didn't stop it from stinging, quite violently when his steps faltered and the flesh around the wound was tugged one way or another.
His left arm hung limply at his side in contact with the wall as he used the sturdy divider to aid his trek back to his cell. Not that it was the bet of places to be, since his cellmate Yarrow wouldn't be any help to him, but it had to be better than where he was at the back of the recreation area behind several bookshelves, having been dragged there when he was accosted. He'd recognised their faces. They were Yarrow's pal and though he knew fighting back would only make the assault worse and anger his keeper, his mind wouldn't allow him to just accept it. Trenton was well on its way to taking everything it had from him. He'd be damned if he'd let it take his sanity too.
He stumbled as the wall he'd been using to support himself ended abruptly, spilling him in to the intersecting corridor. That sharp pain came back and he bit back a groan reopening the laceration on his bottom lip that he'd made as they held him down during the assault. He closed his eyes and curled up, unable to lift himself as the fresh memories replayed.
The hands, the mouths, the touches, he could still feel the tainted patches of skin, the scraps of his soul they'd sullied. Soon he was shivering, the tremors creating a constant sting of background pain that eventually brought him back to the present and the lasting stains they'd left on him. He could taste them in his mouth and he gagged. The vomit came so quickly and so fiercely it arched his back and barely gave him enough time to sit up so that he wasn't lying in the pool that quickly formed.
His breathing hitched, adding violent punctuations to his already quaking form. God, he felt pitiful.
"Kid, come on."
Someone was tugging on his arm trying to get him to stand. He didn't know who it was but it wasn't Montrose and he was the only person in this facility that he could trust.
"No…no…" his weak protest was ignored. He felt fingers probe gently the area around his injury, a threat that had been carried through as a result of his disobedience. He tried to shrink back.
"S'okay, kid."
Chase felt his right arm lifted over a pair of strong shoulders and then he was standing, more under the power of the other man than his own. His injury pulled and his left hand immediately went to it.
"Come on. We don't have to go far."
Chase managed to get one foot in front of the other, aiding in the journey to whatever destination the other man had in mind. Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The oppression and menace of the prison receded. He could still feel its presence but it was further away, held at bay by some force. Then he was lying down, hard wood underneath him, quickly being warmed by his shaking body.
"You'll be okay."
Chase felt a hand on his forehead and opened his eyes as the voice filtered through and brought with it recollection. The man had a bit of a beard and his hair was a little longer and shaggier, though he imagine the bald spot was as bare as ever. Other than that he looked the same as he did the one and only day Chase had ever seen him.
"You shot my boss," he declared weakly.
Moriarty nodded. "Yeah. I'm not sorry about that." He sighed and looked up and down the injured form of the young man. "I am sorry about this." He shook his head at some guilty thought and couldn't hold his tongue as more spilled out. It was this place. It had to be. It compelled confession. "I…I was…blinded by anger. I shouldn't have brought you into this. It wasn't supposed to be about you. I didn't think….I didn't know…" but he should have. He should have known that Yarrow was up to something and that his interest in Dr. Chase could only lead to something bad. He didn't know what else to say except, "I'm sorry."
The younger man only looked at him with vacant eyes and that probably did more to feed his guilt than any scathing or angry comment ever could. At this moment Moriarty knew he was no better than the physician he so despised. Like him he'd acted with no regard for other people, he'd used someone as a tool for his revenge, and now that someone had been devastatingly and irreversibly hurt because of it. He had to get away. Chase barely noticed that he was now alone. All he could do was lay there, silent and in the company of a detached sort of peace.
He took one more calming breath and closed his eyes. Above him, trapped in a pattern of stained glass, an image of a man watched over one lost from the flock.
H
Four days later Chase was suddenly free. Corrections Officers came by his cell and took him out. It wasn't until he was in the holding area that they told him he was being released. A bad joke, that's what he'd thought it was. They gave him back the clothes he'd been wearing the day they brought him there and his messenger bag. After three months he barely recognized the knick-knacks that had gathered in the bottom.
A hop on a prison bus and a short ride to the city centre and that was all there was. He was free. No fanfare and no warning. Yarrow had looked pretty pissed when the CO's had come to get him. Maybe he'd had an idea what was going on. Yet even at the memory of that Chase couldn't find a smile.
The bus pulled away kicking up a small cloud of dust behind it. He glanced around to the other cons, ex-cons that were being greeted by family and friends. Men who'd served their time and were now ready to get on with their lives or go back to crime. Rob stood at the bus station and watched until there was nobody else.
