Author's Notes: Bonjour, mon amis! How are you? A lot of people liked the last chapter, and I'm hoping that this one goes over just as well. It's not my favorite chapter, but I like it better than the last one. Again, enormous karma and gratitude for my beta. Happy Memorial Day to all you Americans, and enjoy the chapter!

Us and Them

Chapter 14
(Damage, Inc.)

Chase stared at Wilson for a second, and then looked over to where House was lolling about on the bed blissfully. There was no doubt that House was high, because under usual circumstances, he wouldn't be caught dead muttering what he was saying right now.

"What was in there?" he asked Wilson, talking about the needle. Chase moved to take House's pulse, but House swatted him away drunkenly and mumbled something about Glinda the Good Witch.

"I'm not sure... I know he kept stashes of morphine squirreled away for emergencies, but..." Wilson trailed off, staring down at House.

"It would have been burned in the fire," Chase finished unnecessarily. He finally got a grip on House's arm and held his fingers to the man's wrist, counting in his head. "Pulse is weak, but I don't think that he overdosed."

"I'm calling Cuddy," Wilson said, pulling out his cell phone.

"No!" Chase said immediately, dropping House's hand and reaching over to stop Wilson, who looked up at him in surprise.

"She has a right to know that her employee won't be coming in today because he decided to go get high," Wilson said, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"Don't cry for me... Argentina!" House began to sing, his arm drifting up into the air hazily, as if he were reaching for something.

Rolling his eyes at House, Chase responded, "Can't you just tell her that House isn't coming in?"

Wilson gazed at him for a moment, and then he shook his head slowly. "Seriously. You want to protect him, even after everything that he did to you?" He sounded both amazed and confused, but his hand was putting the cell phone away despite this.

Chase shrugged. "The last thing we need is Cuddy even further up his ass..."

"The truth is, I never left you!" House warbled, unconcerned with anything else besides his baritone rendition of Evita. "All through my... wild... days..." .

"Well, we should at least get him out of here. Preferably before he crashes," Wilson said, and Chase closed his eyes in relief. He had won one battle, and that would be enough for now. "I would take him to my hotel room, but if he throws up on anything, the maids won't be very happy with me and I'm kind of getting a discount... That could be subject to change."

"My apartment's fine," Chase agreed, after a moment's hesitation.

Working together, they managed to get House (who continued to belt out Broadway unconcernedly) into Chase's car and sitting in a seat properly. Wilson sat in the back of the car with him, ensuring that he didn't try to do anything ridiculous, but halfway to Chase's apartment House's singing came to an end as he fell asleep, signaling that his high was over and that he would be waking up soon.

"We can't pick him up," Chase said as he drove, glancing at the sleeping House in the rearview mirror. "He's easily 200 not counting the dead weight, and if we somehow managed that the pain in his leg would wake him up and put him agony for hours."

"You picked him up, didn't you?" Wilson asked while he adjusted House's head, which was rolling about on his shoulder. "In the fire, they said that you went in there and got him."

"That was... adrenaline," Chase said uncomfortably. "But I think that we should just let him sit in the car until he wakes up... There's not much else we can do." He turned down his street, and could see his apartment door coming closer as he began scanning for a close parking spot. Luckily, he found one that was right outside of his door.

"All right," Wilson said as Chase pulled into the spot and killed the engine. "I'm going to go call my secretary and reschedule all my appointments—something tells me that this is going to take a while."

"You don't have to stay," Chase offered before Wilson could get out of the car. "I could drive you back to the hospital."

"No," Wilson said thoughtfully. "You two are going to need some kind of referee." He quickly pushed open the door and left, before Chase could utter a word of protest.

"Great," Chase muttered, turning around to face the snoozing House.

He hated the way that House turned to drugs and alcohol to escape his troubles. Chase didn't like the idea of being out of control, of being unable to know what you were saying or doing, and when you coupled that with years he'd spent watching his mother waste away under it, he just generally had an aversion to anything that resembled drugs or alcohol. House, on the other hand, had no problem with making an ass out of himself and getting drunk. It was just one of the many things that they didn't agree on, but had never spoken about.

