Warning(s): Language.
Chapter 15
There were voices arguing over him. They were loud and his chest was hurting. He just wanted to sleep but they wouldn't be quiet. He tried to turn to find a place where their voices wouldn't reach him. His attempt only brought discomfort and a weak moan slipped out.
"Chase?"
He knew that voice.
"Chase, open your eyes."
Too tired, he thought but couldn't say. He was drained mentally, emotionally, physically, completely. He couldn't do anything but lie there and wait for something to make sense.
"Would you let him rest? He lost a lot of blood and suffered a great deal of trauma!"
"Are you a doctor, Agent Chamberlain? So, why don't you shut up?"
"Do you have any idea what you've done? You've compromised his relocation! We'll have to move him again!"
"Good! You can move him back to New Jersey!"
"I know you're not an idiot, so why are you doing this? He's in danger there."
"He's only in danger if he's agreed to testify in a trial. Yarrow is dead so he can't testify against him and you have his goons. Use them. Put them in the witness protection program."
Chamberlain crossed her arms and shook her head while looking at the pattern on the floor at the far side of the room. "You don't understand. He's been on the inside, close to someone who was near the top. He was privy to a great deal of information that we could use to put a lot of bad people away."
"You think so? He was a cellmate at best, and a fuck-toy at worst. He doesn't know anything that you can't get from someone else."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you!" He stopped speaking when Chase moved minutely and moaned again. When the young man settled House spoke in a quieter tone. "As far as anybody knows, he only has information on a guy who's already dead. Hiding him out in the middle of nowhere, makes it look like he has information, and makes him a bigger target than he probably is."
"He can help our case."
"You can make your case without him if you try hard enough. He was a pawn. The king is down, raid his castle. Or," he looked down at the peaceful man, his waxen complexion and shallow breathing, "you can ruin his life."
H
"You never listen."
At the sound of the familiar voice and accent, House quickly raise his tired head from where he had been resting it against the handle of his cane. "You look better today."
Chase swallowed and put a great deal of effort into making himself heard and understood. "I told you to stop."
The weak, raspy voice made House cringe internally. "You're not my boss" was his reply. "And what made you think I would be doing anything that I needed to be stopped from doing?"
"You're self-destructive," Chase replied softly but with conviction and surety that House guessed the younger man had garnered from living with a self-destructive parent. "But I wasn't sure. It was just a precaution." Chase stared up at the ceiling, feeling detached. He remembered what he'd done, why he'd done it, but at present time it lacked emotional content.
"Well, at least you cared enough to try," House said to the floor. He raised his eyes after a few seconds to see Chase's gaze on him. "I thought I wasn't worth loving."
"I didn't say that."
"Yes, you did. But I know you didn't mean it. I can read you like a book," House said confidently.
"Really?"
He didn't mention that at the moment he was Chase-illiterate since there was nothing on the other man's face to be noted.
House shrugged briefly and looked away.
"Love me."
"What?"
"You can't love someone who doesn't want to be loved, right?" Greg shifted his stare to his young fellow. "So, I'm asking." He couldn't say it again. This already made twice. This was the last chance. He could just as easily walk away and pretend nothing had happened. He was good at pushing this type of emotional junk into the back of his closet.
His eyes shifted downwards while he waited for a response, hoping his gamble would pay off. His eyes low, shifting to various objects but not seeing them, he tried to brace himself should the response not be in his favour. Already he was pretending the rejection didn't matter. Already there was a sharp retort forming in his mind.
A tentative hand touched the one he had resting on the top of his cane, just a foot from the edge of the bed. He slowly met Chase's eyes.
"I'm not very good at this sort of stuff," the blonde warned. He was hesitant to label whatever had happened between them so he didn't.
House didn't seem to mind. He understood what was being said. "I bet I'm worse."
The comment brought a smile to the handsome, though pale, face and House felt something ease in him. For a moment he felt a little lighter, less broken, even with the returned burden of his disability.
The smile faded though. "I…I don't have anything...t-to give you."
House dropped his gaze to the hand that was resting on his. He let go of the cane, letting gravity take it and turned his hand, palm up, to hold Chase's in his. He knew what the Chase was trying to get at. He was well acquainted to feeling inadequate, feeling like he had nothing to offer. He didn't have anything to give Stacy so he let her go. He hadn't gained anything in the past few months to give to Chase either, so what did he have?
Chase could hear the voice of the prison guard, Theriault, in his ear. That meeting in his drab, little office so long ago was now at the forefront of his thoughts. His splintered mind heard and fell in to the truth of that statement, that warning. He felt compelled to give the same one to House, before he took a risk on him, and later regretted it.
"The pieces that are left…there's nothing…they aren't enough to give to someone." The words tumbled in a broken mess from Chase's lips.
"Not even me?"
"Especially." He tried to pull his hand away but House held on tighter.
"I hope you don't always underestimate yourself like this."
Rob turned his head away. The he could feel his heart racing, and breathing burned. His injuries and his general weakness didn't leave him ready for this confrontation. He just wanted to fade away. The motion of a thumb stroking back and forth over the back of his hand, eventually soothed him into a sense of security that he'd forgotten. He lingered for a little while, and then descended into sleep.
When he was sure Chase was asleep House relaxed from his rigid pose. Tilting forward in his chair, he lightly pressed his lips to the back of Chase's hands, then briefly touched his forehead to the spot. He didn't know why he felt he needed to do that, an act of such reverence.
He was just thankful, for the first time in a long time. Even with the pain in his leg, with his obvious physical and interpersonal deficiencies he found someone that made him feel less empty, less doomed for misery. He'd found…hope. He'd found hope in Rob Chase, who had now completely lost his.
He was going to hold on this time.
H
"Do you cry?"
James held the fork, laden with noodles, a few inches over his plate, trying to figure out what exactly his friend meant. "Are you serious? Do want an honest answer or the standard male response of: 'Of course not. Tears are for sissies'?"
