Warning(s): Language.
Chapter 11
A few hours later the patient was on their way to recovery. It turned out to be an infection –pretty garden variety, if you're fertilizing your garden with your own feces and then eat without properly washing your hands. Still, people do strange things and sometimes it's just strange circumstances. It wasn't the typical type of case for the diagnostics team but they couldn't all be hits. Every once in a while there was a miss and it left them pretty antsy. They'd geared up for another marathon diagnostic and testing session. They were ready for numerous differentials, ready to duck Cuddy, steal MRI time and pretty much do whatever it took to save their patient. That their patient wasn't that sick was kind of a let down. And House wasn't about to let Foreman forget it. This patient had been his idea.
The jibes and taunts quickly got tiring and the three fellows made their escape when House's back was turned, literally. He went to his office to get his oversized tennis ball, still ranting, and when he turned back the conference room was empty.
House's eyes shifted across the vacant room. Their mugs of coffee and bottles of water were still out. The pen Chase had been gnawing was abandoned on the table, as was the journal Foreman had been using as a shield against their boss's remarks. The only things missing were the three people that had been there a moment ago.
"Oh, hoh hoh! I trained them too well." With a smile he walked to the table and picked up the still full cup of coffee Chase had bought from some café he'd gone to on his break. House wasn't familiar with the place and when, with an unconcerned raise of his eyebrows, he sipped, he wasn't fond of the flavour. Too sweet –just the way Chase liked it, so he sipped again. He savoured the beverage that he didn't like and welcomed the return of many more tomorrow, the next day, and the day after. Standing there alone with the characteristic silence of the hospital –that wasn't really silence at all with the ambient tone from the busy people and sick people not far away –he took the time to bask in the almost-normalcy. He could feel it sliding back. The siren song of familiarity and comfort beckoned and it would have been so easy to follow it. He could antagonize them while throwing a very unusual case in their lap. Watch them scurry to best each other with their respective diagnoses. When he gave out work he could split it into packets of three again. He could watch Chase slide back in to the image he'd been portraying probably his whole life. He came to a decision.
H
Chase's head dropped when he heard the door open. He considered hiding behind one of the ventilation intakes. The person would look around, find nothing and leave. He'd have his solace again or at least silence. Solace was far away.
He didn't hide though. It seemed a little too childish. Besides, if someone really wanted to find him there were only so many places he could go. The roof was his favourite.
Chase glanced to the side then turned back to the view. He didn't ask House why he was here. He didn't really want to know. He knew that House would speak when he wanted to and not a moment sooner, so he saved his breath.
An autumn breeze drifted over the hospital catching in the short strands of blonde hair on the younger man's head. House tried not to stare. The uneven cut, that he imagined Chase had done himself and rather hastily in Trenton, had been evened out, probably by a barber in the days between his release and his return to work. It looked good. He'd heard many of the nurses commenting on the new cut. They didn't know the story behind it though, so for them it was just a new look. House and the others knew. All House could see was the story behind it and the shadows behind Chase's peculiarly coloured eyes. They weren't quite blue and not exactly green. It was a hue House had spent quite a bit of time trying to name even before Chase had been incarcerated, before he found out about Chase's relationship with the late Zinedine René. Now those eyes were coloured with melancholy and buried pain. House knew that much of that was because of him.
Chase had said it wasn't. He'd said they were pawns and that was all. But that wasn't all. The little voice in his head was telling him that wasn't all. And somewhere in the 'all' he couldn't clearly define, House thought he could see his handiwork. Chase's attempt to assuage his guilt hadn't helped. It only made House see that the young man was either blinded by his admiration and just couldn't see it, or that perhaps Chase liked him and wanted to protect him. It was…romantic, which House usually equated with stupid. Usually.
It wasn't stupid however if it worked in his favour, and the devious part of his mind that couldn't be silenced was screaming at him that he had an in and to take it. Chase actually liked him, the person that he was –most of the time anyway. It was enough and he couldn't turn his back to that.
"You okay?" From the corner of his eye he could see Chase's expression morph into moderate confusion at the uncharacteristic inquiry.
"I'm fine."
House nodded knowing that Chase was lying –or if not lying then at least deluding himself. He wasn't sure which was worse but he knew which would lead to a bigger fall when everything finally caught up with him.