Maybe that was the problem—they had never bothered with the details. It had all been so fast, so intense and harried that neither one had bothered to think about their differences. When no one knew. It was easy to dismiss a fight because if they broke up then there wouldn't be anyone who knew or cared, but now that it was common knowledge, there was certain pressure to beat everyone's expectations and stay together, to not fight and get along perfectly. After all, fighting would only be proving to everyone that they didn't belong together, and that they had been right to say the relationship was a mistake. Chase wondered if it would have made a difference if he'd told House about his conversation with Wilson. Would House have assuaged his doubts, or would he have strengthened them?

Hell, he still didn't know the answer to that now. Watching House now, Chase saw that he had lavender circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep, and wondered if he'd slept at all last night. He felt a sadistic flicker of pleasure at the thought, but it was extinguished by guilt—he'd been the cause of that, after all.

Maybe Wilson was right.

Maybe he was addicted to House.

Would a normal person feel guilty for rightfully yelling at someone? Chase knew, somewhere in the distant fog of his brain, that he had been wronged and was therefore in the right when he had yelled at House... But did it make it wrong, then, to not want to hold a grudge? Wilson certainly seemed to think so, but Chase wasn't so sure. Besides, it wasn't like he could help it. So he was addicted to House. Was that really all bad?

A rapping on the window made him start, and Chase looked up to see Wilson standing outside the car with his cell phone out. Chase rolled down the window, blinking hard in the sharp wind that bit into his face.

"Cuddy wants to talk to you," Wilson said, holding out the cell phone.

"You called her?" Chase said, not taking the phone as he stared up at Wilson in outrage. "I thought that we agreed—"

"Yeah, I know," Wilson cut him off, his tone irritated. "She had the secretary call her up if I called in to say that I was taking the rest of the day off."

"She knows you," Chase pointed out, to Wilson's annoyance. He took the phone in one hand and started rolling up the window. "Get back in here, it's freezing cold outside."

Wilson went around the car to get in, and Chase put the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Chase," Cuddy said. For a moment, Chase wondered why he was 'Dr. Chase' but House was only 'House', but figured that it was an inconvenient time to ask. "How are you?"

"Spectacular," Chase said dryly. "How are you?"

"Listen," Cuddy continued, ignoring Chase's query. "I just wanted to explain some things to you."

"Really?" Chase asked, settling back into his seat to listen.

"Yes. First of all, I know that I haven't been entirely fair to you and House for the last few days, but I want you to know—"

"Hang on," Chase interrupted, catching sight of House, who had begun to mutter something. He took the phone from his ear and glanced at Wilson, and then leaned closer, trying to hear what he was muttering.

"Per sogni e... per... chimere e per castelli... in aria... l'anima ho milionaria..." House was mumbling, almost incoherently, and if Chase hadn't been forced to listen to his opera music for the last month and a half, he would have thought that House was muttering nonsense.

"It's Italian," he said to Wilson. "From La Boheme, I think... Act I." Chase had never shared House's strong passion for opera, which House had always claimed was because he didn't appreciate a musical talent when he saw one. Chase had usually responded with some sort of comment about House's piano skills and how they were better than a lousy CD of fat men singing, and things typically went past conversation from that point.

"If you say so," Wilson said, glancing at House. "I don't think he's starting to wake up, though. He's probably just talking in his sleep."

Chase nodded, and was about to return to his conversation with Cuddy when House suddenly jerked violently, and he dropped the phone in alarm. House jerked again, and then curled into a half-fetal position, his hands clutching a seatbelt nearby, and began to whimper.

"House!" Chase shouted, pointlessly, because House was obviously not going to respond. "What's he doing?" he asked Wilson frantically, wondering if he'd ever seen House come off of a morphine high before.

"He's probably coming off of the endorphins," Wilson said, his face tense as he looked at House. "That means that the pain is returning, and it's going to be a shock to his brain. Hopefully, it won't wake him up."

Chase winced, thinking of how bad the pain must be—especially because House hadn't taken his usual supply of Vicodin due to his high. "There isn't anything we can do?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"No," Wilson said heavily, looking at his friend resignedly. "It's his own damn fault, the bastard..."