"So you do cry. Just making sure I hadn't missed the bus on this one." Greg took a bite of his Rueben sandwich and stared moodily out the window of his office where he and his oncologist buddy were eating a very late lunch. It was actually well into dinner-time but they'd both been busy with sick people today.
"Why so curious about crying?"
"I'm curious about what it would take to make Chase do it."
The forkful of pasta dropped to the Tupperware container. "Are you kidding me? It was your idea to have him stay with you! You've only had him there for a little over a week and you're already trying to find a way to kick him out? Try those juvenile pranks you pulled on me. I don't think he'd put up with that."
"Are you kidding me? He'd probably pull ten pranks, ten-times worse on me, in the short distance from the bed to the washroom. He only left college a few years ago. I'm sure he's got a whole slew of nasty tricks in his little mind that I've never even heard of. And anyway, I'm not trying to kick him out."
"Then why-"
"He doesn't cry."
"I wouldn't cry in front of you either."
"No. He hasn't cried at all. Nothing –no empty boxes of Kleenex, no tissues in the garbage, no red eyes. He's…"
"…you've been digging through your garbage?" Greg gave him a look and so the younger doctor spoke again. "Maybe he's just okay. Maybe he cries in the shower."
"Is that were you do it? I didn't think you'd have enough time between washing your hair and mastur- Oww!" House reached down the rub the spot on his lower leg that Wilson's foot had just collided with. "All I'm saying is that he's not going to get past this if he doesn't face it."
James ignored the blue glare and put forth his two cents. "You can't force him to get better. He has to work through it on his own first."
"Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery."
James was astounded by the eloquence of the statement. It was so simple. It was very unlike House.
"Got it from the 'Goblet of Fire'," Greg informed his impressed friend and watched with a smirk the expression being replaced with exasperation.
"You're getting tips for dealing with a traumatized individual, from a children's book?"
"Millions of the young and young-at-heart can't be wrong." Greg defended without any real conviction. He looked down at his sandwich and reluctantly admitted: "I just want him to get better."
They were both silent for several seconds. Everyone wanted him to get better. After House, eventually, brought him back to New Jersey, the FBI grumbling all the way, Chase had come back to work after nine days of recovery under the care of Greg House. He'd spent most of the time sleeping and when he was awake he was quiet. House hadn't pushed.
Wilson and Cameron visited. Foreman came over twice, and Cuddy once too. There were only two weeks left in Chase's fellowship with House and though he had more than ample reason not to go back, Cuddy convinced him to come back and finish, to be the first fellow to complete a tour with the difficult Dr. House. He'd agreed reluctantly. After she'd left House commented that Cameron probably would have liked to have that record. Chase had smiled at that and when the smile eventually went away House had felt something heavy settle back over his shoulders.
Sitting there, eating a late midday-meal with his best-friend House admitted to himself that he was worried –very worried. Because although Chase was healing from the physical side of his recent traumas they were still loosing him. He was slowly, silently falling away, leaving just an empty body behind. Not even his likeness on the television news garnered more than a shrug in reaction. The story of his wrongful arrest and incarceration had finally made headlines. Nobody other than the few doctors from PPTH knew where Chase was, so he was always announced as "unavailable for comment". What little was known of Montrose was aired in conjunction with the story, as was the growing frenzy of arrests made by the FBI.
With Yarrow's organization now cracked open the federal law enforcers were having a field day. Criminal after criminal was hoping to cut a deal in order to get a cushier sentence. Chase's haphazard plot against his rapist and torturer had culminated in all this, not that the FBI was giving him the credit. Chase didn't want it and it was better that he not be involved, lest someone try to hurt him again.
So when the news programs came on and the story was one related to mob arrests, they changed the channel. Sometimes House watched a little of it, not only due to curiosity, but also to see if it would pull a reaction from his indifferent guest. It didn't. Nothing seemed to reach him.
"I need him to…he needs to…"
"He needs to be honest with himself. He can't delude himself or push this away and pretend it doesn't matter, that it doesn't mean anything, because eventually nothing will mean anything to him." Wilson raised wary and guilty eyes up to House, and then lowered them, finishing with, "he'll end up like you."
James stared sadly at his meal, appetite fleeing him under the scorch of Greg's stare. He'd tried to change Greg, tried to make him more hopefully, less miserable and misanthropic. He'd tried tricking him, challenging him, and in the end, they even tried healing him. Nothing stuck except Chase. He was the only one for whom House put aside his own issues and was willing to change himself, just a little, so that he wouldn't scare away the young man who'd resonated with him.
Saving Chase could mean saving House. Unfortunately Wilson didn't know how to do that either.
House thought that he might. He was most honest with himself when he sat at his piano. The sounds –at times soothing and at others jarring and discordant –were musical manifestations of some of his deepest thoughts. Perhaps that's why in the evenings when he didn't know what to say to Chase, he wouldn't say anything. Instead he'd sit at the piano and play whatever came to mind. Chase didn't interrupt, didn't speak. Sometimes he'd fill in the crossword from that day's newspaper, going to the pianist side at the end, when there might be one or two words he just couldn't figure out.
There, the music would break, and Greg would do what he could to fill in the last empty squares, not always successfully. Rob would take back the puzzle and stare with little interest at the final answers. He wouldn't check them in the next day's paper, seemingly content with their efforts.
Greg would snake his arm around the trim waist, silently measuring it and gauging whether the younger man was eating enough. He'd turn his head to lightly press against the taut belly, sometimes laying a secret kiss through the shirt that covered the physical scars of abuse and recovery. Rob would lean down, coax the older man's head back and kiss him, sometimes softly, sometimes with a passion that left his groin tingling, but always there was something disconcerting in it. It was always as though he was saying good-bye, or trying to find in the embrace what he'd lost and hoped Greg had found.