Chase's mind was busy trying to deduce House's motives. It wasn't an easy job. People like House could seem so simple one moment and then supremely complex the next. In the end it was an easy way to ignore his own problems.
"So what's with you and Wilson?" Chase asked not taking his eyes from the horizon. He may not have been paying a whole lot of attention a couple of nights ago but he'd have to be blind, deaf, and extremely dumb not to notice the tension.
House didn't react sharply to the question. "Do you really want to know?"
Chase shrugged.
"When did you realize you liked guys?" House asked with the same frankness as Chase's question about his personal life. It wasn't revenge. He was trying to feel out which avenue would get to what he wanted.
Again Chase shrugged. "When he came on to me and I wasn't immediately revolted."
"René," House deduced. His hunch was confirmed with a nod.
"Why so curious about my sexuality? Questioning yours?"
House snorted. "Please." He liked to think he always knew what he was. Straight, gay, bi, whatever, those were labels for people who needed to fit themselves into something bigger. He didn't feel that need. He could be objective about looks and attraction, but there were few people with whom he'd actually allow himself to take that attraction further, especially if he wasn't paying them.
"Then why are you here?"
"Can't I just care?"
Chase gave up on a straight answer. Straight –the word brought a weak laugh out of him. "Nothing," he said when House looked questioningly at him. "I'm going in," he announced and pivoted to do just that.
House wasn't about to let him go. "When are you going to stop pretending like it didn't happen?" he asked out to the landscape where a few keen trees were already beginning to change colour.
Chase didn't turn around completely, only enough that he could see House clearly.
"Excuse you?" His eyes narrowed and his tone dared House to be so brazen as to assume he knew anything about what was in his head.
House faced him and didn't back down. "You were raped!"
The admission, even from someone else's lips hit him like an accusing slap to the face. Chase shook his head, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. "–probably on more than one occasion, possibly by more than one inmate."
"Shut up!" Chase's hands were balled into tight fists, the pain of his nails digging in to his palm distracting him from the pounding of his heart and the threatening images of past violations.
"It's not the hardest deduction to make. You're quiet, withdrawn, depressed even. And I know that you couldn't fight them all off. Not by yourself." Not with looks like that. Even angry Chase was nice to stare at.
"Sod off, House!"
"Cursing at me isn't going to help you."
"You're not one to talk about needing help! Your leg is fine but you're still popping Vicodin like a druggy!"
"At least I can admit it," House countered, undeterred by the attack. He wasn't going to let this conversation be shifted. He liked the emotion he was finally getting out of the other man.
Chase threw his arms up in exasperation. "What do you want me to do? You want to me to rant and rage, throw things, break something?"
"For starters."
"And after that can I cry on your shoulder?" Chase scoffed.
"If you want." The swift and honest answer brought the argument to a quick halt. "But if you ruin my shirt you have to get me a new one, and not the ugly ones that you have. I don't know where you shop but we'll have to find somewhere-"
"Wait," Chase interrupted still confused. "What…" He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands before letting them drag down his face. House wasn't sure if he was surprised or not that Chase's eyes were completely dry. "You want me to…"
House finished simply, "I want you to move past this."
Chase wanted to tell him it wasn't that easy. There was so much that House didn't know. So much that only he could know. He couldn't move anywhere until it was resolved. He wasn't sure how that was going to happen. He got the feeling he was waiting for something. They did the same thing when they had a tough case, waited for something to change. He had that same anxious and impotent feeling now.
"I will." It sounded like a promise. It was the best he could do for now. House seemed to agree and his head dipped just a little in a nod. He blinked down the paved roof for a moment then back up to Chase. Seconds ticked by until finally House made a move. He walked until he was in front of the Aussie, just a little offset and –after a brief hesitation while his mind rapidly evaluated the wisdom of his next action –he reached to gently uncurl the tense fist of the younger man's left hand. He ran his thumb in a massaging motion along the red indents in Chase's palm made by the force of his nails biting in to them.
Chase's head was tilted down, watching with a detached fascination the movements of the older, more worn, but no less skilled hands. He told him again, "You don't have to feel guilty."