Alone and invisible he wandered around the small downtown, simply observing. He knew he had to go home. He had to find a way home. He could call one of his few friends, call a colleague, call a cab. Possibilities, obscure and likely, came one after another in his thoughts. It was a small decision, how to get home, yet he couldn't figure out what to do. The thought of returning to Princeton, to work, to the life he'd been plucked from was daunting. He couldn't step back in to the world of Dr. Robert Chase, not while he was still felt as numb and disconnected as he'd learnt to feel in Trenton.
Rob somehow made it to a small downtown park. His feet stopped in front a bench and he sat for no other reason than benches were for sitting. A ray of sunlight reflected off the shiny paintjob of a passing car. His eyes close briefly protecting them and when he opened them again his face was tilted upwards towards the bright daylight that he'd missed. For three months the sun had been dim and the clouds had been darker and greyer. Now everything seemed like what he remembered of bright days and white clouds. He couldn't explain how. He just knew the sun didn't shine as brightly in prison.
His precious sun began to set though it seemed only minutes had passed since it was high in the afternoon sky. The sky had changed from bright blue to the sunset hues of orange and magenta. For too long he'd only seen these colours through a small square of window high on the back wall of his cell and framed by the dark, gloom of his detention. Now, immersed in the daily transition of day to night, Rob felt his own colour returning. Not broken, just lost, he thought abstractly to himself.
At last his cell phone was retrieved from his bag. He flipped it open and held down the power button for several seconds with no result. The battery was dead. He hadn't had a chance to turn it off before he was jailed.
Robert sighed and put the device back in his bag thinking that he'd charge it when he got home. The charger was next to his bed. He always left it plugged into the wall so that he could just hook up his phone to it before he went to bed. He'd need his key to get in. Robert searched with is hand through his bag and felt the familiar press of cold metal on his skin. He'd paid his rent for a year in advance so he still had a place to go. His phone and cable were probably disconnected though. He was going to shrug –about the most expression he could find at the moment –when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
"You're a hard man to find!"
Chase let the tension ebb away before turning to the familiar voice of his colleague. His first reaction had been to turn and strike first before whoever was behind him had the chance. Thankfully, he was able to quell the urge.
"Hey, Foreman." Chase stood, slipping out of the other man's grasp.
Foreman noticed the move and understood. "I've got my car illegally parked over there. Come on." They walked in silence halfway to Foreman's E-class Benz, Foreman trying to think of something to say. How are you? wasn't something Foreman would usually ask and considering where Chase had just come from it was pretty obvious that any honest answer would just be a variant of "crappy".
"Washington called to let us know that you were being released. It was kind of last minute. I was the only one free so I thought I'd pick you up. Y'know."
Chase nodded in acknowledgement. "Thanks."
Foreman gave a slight dip of his head and they lapsed into silence. He wouldn't say anything about the near frantic phone calls between him, House and Washington when the he arrived at the Trenton bus terminal and couldn't find Chase. He'd spent over an hour looking around the small city and it had only been when he pushed himself to think like man who had just regained his freedom that he figure Chase would seek somewhere calm and danger free. It had been a big relief to finally find the wayward blond just sitting there and staring into the distance, revelling in so much freedom he didn't know what to do with it.
The twelve-mile journey to Princeton was made without conversation. Early in the trip Foreman had turned on his stereo. In the CD in the tray was a hip-hop one. Foreman had considered turning on the radio rather than be labelled the typical black guy who liked rap but Chase had never really labelled him anything but a neurologist. It was the bias of spoiled, white-boy that he put on Chase that suggested he would put a similar bias on him. It did occur to him that Chase had never addressed him by anything but his name or specialty, and he never got a vibe of restrained racism from the Aussie. Between the two of them the only one who seemed to be judging simply on skin colour (and hair colour and familial connections) was Foreman.
Letting go of his initial reaction to Chase was a slow process. When they went to conferences it seemed like Chase was the favourite nephew of half the doctors, which only served to reinforce the rich-kid stereotype. He'd lost count of how many times he'd said Chase was rich only to have the other man counter with "My dad's rich. Not me." He wasn't sure how true that was. Chase didn't act like the typical trust-fund baby born with a silver spoon up his ass so most of the time he was okay with Chase. When he could forget about his looks and his father, and judge him simply as another guy, another doctor, Chase was okay.
