As House pulled into his parking space at his block, he glanced over at his passenger. He looked lifeless. He hadn't resisted the movements of the car as it swung around the corners, allowing his head to bang against the window; hadn't reacted at all as House had floored the accelerator, hitting nearly 100km/hr on the 50 km stretch. It was disturbing, even from the generally blasé Chase. At least during the other encounters House had had with Chase since he awoke, the younger man had shown some sort of emotion. Now he seemed to have completely stopped caring, and House was more than a little worried about what he might do now that he was away from the supervision of the hospital.
Ignoring the voice within him that tried to tell him it wasn't his duty to care, that he should simply abandon Chase and let him do what he wanted, whatever that might mean, House had instead driven back to his apartment.
Getting out of the car, he waited for Chase. But Chase made no move to get out of the vehicle himself. House couldn't decide whether Chase was cutting himself off from the outside world, and therefore honestly hadn't noticed the car stop, or whether he was trying to exert control over the few actions that had been left to him.
House went to the other side of the car, and opened Chase's door.
"Chase," he stated loudly. Chase turned and looked up at him, a good sign, but his face was entirely blank of expression, and he made no response to House. House gritted his teeth. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't really thought. He had just done what his instincts had told him to, something that he hadn't allowed himself to do (at least not when it came to his own life) since Stacey had left.
"Undo your seat strap," he ordered. Chase blinked and turned away from House, then slowly reached for the buckle and unclipped the belt.
"Get out," House demanded. Again, Chase followed the instruction. House had the strong impression that if he were to say, "Lick my shoes", Chase would obey without question. Resisting the urge to try, House shut the car door behind Chase and gave him a (reasonably) gentle shove in the direction of the building. "Follow," he stated over his shoulder as he headed for the elevator to his building.
House unlocked his apartment and steered Chase straight towards the bedroom, forcing Chase down onto the bed.
"Don't worry. I'm not intending to have my wicked way with you," he said to Chase, but Chase simply continued to stare down at his hands as he twisted them to and fro in his lap.
House paused to think. He really hadn't thought this through logically. He was only aware that if he left Chase to his own devices, he wouldn't be sticking around, not in Princeton, and possibly not in the world.
After a moment thinking, House set about on a plan of action. Leaving Chase sitting on the side of the bed staring at his hands, he entered the bathroom and locked his medical cabinet, containing all his pills and razors. Withdrawing his penknife from his pocket, he removed the bolt from the bathroom door. Then he moved onto the bedroom, locating all the sharp objects (he had a surprising number, considering his lack of attention to his personal grooming), and adding them to the stash in the medical cupboard. He was glad his bedroom window was double glazed and screwed shut; one less thing to worry about. He removed the sheets and covers from the bed, leaving a bare mattress and a duvet, and then glancing about his room, he locked his closet, containing all his belts and ties.
Judging that his room was now as wombat proof as it was ever going to be, House turned towards Chase, who was still standing having been forced to get up whilst House stripped the bed.
"I'm protecting my stuff, not you," he informed Chase. Chase merely looked at House with the same blank expression he had been wearing since they left the hospital. "Go to sleep," he ordered Chase. Chase lay down on the bed, still on top of the now coverless duvet, and stared straight up at the ceiling, but didn't close his eyes. Deciding that it was easiest to leave him as he was for the moment, House exited his bedroom and locked the door, then picked up his phone and dialled Wilson.
"Dr Wilson", answered the all too perky voice of his colleague, especially given the fact that it was still only nine thirty in the morning, and he and Wilson had spent a fair amount of time out drinking the night before.
"I need a prescription for Remeron. And I need you to go buy me a couch-bed." House said. There was a moment of silence.
"Morning to you too, House. Finally decided that you're going to buy me a proper bed to sleep on when I'm at your place? I'm touched. But unless you're inviting me to move in with you, it's traditional to do your own furniture shopping. And I thought Vicodin was your drug of choice." Wilson answered back. House rolled his eyes, as if he expected Wilson to psychically predict his desires.
"Not for you dummy, or me. For Chase", House clarified. "For a boy wonder, you sometimes don't appear to have much between the ears."
"Before, I was just mildly confused. Now you have me seriously worried. Chase is staying at your place? Where is the real House and what have you done with him?" Wilson asked dramatically.
"House has caught the flu. It's going round. Go tell Cuddy, then get your ass down to the furniture shop. Make sure they can deliver today. And buy something nice. It'll benefit you in the future." House slammed the phone down, knowing Wilson would do as he said.
