TITLE: Demon Called Deception

AUTHOR: Darkbird36

SUMMARY: Chase, Foreman, a crazed gunman, and a hostage situation. Or, the doctors work out their differences the hard way.

RATING/WARNINGS: M - contains naughty language and drug use. Later chapters will likely contain violence, more naughty language, and more drug use. Please use caution in reading

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My first House MD fanfic! I live for reviews. Hint hint. I wrote this out of frustrated desperation due to a near-total lack of Chase character development in the show, as well as little-to-no exploration of the relationship between Chase and Foreman (I don't mean slash, but you go ahead and read what you want into it :) This is a pretty off-canon story, in that its focus isn't primarily medical. I tried to keep the characters true to canon as much as possible. I hope to post chapter 2 tomorrow, so send me encouragement to hurry it along if you like!


"I can't believe that House has us breaking into her apartment before he even gets the tox screen back," Chase griped, craning his neck to look up and down the empty hallway of their latest patient's apartment building.

Crouched in front of the door, gently probing the lock with a paperclip, Foreman scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Seriously? You're surprised at something House did? Come on, man, you know he's still pissed at you for ratting him out to Volger."

Chase glared, stuffing his hands in his pockets defensively.

"That was months ago. Plus, you know he's pissed at you for acting like a sod the whole time you were supervising him."

"Well," Foreman ground out, darting an annoyed look in the Australian's direction, "We've established that House is pissed at us both, hence the B&E. Now move – you're blocking my light."

Chase shuffled wordlessly out of the way, allowing the wan light from the window at the end of the hall to reach the lock. A few seconds later there was a faint click and Foreman stood, smirking triumphantly.

Despite his resentment over House's frequent references to his criminal record, Foreman still felt somewhat proud of his ability to pick a lock. He knew better than to say so, of course. He and Chase had been walking a thin line lately, both pushed to the limits of their ability to deal with House, and with each other. House thrived off confrontation, and as such was the master of his domain. Cameron was just too bloody nice to bicker with. So Chase sniped at Foreman, and Foreman bitched at Chase.

"Are you gonna come inside and help me get this over with, or are you gonna stand there while I do all the work," He asked sarcastically, holding the door open expectantly. Chase ignored him, brushing past him lightly and into the dim apartment.

"Woah," he exclaimed, one hand coming up to cover his nose and mouth, "This place smells like a bloody cesspool!"

"Well, I think it was obvious it wasn't going to be the Ritz from the state of the building in general. Unfortunately not everyone can afford to live in first class accommodations like you," Foreman said dryly, closing the door gently behind him. Chase glared at him, that infuriating, petulant rich-boy look that he hated so much.

"Yes, well, poverty isn't an excuse for slovenliness," he snapped back, moving towards the kitchen.

"Like you're an expert on poverty," Foreman grumbled, heading towards what he assumed was the bedroom.

"Look for drugs first," Chase called from the kitchenette, and Foreman grit his teeth.

"Yeah," he yelled back, "'Cause the poor black woman with seizures and intracranial bleeding is obviously a junkie!"

"I know what strung out looks like - Jackie Herbert was strung out. And have you not seen this place? If House had just waited on that tox screen he could have saved us a trip."

Foreman purposefully ignored him, unwilling to admit that Chase might be right. It was probable that Jackie was an addict – but the intensivist was always so quick to assume that people were drunks or junkies. It was endlessly annoying to him how goddamn pompous Chase could be.

"Aha," came the triumphant cry from the kitchen, severl minutes later. "Got it!"

Rolling his eyes, Foreman reluctantly walked back to the living room. Chase was holding up a battered shoebox, a victorious smirk on his lips. He pried back the lid so that Foreman could see the contents. There appeared to be several baggies of white powder, a dingy pipe, and three half-full syringes of an unknown liquid.

"Great," Foreman snapped sarcastically, "Now can we please-"

He was interrupted by the snick of the door being unlatched behind him. He saw Chase's eyes widen in sudden apprehension, and had just enough time to turn around before the door swung open to reveal a very large, very pissed looking man.

"What the fuck," he snarled, his face going red. The hand still on the doorknob clenched so hard that the knob actually popped halfway off the door.

Oh, fuck…

"Now, hang on a moment," Chase started in that annoying, pretentious tone, holding up his other hand in a placating gesture, "We're doctors from-"

"I don't give a fuck who you are! You're trying to steal my stash!"

"Sir, please-" Foreman attempted to intervene.

"Shut the hell up," the man growled, stepping all the way into the apartment and slamming the door behind him. From the corner of his eye, Foreman saw Chase start to reach for his pocket, and, no doubt, his cell. The man obviously saw, as well, because he took several menacing steps towards the Aussie.

"Stop right there, Pretty Boy," he growled, reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a handgun. Chase's face blanched, and his hand swiftly resumed it previous position in the air.

"Okay, okay," he said gently, and Foreman felt as though someone had injected his guts with ice water, "I'm sorry. Look, there's obviously been a mix-up. You – keep this," he extended the shoebox shakily towards the man, "And we'll just be getting on our way, alright?"

The man laughed, and Foreman could hear the instability in just that momentary sound.

"You think I'm gonna to let you go? You-" he gestured at Foreman with the gun, "Over there with your boyfriend."

Keeping his hands up in a gesture of docility, Foreman edged slowly over to his colleague's side.

"What're you going to do," Chase asked softly, and Foreman wanted to punch him and scream stop talking to the gun-toting madman! Apparently reading his mind, the man grit his teeth and jerked the gun towards Chase again.

"Shut up! Shut up!"

Chase's head dropped slightly and he flinched, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun. The gunman was mumbling to himself quietly, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. The diagnostician in Foreman noted that he was sweating profusely and his pupils were dilated. He was grinding his teeth. This man was obviously jacked up on something.

"Look," Chase tried again, "People know where we are. Just- take this stuff and go."

The man's eyes widened in a combination of sudden anxiety and rage, and he closed the distance between the doctors and himself quickly.

"I said shut up," he bellowed, pressing the barrel of the gun to Chase's forehead. The young Australian flinched violently and squeezed his eyes shut, sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip.

"Okay, okay…" the man mumbled to himself, pulling the gun away from a relieved looking Chase, "We're going downstairs. They can't find us in the basement. Too much concrete, can't hear through it…"

Chase shot Foreman an alarmed look, clearly broadcasting this guy's nuts with his wide eyes.


The doctors complied, moving wordlessly towards the door. Once in the hallway, Crazy Guy still behind them with the gun, they were prodded into the stairwell and down several flights of stairs. Foreman kept hoping that someone, anyone, would see them and call for help. But the stairwell was empty, and he suspected that even if they had encountered another person, this was the type of neighborhood where things like this simply went unseen.

They finally arrived at the bottom of the stairwell. There was only one door, a faded red sign proclaiming Maintenance Only. Somehow, Foreman doubted anyone even approaching maintenance had been down here in a long, long time.

"Open it," the man said gruffly, and Chase, still holding the shoebox in one hand, pushed the unlocked door open reluctantly.

A blast of musty air hit them in the face, and Foreman couldn't help but think that this was going to be the place he died. And damn it, he did not want to die in a cold basement with a spoiled, affluent white boy.


A/N: Chapter 2 tomorrow...