House shook his head not wanting Chase to chalk all of this up to guilt. Guilt faded with time. Sometimes it lingered for ages but its potency was lost only to flare up in moments few and far between. No, this wasn't all guilt. It just forced him to face his part in all this and what his part could be as he made amends and beyond. It coerced him into revealing more of himself than usual, whispered to him that this risk might be worth the reward. He could stuff it all back to the corner of his mind and let things go back to a semblance of what they were, but after months of worrying, raging and fighting, that wasn't an easy task. Those hidden, barely acknowledged sentiments were exposed by his remorse, forcing the revelation of this opportunity. He both owed it to try and was owed this chance.
Chase gently extricated his hand from the other man's grip, growing more uncomfortable with the proximity and the intimacy as time ticked by. House let go, easily reading the volumes of tension. He remained there trying to catch Chase's eyes, succeeding for a moment, and then he walked to the exit catching eyes briefly with the person standing in the doorway. House didn't know how much of the exchange had been witnessed. He wouldn't ask although he'd have ample opportunity to do so. He grabbed on to the white lab coat hanging off the broad shoulders, and pulled taking Dr. Wilson with him. They left Chase on the roof, non-the-wiser.
"He's not ready for a relationship, House."
As soon as there were out of sight of the roof access, and he was sure that Wilson wasn't going to rush back up, House let go of the lab coat and continued his descent. "So I guess it's okay for you since you just want to fuck him."
"At least I'm not fucking with him!"
The diagnostician stopped mid-flight. "I'm not."
James descended so that he was standing on the same stair. He didn't like that he had to look up to meet his friend's eyes but they need to be on the same level, in both senses.
James thought he was beginning to see, to understand. This was it. The end of that ignored something between them. A little more attention, a little TLC and it could have been something like what Greg seemed to have, or could with another man. Wilson admitted his fault in all this. He'd picked Chase, someone like House but less intimidating, less important to him personally but who was still entwined with the diagnostician. If he'd started something with the intensivist and it had ended badly, he would have shrugged, maybe had a good laugh –because he could be callous like that sometimes –and moved on. He couldn't have done the same with House. Messing up their unique and important friendship wasn't an option. He couldn't risk it. As much as he might love Greg in some way that went beyond that of best-est buddies, he couldn't risk loosing him, upsetting this precarious balance. God knew there were times when he hated House, but he didn't know if he could make it without him.
So he would step back here. Step away from the situation, let House pursue with another an option he'd lost, maybe years ago. He nodded to himself, his choice made.
"Just-"
"I know," House interrupted in a whine. When his eyes rolled back down from the ceiling he repeated it again, "I know," this time in all seriousness.
Wilson's lips parted a little as though something was about to be said. House watched the movement closely. The familiar motion was an alluring mystery of sensation he'd never know. Wilson's mouth closed again without sound. His head dipped forward, a nod of acceptance, of defeat, maybe both. The oncologist descended to the next level and walked out the doors to from the stairwell to the floor.
After watching the door swing closed Greg stared up at the underside of the above flight of stairs, lamenting for what was lost and at the same time being grateful for what he still had, and might one day have.
H
They'd just received word and it set the gears spinning in Detective Bobby Goren's head. The NYPD detective had gathered stacks of information about the Islington murders and Dr. Chase's arrest. His boss hadn't been pleased with the side-project distracting him from his current cases but sometimes you had to let the man follow his hunch. So the Captain had initially given Goren and Eames some time to put it all together but there were so many moving pieces, so many players it had been hard to know who was controlling who. Slowly their crusade had taken a back seat to their active investigations and the Chase conundrum relegated to a bottom drawer and a corner of their minds. Or so it had been until this new development.
"Emmanuel Montrose is dead."
At her partner's announcement the blonde woman began flipping through her notes, trying to figure out who Montrose was and how he was connected to their case. It sometimes bothered her that she couldn't make the leaps of knowledge that he did. She didn't like feeling left behind. Right now she couldn't recall anyone by the name Montrose connected to the current string of murders in to which they were looking.
"No, he's from the Islington case," Goren provided. He dropped into the chair at his desk. "They say it was suicide." He held up the paper sent from the Medical Examiner's office.
Eames closed her notepad. "They say?" She watched him shrug in a manner that usually indicated he was going with the opinion of the experts even though he suspected different.