Chase took one more look at House, and then he picked up the phone and brought it to his ear. "Sorry about that," he apologized quickly. "Got distracted."

"It's fine," Cuddy said. "I have a meeting I have to get to right now, so could I talk to you later? There's no way I stand a chance of getting through to House, and if you could… mediate? Even just a little bit? I would really appreciate it."

"Depends," Chase said mildly. "If you convince me, then I can convince him."

"Thank you," Cuddy said, sounding enormously relieved. "Don't tell him I said this, but you're the best thing that's happened to House in five years. I meant it when I said that I was happy for you two."

"Of course," Chase said, not wanting to say that he thought Cuddy was a bag of bullshit, because he rather liked his job. "I'll be in tomorrow."

Cuddy hung up, and Chase closed the cell phone and handed it back to Wilson, stealing another glance back at House, who was still writhing in agony. There was nothing he could do about it, and that was probably the worst part.

"What did she want?" Wilson asked as he put the cell phone in his pocket. He didn't seem as concerned about House as Chase was.

"To apologize, grovel, tell me what a great thing I was doing," Chase said, shrugging. "Pretty much what she does all day long with her stupid sponsors. She wants to talk with me."

"You know, if you and House don't—don't make it past today, she's going to be furious with the both of you," Wilson said delicately.

"I realize that," Chase said with a scowl, which faded as he heard House moan again. "How long is it going to take for him to wake up?"

Wilson looked at him incredulously. "We've only been in here for ten minutes," he explained slowly. "It could take hours."

"I know, " Chase said, sitting back in his seat heavily and exhaling slowly. "I just hate to see him like this."

Wilson sighed and put his head in his hand. "It's not right," he said, hand muffling his voice. "You should be mad at him. You should be glad to see him hurting! He hurt you, didn't he?"

"What is that, third grade logic?" Chase retorted, not in the mood to get into the 'addicted' conversation. "Just because I was mad at him doesn't mean that I want to see him in pain. And don't say that—"

"You are!" Wilson protested, staring at him. "I can't get over it—it's not healthy, Chase. You shouldn't be with him after everything that he said to you, and you shouldn't be feeling guilty that you didn't pass his stupid test! House is an idiot if he thinks that anyone would pass that test, and that he was willing to subject you to that on a mere whim should say something about—"

"Leave it alone!" Chase said furiously. "It's none your business what I choose to do!"

Wilson's face grew stubborn. "Not if it's hurting you. I don't care if—"

"I'm not addicted to him, all right? I love him!" Chase shouted, the words tearing from his mouth before he could even think about them, and as he heard them, his mind froze in shock.

Wilson looked stunned, and he sat there with his mouth partially open while Chase tried to comprehend what he'd just said. What the hell had he just said? Was it even true? Had he just said it to shut Wilson up, or had he meant it? Where had that even come from? The thought hadn't entered his wildest dreams, he'd been ready to agree with Wilson about his addiction up until that point... So why...

"Hey, what's with the silence?" came a hoarse voice came from the back of the car.

Chase's head snapped around so fast that his neck cracked. "House?" he said, staring at the man whose eyes were weakly cracked open, his body as limp as a boned fish.

"Declarations of love aren't usually followed by stunned silences, you know," House cracked, his voice barely a whisper.

For a second, he could only sit there like a gaping fish, but then he came to his senses. "I hate you," Chase managed to get out, his words sounding strangled, and he got on the seat on his knees so that he could see House without having to twist his body.

"There's a... 180 for you," House said. His eyes glanced up to Wilson, who was watching him silently. "Hey..."

"Hey?" Wilson repeated. "You run away, get strung off your ass, make me hunt your ass down and drag you into this car, and all I get is a hey?"

House blinked hazily, which, Chase supposed, was a substitute for a shrug.

"You go ahead and have your fun with Chase. You and I are going to talk later," Wilson said sternly, and his eyes were alight with a plethora of emotions, so many that they were unidentifiable to Chase.

Wilson slammed the car door shut as he left, and went up to make himself comfortable in Chase's apartment. Chase watched him go up the walkway and open the door, which was unlocked for some reason, and enter the apartment before he turned back to face House. For a moment, he wondered if House was waiting for him to start, or if he'd just fallen asleep, when House spoke.

