Title: Unravel , Part 2Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Cursing. Heavy allusions toward non-con, homosexual themes, alcoholism
Disclaimer: House, M.D. is, sadly, owned by David Shore & Co. and not by me.

A/N: A few people wanted a sequel to Unravel. I was going to leave it a one-shot even though I did write a few more chapters for it…but since reviewers wanted more, here is Chapter 2. Hope you like! Apologies if it's convoluted, but that's sort of what I was going for.

Unravel: Chapter 2

It's late, but Chase is still at the hospital. He sits in the sterile nurse's station, staring unseeingly at an old patient file. At night the ICU is usually fairly stress-free---patients resting, just the quiet beep of machinery. For that Chase is grateful; he's not ready for the responsibility of saving lives just yet. Cameron walks by with a stack of House's mail and suggests that he go home. Chase does, because he can't stand the pity she radiates anymore. The messenger bag on his shoulder seems to drag him down as he walks toward the garage. He feels wide awake and dead tired at the same time. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder. Chase waits for the accompanying tap of a cane or a bitter comment, but it's only Foreman.

"Hey, man, House has been looking for you for hours," the neurologist says. There's a hint of sympathy in his voice. Chase shrugs him off and gives him a glare that clearly says back off. "I don't need to see House," he says tersely. Thankfully, Foreman gets the hint and hurries away.

I don't need pity, he thinks, sinking into a seat on the PPTH night-shift bus. I need to forget.

Alcohol scares Chase. He's afraid of drinking, after what happened to his mother, after finding her passed out on the living room floor surrounded by caution tape. Chase takes a second look at the bottle of vodka in his hand before uncorking it and taking a swig. His throat burns; bright colors dance and swirl around the room. Hard liquor reminds him of House, and thinking of House makes the world spin. He remembers the merciless kiss and the cane cutting off his air and House's collar under his fingers as he tried to push him away. The sensation of being caged in comes back. Chase looks around at the impersonal walls of his apartment. It's overly small, suddenly, overly constricted. Another swallow, and another, coming more easily now than before. With each mouthful he grows dizzier, aware that his ears seem to be stuffed with cotton. He feels too warm even with the top buttons of his shirt undone. His cell phone shrills out, breaking heavy silence; irritated, Chase swats at the offensive object, knocks it to the floor. There it shatters and lies quiet.

The beeper goes off seconds later, its sound grating on Chase's nerves. He picks It up to turn it off, and thinks it says, "Hospital. Now. H," but dismisses the idea from his mind. He's much more relaxed now, his vision fuzzy and slightly darkened at the edges. The vodka announces itself with sporadic tingles up his spine. Those eyes, however, still haunt Chase—cold, predatory eyes boring into his own, If he concentrates, Chase almost imagines that House is there, in the room with him, silently questioning, mocking, analyzing.

He finds it disconcerting that House has taken enough possession of his mind to never leave him, wherever he goes. It's startling that House is omnipresent in his life, This Chase explains to himself in a rather diagnostic way, acknowledges it as one last fact before everything goes black.

The first thing Chase is conscious of is the pounding headache. It starts as a faint whine of pain behind his eyes and slowly intensifies to a dull roar. He is engulfed in agony. He can barely open his eyes, and when he does the sun streaming in from the windows disarms him. To Chase it seems as if all his bones are fused together as he tries to sit up. On the third attempt he succeeds and clutches the arm of the couch to keep from keeling over. Blinking a few times, Chase curses House, curses being a lightweight drinker, curses even owning vodka, curses life in general.

Finally ready to move some minutes later, Chase stumbles dizzily toward the bathroom and checks his watch on the way. 12:30 PM. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He briefly considers skipping work entirely before he remembers the people he'd endanger and decides against it. Chase steadies himself on the edge of the sink and stares blearily at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like hell, having not bothered with a shower and slept in office clothes. More like, been comatose for a night, he thinks wryly. The white striped shirt he'd worn yesterday is wrinkled, tie askew and creased. His eyes are bloodshot with dark bags underneath, face pale, normally perfect hair disheveled. He wishes for a split second that he had some of Cameron's concealer; then the stabbing pain in his head brings him back to reality. Fuck. Chase washes down two Advil with a mouthful of Listerine and does a haphazard job of splashing the sleep from his eyes.

Although he doesn't want coffee, or anything else to drink for that matter, he makes himself a cup of Nescafe and gulps it standing up in the kitchen. There are ten messages on his landline answering machine: two from Foreman stating brotherly concern, five from a worried-sick Cameron asking his whereabouts, and three sobering barrages from House that brazenly demanded his presence at work. Chase absentmindedly wonders why he hasn't received more calls from House than just three.

Reassembling his broken cellular simplifies this mystery. Sixteen messages from House, one of which is text. Chase listens to his voicemail with trepidation, half expecting to hear that he is going to be fired for not spending the night at PPTH. House repeatedly asks where he could possibly be, tone and invective growing progressively harsher. By the time the automated voice tells him his mailbox is empty, Chase is worn out. The text message remains, evidence of it blinking on the small glowing screen of his phone. And when Chase opens it, reading it once is enough to make his heart stop. The words imprint themselves into Chase's mind so that he whispers them to himself as he's dressing, as he's running to the morning-shift bus, as he's slipping and sliding through the garage.

"Current case dead in ICU 2 hrs. Get the fuck to work."

