"You idiot."
As Chase registered those words and gradually became aware of the world once again, a piercing light was thrust into his line of sight. Screwing up his eyes, he instinctively groaned and tried to twist his head away. The brightness dissipated, and he came to the unhappy realisation that he was in a hospital bed, with his employer sat next to him.
"Hey. I need to look in your eyes, Chase. Neuro exam. We've already CTed your head, so don't feign unconsciousness to get out of this."
Glaring at House through blurry eyes, Chase attempted to clear his throat to speak. "What the- what's going on? Neuro exam?"
"You don't remember?"
"I, uh, I don't remember there is anything to remember", he muttered. "God, my head hurts." The room was becoming less fuzzy by the second, and as he attempted to prop himself upright, Chase became aware of a thick dressing on the side of his head.
House managed to look both concerned and irritated. "You don't remember dripping blood all over the carpet in the office? Come on, that's my territory you're stepping on." Seeing Chase roll his eyes at this comment, he was a fraction more reassured. "Mental faculties seem to be intact. Sit upright."
The more time that passed, the more Chase became aware of his surroundings and the situation. House, ever efficient, continued checking his reflexes as Chase glanced around the small side room, at the vitals monitor clipped to his finger. Whatever had gone on, it was a relief to see he seemed to have all his limbs and organs. Frowning, he dragged his mind back to pre-this.
"I remember, um – I remember going to the bathroom." An overwhelming sense of dread began to overtake him as he spoke. He'd been feeling terrible on account of the lack of food, hadn't he? He'd done this to himself. And now he was sat in a hospital bed, his boss staring at him with those piercing eyes, entirely at his mercy. Oh God.
House exhaled. "You wandered into the conference room a few hours ago dripping blood everywhere. Once you realised you were bleeding, you promptly passed out on me. You were taken downstairs to the ER, who took you for an urgent head CT. Being the idiots they are down there, they initially refused to sedate you – they thought it was contraindicted for a potential brain injury. The attending changed her tune pretty quickly when I told her that I knew about her affair with Brown in Oncology. Scan revealed a three inch linear fracture to your parietal bone, with a moderate concussion, the side effects of which will be somewhat prolonged due to the sedatives. You don't need surgery and there was no direct tissue injury to the brain, but you're gonna have one hell of a headache when the propofol fully wears off. We'll keep you overnight for monitoring, but all being well, you'll be discharged tomorrow. Given that you pulled this little stunt in a bathroom, no one is sure whether you tripped and fell, or whether you lost consciousness prior to falling. Judging from your bloodwork, I'd place my bets on the latter. Thus bringing me back to my earlier statement. You idiot."
Chase was temporarily stunned into silence.
He eventually found his voice. "What do you want me to say? That you're wrong? Or that you're right? I mean – do you want me to break down and tell you what a wake up call this is; that I realise now I've been making some bad decisions and now I've seen the error of my ways? That-"
"Yes!" House exclaimed. "I want you to tell me that! Or even some recognition that you're destroying yourself from the inside out." Realising he was yelling, he lowered his voice. "I want to know what the hell the endgame of all this is. What exactly do you hope to achieve? Because the way you're going, there's only one destination you're headed for."
The reply was almost inaudible.
"I don't know."
"See, that's – I don't believe that! How can you possibly not know what compels you to eat until you're fit to burst and then shove your fingers down your throat? Surely you see how messed up that is."
Chase, who had been resolutely ignoring anything even close to eye contact for the entire conversation, took a deep breath and looked up. Digging his fingertips into his palms, he swallowed.
"It's- I don't think I can- God, why do you never stop digging?"
House was mildly horrified to see a thin sheen of moisture covering Chase's eyes, threatening but ultimately refusing to spill. He'd hired Chase seven years ago, and never once had he seen him cry.
"When- when you were on Vicodin, how would you have felt if someone had asked you what the hell your problem was?"
House snorted. "Uh, hello, that's all people ever did. Difference is, I was in pain from the beginning. Vicodin is a pain-killer. I know it's been a while since I was at med school, but I'm pretty sure that making yourself puke every other day isn't a treatment for anything." He paused and cleared his voice. "Last year, I was, uh, on methadone for a short while, to try and help my leg. Wilson tried to be a smartass and cornered me into drinking. For obvious reasons, I had to get it out, and I gotta say, the experience did not endear itself to me. So, for the nth time – why?"