At three in the afternoon, House found himself directing a number of incompetent delivery men as to the position of the dark teak couch-bed. As they finally managed to settle it, House waited for them leave, yet they hovered expectantly.
House raised his eyebrows at the butch, over muscled pair. "What, you want blow jobs or something?" He questioned. Flushing indignantly, they fairly scurried out of the door. Wilson flopped down on the new couch next to House.
"So what have you done with Chase?" He asked. House pointed his thumb in the direction of the bedroom, leaning back into the couch and pinching the bridge of his nose, warding off a headache. Popping a Vicodin, he remembered the prescription for Remeron that he had asked Wilson to bring.
"Have you got the Remeron? Asides from helping with the depression it should make him feel less nauseas and help him to eat and sleep." Wilson produced the bottle from his bag and handed it to House.
"Is he safe to be left alone?" Wilson asked. Given the impression that he had gotten from House about Chase's condition, that was pretty much the last thing he needed right now.
"I've kiddie proofed my room," House answered as he got up and went into the kitchen, reaching for a can of soup and a pan, "And he isn't feeling all that sociable right now," he finished, heating up the soup.
"Shall I go wake him?" Wilson asked. He secretly wondered whether Chase's condition might be partly to do with House's lack of bedside manner.
"Sure," House responded. He guessed Wilson's suspicions, so it was best if he let him see for himself. "Get him to come to the table."
Wilson reached for the door handle, but turning it, realised that it was locked. Groping for the key on the shelf beside the door, he unlocked it and entered the room.
Chase was lying flat on the bed with his arms wrapped around his stomach, and his eyes snapped open immediately as Wilson entered the room, making him doubt whether Chase had ever been asleep.
"Chase?" He tried tentatively. Chase turned to look at him, but made no other movement. "Do you want to come out to the kitchen? There's some soup ready."
Chase stared at him blankly for a moment, as if processing the information, then shook his head minutely and returned his gaze to the ceiling.
"You have to eat Chase, or you're going back to the hospital." Wilson said in his sternest voice (which wasn't all that stern).
Chase seemed to realise that Wilson required some kind of verbal communication. "I never asked to be here." He supplied.
Wilson sighed. He was starting to see that if left to his own devices, Chase would probably simply drift away, first mentally, and then physically.
House appeared in the door way, and strode over to Chase's bed. "Get up," he said forcefully. Chase blinked, and for a moment Wilson thought that he might cry, but then he rolled over and sat up, pausing for a moment on the edge of the bed. Wilson looked as his friend with admiration.
"He only responds to direct orders," House informed him. Wilson glanced at "he" to see if he would dispute the way House talked as if he wasn't in the room, but Chase showed no reaction, other than standing up. Seeing the way Chase swayed to the side, clearly unsteady, Wilson hurriedly moved forwards and placed a supportive arm under Chase's elbow, but after most of the imbalance had passed, Chase threw off the arm and staggered off towards the kitchen. Wilson glanced at House significantly, worried about both Chase's physical and mental condition.
As House began to follow Chase into the kitchen, Wilson put a restraining arm on House's. "Don't you think he'd be better off committed to the psychiatric wing of a hospital?" he asked. House simply shook his head and moved off towards the kitchen.
"That'll kill him," House replied, not turning to look at Wilson. Wilson was a little confused as to House's comment, but decided to keep quiet for now.
Chase hovered in the kitchen, seemingly unwilling to commit himself to a chair. House pushed down on his shoulder, forcing him into the chair, then placed a bowl of soup, a spoon, a glass of water and two white pills. Chase looked at him questioningly, but made no move. It was becoming a familiar pattern.
"Eat the soup, drink the water, and take the pills." House realised that there was little chance of Chase doing anything at all without being ordered. It was like dealing with a child. But fortunately, House had never had his own kids, so he had never had to be the one responsible for one. But in a strange sort of way, he had given Chase life, and had landed himself with the responsibility of making sure that Chase turned out ok.
Chase picked up the spoon and toyed with it, but even with House's order, he didn't want to eat the soup. His mind had gone blank (it was easier that way, it blocked out the other negative feelings), and Chase had just allowed House's orders to penetrate his mind and then carried out, silencing the part of his brain that questioned, "Why should I do that?" But now his body was interfering. Chase felt sick just looking at the soup.
"Put spoon in bowl, transfer soup to mouth." House clarified. Chase dipped the spoon in the bowl, his hand shaking as he brought it back up, spilling most of the soup back into the bowl. House watched intently as he sipped at the liquid, his face bearing an expression of distaste. House didn't know whether to be displeased with the lack of enthusiasm that Chase was showing or pleased that he was actually managing to express an opinion over something for the first time since House had taken him away from the hospital.