Their lips would separate and Rob would go back to the couch. In his mind's eye Greg could see him walking away, fading into a setting sun, never to come back. It made his throat tighten and his stomach knot. The last time he'd thought he'd permanently lost Chase, he hadn't handled it well. He didn't know if he could deal with loosing him after investing, emotionally, even more than had had before. Each spectacular and terrible event forced House to admit whatever he might have been holding back. His shooting, Chase's poisoning, Chase incarceration and lastly the shooting at the café; after all that, he wasn't going to keep lying to himself. He wanted Chase. He wanted Chase to get better. He just didn't know how to make it happen.
He would go back to his outlet and the piano would be sad.
"I'm going now." The voice put to rest the weary, contemplative silence. House and Wilson turned to see Dr. Chase standing at the entrance to the office. He'd already collected his bag and jacket. Neither man had noticed the movement in the other room. "You coming?"
House shook his head. "No, I've got to finish up some stuff."
"Your sandwich?" Chase asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.
"Among other things," House responded.
A pale smile turned Chase's lips. "Okay. I'll see you later. 'Night Dr. Wilson."
"You okay to drive?" House asked hurriedly, concern sounding like suspicion the way it often did when it came from him. Chase was still a little under the weather. He'd lost some weight during his hospital stay in Omaha. Hospital food just never seemed satisfying. He also hadn't had much of an appetite to begin with. That compiled with the injuries and weakness only made the prospect of forcing down a meal less than appetising. They also discovered that Rob had a minor morphine allergy, but a more severe allergy to its derivative, codeine –which meant no Vicodin for him. The morphine they gave him for the pain made him a bit nauseous as well, and took away the little impetus that was left to eat. House had watched unabashedly as Rob pushed the food around his plate. On occasion Greg bullied him in to eating something and on the occasions when he went too far, he'd receive flying food for his effort. It didn't deter him for long.
Since they'd been back Chase had been eating more, sometimes bullied by his new roommate, sometimes by his roommate's best friend, sometimes not. He was slowly regaining strength. His pulmonary function test indicated that the trauma of both the bullet and the surgery were healing. Chase's cardiologist was also happy with the images of the recovering organ, and put Chase well on the road to complete health. The scar on his chest from bullet wound continued to heal. As did the larger exit wound on his back and the long scar from the invasive surgery required to save him. The achy constrictive sensations around his chest that flared up on occasion almost had him reaching for the pain killer prescribed to him, but most of the time he held off, the memory of addiction and what it had done to his mother staying his hand.
Those flare ups were less and less now, and hopefully one day soon the physical pain of this terrible event would be gone. It was the emotional fardels that seemed to be getting heavier.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Chase informed both of them. He gave them another faint smile and he left. Wilson glanced at House, brown and blue eyes meeting briefly to convey mutual understanding and concern.
"What are you going to do?" While James wasn't expecting a quick fix he wasn't against a jump start. Chase's smiles used to reach his eyes and, as that last exchange proved, things had only gotten worse over the past little while. Something had to give.
"If he's so much like me then he has his own musical outlet."
"He already has his guitar." They'd picked up a few things from Chase's apartment and Chase had chosen to take his guitar with them. He'd claimed so that he'd have something to do between the sleeping and eating. The last time Wilson had heard Chase play was after he'd been released from prison. He assumed that any concerts since then had been for Greg's ears only.
"Not that one. He has another string instrument." Greg couldn't forget the violin music he'd found mixed into the guitar pieces. A careless oversight, yet as time went on that piece of music, the worn and folded corners, the smudges and frayed fibres from marks added by pencil and later erased, the slightly yellowish tinge to the pages –it was old and important. House didn't know why but he would find out, even if he had to pull it out of a kicking and screaming Aussie.
Tonight he'd go to Chase's apartment, dig through the belongings that weren't his and find the well-used, but still well-cared for case, and the lovely wooden violin hidden inside. He'd return home, his somewhat ill-gotten prize held by its handle in his left hand. When he opened the door to his apartment, expecting to find Robert lounging quietly on his couch, watching TV and playing with Steve, he found Chase standing and talking with…
"Dad? What are you doing here?"
John House, a tall man like his son but with a thicker build, smiled briefly at his only child who didn't look entirely pleased to see him. "Just came to say 'hi'. Your mother's away with some friends so I decided to stop by." He looked back to the young blonde haired man, trailing his eyes up and down him trying to figure out what was going on here.
"You should have called first. What if I wasn't here?"
"You're always here. And if you weren't, Atlantic City isn't too far away."
"I hear Trump Palace has loose slots. You should check it out," House didn't close the door. He stepped away from it leaving a clear path out for his father who got the hint but didn't take it.
"I just got here. Dr. Chase and I were just talking about you."
"There's nothing he can tell you that you don't already know," the younger House said. The only things Chase knew weren't the type of things you shared with the parent of the guy you were sleeping with, even if lately all they'd been doing was sleeping together in the completely literal and mostly platonic sense.
"What are you doing with that?" Chase asked when he noticed what House was carrying.
"Uh…surprise?"
Chase took the case. He ran his fingers over the familiar casing. "…thanks." He set it down in the corner of the couch.
"A violin?" John House asked in an authoritative voice. Chase glanced between the two men before nodding. "That guitar must be yours too. You have a pretty good voice."
He'd heard the knock on the door when he'd been in the middle of one of hid favourite songs. It was more than a little embarrassing to be caught singing Firefall's "You Are the Woman". The upbeat song made feel a little lighter but that feeling was quickly replaced with apprehension when he realized who was at the door and that he'd been heard. Chase didn't know how to respond to the compliment. He smiled politely.
House was cringing. Chase was probably never going to sing again after this. The only times Greg had ever heard him was that one time so many months ago at that bar and more recently on the days when Chase came back first and proceeded to amuse himself with a song or two. At first Chase had continued to play and sing when House came in even if just to prove that he wasn't intimidated by the older man's presence but as of late Chase only sang when he was alone –or when he thought he was alone. Knowing the tune would end the moment he opened the door Greg had taken to sitting outside the door of his place and listening there.
Right now though, he had more pressing matters than being serenaded. How was he supposed to explain Chase's presence here to his ex-marine father? He didn't even entertain the notion that his father would be okay with him and Chase together. Then again, when had John ever approved of what he'd done?
