Centum House x Chase

010 Breathe Again


It's taken a while for him to come back to normal. The pain returned, the brilliance returned, but the small glimmer of hope House had during the Ketamine treatment won't.

He droped the running shoes in the trash bin, and fished his cane from the closet.

That's all that's left now. He stared at it, sleek and polished and indifferent to being used for a moment or a year. He leaned back into his sofa, and stared at the crackling tv. The static danced and Greg looked right through it, twirling his cane. He had rummaged through the house and used the last Vicodin he had hidden, then turned down Wilson's offer of more. He felt out of breath and his leg throbbed.

He would bear it. This was his cross to bear, limp be damned.

--

Greg came into the office to face his ducklings. Two minutes in and he was exasperated with Cameron already, who was a mother hen without any chicks. He was vaguely annoyed at Foreman when he talked about rehab and more drugs, and indifferent to Chase, who said nothing but watched him carefully. House turned to the whiteboard, and struggled to take in enough air.

--

Another case, another mystery to solve. The details pulsed through House's brain like adrenaline, possibilities rising up and being struck down inside his head. He shooed the trio away, telling them to perform various menial tasks and tests. He chucked a ball against the wall, the comforting tha-thunk tha-thunk easing the idleness of his body and allowed him to focus purely on his thoughts.

House didn't know how long he was in the office, nor did he care. Hour by hour flew by, and morning eased into afternoon, which in turn eased into evening.

He rose unsteadily, and was mildly surprised to see a plate covered in aluminum foil sitting at the glass table along with a note hardly legible. He hobbled over and slid the note out from under the ceramic, squinting at the poor handwriting. He pieced together that it was food and that it was for him and he should eat it. Unsigned, but the handwriting was familiar.

Sitting down, House started unwrapping the plate, already beginning to go through process of elimination to find out who it was from. Ooh, enchiladas. Still slightly warm. He peered at the note again while shoveling food down his throat, eying it. Too loopy to be Wilson, and Wilson wouldn't give him any food anyway. It was always for him, and then House would go have to hijack his plate for a few moments.

One of his ducklings? Eric's handwriting was smaller. More confined. And Allison's was loopy like this but far more girly and a little bit neater. That left Chase, and now that he had narrowed it down it clicked. The whole process took maybe a minute, and half the enchiladas were polished off by then.

--

Two days later, House idly commented to Chase during a lulled moment that he didn't know he could cook. He sheepishly admitted he didn't and bought takeout. Claimed to have extras, or some rot.

House turned to the whiteboard and smirked, and Chase said nothing but turned his head away, ignoring the pointed looks from Foreman and Allison. Breath came easier than before, his chest looser.

--

Two weeks later, with another case and with House deep in thought, and midnight approaching fast, Chase slipped in with more food. He left no note, but knew he wouldn't need to. When House emerged from his mind, he grinned crookedly and made note to embarrass Robert more often than usual. House sat down, and set his cane against the chair. He popped open the Chinese food box and broke apart the cheap wooden chopsticks.

Small gestures were just that, small. The betrayal of both Wilson and Cuddy still lingered in the back of his mind, and bitterness was encroaching upon him. So even the little things helped, House supposed, and slurped up warm Lo Mein, no longer needing extra pants to catch his breath. He finally had some air.

---

a.n/ I don't know what to think about this one.