A moment later, Chase gagged, and House decided he was definitely displeased.
"Bucket under the sink," he said to Wilson, who was already on his feet. Wilson dashed to the sink and retrieved the bucket, bringing it back just in time to catch the soup that Chase's body had decided to reject. Chase continued to gag over the bucket, but could bring nothing up.
House gripped his shoulder in support as Chase lurched over the bucket, bringing up nothing. Wilson sat down with a wet cloth on the other side of Chase, placing a gentle hand on his other shoulder.
"Sshh, Chase," he consoled. "Breathe through it, there nothing left to come up. You just have to control the gag reflex."
House wondered if Chase was capable of controlling anything at this moment in time, but his physical discomfort seemed to give his mind the power to think for a minute, and gradually his breathing retuned to normal and the retching stopped. Wilson leaned over and wiped Chase's mouth with the cloth, then Chase seemed to return to his senses, pushing the bucket away and laying his head on top of his arms on the table. House picked up the glass of water and forced Chase's head up.
"Sip," he demanded, bringing the glass to Chase's lips. Chase was shaking too much to resist House, so instead he swallowed weakly, hoping it wouldn't come back up in the same way in a minute.
"Take him back to bed," House ordered Wilson. Wilson stood and heaved Chase to his feet, half dragging him back to House's bed.
House grabbed his medical bag, the pills and the glass of water, and followed into the room. Wilson had pulled the covers back, so that this time Chase was lying under the duvet rather than on it. Placing the glass and the pills on the edge of the table, House reached into his medical bag and withdrew his stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. Securing the cuff around Chase's arm, he pumped it full of air and waited for the reading.
"74 over 46," he read off. "Still too low." Lifting Chase's shirt, he pressed his stethoscope against Chase's chest and listened intently for over a minute. "Heart rate approximately 104 and irregular." He looked up at Chase worriedly, but the younger man displayed no emotion. "Take these," House ordered, holding the pills out. Chase eyed the pills warily. Funny, House considered, that he cared what the pills were, given the fact that he had been trying to use them to kill himself a few days ago.
House wondered if Chase would verbalise his obvious suspicion of the pills, but eventually he merely accepted them, and allowed House to help him control the glass of water to his mouth so that he could swallow them down.
"It's Remeron, it should help you sleep and control the nausea," House informed Chase, as he apparently wasn't going to enquire on his own behalf.
House waited tensely to see if Chase's body would accept the pills, but after a few moments, Chase's eyelids began to droop and his breathing evened out. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, House retrieved the glass and his medical bag and motioned Wilson out of the room, locking the door behind him.
"He should be in the hospital you know House, he's clearly not recovered enough," Wilson stated as they sat down on the new couch. "What if he goes into cardiac arrest, or starts seizing, or suffocates on vomit, or – you get the idea." Wilson finished.
"If I'd left him in the hospital, he would have only found another way to escape, or tried to off himself again," House answered coarsely. Wilson said nothing in response to his gruff tone; he knew that it meant House cared, but didn't want to show it. "The psychological affects would only have been worse in the hospital. At least here I can keep an eye on him," House said resolutely. Any indecision was gone. "I need you to get some diazepam in case of seizing, epinephrine, IV fluids, bicarbonate, and syringes", House directed, soliciting raised eyebrows from Wilson.
"You're planning on setting up a mini hospital, in your own home, using stolen hospital supplies," he asked dubiously. House assumed a patronising smile.
"Worried about getting into trouble with the big bad Cuddy?" He teased. "Don't worry about it. We're both doctors there. We have a right to those supplies for our patients."
"Except for the fact that Chase is not, nor has he ever been, admitted at PPTH," Wilson pointed out.
"If you're too chicken, get Foreman to do it. Say it's for… an epileptic kid dying of cancer with an electrolyte imbalance who wants to die in the comfort of his own home. He only has a few hours to live don't you know, hurry along!" He urged, flapping his hands at Wilson. Wilson sighed and got to his feet begrudgingly. How did House always manage to get around him? But then he thought of Chase lying in the other room. House didn't always use the most legitimate methods to get what he wanted, but Wilson honestly believed, even if at times he had doubted, that House was working for the right objectives.
A/N: I don't know if couch bed is the correct term, but I googled it and it came up with millions of results, so I went with it. It is also entirely possible that House already has a couch bed, I couldn't quite remember. So again I employ artistic licence, favourite of lazy authors throughout the world.