"The M.E. thinks suicide –won't be certain until the autopsy is complete. They found him with a sheet tied around his neck and the bars to his cell. It looks like he just kneeled and leaned forward until he asphyxiated."
"Well, suicides aren't uncommon in prison."
"No, they aren't. But it could have been staged." He began rifling through the drawers of his desk looking for the file he'd put his Islington/Chase case notes in.
Eames was turning his theory over in her head. She'd learnt not to ignore outright her partners suppositions, no matter how contrived they might seem. He was right more often than he was wrong. "A suicide wouldn't be investigated as much as a murder. It's usually pretty easy to tell who's on whose bad side."
"So somebody on Montrose's bad side who wanted to get rid of him without drawing attention to himself would kill him and make it look like a suicide," said Bobby Goren, triumphant at last. After being unable to get a clear picture of the players in this whole mess he'd been unable to put together a coherent theory. The Warden of Trenton had directed his inquiries to the head of the prison guards, Theriault. That man had been less than helpful but not quite belligerent enough for Goren to call him out on it. Now he had something solid.
He quickly pulled a file from the bottom drawer and dumped it on the top of his desk before the notes could fly out. They'd only connected Montrose to Chase through the doctor's involvement with the criminal's son. It had been their last breakthrough before the case had fallen off their radar, and it hadn't brought them any closer to who was behind the previously suspected and now confirmed framing. "Emmanuel Orel Montrose, citizen of Switzerland, naturalized in nineteen seventy-one. No wife, one son: Zinedine René Montrose, who lived mostly with his mother and only visited his father on special occasions. The elder Montrose was arrested on racketeering charges, convicted and sentenced to ten years in Trenton. Although he's based in New York they could only make the Jersey counts stick."
"Racketeering is mob territory," Eames added.
Goren nodded, barely suppressing his excitement that his theory was coming together and was believable. He continued in a rush. "Ties to the Massucci family couldn't be substantiated and Montrose didn't fold."
"So they're not after him for turning on them. Who would want Montrose dead? Rival crime syndicate?"
Goren pointed at her indicating he'd been thinking the same thing. "Antony Yarrow –my less than forthcoming sources in Trenton peg him as Montrose's number one enemy. Apparently Yarrow and Montrose have crossed paths before, tried to muscle the other out of business with limited success."
"So he has motive. Means and opportunity couldn't have been hard to come by. Now what about Chase? How does he fit? His only connection to this was through Montrose's son." The short investigation into Zinedine's suicide named Chase as the last person to talk to him, but nothing about why he'd ended his life was found. What little Chase could give the detectives on that case hadn't lead to much. So long as somebody hadn't killed René, 'why' hadn't been high on the list of things to determine and the file was closed.
Goren wasn't sure yet what part Dr. Chase played in all this. "The only person I can see benefiting from anything that's happened is Yarrow and he does have the connections to get Chase framed for murder especially if it had been his people who'd committed the actual crime. He'd have the details, the connections, possibly including a cop with enough access to plant incriminating evidence." They'd both heard about the hair test that was done exonerating Chase from the murders but with IAB sniffing around they'd kept their distance.
Eames entered Yarrow's name into the police database wanting to familiarize herself with the man. She found something disconcerting in the file. "A murder staged to look like suicide would be pretty good for Yarrow. Wouldn't want anything to interfere with is release in two days."
H
It had been two days since the exchange between Chase and House on the roof. The diagnostics department hadn't been all that busy. No new cases had come their way so it was just the usual routine of clinic duty and boredom. Crosswords, magazines and email were the distractions of choice for the three younger doctors. Dr. House, leader of the pack entertained himself with his usual toys and some thoughts on Dr. Chase. In truly House-ian fashion he was deconstructing his attraction to the Australian. Listing pros and cons of a relationship that hadn't even started yet, and trying to gage precisely what it was that made Robert Chase so physically alluring.
He'd spent quite a lot of time staring at his ass. Spent more time staring at his hair and had decided that Chase would grow it out so that it was its former, floppy length. The short hair didn't look bad. In any other situation he would have made numerous comments most of them probably compliments on how pretty his face was. They'd always known Chase was a handsome man, now he could see clearly why. He could see what the long hair had hidden.