"Rob, would you excuse us?" The civility didn't mask the strain in his tone. Chase gave a short nod, donned his shoes and jacket and made his exit. He was reluctant to let Chase out of his sight. There was alingering fear in the back of his mind that said somebody still wanted to hurt the Aussie, and Rob's own lack of concern regarding any danger he might still be in only heightened Greg's anxiety.
Greg guided the door closed with is left hand. Not that it needed the help. It was just something to stall the conversation that was about to come. He turned back to his father, head high, eyes challenging, expecting.
Cautiously, John spoke. "He's…not your son, is he?"
Greg rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Well, hadn't this started well? Hopefully it could only go up from there.
"No, Dad, he's not my son. He's a friend. He's been in some trouble recently. I'm just helping him out."
John sat himself down on the leather couch, apparently not leaving anytime soon. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping him out? It's just not very you –unless his trouble is directly or indirectly your fault."
Greg flopped down at the other end of the couch next to the violin case. He ran his fingers over it. "It's complicated."
"When isn't it? I thought your leg was better," John said as he eyed the cane in his son's hand.
"I'm faking to keep my parking space."
"Greg."
He hated that one word admonishment –hated even more that it still worked. "The pain is back. The treatment didn't take completely and there was a bit of an incident."
"Oh. Sorry," John said belatedly.
Greg shrugged, eyes staring forward. "It was fun while it lasted," he said practically. John gave him a look. Greg felt it but didn't return it. "What?"
Shaking his head the elder of the House men responded. "Nothing. I see that you're busy with another guest so I'll head to the coast." He slapped his thighs to punctuate his statement. That's where he had assumed he'd stay and had made plans. He was meeting some old friends there the next day and had decided a short stop to see his son was in order, even if it wasn't welcomed. "Maybe I'll stop by on my way back," John teased. He gave Greg a pat on the knee and then stood, his old joints protesting mildly. "Take care. And call once in a while would you." At Greg's nod John went for the door. He turned the knob and pulled while his mind turned over his son and the situation in his head. Before he stepped across the threshold he turned his head to his child. "Greg... is he…" he trailed off thinking better of it. "I'll see you later."
Greg was still seated but turned to watch his father go. "Bye." He didn't know what that strange little smile or the slight shake of his father's head meant but he'd never completely understood his parents. He'd probably over analyzed them, making them more simple or overly-complicated than they really were. Eventually he'd found a way around that. He got his own life and they were only supporting characters. He loved them he was just tired of disappointing them.
His father had gotten an unenthusiastic, somewhat nerdy son, who'd taken no interest in following in his military footsteps. And his mother had gotten a rambunctious, difficult little boy, who'd been unable to settle down and give her the grandchildren he knew she wanted. Most of all, he'd dragged them through his misery. The more he tried to push them away, from him and his wretchedness, the worse he ended up making them feel. But the closer they were, the more they knew that he wasn't happy. Another lovely lose-lose situation care of Gregory Jonathan House.
Meanwhile just on the other side of the door John Alexander House was thinking to himself that his son seemed less grumpy than usual –even with the return of the leg pain.
H
"Everything okay?" Rob asked cautiously when he returned some time later. Greg was lying on the couch feet dangling over the end. He didn't respond to the inquiry but the TV continued its noise. "I got Chinese." He'd swung by a small place not too far away on his way back from the cemetery. It was the only place other than the hospital he could think to go. He hadn't been to his apartment at all since he and House had come back from Nebraska and there wasn't much to go back to except numerous bills piling up and messages he hadn't answered. Probably some from Dr. Greenway too, informing him of his HIV and Hep C status. The first test had been negative but for HIV it could take up to or more than a year for a positive individual to test positive.
He set the bag of warm take-out on the coffee table and went the kitchen for utensils. He didn't feel like wrestling his food with chopsticks today. He went back to the living room and as he was putting the extra utensils down and about to open the paper bag with the food he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked at House who was staring intently at him.
"What?"
Rob thought he was the one who should be asking that question.
"Nothing." He moved to lean over the prostrate man and after searching his gaze he found for a moment he leaned all the way down to kiss him, slowly but with much tongue involvement. When finally he pulled away Rob rested his forehead against the other man's and took a shaky breath. He liked to savour these moments when the world felt like it used to when he could really hear, really taste, really feel. He knew that all too soon the vibrancy would fade away to his greyish world and he wouldn't even notice, not until he was close to House like this again and the colours returned.
He opened his eyes and found the cobalt eyes already recording the details of the moment. He saw the worry, the worry that he'd caused. 'I'm okay,' he wanted to say but the words died somewhere along the way. He couldn't take the worry away and he couldn't let go. Greg House was the last part of his life that made him feel alive, made the hurt go away for a few minutes, and he wasn't strong enough to give that up. He knew he should. Dragging House through all this crap with him would only end in both of them being even more messed-up than they already were.
Chase settled on the edge of the couch, brushing against House's hip since the man was still taking up most of the room. "I'm going to go back to my place tomorrow."
Many seconds passed in which Chase took out the cartons of food stacked on top of each other in the paper bag that read "Ho-Lee-Chow" on the side.
"Why?"
Keeping his eyes away from the man whose gaze he could feel burning into him Chase answered. "I have to check my messages, pay my bills…"
"Table in the hall, left drawer," Greg said and reached for the nearest carton.
Robert followed the enigmatic directions and opened said drawer to find a bunch of his bills and banks transaction records that indicated they'd already been paid. Greg paying his electric bill while he'd been "dead" was one thing. That was just a nice, if somewhat deranged, gesture from the very closed off man. However, his utilities were not the only bills that had been paid. The loans from the banks, the debts that he'd been burdened and struggled with for so long that they were practically character traits, were gone –paid in full. He read the details, eyes wide, and a sick feeling settled in his stomach morphing any hunger that had been there before in to an uneasy churning.
