The hospital doesn’t have a gym, but there’s one close-by. House had stopped in because they’d toted and pitched an “old-fashioned lacrosse game” for those members who were interested and he hasn’t learned when it comes to nostalgia. He’s a masochist for it. The cane does a lot of helpful things for him, but it’s not the same. He’ll never be the same. He leaves after fifteen minutes of watching able-bodied men do things House will never be able to, and he walks straight into Chase, sweating and in a pair of shorts and a tee.

“Whoa.” House nearly falters, losing his balance. Chase lightly rests a hand on his elbow and holds firmly to steady him. “You know, in the olden days, people gave cripples their room.”

“Guess it’s not the olden days,” Chase remarks. “You leaving?”

House throws one last glance over his shoulder to see the lacrosse game, wide grins on young guy’s faces. He turns to find Chase looking at him expectantly. There’s probably a changeroom around here somewhere, House could probably get some of this frustration out – like a low-grade burn that won’t go away, slowly driving him crazy – and suddenly, he realizes that’s pity on Chase’s face.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Go back to your workout. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

House doesn’t do pity and he certainly doesn’t get done because of it.

Chase is, all too often, a little boy in grown-up’s clothes and trying to play the part. Ties that burn corneas, shirts that don’t fit, pants that are too tight, it’s like he’s never been taught how to dress properly. Chances are, that’s exactly what happened. Mommy was too busy sampling the finer side of life while Chasey was given the bum’s rush in ‘how to be a man’.

There’s a mother of a child dying of alcoholism – well, the liver’s all wrecked and ruined, that’d be the medical cause – and she’s got a kid. The kid’s no more than thirteen and House often finds Chase sitting with him, even though it’s Wilson’s patient. House hasn’t interrupted them yet, but every day he lurks at the nurse’s station and watches Chase with the kid, sharing coffee, or talking quietly – the hands move a lot, sometimes in anger; once, the kid had spilled Chase’s coffee all over the floor before collapsing into Chase’s arms for a hug that he hadn’t been prepared to give at first, but slowly came around to.

Today’s the day she died and House knows where he’ll find Chase. He watches as Chase hugs the kid, it’s awkward, but it’s real, and House inches up this time until he’s close enough to hear.

“I…I d-don’t…I don’t know what to d-d-do.”

“Yes, you do. You know. You’ve got your lists, you’ve got your plans. Time to grow up a little.”

And there’s the very malady that had afflicted Chase the Younger. He’d grown up far too fast because of a mother who couldn’t raise him and a father that didn’t want to. Sometimes, House wonders if Robert Chase’s parents should have just bought a puppy and be done with it. Certainly would have prevented all the bubbling issues in Chase, and since that’s how his parents treated him, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

“Will you help me?” comes the quiet request. “Just until I can plan her funeral.”

House shouldn’t be surprised, but he can’t help but be a little amazed when Chase says, “yes.”

He’d been planning on asking Chase around that night, but instead, he leaves him a note that gives him a week off of work; signed, sealed, and delivered.

Ergonomically, Chase’s hair just does not work. It keeps falling in his face, keeps getting in House’s way. Each kiss has the potential to be accompanied by a golden lock of Chase-hair and it’s really, pretty disgusting. He’d suggest cutting it, but that’s the quickest way to get Chase pissed at you – insult the hair. His solution comes when he realizes that by cupping Chase’s face with every kiss, it does two things:

1. Gets that goddamn hair out of his way.

2. Gives House control of an already precarious situation.

Chase can’t control what he does with House holding his face with both hands, guiding the kiss, making every choice and movement because he has the upper hand. They’ve advanced to a point where there isn’t the awkwardness of where limbs go, and who takes control and how to get that squeaky moaning noise from Chase. House knows Chase like he knows the plot summaries of General Hospital – thoroughly and with obsessively scary detail. The kisses are reflecting that as they go at it, House’s new control gambit in play.

This also makes it so that Chase does all the dirty work, the economics of undressing in his hands.

