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High stress jobs require coping mechanisms that some may call extreme.
It’s why nobody can really blame surgeons for drinking on their off-hours, or the immeasurable amount of doctors who are capped out on antidepressants. Doctor House displays his subpar coping skills loudly so that everyone knows how miserable he is and nobody tries to ask him about it. Cameron and Foreman have their own vices that Chase is kept in the dark about, and yet he highly doubts they indulge in the acts that he does. Cameron is too optimistic and Foreman is not inclined to self destruct.
Chase began seeking pain to cope with life at a young age.
Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was constantly surrounded by it, and pain became as comforting as a warm blanket on a chilly night.
His father’s knuckles cracking against his cheekbone. Having to pick up the broken shards of glass every time his mother dropped a glass or bottle of tequila. The nuns at Catholic school slamming rulers down onto his hands whenever he recited a verse incorrectly or dared to question anything written in the bible.
He was almost ashamed at how much he owed his extensive education in medicine to pain— if it weren’t for the punishment he provided himself, he would have quit and found an easier career path. There would have been less discipline to fall back on. It had increased in frequency before increasing in effort; and yet, he was never desperate enough to turn the blade or lighter to his wrists. Such an obvious place was incredibly easy to uncover in the medical field.
Chase dodged every call for yearly checkups since he started university. He was a doctor, after all, and nobody knew his body and its limits like he did. (It had nothing to do with the scars lining his thighs, ribcage, and back, of course). Nobody really cared enough to insist he look after himself. He wondered if his mother would have if she were still alive, or if his father would smile at the fact that he carried on daddy’s tradition of hurt.
On the snowy evening that was November 19th, Chase felt his heart drop down to his small intestine as House explained why they needed to be thoroughly checked for any sores or marks that could have been contracted by their very contagious patient. In the case that they had, they would be sealed away in a clean room until House could figure out the cause of the infection through his brilliant deduction skills.
Chase felt the panic eating away through his veins as Cuddy took Cameron away for examination with apologetic eyes. Chase couldn’t imagine the kind, empathetic James Wilson letting any of his scars go.
“Alright, boys,” House sighed. “Which of you wants to strip down for Wilson first? I made sure to book a nice and confidential room for this, so feel free to make a move on him if you think you have a chance. The more pathetic you look, the better.”
Chase could barely hear the man. His mouth felt dry no matter how much he tried to conjure up saliva. He felt his hands trembling where they were shoved into his lab coat pockets. Chase focused on keeping his breaths even and tried to ignore the faint sting of fresh cuts from last night on his shoulder and left ribcage. The rough material of his shirt rubbed against them.
“So… what is it? Embarrassing tattoo on your ass?” House’s voice broke Chase out of his reverie and he distantly noticed that Foreman had volunteered to go first, leaving them alone in the room. “Don’t worry, I’ve got one too— I’ve tried to get Cuddy to take a look for years.”
Chase’s lips opened and closed a few times, not knowing how to respond. He felt his control shifting out of his fingers, dissolving into the stale air around them. His breaths came quicker, quicker, quicker. He couldn’t bring himself to blink.
“…Chase?” He heard, right as his legs buckled and Chase fell to his knees with a high whine. “What…?”
“Please,” Chase whispered, knowing it would fall on apathetic ears but desperation winning over. “Please don’t make me do this.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder—thankfully, the one without bandages—and House forced him to look into his eyes. They were curious, and held a fleck of concern that was shrouded by intrigue, like Chase was a puzzle being figured out.
“Chase,” House almost sounded genuine. “We have to make sure you didn’t contract the infection… but if you’re not comfortable with Wilson doing the examination, I could do it . It would be quick. I wouldn’t tell anyone about…whatever you’re worried about.”
“I don’t want you…seeing either,” Chase protested, but he knew it was a losing battle. Someone had to examine him. It simply had to be done, and no amount of humiliation would change the fact.
“I know,” House frowned. “But at least if it’s me, I’m used to lying to my overlords. Unless you have the infection I won’t say a damn thing.”
Chase put his face in his hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. Breathed out. Pulled his blonde hair a bit before speaking through gritted teeth: “Fine.”
House helped him up and they walked silently too the examination room. The sound of the lock was deafening in his ears, like the games he would play as a child flashing GAME OVER in bright red font.
House is quiet when Chase slowly lets his button up slip past his shoulders. His pale hands fold the blouse perfectly, then crumple it up and tosses it onto the chair beside him.
“Alright,” Chase whispers. “Get it over with.”
The air in the room is frigid and Chase can feel the hair on his legs and arms lift in the chill. His eyes are clenched shut by the time he hears House audibly gulp at the sight of his naked body.
Chase knows it looks bad. Really bad.
He knows that this will obliterate any notion in House’s mind that Chase was the hospital slut, sleeping in the beds of every beautiful nurse no matter what their gender or features. Because who in their right mind would sleep with a man who looked like he had voluntarily thrown himself into a paper shredder?
Chase jumps at the cold fingertips that land thoughtfully on his back. He hears the doctor step around him to check his front and knows that he can easily see the scars and bright red lines swarming his torso. House sounds awkward and disoriented when he speaks softly: “I have to take the bandages off, Chase.”
He nods jerkily and bites his lips.
“I understand. Do it.”
The fresh wounds sting when exposed and Chase hisses in discomfort as the bandages rip off. At least House does it quickly.
Dr. House runs his fingers along his spins, his shoulders, his ribs. He traces one of Chase’s deepest scars running from his right shoulder blade down to his left hip— a particularly difficult angle to reach with a scalpel, but he had always been flexible. The ladder scars on his ribcage are unmistakable.