"Where are we going?" Chase noticed belatedly that they'd arrived back in Princeton. However they weren't heading to his apartment. It seemed like they were going to PPTH.
"Hospital, to get you checked over," Foreman said as though it was perfectly acceptable. Maybe to him. Not to Chase.
"No. I want to go home."
"You've been moving stiffly and favouring your left side. I know you didn't get through three months in there without at least getting into a fight or two. You need medical attention."
"They're just bruises. I can give myself medical attention," Chase protested.
"Alright," Foreman sighed. In truth it was House that had told him to bring Chase to the hospital to get him checked out. The man hadn't calmed at all over the last few days. He'd been snapping at anyone who trespassed on his solitude. Cuddy had finally had enough and it was in the middle of a huge argument with her –Cameron in the clinic and Foreman next door, studiously not listening –that Washington had called to inform them that Chase was being released as they spoke. House had grabbed his keys and Cuddy had grabbed them from him, so House sent Foreman, yelling orders to him until he was out of sight.
Chase directed Foreman to his apartment and Foreman held any comments he had about the state of the building.
"Thanks." Chase undid his seatbelt and got out.
Foreman leaned across the partition between the two front seats so that he could still see Chase. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," he assured.
Foreman watched until the door to the building closed behind Chase. He had to go back to work. Returning without Chase was going to mean House on his case for who knows how long. He was willing to take the risk because right now Chase didn't need House badgering him. Well, nobody needed House badgering him. Foreman drove off.
H
Wilson paused at the door and crossed his arms. House didn't even look away from the TV or move his feet from the corner of the bed where he had them resting. It probably would have been a bother to the patient if he were conscious. As it was the coma patient wouldn't be complaining to anyone soon, neither about the intrusion into his private room nor the obnoxiously loud television.
"At least he won't come complaining to me."
"If you took my advice you wouldn't have anybody troubling you at all."
"Holding your tongue would also work." Wilson walked in far enough to get a view of the TV. "Besides I think an electrical shock would be a little much." House had jokingly, at least Wilson hoped it was jokingly, suggested that a bit of electricity to the handle of his door would drastically reduce his visitors. House had even assured him that the shock wouldn't even hurt that much. Wilson still didn't know how exactly House had tested how much the shock would hurt. He'd never asked.
"Wuss. So, you gonna go see him?"
"See who?"
House let is head loll back to emphasize the roll of his eyes. "Come on. There's no need to be coy. The cutie in records can't fool me. I know the real blond that you're after. Wine, dine, and then dreams, hopes and aspirations, right? I'd emphasize the wine. Chase looks like a lightweight."
"You've certainly given this a lot of thought."
"I'm just that type of guy."
"Why don't you let me worry about my getting laid."
"So you admit you are trying to bone Chase. That was easier than I expected. I'm disappointed, Jimmy. Where's the challenge?"
"You're not concerned about the challenge." James slid the door closed. "It's almost as though you're just…concerned about him. Either that or…" the younger doctor shook his head slowly in uncertainty. "Or maybe there's something you want."
Silent seconds passed, slowly filling the room with tension as a long ignored possibility made an entrance. House kept his eyes on the TV but didn't really see any of what was going on. James let his eyes flick around the room and then to the older doctor's face trying to determine if this would be the time that they finally addressed this.
When they'd first met House had baited him, challenged him, even flirted with him in front of his girlfriend. He somehow derived some perverse pleasure in watching the colour rise in James's face and knowing that the man would never do anything about it. Teasing James was relieving to House and safe. By the time James had been desensitized to the homoerotic nature of his interaction with House his soon to be second wife (and second divorce) was pushing to set a date and James hadn't (still didn't) know how to say no.
They'd stayed friends, seeing each other often, blowing off dates and wives just to hang out. It was a friendship fraught with so many near Brokeback-moments that it was still a wonder that James's second wife hadn't accused him of having an affair with Greg.
In the face of James Wilson's glaring heterosexuality and in the company of Gregory House's lack of tact this thing between them had evolved, mutated in to what they had now. The spark of excitement at their near intuitive understanding of each other, the challenges, both serious and juvenile with which they contested each other, and the general ease of interaction, the lack of misunderstandings and easy forgiveness, it had only been between them. It was unique even if it did age and become less enthralling with time. It was special and neither had intended for there to be a third member of the little club.