Without the shadow of his bangs the overhead lights accented the fine structure of his cheekbones. His smooth skin coaxed curious eyes into following the tantalizing contours of his face and the line of his jaw, then up to the pink lips, the delicately angled nose, only to be caught by the eyes, those beguiling eyes. Just trying to decide what name to give the colour was a challenge. Blue-green, aquamarine, cyan, teal –everybody would have a different opinion. With the natural kohl from the set of his eyes below his brow and the lighting to emphasize, Chase's new look, and his looks period, were the topic of more than a few whispered conversations around the hospital. If it were possible, Chase could be more of a heartbreaker now than he had been before. And let's not forget those willing to offer their services to reacquaint the newly released inmate back to the free world, since that rumour had started to make its rounds.
So, Greg had come to the conclusion that although Chase was pretty, it wasn't a highly feminizing pretty (just a little feminizing). He tilted his head to the side a little and watched closely Chase's face in profile as he checked his pager. He said something then got up and left. House watched his exit, watched how he walked and it was only after the man was out of sight that he became curious about the page.
He tossed his tennis ball against the glass getting the attention of Drs. Cameron and Foreman.
"Where's he off to?"
"Cuddy," Cameron informed and went back to the computer screen.
House leaned back, contemplating for a moment before he sprung from his chair and left his office. When he arrived at Cuddy's he saw Chase on her phone with Dr. Cuddy watching from her desk. She saw House coming and shook her head at him, an indication that he should leave. Not to her surprise he didn't. His entrance in to the administrator's office was blocked however, by the locked doors.
House jiggled the handle surprised at their foresight. He had his own method of foresight though. He took out his ring of useful hospital keys and found the one he needed. With a smirk he slipped it in to the lock and turned. Or he tried to turn. The lock didn't budge. He looked up at Cuddy who was smirking at him from across her desk.
"Touché," House conceded with tilt of his head. She'd changed the lock. He watched from through the glass windows on the door as Chase ended the conversation over the phone and hung up. After a second to gather himself, Chase said something to Cuddy and she nodded, saying something in return. Frustrated, House promised himself that he would learn to read lips.
"What's going on?" House asked as Chase unlocked the door and exited.
Chase ran a hand through his short hair and responded in a low voice, "a friend died."
House didn't know what to say to that. He remained silent and watched Chase go, trailing an invisible wake of distress. He was tempted to follow, ride out those turbulent currents until the storm had passed, the waters grown still with only him privy to their depths.
"It was the executor of the Montrose estate," Cuddy informed without prompting as soon as House looked to her. "That's all I know."
H
Mrs. Tabitha Grant. She was an older woman, with a rapid tongue, razor sharp eyes, and in charge of seeing that the last will of Emmanuel Montrose was fulfilled according to his wishes. She was a civil lawyer by training and by trade and her office was across town from PPTH, though not a long drive with the low volume of mid-day traffic. Her nicely decorated space, with quaint objects and children's drawings here and there didn't seem to match the power house of a woman that efficiently dispensed with the matter of Montrose's Last Will and Testament. It was a pretty simple document when it was all said and done. She said it had just been finalized after a modification three weeks ago. The modification didn't change much of the will. Everything was left to one person. It was just the name of the inheritor that had gone from "Zinedine René, beloved son" to "Robert Chase, son-in-heart".
Chase felt a tightening in his chest when Mrs. Grant told him this in her matter-of-fact tone. The next minute of whatever she said next fell on deaf ears. She paused in her sermon, in which she was listing what was once Montrose's and now Chase's, having noticed her audience's inattention.
"I can't," Chase said evenly once he found his voice. "I can't accept this."
Mrs. Grant removed her glasses and set them carefully down on the smaller portion of the L-shaped desk that, with the wall, confined her on three sides. "Emmanuel was not a good man, not by anyone's measure," she said with softness in opposition to her earlier tone. "His only redemption was his son. A son he let down at every turn."
Chase blinked at the unexpected insight this woman seemed to have. "You know him? Montrose?"
