Chapter 2
Chase was in much the same position as he had been when he had hung up the phone an hour earlier when he heard the doorbell ring. He was only vaguely aware of it through the hazy sensations clouding his mind that felt like a strange combination of drunkenness and fever. He wondered for a while whether or not the doorbell ringing was simply a figment of his imagination. Tricyclic antidepressant overdose may lead to hallucinations, the doctor in him vaguely recalled.
The bell rang again. It didn't really matter, save for the fact that he would rather forget the existence of the outside world now. He didn't want anyone else to be dragged under with him. But whether a hallucination or not, he wasn't going to answer the door. More likely to be imaginary, the rational part of his brain, still just about distinguishable from the other whisperings within his mind, brought on by sensory overload, informed him. The only people that ever came round to his apartment were the landlady, the neighbours with the occasional piece of wrongly delivered post, or past one night stands, hoping for a second round, or something more. He never gave it to them.
At the sound of a familiar male voice, Chase was convinced he was hallucinating, and flopped back against the bed, covering his ears with a pillow and willing the delusion away. A louder rap persisted, and the voice grew louder.
"Go away, go away, go away," Chase mumbled into his pillow. He wasn't sure whether he was talking to himself or pleading with a real figure, outside of the door.
Another rap. Something hard was knocking against the door. The kind of noise a hard stick might make if it knocked against the door. Chase willed himself to focus on the words shouted, trying to distinguish between reality and the phantoms of his mind.
"Let me in, Chase. I know you're in there. If it's not me, then it'll be the police. You don't want a scene now do you?" The sarcastic tone was fitting. Please, dear god, be a hallucination, Chase willed, because if there was one thing House was definitely good at, it was causing a scene. And Chase was pretty sure he wouldn't be afraid to do so now.
"Little Pig! Little Pig! Let me come in, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down," Yelled the voice. "Or apartment. Whatever, I'm not fussy," it added as an afterthought. Too late, thought Chase, he was pretty sure this already counted as a scene. Dragging himself off the bed unsteadily, Chase narrowly avoided stepping in the pool of vomit by the bedside. He could barely stand. Why did House have to be here?
Chase forced himself forwards and into the lounge of his apartment, almost falling sideways against his heavily chained front door.
"What do you want House? I told you, I'm sick," he called out as best as he could with his weakened voice.
"Well isn't this convenient, because you know what? I'm a doctor! So let me in and we can play hospitals!" House said through the door. Chase closed his eyes and tried to ignore the nausea that swelled within him, coursing through his bones and enveloping his sinuses, blending with the headache that had begun to develop. He had to last out at least until he could get rid of House.
"I have the flu. I'm contagious. No one can come in," he tried. Please, please, please, he found himself pleading again, just go away, leave me to die in peace.
"That's a risk I'm willing to take. Besides, if I get sick, then Cuddy can't make me do clinic duty! So all in all, a win win situation. Now let me in. It's not nice to force cripples to hang around standing up," House said in his sing song tone.
Chase sighed. "Just go away House", he half whispered. He was already broken. Why did the man always have to try and shatter the fragments?
"No," House answered shortly, "so are you going to let me in, or are the police going to?"
"Why would the police let you in?" Chase already knew the attempt was futile, but his remaining curiosity forced him to ask the question.
"Because I'm worried about my sick employee, and I just heard a nasty thud. Kind of like this." Chase jumped as House whacked his cane against the door and winced at the sarcasm in House's voice before turning and unlocking the chain, once again defeated by House. But he could do this act. He'd had enough practice. He could convince House he had the flu and send him on his way. Finally succeeding in fumbling the locks open, Chase shakily pulled back the door, refusing to meet House in the eye as he stood in front of him, hoping to block entrance to his apartment, at least symbolically. It proved to be ineffective, as House shoved Chase out of the way with his cane, almost sending Chase toppling into the wall.
"Why are you here, House?" He asked, unable to inject any real anger into his voice. The whole situation just felt too surreal. It would all be over soon anyway. None of it really mattered. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a faint flutter of panic at the thought that House might ruin this, take away his control.
"Because…I care?" House half questioned. Chase raised his eyebrows. "Not convincing enough, huh? Tell me, what was it I did wrong? The voice? The face?" House continued. Chase was not in the mood for this. He had lived through enough of House's sarcasm, was well aware that there was a second meaning behind almost every word that came out of his mouth. All he wanted was peace to do this alone. He knew he had to hide that fact from House, or he might not succeed at all, but at the same time, it felt like it hardly mattered, because he was going to die, and then he wouldn't have to put up with House, nothing would matter any more. If House would just leave…
"Well you've seen that I'm sick, I can't come to work. Good enough?" Chase asked. As if to punctuate, he felt a tremor run through him, and sank down onto the couch to disguise the fact from House. He didn't want to draw too much attention to his physical condition. His flu explanation wouldn't hold up to much scrutiny.
House eyed Chase carefully, looking for clues. It didn't take long to find them. Chase had a pale sweaty sheen, and was clearly unsteady on his feet, and the way he kept screwing up his eyes suggested a headache. His voice was scratchy, and Chase winced when he tried to swallow. All symptomatic of the flu, as well as about a thousand other things. But there was no red nose, no tearing eyes, and no cough, and just yesterday, Chase had seemed fine. A little more acerbic than usual, but nothing that could be attributed to flu. House had his own theories.