The same curiosity, a similar charisma and an endlessly entertaining accent to boot –Chase wasn't part of the plan. House wasn't supposed to smile at his jokes –that was Wilson's smile. Wilson wasn't supposed to confide in Chase –those were House's confessions. The smoke and ashes had been rekindled by a spark that, though dulled, still held more heat than the stale remains between the two of them.
Old enough, wise enough, cynical enough to take what they can find at this later stage, a fling with Chase was a better consolation prize than James had expected after the failures of his true loves. Greg was still undecided.
A shift in House's body language closed the moment. In the past James had been the one end them. "Pass along my regards to him."
"Go see him yourself." The venom in his voice was the only outward proof of the old and silent argument between them. If this were like the other times they'd push it back in to the closet (no pun intended) and lock it shut. Things would be normal by the next morning. James wasn't sure if that would happen this time.
Yet, in spite of their protests, both new the other's nature. That was why House wasn't surprised when the door to Chase's apartment was answered that night by Wilson and why Wilson wasn't surprised to answer the door and find House. Chase was too numb to do more than wonder at the tension between the two of them and too tired to address it. That wasn't really his style anyway. He went back to the strings of his guitar as he sat on the floor leaning languidly against his couch.
"You don't have to be here." Rob was too tired to soften his accent to the thinner one he usually spoke with. The fingers of his right hand fell with practiced ease across the strings of his instrument while his left hand shifted up and down the neck of his guitar creating the flow of melancholy notes to fill the silence he'd found he couldn't stand. No matter how complete the silence there was always a faint sound of Trenton. He had to drown it out.
Seated in the armchair House was tempted to knock the guitar out of his hands and yell at him to get out of his funk in the hopes that Chase would yell back. He knew already that the only reaction he would get would be the blank stare that was currently focussed on the brick wall above his television. Besides, Chase was entitled to his own musical outlet. House had his but it wasn't like this. When he played the piano he could be true to himself, and true to his other craft, the one his mother thought would be good for a rambunctious child. She'd begun to rethink her idea after he son scared off three teachers. Still he kept at it and by the time he was done with piano teachers there wasn't much left for them to teach him. He imagined the Chase parents had pushed an instrument on him as well and House was willing to bet it was the violin –hence the piece of music he'd discovered so long ago when he and Cameron had searched the small apartment –and not the guitar.
House watched Wilson watch Chase from his seat on the couch. Was James wondering whether Chase had sat around with Zinedine and just played their guitars together? Was that the moment Chase was trying to recreate in his head? A moment where he and Wilson weren't here crowding his personal space with their undesired attention.
The sad notes of Classical Gas slowed for no apparent reason other than the guitarist. His fingers finally stilled and the sound of drizzling rain outside filled the apartment with soft background noise. Robert looked around and a slight smile pulled his lips. Its sudden appearance only made the other two men feel more worried and one of them more guilty.
"It wasn't Moriarty," he said softly and turned to look at House. "He was a pawn." Chase turned away and resumed playing. He would glance at House every once in a while as though trying to gauge something. House had to wonder if his guilt was that obvious, that palpable.
Into the music, a more Latin flavour this time, which Chase played with surprising soul considering his near catatonic state at the moment, House spoke. "You need to go to the hospital." Even with just the slight movements he made to play the guitar House's crafty eyes could point out numerous points of tension. And he probably needed to be tested. Prisons were pretty big transmission zones for STDs and other infections.
"I've already been." After Foreman had dropped him off Chase had taken a long hot shower and then taken his own car and driven to a hospital far enough away that he hoped nobody would think to go there trying to snoop in his business.
Over the blond head James met Greg's eyes. They saw mutual unrest in each others' gaze. Chase was a pretty laid back guy, not prone to emotional outbursts unless pushed so they hadn't expected a grand breakdown. Neither was entirely sure what they'd been expecting. Calm and silence definitely wasn't on that list. There were shadows behind his eyes though; memories of things that he had yet to deal with. How far back those shadows came from House could not tell. He imagined there were a lot of things that Chase didn't deal with, at least not in any way that was healthy.
Wilson had fought the urge but in the end he gave in and brushed his hand through the unfamiliar and uneven haircut Chase now wore. The music came to an abrupt end. Wilson's face pulled in a strained frown and his eyes were sad as he realized his mistake. "Sorry." Chase nodded stiffly. "I was just worried about you." Chase swallowed with difficulty and reached up to take Wilson's hand. He squeezed it briefly trying to convey something that he couldn't articulate verbally. House watched the interaction, quelling an inkling of an unwanted emotion as he took in the familiarity of the touch.