Chase met House's eyes. "Do you really want to know?"
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I don't care, don't worry. But solely from a professional perspective, I need to understand where your mind is at so I know whether you need to be on a psych hold once you're medically fit. So. Talk."
A few minutes of quiet expectation passed, before Chase hesitantly began to speak.
"You know when – you know when you've had a really shitty day, or something, and everything's gone wrong, and it all just kind of stacks up and builds inside of you, and it gets to the point where you end up punching a wall or yelling at your girlfriend to let it all out? It's like… it's the physical equivalent of that. When everything has gone to crap, and you just – it's like, you just take that and you make it physical – and you just eat and eat until it hurts, and it's like it doesn't even change how you feel because you felt like that metaphorically already. And it's like I'm so close to just exploding or breaking down or something, and it's so awful but so easy too and I can just… get it all out, literally. And it's messy and it's horrible and I hate it but it's such an endorphin rush and I'm a doctor I fucking know how dangerous it can be but it's just gotten to the point where I can't bring myself to care. It gets it all out and I almost feel cleansed. Purged.
"After the whole, uh, the whole Dibala situation, it's like I crossed this line. And I know I did the right thing. But – I don't think – I think that even the best of people would be fucked up from that, and I sure as hell wasn't one of them to begin with. Having that kind of power – honestly, it terrifies me. Ever since then I felt like I was teetering on the edge of… something, I don't know what. And then Cameron, I mean, of course she had to know, but it just, it was just another part of my life pulled out from under my feet. It's just… it's complicated."
House was momentarily stunned – he wasn't sure he'd ever heard his employee talk so candidly and openly.
"Anyone ever tell you your life is pretty messed up?"
Chase just scoffed, and settled back against his propped up pillows, as if he expected the conversation to draw to a close.
"But that's not everything, is it?" Knowing he was treading in dangerous waters, House did everything he could to keep his voice measured and low. He watched as Chase dug his thumbs into the light blanket across him. "There's more."
Visibly guarded now, Chase eyed him warily. "Of course there's more to it, but I'm not gonna go over every tiny thing that's ever made me stressed or angry in my life."
"Sure, that'd be ridiculous. How about just the big things then?"
"I killed a dictator and my wife left me, is that not good enough of a sob story for you?"
"Why did you flinch when I touched you in the car that day?"
"I- what?"
"Don't pretend you don't remember. Day that old patient of ours died and I found you hyperventilating up a storm in your car. I tried out the whole physical-contact-as-comfort thing, and you flinched. I've never seen you flinch except then."
"House." It was somehow a mix of a warning and a plea. "Please. Leave it. It doesn't mean anything."
"Liar."
"I am asking you, not as a patient, not as an employee, but as one person to another – please don't." Jaw clenched, Chase tried fruitlessly to stop the tremoring in his hands. Undeterred as always, House continued.
"That kind of reaction means one of two things. One, that someone is about to hurt you. Two," he continued even as Chase closed his eyes and a single tear quickly escaped and ran down his cheek, "that no-one is about to hurt you, but you think they are. And once again, that is caused by one of two things. Either you're paranoid or delusional and really think there's a chance someone's about to hurt you, or someone's hurt you before." House cleared his throat. "Despite your current predicament, I've never seen anything in you that suggests you're suffering from a clinical anxiety disorder or any psychotic or thought disorder. Am I wrong?"
Chase shifted his body, pointedly angling away from his employer, his face obscured by a corner of the sheet he'd pulled up. "I'm going to sleep now." His voice was thick.
Always searching for the final answer in every situation, House was frustrated at Chase's response, but knew better than to push it even further. He didn't want to be responsible for a full scale meltdown – or worse, have to comfort his employee. He stood, sighing deeply.
"This conversation isn't over. It's just on hold. Get some rest."
Chase didn't respond, other than to shuck the blanket even higher.
Grabbing his cane from its position leaning against the foot of the bed, House gave one last cursory glance over Chase's SATs before turning to leave. "Oh, and I'm putting in another referral to a psychiatrist. A competent one this time. If anyone can sort your shit out, it's him. His name's Nolan."