"I knew him, yes." Her tone and the pinched expression as she rubbed between her brows indicated that she would rather have not known him. She had no problem speaking of Emmanuel in the past tense and the only reason she would have thought to be in any way saddened by his demise was for his son. "Despite his numerous failings, and his weakness of character," she said with irritation, "he loved his son, wanted him to be happy. And he was, for maybe the first time." She dropped her hand from her face to stare intently at the bewildered man across from her. "He was happy with you."
Light-coloured brows furrowed in consternation and before he even spoke she knew he was not getting the right impression. "He's paying me for dating his son?" Why did that thought feel so dirty?
"Under most circumstances, I wouldn't put that past him. But in this case, that's not it." Mrs. Grant sat back to regard him as she continued. "This was supposed to be for Zinedine but, like you, he probably wouldn't want it. All he wanted was a father, not his money." Her head tilted just so to the right with a slight smile. "You two were a lot alike; crappy fathers and questionable mothers."
Robert didn't react to the barb thrown at his parents. He'd heard worse. In a bad mood, he'd called them worse. He loved them despite, and a part of him was a little irked at her frank description.
"You were as close to Zinedine as Emmanuel could get. You were the last person he loved. Besides, it was either you, or his questionable business partners. And trust me, those snakes don't deserve the air they breathe." Tabitha waited until she saw the slight shift to acquiescence in Robert's expression. It was faint and tinged with something uneasy. She hoped that disquiet would fade. Replacing her glasses on her face and she went back to the documents.
"So in total, this is about how much is now in your name. They're spread across several accounts, stocks, bonds and the like. The values may have changed with the interest accrued," she said as her Cross pen scratched across a small piece of yellow paper which she then slid, face-down, over the desk to him. He gave her a measuring look for a moment, trying to pick out any clue as to the magnitude of the number she'd just wrote. It was like trying to get information from a brick wall. She had a perfect poker face.
Robert exhaled and flipped the paper over. It was worse than he thought.
"Yes, I'm sure," Grant stated before he could ask. "That should take care of paying back those loans, no?"
After a moment Robert dazedly responded in the affirmative. It then occurred to him. "How do you know that?"
"Background check," she informed, not the least remorseful for snooping into his business. "That's not usually the type of inheritance a mother leaves for her son." Add a lot more bite to her sarcasm and she could almost pass for a female version of House. He couldn't stop the image of House in the blouse and skirt that the brown-haired woman was currently wearing from appearing in his mind. He stifled a laugh that was too strong for the tame, though ridiculous mental picture.
"You're also receiving the mansion and everything in it, and his cars." She said with 'cars' with the disdain of a woman who didn't see what the big deal was with the beastly, gas-guzzling machines. The only thing she really cared about was the mileage, the how much space it had, and the colour.
Mrs. Grant handed him a large beige envelope and explained to him that it contained a list of the properties, some noteworthy items, the offshore accounts and the various stocks and bonds where his new, unwanted fortune resided. He peeked in and saw that there were also photos provided. He wasn't curious enough to pull them out and look at them. When he soon left he'd go home and shove the envelope in the back of a drawer wanting nothing more than to forget about it. For now he just laid it across his lap and ignored its weight.
From there Mrs. Grant quickly concluded the meeting. It was a lot to take in at once. She let him go but not before warning him. She wasn't sure how necessary this prudence was but she wouldn't put anything past Emmanuel Montrose. "He may have left you more than his material goods," she said. "He had a lot of enemies, not as many as he probably deserved but they may become your enemies now."
Chase didn't say anything, just waited for her to finish.
Not seeing a reaction from the young man Tabitha concluded saying, "He has secrets."
A solemn nod was all the response she would get from him. He left thinking, don't we all.
H
Chase closed the door of his car, the one Zid had tried on numerous occasions to let him restore. The Chevy Monte Carlo was a classic car in this country but in its current state his car wasn't much of anything. The rust was slowly eating away at the metal where the paint had chipped off, marring the light blue colour that wasn't as shiny as the paint jobs on more recent cars. The trunk wasn't closing as well as it should and everyone in a while he heard an odd rattling when he made right turns. The car should have fallen apart ages ago to be then relegated to the final resting place of old cars, the scrap yard. This particular "classic" had been bought and kept running (though barely) by a middle aged man who'd died early, another victim of hear-disease. His wife had wanted nothing more than to get rid of the beastly machine and she took the first offer Chase had given, neither of them knowing its true value.