"Greg, what the hell is this?" Rob yelled from the hall and stormed back into the living room.
He wasn't sure what to comment on. Chase using his first name or the bill thing. He was concerned that if he brought it up Chase would never use his first name again and he liked the intimacy and the sound of his name in the Australian accent.
"That's what paid bills look like. I know you aren't very familiar with them."
"You had no right to do that! How did you even get a hold of that money?"
"That woman." He gave a vague wave of his hand after he put down the chopsticks. "What's her name…Tabby Grant. That woman has practically adopted you. How do you do that anyway?"
Robert ran a hand through his hair, the feel of the short strands rubbing against his palm rather than the long ones he used to have slipping through his fingers doing nothing to ease his disquiet. "You can't… that money…" He pursed his lips together in frustration, about ready to throw the nearest object out the window.
"You're sitting on top of one hundred and seventy million, plus. You're finally the rich kid that we've been call you for years. It's your money. I figured if I broke the ice-"
"Do you know where that money came from?" Robert interjected.
"I could guess but why don't you tell me?"
Robert hated that. When Greg said or did something and he felt compelled to respond just to let the other man know that he wasn't always right, that he didn't know everything. He wasn't sure if it was a test or a challenge or just a ploy to get information. All he knew was that it worked.
He leaned against the doorjamb to the kitchen. "He took mob money and cleaned it. Funnelled it into other businesses, invested it to get high returns and took a cut for himself. He was doing it for decades and never got caught." Needless to say that made Montrose very valuable. Without him those connections fizzled away as people broke all ties and went their separate ways or found new handlers. Yarrow had wanted those contacts, had killed for them, had Chase framed in the hopes that Montrose would give them up to him. Yes, it was a very lucrative business so long as you weren't all that attached to your soul. "That money…it's from terrible things." He didn't want to think about how much blood figuratively stained those funds.
Neither did Greg. "Well not all the money was directly from crimes. He fronted some legitimates businesses too, right. I figure fifty to seventy percent, max." He still couldn't hold his tongue though. He watched the blonde head shake an expression of disgust on his face. Greg wasn't offended and wasn't sorry. Chase knew who he was. "Would you stop blaming yourself for something you didn't do? I doubt you were even born when Montrose started his mob accounting business."
Chase had been about to go into the kitchen. Just to put some more distance between him and House but that stopped him. "Do you think that matters? He passed it to me! All of it, the money and the sin that came with it!"
"You freaking Catholics…"
Robert rounded on him, his strides quickly crossing the distance so that he could grab his companion by the front of his shirt. "This isn't about my religion! This is about having a sense of responsibility to someone other than your self! How many people has this money hurt?"
"The only person I care about this money hurting is you!" Greg yelled back, eyes just as serious and furious. He was disappointed when the fire in the young man's eyes seeped away to be left with something duller. "You inherited the money. I assume those debts you inherited were your mom's debts and haven't been able to pay them off. Maybe these two things can…cancel each other out." Though all the debts put together didn't even make a dent in the fortune now under the Chase name.
The grip in Greg's shirt slackened and before he knew it he had and armful of tired intensivist resting along his side. He wasn't sure what to do but Rob wasn't expecting him to do anything other than just be there. The sky-blue eyes glanced around in almost a panic, which eased in a few seconds when both of them were comfortably settled, the blond head tucked neatly into the crook of his neck. Rob's free arm was resting casually on Greg's chest. His turmoil easing with the warmth of their embrace. Maybe he could be okay with all these ill-gotten funds. Maybe House was right. He wasn't sure if he should be taking lessons on morality from House, but at the moment his simplistic view made sense, and was the easiest to accept. He was tired of bearing the fault of Montrose's misdeeds, including his business. Still he felt it was up to him to do something, to make amends. He burrowed minutely closer to House and rested, not wanting to think anymore.
Greg relaxed as the close contact became familiar. At night he and Rob usually ended sleeping in close contact with each other no matter how far at opposite ends of the bed they started at. Still, they could blame their unconscious minds for that. This situation was different. This was them choosing to be together. This kind of intimacy, meant that kind of trust.
Greg turned his head just a little. He really did like the smell of Robert's hair though.
"You didn't tell me your dad didn't pay for your education. I figured you would have gone into medicine to get his attention."
Robert sighed into the warm chest. "I did. I was starting my second year when it finally occurred to me that he would never care what I did. He had a new wife, a new family."
"So why did you continue?"
He shrugged weakly eventually saying, "I liked it. I was good at it. Wanted to stay far away from rheumatology though." He felt House laugh and it brought a faint grin to his face too. "I got government assistance from the Higher Education Loan Program. It paid for most of the tuition. It was just the living accommodations and other stuff I had to pay for. But it was worth it." He loved medicine, loved his job. Hopefully, when he felt better, he could go back to loving it the way he used to.
Robert pushed up from the couch, missing the warmth of the other man's body almost immediately. He handed House the carton of food he'd abandoned on the floor next to the couch when the argument had begun. He'd heard the sounds of the man's empty stomach. His was silent.
"Where are you going?" Greg asked. He sat up and grabbed Rob by his pant leg.
"Bed," he answered. It was still very early but he was drained.
"Eat first." House swung his legs off the couch to make room.
"I'm not hungry." He let himself be pulled back down.
Greg handed him an egg roll. "Humour me." Rob took it and nibbled on it while Greg filled himself with greasy fast-Chinese-food. Rob would end up feeding the last bit of the crust to Steve who would be more than happy to have some people-food.
H
They clinked their plastic cups together in a toast, varying degrees of smiles on the faces all around. They were celebrating an achievement, the first ever in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital history. Some poor bastard had finished his fellowship under Dr. Gregory House, a diagnostician as well known for his medical prowess, as his poor interpersonal skills and painful lack of tact.
"Never thought this day would come," Greg said bemusedly.
"It takes a very special person to put up with you," Cuddy said between sips of her champagne. She slid her eyes to the tall man leaning against his desk while watching the three younger doctors interacting. "Don't screw this up." She finished the rest of her drink and left, after giving Dr. Chase a final congratulation and House a final look.
