A/N: I will venture further into the psyche of House in this chapter. I hope I don't stray too far out of character for your liking, but bear in mind that what we see of House on the surface is most definitely not all there is to House. This is my explanation of what's going on beneath that…
House stared at the broken form lying in front of him on the couch, undignified, almost repulsive with the sticky covering of vomit, and the thick layer of sweat, the odours and sights mingling and assuaging his nostrils. Yet still, House could see in him now a vulnerability that he had never been allowed to see before, not so blatantly at least. It was usually hidden behind the carefully constructed mask, only occasionally poking through the surface in the guise of anger, or a colder than usual remark.
He hadn't wanted to see him break. If anything, he might have tried to save Chase from himself. But Chase had hidden his true self well. House hadn't realised he was so close to breaking point. He wondered if this was the first time. Had something happened? Had his father died? Or had Chase been teetering on the edge of the precipice for so long that it only took the slightest change of balance to tip him?
House watched as Chase's wrist, dangling over the edge of the couch, began to twitch. Hauling himself out of the armchair, he leaned forwards to lower Chase to the ground as his whole body entered the throes of a violent seizure. Inserting a pillow under his head, House pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialled 911, all the while subconsciously stroking the hair from Chase's forehead.
As House gave the operator the details, he felt the head stir, and looked down to see two clear blue eyes meet his own. He had never really believed that you could see sadness in nothing but the eyes of a person, but for a moment, something in Chase's might have convinced him otherwise. But then there was nothing but a cold emptiness, and a second later, the eyes slid shut altogether.
The paramedics arrived and loaded Chase into the ambulance, and all the while, House remained uncharacteristically silent, speaking only to inform the paramedics of Chase's condition, and to request that Chase be taken to Princeton General, rather than PPTH. He figured it was the least he owed Chase. House didn't want to probe too much into his own actions or Chase's that night. Chase was dying. House was a doctor. He had stopped him from dying. Or at least he was trying. Drug overdoses were unpredictable at best, and there was no telling what kind of damage Chase might have caused himself.
But for the moment, House couldn't face anything other than the medical facts. He refused to think of the way Chase had locked eyes with him and told him with utter sincerity that he wanted to die. He refused to think of the fact that he had lied to Chase and disobeyed his choices. And he refused to think of the consequences.
As the ambulance pulled into the bay at the ER of Princeton General, House hung back as the doctors whisked Chase into the building. He had done his bit, he told himself. Leaning against the brick wall, House withdrew the orange pill bottle from his pocket and took three Vicodin. He didn't question himself over the dosage. He knew he was an addict, and he took what he needed.
Dipping his hand back into his pocket, he returned the pills and extracted his cell. Pressing the speed dial, he called Wilson's direct line.
"I'm with a patient, House," Wilson immediately responded.
"If that really bothered you, you wouldn't have picked up the phone. I need you to come get me from Princeton General," House stated, cutting straight to the chase, as it were.
"Princeton General? You're not upstairs in your office…?" questioned Wilson, clearly confused.
"Evidently not. Just get here." House snapped his cell shut, knowing that Wilson would be here. Heading up to the ER, House went to the reception desk and filled in the admissions papers as best as he could, but did not ask for details of Chase's condition. He didn't know whether it was through anger, disdain, or fear. He tried to tell himself he was indifferent, but deep inside he knew that wasn't the case. But it was easier to convince other people of that if you convinced yourself first. Again, House refused to question himself too deeply on the point. He never did. He made the decisions, and damn the consequences. Luckily from a medical point of view, his initial instincts were usually right, and though the patients might not appreciate his methods, they usually came out the better for them in the end. But relationships wise, House's methods proved to be very effective in cutting himself off from others. That was just who he was, he assured himself, and he managed to convince most of those around him, too. He wouldn't consider the possibility that his manners acted as a defence mechanism; as long as his sarcastic barrier was firmly in place, as long as he was the one doing the hurting, then no one could hurt him. Sure.
House paused for a moment before leaving his own number as a contact for Chase. But who else did Chase really have? Sliding the clipboard back over to the receptionist, House turned around without a word, ignoring her puzzled glance. But this was an ER. The receptionist was used to much worse. As long as the papers were filed without fuss, that was all that really mattered to her.
As House headed towards the exit, he found himself, completely accidentally, staring straight into the trauma room where a team of doctors moved swiftly but efficiently, attaching tubes and monitors to the blonde form on the bed. House briefly paused, noting with professional interest the way in which the doctors worked. Satisfied, he turned away from the sight and continued on his way toward the doors without once looking at the face of the patient on the bed.
Wilson drew up outside Princeton General, his eyes roving the parking lot for House. Wilson had learnt long ago that it was easier just to obey House's demands and ask questions later. At least 50 per cent of the time this proved to be the wisest course of action. As for the other 50 per cent, well, Wilson was tolerant. You had to be to put up with House. Spotting his friend leaning heavily against his cane on the pavement, Wilson drew alongside. House wordlessly opened the door and manoeuvred himself into the passenger seat.