It's abuse, he contemplates as he steps into the elevator and presses the button for House's floor three times in quick succession. I shouldn't be taking this from him. I could just quit. I could just—A few more people file in beside Chase and the soft whirring of cables breaks his train of thought. –walk out. But I killed a patient, he reminds himself. The headache which had been previously assuaged comes back full force. I was too busy getting wasted and feeling sorry for myself to give a damn. Just like mum. He feels as if sledgehammers are pummeling his temples.

Memories resurface over the slight humming of the others in the elevator. Chase remembers coming home to find caution tape stretching from the front door to the living room, clusters of grim-faced officers taking notes on clipboards, the wail of sirens. He had memorized every gin-stained flower on the wallpaper of the hallway as he listened to the urgent whispers of paramedics crouched around a prone form he just couldn't catch a glimpse of. Chase recalls sitting in that infamous room where they tell you the bad news, a confused, scared high school senior waiting to know that mum was okay. It had been a hospital much like this one. He'd heard the nurses shouting "CLEAR!" from two doors away, and before the doctor had come in, Chase had been sure she didn't make it. He had also known—or convinced himself—that his mother's death was Dr. Eislyn's fault, that not enough had been done to help, that he himself needed—NEEDED—to become a doctor so he could remedy all these wrongs. The story he tells patients about wanting to be a doctor because of his bad tonsillectomy is a complete lie. This, this is the real reason. It had been hat feeling of complete helplessness, of drowning, of not knowing what to do next.

House makes Chase feel that way. He feels that way now. He—

"Ah. You finally see fit to show up." Chase jumps, notices the cane wedged between the elevator doors. The voice is unmistakably House's. Everyone else has already filed out, and the sign on the wall behind House that reads "Diagnostics" in bold black letters confirms where Chase is. Not in the past, anymore, no. Instead, utterly speechless in the face of Greg House yet again. Fuck.

"I—sorry—"

"I was just about to come by personally to rescue you from your self-pity. Been trying out your mommy's techniques of coping, haven't you? I hope the drink's been good to you," House remarks acidly as he steers Chase down the hall and into the alcove by the water fountain.

The hand on Chase's elbow burns him through his lab coat and his shirtsleeve. He tries to jerk away. "Not now, House. Please not now." His voice quivers; being around House throws him off, makes him irrational. Begging already. I'm ridiculous. Pathetic, Chase berates himself. As usual when it comes to granting reasonable requests, House ignores him and the feral smile on the man's face seems to only intensify. Chase's stiffens when he is fixed with an icy blue stare. "House! Are you bloody deaf? I said, not now." Yeah. Hysterical comes off loads better.

"I'll assume the liquor's been exceptionally good to you, since your priorities obviously favor getting plastered over actually doing your job," House drawls. "It's funny," he continues, sliding his hand slowly up Chase's arm to his shoulder, "how strongly alcoholism runs in the family—you act just like your mother with a twist of masculinity thrown in. I won't waste time mentioning how little masculinity there actually is…but my point stands." The fingertips at the nape of Chase's neck wind into his hair and tug cruelly. Chase jumps at the sudden shock of pain and narrows his eyes. "Too damn pretty for your own good, anyway," House mutters, close to Chase's ear.

House's words are meant to hurt; they do, no matter how much Chase wants to ignore him. It's impossible to ignore anything House says. His entire manner today goes beyond the usual facetious tirade and cuts to the bone. Determined to walk away from the confrontation he is sure will come, Chase takes a step toward the open hallway. House curls the impeding hand, vicelike, around Chase's bicep and hauls him roughly around.

His face is inches from Chase's, minty breath once again ghosting into the air between them. "Leaving so soon? Well, if you must." House's tone is taunting, cold. "We'll finish yesterday's conversation later. My office sound good?" Chase knows House is doing this on purpose—to intimidate—because everything he does is meant to intimidate. The meaning behind his words is clear: "Meet me in my office at lunchtime so I can strip you of your dignity, do what I wish with you just like yesterday, because obviously you'll say yes. Everyone says yes to me, as with everything else. I'm just that good."

Chase wants to be sick. How did he reach this point? How had he become House's prey, and why was House so bent on his humiliation? Why was this even happening to him? He's just a fellow, just here to finish his residency and get the hell out into the real world. I never signed up to be antagonized by this man, used by this man, Chase thinks. This selfish, twisted bastard of a man. He doesn't want to think about what will go on in House's office, how far his boss will decide to go this time. The idea of being cornered like that again scares Chase out of his mind, but he's aware that "No" just isn't an option.

In his desperation, Chase wants to resort to blind violence, itches to punch House again. He knows he can. He knows House deserves it. He wants to shout you never knew my mother, scream at him you're a manipulative son of a bitch, tear at House's hair and scratch at his eyes and shut him up once and for all. But then Chase notices the fading bruises on one side of House's face, the slight crookedness in his nose, the almost imperceptible wince when he tries to speak. Guilt makes Chase sick for a split second, stilling the fist clenched in his pocket. Repeatedly injuring a man who is already in pain isn't something Chase considers high on the "morally correct" list. How can you pity him? his mind protests, but he ignores it.

"Yeah. Fine," Chase whispers venomously and pushes past House to stride down the hall. No matter that he's almost running to get away. Self-image doesn't exist in House's world.

When he glances over his shoulder, House is still standing in the alcove, feigning casual by leaning on the water fountain. The dark smirk on House's face tells Chase this isn't a joke. It just confirms that yesterday wasn't a joke, either. He's scared to know just how far House is willing to go to get what he wants.

Chase feels another small part of himself crumble away. You're winning, House, he thinks. I hope you're fucking happy.