She must know, House thought to himself. Cuddy wasn't stupid. So he imagined she was referring to both his professional and personal relationship with Chase. She'd already given him the go-ahead for him to offer Chase a permanent position in the diagnostics department. He planned on asking when he knew for certain that Chase would say yes. Right now there were too many variables that needed to be resolved.
"We're going to O'Sullivan's. Would you like to come?" Cameron asked. House looked past her to see Chase and Foreman putting on their jackets. He shook his head.
"No. I'll see you tomorrow."
She watched him watch Chase for a moment. Eventually she made some decision and exited with the others. Chase hung back for a moment letting the other two get further away. He pushed the glass door open in and stepped halfway in.
"Why aren't you coming?"
House shrugged. "Don't feel like it." The upward inflection on his sentence, made it sounded as though he was asking if that was an acceptable answer. He felt a little twist in his chest at the slightly fallen expression that resulted on Chase's face and he grimaced. "Just go. Have fun. Don't drink too much."
"What about you?"
House pulled up from his slouch and stood straight with the help of his cane. "Wilson owes me." He gestured down the hall where he was sure the other two were waiting. "Go."
Chase hesitated. He did want to go to the bar to say a final farewell to Cameron, Foreman and work at PPTH, but work at PPTH would have been just like work at any other hospital if not for the man in front of him. "All right. I'll see you later."
"Yes, you will. Though I might be a little tipsy by then –y'know, it being Friday and all." The blue eyes that had shifted around the room made their way back to Chase, who gave him an amused, if somewhat forced smile and left.
"So, you're losing one of your ducklings. The flock just won't be the same without him."
"A group of ducks is a paddling, or a skiff, or a team. They're only a "flock" when they're airborne."
"Fine. You ready to get out of here? We can go commiserate the loss of a member of your paddling."
"Celebrate, you mean." House turned off the last light in the office and preceded Wilson out. He fought the urge to look back at the conference room. Already, he knew it didn't look the same.
It only took a beer and a half before Wilson finally got House to drop the bravado. Left in its place was a man who was worried and maybe a little confused. Wilson didn't try to pull his friend out of his funk. He let him rest there, contemplating whatever it was he was contemplating. It was still relatively early in the night when the lock on the front door clicked open, signalling Chase's return.
"Back so soon?" was the greeting he got from House.
Chase looked to Wilson, unsure of what mood he'd stumbled into. He cast his eyes back to the back of House's head. His eyes shifted a littler further away and he saw the older doctor's reflection in the dark picture of the TV, which also meant that House could see him too.
"Got tired," Chase offered. He removed his shoes and jacket and padded cautiously to the side of the couch. He was glad to see that there were only a few empty bottles of beer on the table so neither of the two men was beyond the realm of a slight buzz.
"I'm gonna go-"
"–To bed?" House hastily interjected. "Not likely. The night is young and so are you." Without turning his head or shifting his eyes he reached to the side and slipped a finger through the belt loop on Chase's pants. He pulled him down to the couch to sit between him and Wilson. "Here's your chance."
Chase flit an awkward glance at the oncologist who simply watched from the corner of his eyes as he took a drink from his bottle.
"My chance for what?"
"You're chance to apologize. Wilson's right there. Fire away."
Indignant Chase tried to get away. House still had a hold on his pants and once the young man was half-way up he yanked him back down to have him fall into Wilson.
Chase fell in a sprawl over the oncologist, his back pressed against the man and his head coming to rest just between the oncologist's neck and shoulder.
"What do you want me to say? That I screwed up? That I was scared and I made a mistake?" he asked in a yell. He was still leaning against Wilson. The odd angle and placement of his body made getting enough leverage to get up difficult. He almost had it when a hand slipped between him and the back of the couch and around to his front preventing him from rising.
"Robert," a calm voice from just behind his ear breathed.
"…I…I'm sorry." He nearly choked trying to swallow. "I..." How was he supposed to explain that he hadn't expected to end up here? That he figured he'd either be dead or in the custody of the US Marshalls for protection. He'd been too afraid and too unsure to say good-bye, so he'd tried instead to put space between himself and those he thought might come looking for him, in he hopes that when he went, no one would miss him. He liked to think that's what his father had tried to do for him, when he had been dying of lung cancer and hadn't told him. Maybe his attempt at sparing two of the people he'd come to care about had been as misguided as his father's.
"I'm sorry…" For exploiting the uncertainty and envy he'd seen in Wilson's eyes. Sorry for blowing it up and purposely making it stronger. For causing him any ache that he didn't deserve.
Somehow his apology conveyed everything. And given everything that had happened, they could forgive him this mistake.
"It's okay Robert," James mumbled in to the soft fair hair. He'd allowed himself to be manipulated. He'd fallen so easily, and without protest, in to the scenario that Chase had built, that it had taken House and Chase's "death" to bring him out of it.
James knew why he'd acted the way he had, and Robert needed to know too. He closed his eyes and continued the gentle stroking of his thumb over the flexing abs beneath his hand. "I was afraid…of loosing him." He stared over at House with dark eyes, adding his gaze to Chase's.
House looked away. Back to the TV he had muted earlier. He wasn't sure how he ended up with both these two men. He didn't know how the three of them ended up like this; entwined so badly there was little chance at pulling them apart without leaving pieces of themselves on the others. He was lucky. Given all the not so great events in their lives thus far, all three of them were lucky but he, Greg most of all. Because he knew there wasn't a hell of a lot to like about him, and he was too old and set in his ways to change. Yet, sometimes they would look at him and he'd feel less bad. Measuring himself by the company he kept was something he didn't like to do, since he could never seem to measure up on any level other than professionally, and even then it was iffy. Only since he'd been shot, since he'd hallucinated his exchange with his shooter, had all this become important.