"Sure," he eventually answered nonchalantly. "Mind if I use your bathroom?" He studied Chase for a response. Chase's jaw twitched ever so slightly.
"Look House, you're meant to be at work. From the early morning wake up call, I assume you have a case. So just… go." Chase insisted. He nearly tacked "now" on the end, but suspected that would only heighten House's obvious curiosity.
"Like I said, sure, but unless you want me to tinkle on your floor, I really suggest you let me use the bathroom first." House persisted. Chase's mind was in too much confusion to think entirely straight, so he couldn't get much beyond 'House can't use the bathroom'. Because the bathroom was through the bedroom, which was carpeted in vomit, and in the bathroom was the empty bottle, just waiting for House to stumble upon. Chase's insides churned with frustration. Why? Why was he here? Chase almost laughed at his own naivety. House always found a way to turn up where others didn't want him, especially when it came to Chase's personal life. Chase had never understood the psychology behind that, could never find anything to attribute it to except for House's own insatiable curiosity.
Chase snapped out of his thoughts to notice House reaching out for the door handle of his bedroom door.
"You can't go in there," he blurted out, immediately berating himself for his lack of subtlety.
"What, you got a hooker in there?" House questioned. "You know it's really not healthy to have sex when you have flu." He emphasised the word flu just enough to further fuel Chase's suspicion that House didn't buy his explanation. Well of course, why would he?
In a sudden movement, House lunged forwards into the bedroom. Chase made to get up, but immediately swayed and listed backwards, thumping back against the leather of the sofa.
"Ew. Chase puke. Gross," Chase heard House exclaim, now a bodiless voice out of Chase's vision. As if on cue, Chase once again felt the bile rise within his gut, now just acidic spittle. Chase tried rather unsuccessfully to lean towards the edge of the couch to allow the vile tasting liquid to escape. He didn't know why it mattered if he messed up his couch. Again, it was just one of those things that was burnt into his mind. With his mother, he had always had a bucket to hand. Unbidden, an image of her, face gaunt and white, dark hair matted and sticky with vomit, leaning over a bucket whilst he supported her, blood and bile trickling down her chin, sprung to the fore of his mind.
'Don't let them come, don't let them come', Chase chanted, unsure whether or not he was speaking aloud. He could feel his heart rate quicken, his breath come in gasps. He wasn't sure whether it was a result of the memories or the drugs.
"What have we here?" House gaily called. Chase supposed he had found the pill bottle. He was proved right as House emerged front the bedroom, the dark wood door swinging on his hinges as House again put his cane to good use.
Suddenly there was a change in House's demeanour, and the sarcastic front was gone. House looked angry. It was a side of House Chase rarely ever saw, and curiosity won out over fear, and he twisted a little more towards him from his pitiful position, half slumped on the couch and half off it all together.
"Did you take the whole bottle, Chase?" House ordered, his voice raised. Chase contemplated him, head cocked to the side.
"What do you care?" He challenged. "It doesn't matter to you, doesn't make any difference. So why don't you just leave me here to die in peace?" Chase spat the last word vehemently as again the bile began to rise in his throat. He choked, unable to get rid of the vomit, stifling his breathing. A hand gripped his head and turned it to the side and Chase drew in a ragged breath as the blockage dislodged. House maintained a firm grip on Chase's jaw, forcing his head into an unnatural position so that Chase couldn't break the eye contact.
"Do you want to die, Chase?" He asked, his voice now almost a whisper.
"I don't want to live!" Chase choked back.
"That's not what I asked," House responded, still tightly gripping Chase's jaw. For a moment, there was silence, and House was convinced that Chase was about to break down in tears, say no, and beg House to call an ambulance. But then,
"I want to die. Leave me to die." His voice was quiet, but clear. House was momentarily stunned. He had never heard a person utter those words with such conviction.
Abruptly, he loosened his grip and withdrew his hand. Without the support, Chase flopped almost lifelessly against the couch.
"Fine. I won't stop you," he answered, the nonchalant tone back. He sank back into a leather armchair.
Chase looked at him disbelievingly. It was getting harder and harder to think straight, let alone talk.
"Leave House," he managed to force out.
"Oh no. I'm here for the duration. Shame I didn't bring any popcorn." House shot back.
Chase involuntarily distorted his face. He knew that House could be cold, sometimes even bordering on sadistic, but he had no idea he would take it this far.
"This what you've – you've been waiting for all along? Waiting to see if I'd break, so you could… could witness the glorious breakdown?" He stumbled over the words as shivered and tremors overtook his body.
"There is no glory in death." House spoke the words quietly, staring at his hand as he fiddled with his cane, as if they were intended only for his own ears. They were echoes of words recited at another place, another time, with another dying body.
Chase felt his mind lose all grip of reality, and he surrendered to it. Not long. Did it really matter if House was here? Again, back to that question, did anything really matter now?
Chase sank back into the unconscious recesses of his mind.