He put the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it. Trying to think where to go who to talk to, he paused and realized he didn't have anyone. Zid was gone, Montrose too, by suicide or so he was told though suspected foul play. He couldn't go to his friends. He'd called them since his release but he had refrained from informing them of where he'd been. That didn't mean they didn't know. They might have heard and it was probably that they were too polite or uncomfortable to let him know. With both his parents dead he couldn't go to them either and his distant relatives would be no help, they never had been before. Of his few options the strongest one, the one he wanted to give into the most was the one which told him to go back to the hospital and go see House. He wanted to tell him.
The last two days had been almost surreal. When there was nobody else around to see it, House had looked at him with some akin to concern. He'd dropped little comments, subtle hints that he was available as a friendly ears or pillow should Chase need one. What he liked more than the offers, were the expressions on House's face when he made them. Often sandwiched between and insult and a joke, but for a brief second the man was open, honest, vulnerable and that more than anything made his heart race and made him want to just grab House and hold on to him just to see the expression for a little longer.
Chase couldn't deny that he wanted to be closer to House. The man had insidiously become a figure of strength in his eyes, always constant, always House. And now, as his strength waned he felt drawn to take the offers that he worried would one day no longer come to him. He wanted to tell him, bring him in on this whole situation but he knew it was best if he kept this to himself, at least for now.
He started the car, its sound just a little off as some part of the old engine threatened to fall apart. Chase didn't even bother with a shrug. He went home dumped the envelope in his drawer and after gazing about his empty apartment he went to whom he'd felt close.
H
The rest of the day passed and Chase didn't return to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Six o-clock came and went without the erstwhile blond and in his office House sat. Leaning back in his chair, legs propped on his desk, it seemed he was waiting. When Dr. Wilson passed by on his way out after clearing up the files clogging his desk he paused to weigh the situation. There was a brief longing glance to the set of stairs he was heading towards. He turned and went to attend to House. Tonight it seemed like more of a chore than he sometimes felt it was.
"What are you still doing here?"
"Contemplating the universe and its intricacies. What does it look like?" He deadpanned, though somebody less familiar with his sarcasm might have thought him to be serious.
"Go home, Greg."
The use of his first name had House sitting up in his chair. Wilson mentally cursed himself. He wasn't sure precisely what he'd just let slip. Didn't know what House would read into his words.
"Something you want to get off your chest?" He swung his legs down to set his feet on the floor. For best friends, nearly lovers, they hadn't spoken much in the past two days. House considered it decompression and expected things to go back to normal, just without the undercurrent.
"Not a thing," James said locking away the unresolved ache that was his alone, his to deal with. "Where's Chase?" He hadn't seen the intensivist at all this afternoon and it was a good way to divert House's attention.
House was sharp enough to pick up on both Wilson's disguised hurt and the change in topic. He allowed both because he did like the man and so long as he wasn't doing anything too stupid, he'd leave Wilson his inane emotional solitude. "Don't know," he said in response to the question. "Went to go pick up his inheritance and never came back. You think that's his way of saying he quit?"
James ignored the second part and moved further into the office. "His father left him something?" Rowan Chase had died several months ago it seemed a little late to be collecting an inheritance.
"Not from Daddy-dearest," Greg corrected. "Montrose."
"Who's–"
"Don't know. I'm waiting for a call from some NYPD flatfoots."
James dropped the soft-leather carrying-case on one of the two chairs and grasped the backrest of the other. "I didn't know you had friends in law enforcement?"
"I don't. Chase does."
House had just finished speaking when the phone range. He picked it up swiftly knowing from the slightly different ring tone that it was a long-distance call. Wilson didn't listen to the half of the phone conversation he could hear. His eyes were drawn to the dreary evening beyond the brick and cement balcony connected to the office. It'd been pretty dark all day today and the forecast called for thunderstorms in the afternoon. So far there had been nothing but as the tone of Greg's voice reached him the weather began to come across as an auspice of trouble.
The phone was dropped carelessly on the base. As House practically leapt from his chair to grab is jacket Wilson righted the receiver to sit properly. "What's your hurry? What'd they say?"
