A/N: I'm glad I got the last chapter over with, it is probably my least favourite of the story. But I wrote it so long ago that I didn't have the enthusiasm to fiddle. Thank you for all the reviews so far!
Chase lay motionless on the bed, curled onto his side, eyes open but unmoving. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. His mind was filled with thoughts that rushed around nonsensically through the caverns of his mind. Why had House come? Chase vaguely recollected that he might have seen him the day before as well, but his memories from then were hazy to say the least. But the puzzle was keeping him awake.
Chase could almost understand House's need to save him, to call the ambulance when he had been dying on his couch. House solved puzzles and saved lives. He dealt with the physical need. He knew that it did not revolve around emotional attachment; it was simply his own desire to solve mysteries and preserve life. It didn't mean anything.
But what Chase couldn't understand was why House had come back, why he wouldn't just let Chase go. If he had ever needed an excuse, now was the time. House had, of course, had opportunities to get rid of Chase before. Chase believed that the only reason that he hadn't fired him when Vogler left was so that he could punish him slowly and personally instead, then maybe fire him just before his fellowship was officially completed, just to deprive him of the satisfaction of finality.
But this wasn't the same as allowing Chase to stay. This required another sort of effort.
In all the time that Chase had worked under House, he had never seen him get involved in a patient's aftercare, except on the rare occasions that there was something in it for him. So what did he have to offer House, Chase wondered?
Whatever it was, Chase doubted that House's motives were innocent, or in his own best interests. He didn't know whether House meant to torture him further in some way in which Chase couldn't yet understand, or whether there was another even more unfathomable motive behind his interest. What he did know was that he didn't intend to stick around to become House's plaything, a slightly more animate version of the characters he spent all day playing with on his Gameboy, a crying, talking, sleeping, walking, living doll. Chase closed his eyes as a nurse entered the room and began adjusting his drip; if he was caught staring blankly at the wall all day, he would be back in the psych wing before he could blink.
House awoke unusually early, with the familiar pain gnawing at his leg. Cursing under his breath at the irritating wake up call, House groped blindly about his bedside table for his Vicodin. After several clumsy and fruitless efforts, he finally recalled that he had left the pills by the bathroom sink. Hitting the light switch with a little more force than was necessary, he located his cane and hauled himself stiffly to his feet. There would be no more sleep that night.
Entering the bathroom, he flicked the light switch and winced at the unnaturally harsh light, and the pale reflection that his pain creased face cast in the mirror. Rubbing his gritty, bloodshot eyes, he made his way to the kitchen and stuck the coffee maker on, yawning profusely, and then shuffled awkwardly over to the piano stool.
Resting his fingers over the smooth keys, he struck a broken blues chord and began to work a tune around it. He frowned as a rogue finger struck a discordant note, then moments later, another. Pulling his hands away from the keys, as if for fear of damaging the instrument, he sighed and headed back towards the kitchen, distractedly clutching his thigh. House reached for the freshly brewed coffee, and gulped generously, then spluttered as the still boiling liquid scorched first his tongue and then his throat. Slamming the cup down on the side board as if it had intentionally affronted him, House glared at the mug, then turned resolutely and hobbled back to his bedroom. Pulling on an unwashed pair of pants from several days earlier and a shirt that had been ironed at least once in the past month, he reached for his jacket and retrieved his car keys. He wasn't quite sure where he was heading, at least not consciously, but his day in his apartment didn't seem to be getting off to the best of starts.
Chase sat on the edge of the bed in a plain white t shirt and a pair of navy scrubs pants that the hospital had procured for him, holding in his hand a clipboard with a set of papers attached.
"You realise that you are signing out against medical advice, and that by signing these papers, you relieve this hospital and its staff of any legal obligations concerning your health," said the boringly middle aged doctor before him.
Chase smiled humourlessly back at the doctor. "I'm a doctor," he assured. "I can take care of myself." Handing the clipboard over to the doctor, he levered himself up from the bed, and tried to hide the inevitable dizziness that came from the combination of still lowered blood pressure and lack of proper food. Chase bent over his wrist to remove the patient ID band, but looked up when the door swung open abruptly.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Asked an irate House, looking, if possible, even more dishevelled than usual.