Wilson was silent for a moment, waiting for an explanation, but when none was forth coming, he realised that this was going to take some probing.
"So… care to tell me what you're doing escaping from one hospital in the middle of the day just to go to another, where you don't even have the encumbrance of employment?" he asked, keeping his tone light.
"What can I say? I just can't get enough of the places. Thought I'd come and spread my medical wisdom around. It's not fair for PPTH to monopolise my genius." House responded. Wilson drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in a frustrated manner.
"And now are you going to tell me the real reason, seeing as you dragged me away from a patient in the middle of my shift?" he insisted, trying to prevent the annoyance from seeping into his voice, knowing it would only fuel House.
"Chase," the answer finally came. Wilson raised his eyebrows. "The doctor or the verb?" He prompted, wondering if House was ever going to explain.
"The verb. I've been playing kiss chase with all the cute nurses. I'm working my way around Princeton." House responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Wilson had time only to sigh exasperatedly before House continued. "He overdosed on Elavil. Suicide attempt." Wilson could only blink in amazement. After beating about the bush for so long, House was incredibly concise when he finally got to the point, and it came to Wilson as a complete bolt out of the blue. Finally gathering his wits about him, he began to ask, "How did you…?" He wasn't quite sure how to finish the question. Why did House know?
"He didn't turn up to work. I had a hunch." House answered the unasked question.
"Do you frequently get hunches that people are trying to end their lives just because they're late to work?" He asked in amazement. A part of him realised that the situation was really a little sombre for such comments, but he was still reeling from the shock of what House had told him.
"Chase is never late to work," House answered simply, as if this explained everything. "I don't want anyone to find out what happened yet. Let's see how this plays out," he continued. Wilson peeled his eyes away from the road to stare at House for a moment.
"Come on House. You can't be serious. You're obliged to tell his employer what happened," he said.
"I think you'll find I'm his primary employer. For now, he's on sick leave with flu, got it?" House said forcefully. Wilson knew it was futile to argue with House over the matter, but he couldn't understand it.
"Why are you trying to hide this?" Silence followed. Wilson glanced at House, but found his face expressionless, and he made no move to answer the question.
The question had made House think, and he wasn't willing to pursue the chain of thought. Because he didn't know why he was doing this. It amounted to protecting Chase, and his job. Chase had betrayed him, had nearly got him fired to save his own skin, yet House was protecting Chase. And he didn't really want to look into the reasons why. He hadn't even made the decision consciously, the words had just slipped out of his mouth, and yet he realised that it was true. He didn't want anyone to know. He wanted Chase to have his privacy, at least until (he suppressed the thought "if") Chase woke up, and could start to make his own decisions.
Yet Wilson's question had set his mind racing. He wouldn't allow himself to believe that he in any way cared about Chase, suppressing the tug of heartstrings that tried to convince him otherwise. But at the very least, he owed Chase something, something he would never admit out loud, but couldn't deny to himself. Because he couldn't stifle entirely the feeling of guilt that was ever so slightly beginning to nag at him. At least, he thought that was what it was. He felt this way so rarely that it was a little hard to identify.
But what he had done rang some bells personally. House was used to ignoring the wishes of patients in order to save their lives. But generally that was because patients were stupid, ignorant, and frightened, and allowed their view of House to affect their judgement. But Chase had looked him in the eye, and told him that he wanted to die. And House had ignored him.
House pushed the thoughts out of his mind as Wilson parked his car in his spot at PPTH. The car came to a halt and Wilson glanced at House as he removed the key from the ignition and reached for the door handle. For the first time in the journey, House turned to Wilson and made eye contact, making Wilson pause.
"Just… keep it to yourself for the moment, would you James?" House requested. The use of his proper first name struck Wilson and he realised that House was serious. Whatever his reasons were, Wilson decided that for the moment he would trust House's judgement. Giving a slight nod of affirmation, he pushed the car door open, and waited for House to get out. Then the pair headed into the hospital in silence.
House stomped into his office to find Foreman at the coffee maker, but no one else around. Foreman raised his eyebrows at the late appearance of his boss, but decided to refrain from commenting. He doubted that he would come out on top of an exchange with House at this time in the morning.
"Cameron's running bloods," he remarked, feeling the need to say something to House, who seemed to have no intention of enquiring after the patient himself.
"Goodie." House remarked, looking at the board, his own scrawl now accompanied by Cameron's neat print. Without uttering another word, he opened the door to his office and switched on his TV as he limped over to his chair. Foreman rolled his eyes as he sipped at his coffee and moved to sit down at the conference table. There was little point in questioning House's odd behaviour at this point. He was more curious at this point as to the whereabouts of the third duckling. House was always odd, but Chase was never away. Realising that he was unlikely to get an answer out of House until he was ready to answer, and he clearly wasn't yet, Foreman shook out the paper on the table and began reading the headlines to pass the time until Cameron returned.