When Robert Chase looked at him, smiled at him, at his antics, he felt he could measure up. That feeling pulled him to sit up a little straighter, to breath a little easier, to hope a little more. He'd found this. Wasn't sure what it was yet. Love seemed too trite. He'd found love before. No, he'd found a smidgen of faith, because the prayers he'd been too proud, too narcissistic to say had been answered. He was thankful.
Greg took a deep breathe and looked back at the two men, the older of them with his arm around his…boyfriend. Okay, that sounded weird. Rob had turned his head away, and was looking lethargic and unpleasantly numb. James's hand continued to stroke his mid-drift, silently soothing a deep ache, while his eyes demanded that Greg do something to fix this, otherwise he'd take the fragile man a leave now.
Greg averted his eyes again before speaking in a tone that was so soft and honest, he almost didn't sound like the man they knew. "I can't help you, if you don't want to be helped. Face this. Deal with this. Because I won't watch you do this. If I'm going to lose you, I'd rather you walk out now and not come back. I'm not going to watch you fade away." That said, Greg got up. He didn't look at the expressions that might be on the faces of his two guests, didn't listen for any response. He'd made his statement, given Rob his ultimatum; get better or get out. It was harsh and as he limped to his bedroom he frowned and chastised himself even thought he knew he'd done it for the boy's own good. Chase did well under pressure. Even if he made a mistake, he always managed to hold things together somehow. House needed to bring that out now. He also needed to protect himself. He knew he wouldn't be able to watch Chase fade away and not fade with him. While he was still strong enough, he had to do something. This was all he could think of. He was desperate.
Back in the living room, Wilson had to ask. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
Chase nodded at him but kept his head turned away. They were both sitting at the edge of the couch, Chase turned a little in the direction in which House had just fled. His eyes were on the floor near the kitchen and Wilson's were on him. He was wondering what the hell House thought he was doing. This was not the recommended way to help an assault victim. Wilson knew that House rarely did things the recommended way but this wasn't just anybody. This was Chase, and the young man had become important to him. So why was he so quickly pushing him away, forcing him into making a decision he wasn't ready to make?
Wilson closed his eyes for a long second. Chase was welcome to stay at his place, and House was welcome to throw all this away. It wouldn't be the first time he'd watched House do something stupid in a relationship.
In the bedroom, the middle-aged man sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the door and waited. In a dream, in a better version of reality, Rob would come running in and tell House that he was right, and that he was going to get help, accept his help. Of course, in a better world Chase wouldn't have been incarcerated, he wouldn't have been shot, Hilter would have died in utero. Better worlds might exist somewhere but it wasn't here, so Chase didn't coming running. Instead he heard the sound of movements, then he heard his front door open and close.
Silence had never been so foul and heavy before. Greg hadn't realized how tense he was until his shoulders deflated and he hunched over. His right had rubbed at his thigh, feeling the jagged indentation left by the muscle resection. It was just him and his pain again. What a disappointment.
Refusing to linger on the loss or feel heartbroken, Greg undressed. He left on the T-shirt and his boxers and struggled under the covers. At first he lay with his back to the door, facing the window shrouded by the curtains his mother had insisted on. Soon he turned towards the door and the side of the bed that had become Rob's. The light in his living room was still on. Someone might still be there. No moving shadow's interrupted the light and no sounds carried through the quiet corridor. He closed his eyes.
He'd talk to Wilson and Chase tomorrow. Just because he wasn't going to see Chase anymore didn't mean he'd let the man just give up. It just meant he wasn't going to be with him every step of the way. Only now, his eyes beginning to close from exhaustion did Greg realize he'd meant to be there every step. He wanted to make good on that promise, but what was a promise when made to no one?
H
The sound of music woke House from his unsatisfying, and light doze. Bleary eyes opened to find that the light in the living room was still left on, illuminating the corridor. House sighed and rose from the bed his tired joints and muscles wishing that either of his guests had thought to turn off the light when they left. As he was padding to out of the room, hobbling badly without his cane, Greg recalled that he hadn't put on any music and that the TV was off. So where were the sombre hums of strings coming from?
He arrived and found his answer.
Robert gently pulled the bow across the strings of his instrument, an old friend he'd neglected for quite a long time. As a youth it had been his salvation, and, for the moments that the music could steal his mother away from her drinks and her drugs, it had been her salvation too.
He practiced fairly regularly, brushing up on old favourites and learning new ones, but he didn't play. For him there was a distinction between practicing and really playing. Practicing was just going through the motions, getting through the piece –more of an intellectual exercise. Playing was more of an emotional exercise, and perhaps why he didn't play often.
It wasn't that he wasn't good. He was very good and he knew it. Not every twenty-year old violinist is offered a position in a strings orchestra. It wasn't a first violin offer, but it was still huge, and he still turned it down. Playing was something he rarely did when other eyes could watch. He felt naked, defenceless. It had resulted in a few panic attacks when he was younger, particularly around the time when his mother was slipping more rapidly away near the end and he was barely holding it together. There had been one particularly jarring incident. Possibly feeling bad about the difficult time his son was facing, and his own lack of support for the duration of the tribulation, Rowan had brought Rob to his new home, with his new wife for an early Christmas party and asked Rob to play for them. Reluctantly he had done so, and by the end of the piece he was shaking. The throngs of applause only heightened his unrest and his heart was attempting to keep up with the beat of claps. The boy had dashed from the room and been sick over the toilet for a few minutes. By the time his father had gone to look for him the emetic episode was over, and Rob was bolting for the exit. He didn't say goodbye in his haste to get to her.
The hospital room was as still and quiet as when he'd left, and his mother was still there, sickly, pale and thin. Standing over her, violin case with the instrument cradled within in hand, he told her that he was sorry. The music was only supposed to be theirs. He was her son and she was his mother and they were the only people who really cared about each other in the whole, cold world. Nobody saw him lie she did, and he wasn't supposed to let anybody that close. He wanted to save her but he was just a child, so this was the best he could give her.