James knew Greg too well not to notice and sighed. "I was drunk, House," he admitted in a tone that said on its own that he didn't want to tell this story. "Stumbling out of the bar and to my car when Chase found me."
"Drinking and driving, Jimmy?" House chastised not only for the obvious stupidity of what he'd almost done but for not calling him either to join in on the drinking or to pick him up when he was too inebriated to get himself home.
"You weren't high on my list of people to see at the time." Sometimes he did need time away from his friend. Sometimes he just wanted to wallow in self-pity and not be analysed. He was not going to share that night's topic of melancholy. It was not something of which he was proud and it was not something he was completely over.
"So you took him home," House deduced, his mind already going to numerous scenarios that lead to Chase and Wilson in bed together. There was that flare of unwanted emotion. He beat it down and waited for the rest of the story.
"I didn't know where he lived," Chase said without looking at him. "I brought him here."
The recount stalled again so Greg prompted. "And you guys did the horizontal tango…"
"No. I…" James rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face. "I was drunk. I came on to him."
House glanced down to Chase who didn't seem to mind that Wilson was revealing what they'd kept from him for months. The memories were hazy to Wilson with the exception of a few moments and a few feelings. The memories were perfectly clear for Chase, except for the moments of remembered horror. He'd smelt the gin on Wilson's breath and the scent already had his stomach rolling. The close proximity, the hands tugging at his clothing had been too much. He'd been trying to settle the drunken man on his couch when Wilson decided that he wanted Chase to join him. The struggle had them toppling off the couch and landing with a thud on the floor. Even with the carpet it was a hard landing due to the hard wood underneath. It was enough to bring a little sobriety to Wilson such that he noticed the stark expression on the younger man's face and he let go. Chase scurried away from him but his back hit the coffee table and there was only maybe two feet between them. A few even breaths had returned a semblance of Chase's usual calm though even in his drunken stupor Wilson could see how shaken up he'd made his Good Samaritan and he began apologizing.
"And you just forgave him? No devious plans, no favours. I thought I taught you better than that," House said after Wilson's narrative of the event.
Chase shrugged.
"I bet you forgave her too."
Wilson didn't know what House meant by that. Not until Chase responded.
He shrugged again. "She's my mother."
A mother who in her own drunken rage had forgotten the face of her son, at least until the next morning when she sobbed and begged his forgiveness. Each time he gave it to her and each time she promised never again. Each promise was broken and her touches, sober or drunk, hurt a little more each time after.
The dawn of discovery on Wilson's face was quickly followed by something distinctly greener and more nauseous-looking. House turned his gaze back to Chase. Wilson could deal with his own emotions. He was more worried about Chase's lack of the same. He was beginning to wonder if Chase had just snapped, if this was his version of a breakdown. Somehow Greg didn't think so.
"I'm tired." Chase laid his guitar on the seat of the couch behind him and got up. Wilson stood with him. House remained seated.
"When you coming back to work?" he asked from the chair.
"I still have a job?"
"Have I fired you?"
There was a stretch of silence as Chase tried to decide if and when he'd go back. "A couple of days," he finally decided. House nodded and watched Chase walk past the kitchen area to the partition that hid the bed.
"Come on, House," Wilson said when Chase was out of sight. "It's getting late."
He nodded slowly in agreement. The small arm had crept irrevocably to the twelve on the face of his watch. Quite a bit of time had passed since they had arrived here. Between the music and the silence time had seemed to crawl, yet a glance at the clock corrected that sensory misconception.
House and Wilson left together and in silence. They closed the door behind them after reminding Chase to lock it. When they made it to the ground floor and to the street where both their cars were parked, they paused. The rain had stopped leaving a blanket to jewel-like drops over their respective vehicles. It would be easy to say something, put to rest or bring to life this thing between them that was years old. Nothing like that happened. First Wilson, then House, they turned away from each other and went home.
H
Three days later Dr. Chase returned to work. Foreman greeted him in his usual manner though he did look somewhat surprised at his quick return. Cameron gave him a hug and professed how worried she was about him and so on. She didn't notice how stiff the blond man was when she had her arms wrapped around him. House, watching from his desk did notice and shook his head at her ineptness. Foreman and Cameron filled Chase in on what had happened while he was away. There wasn't much. They'd only had a few cases. More interesting would have been Chase's tales of Trenton but his shield of silence as he sat at the glass table with his coffee was enough to warn them away from any questions about his experiences in the big house.