The boringly middle aged doctor assumed an expression of slight alarm, the only emotion Chase had seen him display during his day under his care.
Chase looked House in the eye and said simply, "home." As far as he was concerned, House had no business to be there, and therefore no grounds to argue with Chase.
House glowered at Chase before turning his attention to the other doctor. "You haven't signed him out, have you, you moron?" He demanded.
"I – I did advise Mr – D – Dr Chase to remain under our care, but he's s – signing out AMA." Chase noted the stutter with vague interest. It must only appear when nervous. He must have been bullied like hell for that in his school days. Explained a lot, Chase reflected.
It didn't seem to cross the middle aged doctor's mind to ask who this scruffy looking cripple that had just charged into the room was. Somehow House just had an air of authority about him.
"If you'll excuse me," he half squeaked, as House banged his cane angrily on the floor. House scrutinised him for a split second as if trying to decide whether it was worth trying to make his life a misery, but then seemed to decide he had a worthier cause. Chase couldn't decide whether he felt more exasperated or confused by House's inexplicable appearance and his reaction to Chase's actions.
"What do you want House?" he asked, unsure as to whether he was merely asking the question because it seemed obvious, or whether he actually cared about the answer.
"Bored of your new playmates already?" House asked, his tone sarcastically curious as he leaned laconically against the doorway. Chase quickly decided that he was very much uninterested in anything that House could have to say. He reached to push the door open.
"Ouch!" he exclaimed, as House's cane shot up to bar his way, catching him sharply on the wrist. "Let me go," he said quietly but deliberately. He wasn't in the mood to play mind games with House. In fact, he absolutely intended never to see House again.
"Uh uh, no escape from the zoo today," House said, his tone playfully mocking. Chase felt his breathing and heart rate increase, the sensations heightened by his still erratic heart beat.
"You're not my doctor, House. You can't make me do anything. Do you plan on standing there until security comes to remove you?" Chase would have been shouting had his voice not still been suffering owing to the tube that had been shoved down his throat until the day before, coupled with the repetitive throwing up and dehydration.
"We discussed this, or has oxygen deprivation given you memory loss? I am your doctor, and I am your boss, and therefore I do have control over you."
Thump, thump, thump. Chase could feel his heart beating faster and faster as his body reacted involuntarily to House's words. He was becoming increasingly angry and desperate. He felt like all the control was been stripped away from him. First House had deprived him of his right to die; now he was taking it one step further, and depriving him of his right to live the way he wanted as well.
Chase felt his head grow light as his body strove to pump blood to all his organs, fighting against the decreased blood pressure. He wasn't sure whether he moved deliberately towards the door frame, or whether he fell against it, but he was suddenly aware that it was taking a large proportion of his weight.
House seized his moment. Seeing Chase struggle to remain upright, he grabbed the wheelchair that was waiting to deliver Chase firmly over the threshold of Princeton Hospital (abandoned by the orderly at the sight of a manic looking House striding straight towards him down the corridor), and placed a hand on Chase's shoulder, forcing him into the chair. As Chase struggled to hold on to consciousness, House gripped the handles of the chair and manoeuvred himself and Chase out of the hospital room and down the corridor.
Chase sat in the passenger seat of House's car in silence. When House had appeared in the hospital room, Chase had been angry. What right did House have to interfere with his life? But now, Chase simply felt resigned. He had spent his life being controlled by other people. This was no different. At least when he let someone else take charge, let their wishes dictate his, at least then he had some kind of direction. Left to his own devices, his life was simply meaningless. He was meaningless. So he allowed House to bundle him into his car, and didn't question where he was taking him. He didn't respond to House's sarky comments. In fact, he hadn't made eye contact with him at all since House had forced him into the wheelchair. He would do what House directed him to until such point as he could muster any motivation to allow for anything else, one way or the other. Because at this moment in time he didn't think he was capable of getting up in the morning.
Chase didn't quite know where he had been planning on going or what he had been planning on doing when he woke up that morning. He was only aware that he didn't want to stay in the hospital anymore. He didn't even want to be in Princeton any more.
A/N: Ok, so I quoted Cliff Richard. Forgive me.