After she passed he played less and less for other people. He kept up with the lessons becoming a very accomplished violinist but rarely sharing his talent. By the time he came to the US, his talent was a secret only between him and her. When he did play he played so that she could see him.
Tonight he played so that he could be seen, because there were still some things conveyed more wholly in music than in the few words and expressions delegated to language.
From the junction of the corridor and living room Greg watched, now fully awake. The thin, sweet notes of the instrument filled the room in some moments then receded in others. Greg moved closer watching the talented hands slide down and up the narrow black neck, moving over the strings and with delicate, sure touches, creating beautiful trills and clear notes.
Greg settled on the edge of the couch, both to be close and because his leg couldn't handle standing for so long without the support of his cane. Something in the tone of the music changed. The audience noticed a shuddering breath quake the chest of the artist. He forged on, eyes still closed, knowing he was being watched and willing to, wanting to continue. He descended back in to the current of notes, and returned to the music was depth that only then did House realised had been missing. The notes, the tunes, the rich sound took them for a ride –up, over, around and then gently laid them back to rest, safe and sound where it had begun.
Greg opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them. The music had ended, the last, soft chord slipping away into the silence, taking with it the barrier between the two men. Blinking away the trance-like state the music and the motions had lulled him into, he stared at Rob. He stared at the half-lidded eyes that were still lost somewhere in the current of melodies, melodies of memories, and memories of loss. Honest, unguarded feelings and pains buried so deep and so well that only the music seemed to unlock the door, were now on display and tears spilled out. He cried silent, simple tears. They streamed in single file down his cheeks, marking their journey with a wet glisten caught by the lighting of the room.
"Rob," Greg whispered.
Recognition and awareness filtered back. The younger man blinked but his eyes remained focused in the direction of the coffee table.
Greg shifted closer and reached to gently brush away one of the wet trails. It was quickly replaced by another. Rob laid his precious violin across his lap and reached up to his own cheek. There was an expression of mild surprise and confusion on his face when his fingers came away wet. Of their own accord, it seemed, the tears continued to come, and slowly, his breathing became more ragged.
As he placed his instrument down on the table, Chase wasn't sure if he'd made a mistake. He didn't like this feeling, this exposure, but this was his best, and probably last chance. It would be a test for both of them. Rob vulnerable and hurt, and Greg taking advantage of that vulnerability to put some aches to rest. Neither was sure if they were strong enough to get through it.
"I don't know what to say," Chase began, then took shaky breath. He didn't have to know. It just bubbled up and he was describing his horrible stay in prison. "The first time…" his voice was choked and raspy, "the first time, in his cell, I fought. I…I was so fucking scared…" His breathing hitched but he carried on. "I stabbed him. Didn't really mean to…but…I did. He…survived, obviously." Rob swallowed something and continued, though he wasn't sure why. House knew what happened. He'd figured it out. He didn't need the details. It was Chase who needed someone to tell. So the tears kept falling and his lips kept moving, recounting the nightmare. "The n-next time, there were two…I-I couldn't…I couldn't fight them. I…I tried. I really did. I tried-"
"It's okay," Greg tried to absolve but the blond man shook his head.
"One held me down –Yarrow…Yarrow…he did it… it hurt…it hurt so much." His deepening accent and mounting distress made a mess of the statement. Greg felt a deep urge to give comfort, and while he was experienced in such, he knew something simple could mean a lot, especially to someone who'd known too many hurtful touches.
With care, Greg moved to touch the alluring face again. His thumb ghosted across the damp cheek, his fingers slid past the delicate shell of the ear to sift through the soft strands of short hair. Rob shivered as the fingers reached the back of his neck.
"There were other times…other inmates...but those were the two times that mattered. The time I lost…and the first time." The tear stained face twisted in an expression of misery and regret. "I stabbed him…" he confessed, his eyes sliding to the side, focusing briefly on the damaged thigh that, again, pained its owner. His face pinched in shame a new set of tears. "…I should have let him die." It was only thing he was sure of at that moment. If he had been less of a coward his tormentor would have been dead long ago, and none these most recent traumas would have happened. His weakness resulted in so much pain and not just his own. "I should have killed him."
"No." It was the anger talking and Greg tried to correct him. "You're not–"
"I should have killed him!" Chase yelled trying to twist away from the touch. Greg didn't let him go and used his other arm to hold him. "I should have ended this!"
Greg had to grasp him by his shoulders to keep him on the couch. He was fairly buzzing with anguish "Listen to me! You didn't do this! This isn't your fault!"
"I couldn't save them! I couldn't…I couldn't save you! He hurt you…" Chase wanted to pull away but the hands on him were stronger than he expected. Crippled or not, House was no slouch. The best defence Chase could mount was grabbing the older man by the collar of his shirt. It didn't give him much leverage, but it kept them apart for as long as he needed them to be.
"That's not your fault!" House had been trying to protect Chase. Chase had been trying to protect him. Both of them had failed, but Chase could only see his failure. "Rob, you didn't do this! I've always been broken! This isn't your fault!"
Chase feebly shook his head. He was drained. His head fell forward hiding his face. "I should have saved them…I wanted to…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry."
Each apology came out a little more slurred, a little less decipherable. The guilt and despair were perfectly clear.
"It's okay, Rob. It's okay." Some people couldn't be saved, others didn't want to be. House thought he was both. He knew now that he wasn't. He would convince Chase of the same thing, share with him the bit of hope he'd inspired, and pray that it would be enough for both of them.
"I should have saved them."
The grip on the well-loved T-shirt slackened and Greg took advantage of the moment to pull Rob close to him. Rob was beyond resisting. He fell heavily in to the welcoming embrace. There was no hesitation when a pair of arms wrapped around him.
Into the short hair Greg told him, "It isn't always up to you." The world could be a really crappy place, and sometimes you can't protect the few people you've included in your little corner of it, not even yourself. It would wear anybody down, but House was there to catch him this time.
Tomorrow House would still be there. He'd promised himself.
End Chapter 15
One more chapter to go. Stay tuned. Thanks for reading.
Sagga…