He can’t remember the last time someone touched him delicately without the intention to harm. Chase flinches away eventually to glare at the man, even though his heart is racing so fast he can barely think.
“Can you focus on the sores you’re looking for?” Chase asks indignantly before getting a good look at House’s eyes. “What is it? D-Did you find one?”
House leaned heavily into his cane and put a hand over his eyes to cover the slight glassy look. His sigh is heavy, tired, and Chase can see his age written on every muscle in his body for the first time in a long time. “What the hell is this, Chase?”
Chase clenches his teeth and tenses his jaw until it aches.
“You said you wouldn’t say anything,” Chase hissed like a street cat backed into the corner of an alleyway. “You said—”
“I told you that I wouldn’t say anything to anybody else,” House clarified, still not looking up. “So my question stands. What is this?”
He tosses Chase a robe from the chair and heaves himself onto it.
“Aren’t you supposed to check me for sores?”
“I already did. They’re not hard to miss— large, red, and covered in puss. There’s none,” House reassured him. “Now quit changing the subject.”
Chase wraps himself up in the robe. “You’re not stupid, House. You know what they are. What do you want from me?”
Chase sits on the chair across from his boss and stares down at his hands. House takes a few moments to collect himself, bouncing his cane on the tile floor. The air is tense.
“How long has this been going on?” House asks, and Chase knows his true question is how did I not notice? Chase rolled his eyes.
“Don’t make this about yourself,” Chase snarked back at the man. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Nothing to do with you or this job— so don’t go beating yourself up over it.”
House gives him a sarcastic smile, “You’re starting to know me well, huh?”
Chase shrugs and hugs himself. His shoulders sting. He needs to replace the bandages. “You have Vicodin, I have this. What’s the difference?”
House scoffs and shakes his head (the tell-tale sign that he sees the point but refuses to agree with it).
”I have a disability. I am in constant pain. And you are…?”
The blonde looks into the eyes of his boss and curls his lips: “I’m fine. This helps— no, shut up, it does. All those stupid jokes about telling hookers to tie me up, hurt me? They're not fucking jokes! I like it! Why the fuck else would I continue this?”
“Oh, I don’t know! Addiction?! The incredible powers of endorphins released from injuries?” House exclaims angrily.
Chase gives a huffed, fake laugh. House looks exasperated and frustrated as if he were trying to convince a 5-year-old to understand that broccoli is nutritious and he has to eat them.
“That’s ridiculous, I’m not like you,” Chase replied, standing up and pacing around the room like a tiger in a trap. “You will do anything to not feel pain! I crave it, I enjoy it—”
House slams down the cane onto the floor.
“You keep telling yourself that! Isn’t that the first phrase they teach you when you join the addict club?” House yells back at the younger man walking before him. “I like this, it doesn’t hurt me, it’s not ruining my body or my life because I LET IT, and that means I’m in control—”
“SHUT UP!” Chase screams back, tears running down his face and his chest heaving. “I am in control, I always have been!”
“Your body looks like you’ve been locked in a cage with a feral cat for years.”
Chase lets out a frustrated sob: “I don’t know how to live without pain! I don’t,” he clutches at his chest like it’s concaving and leaving him behind, “I just don’t. Why do you even care?”
It’s silent for a long while. Chase slides down to sit on the ground with his knees tucked up to his chest and stares up at the ceiling. Maybe god will tear the building apart and give Chase the answer to everything, the answer to every question he’s had since he was pressing ice packs to his stomach after questioning his father.
“I don’t need a reason to care,” he heard House say from across the room, and Chase huffs. “Isn’t it enough for someone with chronic pain to say that I don’t want you to be in pain?”
“If you hadn’t seen it today, you wouldn’t have given a fuck.”
“True, and if my house was on fire and nobody told me,” House retorted, “I would continue doing my job without knowing about it. When someone does tell me, should I just let it keep burning?”
Chase stares back at him. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know how to do a damn thing.
“What if the house wants to burn?” Chase whimpers. “What if it doesn’t know how to stop burning?”
House lets out a breath and shoves himself up to stand. He limps over to where Chase is curled up on the floor and settles beside him, groaning in pain as he does.
His hand hesitantly comes up to rest on Chase’s shoulder, where House now knows cuts line the pale skin there.
“Most houses don’t even know they’re burning. And all burning houses could use some good firefighters.”
Chase lets out a quiet sob into his knees, arms wrapped around them.
“Why can’t you just…pretend you never saw?” Chase asks, pleading. “It would be so much simpler.”
House shakes his head.
“I might be a piece of shit, but I’m not enabling or minimizing this. Chase…life without pain is something you deserve. It doesn’t matter if it’s you inflicting it or someone else.”
Chase sniffles, “I’m fine,” but doesn’t really find it in himself to believe it. The hand resting on his shoulder tightens its grip and he hisses in pain. It eases with a quiet sorry. Forgot.
“You’re not. But who is?”
They both sit under the faint buzzing of the fluorescent lights above. Two miserable men who can’t truly remember what living without constant threat of pain felt like. And yet it didn’t really matter.
House would end up bandaging his wounds and monitoring him on days where he could tell that Chase’s fingers were inching towards something sharp or hot. Chase would look at him with those crystal blue eyes that said everything and nothing at once whenever House poured more than 3 Vicodin into his palm; he would often click his tongue and put a few pills back in the bottle.
Two burning houses telling the other to be careful of the raging flames.