Greg slipped on his jacket. In his haste he got his arm caught in the sleeve and there wasn't enough give in the leather for him to force it. He took it off and tried again filling Wilson in as he did. "Montrose was René's father. He's dead and he left Chase all his stuff, all one-hundred and seventy-million dollars worth of it!"
Brown eyes widened at the figure and his mouth hung open for a moment. It was shocking but it didn't seem like a bad thing. While he was thinking this House continued.
"Montrose was a mobster. There's somebody who wants what Montrose had, what Chase now has."
"Oh, shit," Wilson cursed faintly, uncharacteristic of him but excusable in these uncharacteristic circumstances.
"I agree. And it gets worse." He spun around trying to find his keys. He patted down the pockets of his jackets and visually searched his office. "That somebody, he got out of prison today, Trenton Prison." House spotted the keys on the corner of the shelf where he'd thrown his jacket that morning. When he reached for them, his haste made him clumsy and he ended up pushing them off the edge. Their plummet to the carpet was interrupted by Wilson's hand. Without a word he handed the item to House as he speedily passed him by.
"I'll check his apartment."
House assented without argument. "I'll take The Bomber. Maybe he needed a drink or two."
They quickly made it to the main entrance taking the stairs with House, surprisingly, able to keep up. In the short time from office to exit the rain had started. The heavy downpour seemed to promise lightning. Dr. Wilson smoothly pulled out the umbrella the meteorologist on TV had suggested he take that morning, and entered the storm without pause. He looked back and saw House brave a future cold as he stepped in to the rain without any protection, save his leather jacket.
Though his leg was pain free, House still insisted on parking his bike in the handicap spot. He started the engine, mounted and kicked back the stand. The tickle of cool rainwater trickling down his head and neck made him roll his head to one side before he put on his helmet. Tearing out of the parking lot he ignored driver safety warnings that said the road was the slickest when the rain had just begun and even more dangerous for bikes. Behind him he heard the familiar rumbled of Wilson's car. It faded as he turned left and Wilson right, drowned by the insulation of his helmet and the pounding rain.
It didn't take long to get to and search The Bomber. Chase wasn't around and bartender hadn't seen him for a long while. Wilson's trip to Chase's apartment was similarly fruitless. The door was locked. From what he could see, all the lights were off and nobody answered his repeated knocks on the door. His next door neighbour, who stepped into the corridor to see what all the noise was for, wasn't in the possession of any useful information either.
Wilson's phone rang while he was in the elevator, taking it back to the ground floor. Caller-ID let him know who it was so there was no greeting when he answered. He was growing more worried with each terrible scenario as his mind conjured up for where Chase could be.
"Find him?" the oncologist asked.
House nearly sighed. Well, that answered whether Wilson had found Chase. Who said that questions aren't answers?
"No. Check out two-two-six Province Line road." His voice was somewhat muffled by the rain and the idling bike engine. "It's the address of Montrose's Jersey place."
"How do you know that?" Province Line Road led out of the city and was known for the stately houses built into the backwoods just outside Princeton. Wilson estimated a thirty-minute trip for him to get out there from his current location. If Chase wasn't out there it would be an hour wasted.
"Does it matter?" Detective Goren had given him the address earlier over the phone and House trusted his memory enough not to write it down. "Check it out. Let me know if you find anything." He hung up. The phone was placed back in his pocket that was dry on the inside. His eyes skimmed across the moderately crowded and completely wet street. The local establishments brought out the evening and night-time crowd to kick back after a hard day of work, even in the downpour. A couple strolled past him, arms wrapped around each other, with one of them holding an umbrella to shield them from the shower. Oblivious to the rest of the world they paid no attention to the soaked man they had just passed. House wouldn't usually have noticed them either. Two men walking down the street together, intimately close, wasn't something noteworthy to him. He was a little covetous of their umbrella, but what really caught his eye was the image of their embrace played out with two different people; one, tall with dark hair and an roguish smile, the other a little shorter with blonde hair and a matching grin. He blinked and reality returned. The two strangers ended their kiss and walked on.
House took out his cell phone. He knew where he needed to go. He just didn't know where it was.
H
End Chapter 11
Wow! It feels like ages since I've posted. I'll get the next chapter out for Sunday. I'm so excited about getting all the chapters posted it's pathetic. It also can't be helped. Thanks for reading!
Sagga…