Zippers are slid down and buttons pop out of their holes, shirts rustle against skin and slide upwards as Chase pulls away to try take House’s shirt off before leaning back into his hands and a kiss that guides him back, House’s shirt still left on. Chase’s own shirt is unbuttoned with great slowness, a small triangle of skin becoming bigger and bigger.

“What time is it?” Chase exhales quietly, as House tries to draw him into another kiss. This is leading somewhere, this is leading to the end, they just need to finish. “House. Greg, stop, I need…Christian, his mother’s…”

The kid. The one he’d given Chase time off work for.

Chase eases away, smiling regretfully. “Her funeral.” He grasps a white shirt and begins to replicate the undressing process in reverse, dressing in front of House’s eyes.

And the only right thing to say at a time like this, according to Dr. Greg House:

“Cocktease.”

Apparently, that’s the wrong thing, as Chase slams the door behind him. Hey, you live, you learn.

House takes Chase out to a bar and they drown their sorrows in shots with interesting names. Polar Bears and Dr. Pepper’s, Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers and Liquid Cocaine. It’s all on House’s tab tonight and he’s just trying to loosen Chase up a bit, see if he can’t unknot that tie with one hand as Chase rambles on about mortgages or something, escrow? God, he doesn’t know, but the tie comes off.

Chase isn’t drunk. House believes that Chase has never been shitfaced drunk in his entire life, he’d put money on that. Buzzed, yes. Tipsy, by God, of course. But he doubts the kid’s ever touched a gin and tonic, doubts Chase has ever drank so much that he can’t recall the events of the night before. The affliction of being the son of an alcoholic is that alcohol becomes your enemy, one so steadfast and eternal that it’s like House vs. the Clinic. Is there ever a winner?

“Chase, stop talking,” House orders and Chase shuts up, mid-sentence. Oh, okay, he was talking about his childhood house. Makes sense. House leans in until their noses are almost touching in an Eskimo kiss and he stares as intensely as he can – which isn’t so intense, considering he’s swaying with the effects of the alcohol.

Chase blinks and House’s vision goes fuzzy.

“Tell me the truth,” House begins quietly.

Chase just smiles serenely and before House can get any more of his question out in the air, Chase leans the little bit forward and presses his lips behind House’s ear, brushing there so lightly that it might as well be the AC on the fritz, specifically aimed for his skin. It evokes goosebumps nonetheless, as Chase whispers, “I want to get out of here,” he says.

That’s truth enough for House.

Chase isn’t a screamer. That had been a surprise.

House has finally done it. Days and hours and minutes after he’d gone twenty-six days and he’s done it. The sex had been somewhat slow to begin with as Chase tried to figure out the dynamics of riding a man – snorting that he’d always been on the other side – but he’s a fast learner, has to be in his field. He’d set a slow pace and no matter House had demanded for faster, Chase had ignored him, resting one hand firmly on House’s chest as he thrust and tipped his gaze to the ceiling.

And as he came, he’d said House’s name with such reverence, such honest belief that House is beginning to wonder if maybe Chase has abandoned faith in God for the worship of false deities. Or maybe he’s just gone agnostic.

Chase eases away, collapsing on the duvet cover for what seems like an age as they catch their breath and House reaches for his jeans. He doesn’t take his shirt off for sex, there’s only so much he can bear to give up of himself and the full view isn’t part of that. “So does this mean you’re going to start being nicer to me?” Chase asks, lazily reaching for his boxers, slipping back into them with a wiggle and a thrust of his hips.

“No.” House peers up, too lazy and sated to really do anything but smirk. “I’m a jerk to the people I have slept with too.” His grin widens at the look of abject confusion on Chase’s face, like he’ll never put together the pieces of House’s puzzle.

And chances are, he never will solve the puzzle.

There’s always been one Rubix cube in the bunch that’s been defective all along.

“But if you’re good about it, I might be less of one.” Like Wilson, the anomaly to them all. He studies Chase as he finishes dressing and holds his keys like they’re his escape. “See you tomorrow.”

And nothing will have changed.

THE END