Clinic duty was a nice, mind-numbing way of getting back in to the groove of the hospital. The nurses greeted him in much the same way as Cameron, much to his annoyance. In general there was little fanfare to mark his return to work. There had been little to no media coverage about the Islington double murder since the day months ago when the police found their bodies. Other issues, domestic and international were screamed across the news headlines and a double murder with possible mob connections just wasn't news worthy. Many people didn't even know why he had been away in the first place and Chase was thankful for the privacy.
By the afternoon the diagnostics team had a new case. Foreman had found this one during his clinic duty and though House had ridiculed his patient and his symptoms he did right them on the board because they were unusual. Differentials were flying fast and furious and many being dropped just as quickly. Chase didn't add much to the process so when it was time to do the testing House sent him to the lab to do the grunt work. He didn't protest, just got up and left to carry out the order.
"I guess prison made him more obedient," said House.
Cameron shook her head at him, astonished at his callous behaviour. She knew he'd been worried about Chase before and it'd been nice to see a glimpse of humanity in the usually cantankerous doctor. The glimpse had been mostly of an angry and frustrated man, certainly not worth Chase being imprisoned, and it seemed the show was over.
"You could give him a break," Cameron suggested.
"Come now. That wouldn't be like me. What he needs it familiarity, structure…"
"Compassion?"
House turned to face Foreman's exasperated look head-on. "Again, out of character." He headed for the exit. "I thought you guys knew me better than that."
Foreman shook his head, a half smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. He watched House through the glass wall as he left, strangely not in the direction of Wilson's office. Cameron also followed House's exit with her eyes before she noticed the smile on Foreman's face. She'd just dealt with House she couldn't deal with a conniving Foreman.
"What?" she asked, giving him a sharp look as she waited for him to spill.
The neurology specialist crossed his arms and tilted his head forward to look up at her through his brows. "He accuses the rest of us of only pretending to care and ridicules us when we do care. When he cares he plays it off by pretending he's pretending. The guy tries so freaking hard not to be like the rest of the world and only succeeds in the smallest and most annoying ways."
Cameron shrugged at the oversimplification. "He still succeeds though." She got up.
"Where you going?"
"You said he needed compassion right? And since that is my weakness," she said in a mockery of what House had always picked on her about. She followed a similar path out as House though she went the opposite way down the corridor. Foreman didn't say anything as she left. He wasn't sure what she was expecting. It was going to take more than just a face prettier than his to make Chase feel better. Her brand of compassion wasn't going to be much of a hit either. It was just who she was that she'd try to help, try to confront the issues, and offer advice. She'd done the same when Rowan Chase had visited. Chase hadn't appreciated the intrusion in to his personal life at the time but that wasn't enough to thwart future attempts.
Foreman sat at the conference table, alone and waited about a minute before picking up the phone to make a page. He plucked a medical text from the shelf and began to read up on some of the possible causes for their patient's symptoms. He hadn't gotten very far when there was a knock on the glass wall. Chase gave him a small wave as he held up his beeper, silently and quickly thanking him for giving him an out in the conversation that Cameron had just begun. Her heart was in the right place –it rarely wasn't –he just didn't feel like talking to her. He didn't feel like talking to anyone. Foreman and House weren't the talking type so no worries there, and thanks to Foreman he was able to escape Cameron. He hoped he hadn't been too eager to attend to the "consult" and leave the experiments to run. He didn't want to hurt her feelings he just needed to be alone with what happened.
Cameron returned to the conference room a minute after Chase passed by. Foreman continued reading the text.
She sat down. She crossed her legs. "A consult, huh?" She asked, across the table from the dark-skinned man.
Foreman didn't try to hide the upward turn of his lips.
"It's a busy hospital."
H
In an empty hospital room Chase laid on the bed, the blinds closed and door jammed shut, as he contemplated the overrating often given to words. He didn't want to talk and he'd taken the first chance to escape the conversation Cameron would have forced up on him. He liked her and, like most patients, he found her presence comforting. On another level it was nice to know that there were still some good people out there, even though he knew he'd never rank among them. Cameron had an air about her that exuded peace and tranquility and if he could, he'd just sit next to her, and feel a little less bad –but he wouldn't speak a word.
He hoped one day soon she'd realize that some things were just broken and couldn't be made into what they had been before.
H
End Chapter 10
The next chapter will probably be posted Friday or Saturday. There are only five, maybe six left in the story. Stay tuned.
Sagga…