"Can we not talk about this?" he asked quietly.

"What would you rather talk about?" Chase asked sardonically. "The weather?"

"I don' wanna talk..." House mumbled, his eyes closing as his strength seemed to disappear.

"Well then what do you suggest we do?" Chase asked, regretting his words immediately as a sly grin formed on House's face, and though he did not open his eyes, it was clear what he was thinking. "I don't think so. Besides, Wilson could walk out here at any moment."

"So what?" House muttered, and Chase could tell that he was feigning the exhaustion now. "It would wake me up..."

"No," Chase said flatly.

"Spoilsport," House said, opening his eyes again. "Fine. Talk away."

Chase rolled his eyes, but knew that he had to be the one who initiated this. "All right," he started hesitantly. "I think—I think you're an idiot if you think that you had a right to put me through that. I'm not one of your lab experiments and I'm not one of your patients! This might be a newsflash to you, House, but I can leave whenever I want to."

"You're talking about... yesterday?" House asked slowly, squinting in confusion.

"Yeah," Chase said, his anger back in full force now. "Wilson said that I was going to leave you, and you had to prove that he was wrong. You thought that by pushing me to the limit, you could ensure that I would never leave you. And it didn't work. Shocked?"

"Yes," House admitted, his eyes partially open now. "But I—"

"No, I'm not done," Chase interrupted, more words still bursting to come out of his mouth. "And then you left me!"

"Hey!" House said, his eyes springing open in defiance. He pushed himself up on his elbow and scowled. "I didn't leave you! You were the one who told me to get out—don't give me that shit! I was just doing what you wanted me to!"

"I didn't tell you to leave!" Chase said indignantly. "I told you not to follow me—in meaning that you should sleep on the couch, not leave the damn city and go try to kill yourself! Don't try to pin this on me, because I'm not the one who suddenly decided to see how deep he could cut before I'd scream."

"But you wanted me to leave, and I was just—"

"No, I didn't!" Chase shouted. "I didn't want you to leave! All I wanted to do was have a little time to myself—you took it the wrong way and it was your fault. Not mine."

"Yeah, well, you got your time alone," House said bitterly. "And you're about to get some more, because I'm leaving. I never wanted this, anyways."

Chase stared at him for a second, letting the full effect of his words sink in before he spoke, he voice betraying the hurt he felt. "You can barely see straight. You can't leave."

"Watch me," House said, his eyes flashing dangerously. He pushed himself up on his elbow and reached out towards the door handle, intent on grabbing it, but Chase knew that he didn't stand a chance of doing anything more than pushing the door open for he was still too drugged to properly stand or go anywhere. But House persisted nevertheless, his fingertips brushing against the handle but unable to open it.

"Then the only thing that I want to know is why. Why did you kiss me that night?" Chase asked, his voice painfully revealing the emotional storm that was ripping through him, and he watched House furiously try to grasp the handle. "You never seemed to care about me before, and this whole time you've just been leading me on, right?. Is this all a game to you? The first time—I asked you before, and you wouldn't fucking answer me." To his horror, Chase could feel tears welling up in his eyes, and blinked hard to try to suppress them. "Why? Why didn't you just tell me that you didn't... want... Saved me the trouble of..." His throat had tightened beyond speech.

"I was high, all right?" House muttered, not looking at him but instead at the floor. He'd given up on trying to reach the handle.

"What?" Chase said, his voice strangled and broken.

"That night. We'd lost our patient, it was New Years Day, and the Vicodin just wasn't working... The morphine did," House said quietly, as if he almost didn't want Chase to hear. "You were there and I had no clue which way was up, but I knew that I was lonely and you were single. So I..."

"I should have figured," Chase said , feeling as he might start throwing up and sobbing at the same time. "I should have figured that a fucking bastard like you wouldn't ever—I shouldn't have ever gone after you! I've had enough of this, and I've had enough of you! I'm leaving!"

And he left House in the car, not caring that it was cold outside and that House was virtually helpless, and wrenched open the door to his apartment. He brushed past Wilson and slammed his bedroom door shut and sat down on the bed, breathing hard. He was through. Even House wasn't worth all this.