Chapter Text
Having successfully alienated not only his best friend, but also pissed off his boss, House did the only reasonable thing: bought a week's supply of alcohol and went home. Bars were for at least pretending that you belonged in civilized society. So House went to drink at home where he couldn’t screw up any more lives. The drive to the liquor store felt simultaneously like it took years and seconds. Somewhere in the back of his mind he identified “extreme dissociation” as a symptom. He was pretty sure the person behind the counter asked him something about a party, then if he was okay, but he ignored them. I must have paid if they were talking to me. They weren’t angry. He reached his apartment and set his alcohol on the coffee table, made sure there was still Vicodin in his pocket, and flicked the tv remote until something interesting enough to hold his attention came on. It appeared to be some sort of pop-science medical mystery mixed with a middle school science documentary. Good enough. As an afterthought, he limped into the kitchen and grabbed several bags of chips, a tub of ice cream, and a mug. Having ensured that he wouldn’t have to get up until he felt like it, he collapsed back onto the couch and opened the first bottle. It was awful. What the hell did I buy? He didn’t care enough to check, instead draining the rest in one gulp. The narrator of the show was an idiot, House decided, and told him so. Having someone to insult, even a pre recorded tv personality, made him feel a little better. Several hours later, he realized it also gave him a gauge on how drunk he was. The answer was very, very drunk. Some modicum of self control forced him to put down the bottle and eat some chips, then pee into the mug.
Sometime later he awoke to someone banging on his door. His head ached, he felt mildly nauseous, and he definitely didn’t want to talk to anyone. “House, I know you’re in there!” Chase? He didn’t have time to ponder the new development because Chase opened the door and stepped gingerly into the room. “You know there’s broken glass on your carpet, right?” He glanced down and sure enough, the bottle he vaguely remembered shattering the night before was still there.
“What do you want?”
Chase sighed. “Cameron’s worried about you.” He glanced around at the mess that was House’s living room. “Apparently with good reason. I said I’d check on you.”
“Why? She would have and you wouldn’t have to do anything.”
“Because she would make whatever this is worse, and then I’d have to deal with it anyway.” Whatever dismissiveness Chase’s voice held, there was a hint of genuine concern hidden underneath.
“I’m fine. Go away.”
“You’re not fine, and I won’t go away. You were late, even for you, and left again without seeing any patients, and now you’re drunk at three pm. That’s avoidant and self destructive even for you.”
“Aww you do care.” House put as much sarcasm into his voice as he could muster.
Chase glared. “House, let me help you. You know as well as I do what I’m getting out of this. I know you speak the language of transactional exchange.”
“What do I get out of it?” I don’t deserve help.
“I owe you. We can get dinner and I’ll pay, or … I’ll help you prank Wilson.” At that House’s stomach dropped. Chase, almost as quick as House at times, narrowed his eyes. “This is about Wilson?”
Normally House would deflect, make a joke, and redirect conversation to their patient. But nothing about this was normal. He opted for not answering, instead grabbing another bottle of cheap beer and gesturing for Chase to take one as well. When he didn’t, House just shrugged and took a long drink. Chase was still staring at him with those soft brown eyes. “What do you want, Chase?” He felt the fight and sarcasm drain from his voice, as much as he clung to it.
“I want to help you.” Chase’s voice was softer than House had ever heard it. It almost sounded like he was speaking to a wounded animal. Wilson used that voice on him, on very rare occasions. Come to think of it, Wilson had only ever used that voice in the months after Stacy. God do I really look that bad? House allowed himself to curl into an almost fetal position on the couch and Chase gave him a quickly hidden look of alarm. I must look that bad. Exhaustion and emotion had slowed his mind to a crawl compared to what he was used to. It was unnerving.
“I screwed up. I screwed up worse than I ever have. They’re gone and I don’t think they’re coming back.”
-
At those words Chase felt an odd mix of emotions. Shock, for one. He hadn’t quite registered that House was, well, human. He always acted like he was above things like emotion and friendship, but Chase recognized the tone in House’s voice, the hunch of his shoulders, the downward bent of his eyes. Of all the people Chase thought he would see give up, House was not one of them. It occurred to him, all at once, that if House really could feel emotion, his mask had to be out of fear. It reminded him uncomfortably of his own act; pretty boy, unbothered, in control of himself. The man in front of him was like a personification of his own doubts and loneliness. House was an ass and Chase searched out shallow connections, both to avoid confronting their own insecurities. The realization made his stomach twist uncomfortably, but he shoved it down. His crisis would have to wait until House wasn’t on the brink of true collapse. Not this again, his mind whispered. Not now, he snapped back. “What happened?”
House shook his head and Chase could see the walls going up again. Shit. “I destroyed his marriage, told him it’s no wonder I’m his only friend, and then I called Cuddy a bitch. Any questions?”
Chase had a lot of questions, actually. “Cuddy’s not going to refuse to speak to you ever again because you called her a bitch, you do something completely insane at least once a week and she still seems to like you.” Nice going Robert, very comforting.
“Not this time. I meant it.” Before Chase could figure out what that meant, House continued, “I don’t usually mean it.” It almost sounded like he was just realizing that himself. Is he really that unaware of his own emotions? Not that Chase was that much better, but he at least had a semi-conscious understanding of when he was lashing out because of fear or insecurity and didn’t actually mean his words. Apparently House didn’t even have that.
-
“So what are you going to do now?” That was new, House realized. Wilson and Cuddy always told him what to do. Huh, dissociation is actually kind of nice. His mind was working fine, if more slowly than usual, but his emotions were gone. It allowed him to focus on the objective facts in a way he often had trouble doing.
“Drink.” He raised the beer and took another swig. It still tasted awful.
“Fine.” Chase was looking at him as though he was a patient who was being particularly difficult. “If you want to permanently destroy your relationships and your liver, be my guest.” Something House might call hope flashed within him, breaking through the dissociative fog for a single shining moment. It was quickly followed by a sinking despair, then nothing.
“I already told you, they’re already gone.” He considered another drink, but the taste dissuaded him.
“Listen,” Chase sighed. “I’ve screwed up a lot of relationships in my life and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s this: if someone loves you they put up with more than they should. Wilson loves you. Cuddy loves you. If you act like an adult for once in your goddamn life and apologize, they’ll give you another chance even though they shouldn’t.” House was silent as several realizations flashed through his mind at once: Chase was
not
the shallow pretty-boy persona he presented to the world, Chase cared about him, and he, Gregory House, was an awful person. Something tightened in his chest at that last bit, but it wasn’t quite enough to break through the mental barrier separating him and his emotions. Somewhere behind that wall he could feel his heart shatter, but it was of no consequence. Yet. “Go home, Chase. You can’t fix me.” Chase scoffed, then turned on his heel and left. The door slammed shut behind him.