Chapter Text
Chase shifted his weight from one foot to the other, huddling deeper into his coat as the early morning chill bit at his skin. His breath curled in the air, wisps of condensation vanishing into the gray dawn. His duffel bag rested at his feet, packed hastily the night before. He jammed his hands further into his pockets, regretting not grabbing gloves.
The street was quiet, save for the occasional car rolling past, tires whispering over the damp pavement. He checked his watch. House was late. Of course he was.
Then, finally, the familiar, battered Corvette rumbled down the street and jerked to a stop at the curb. The window slid down, and House leaned out, squinting at him.
“Look at you,” House drawled, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. “All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the crack of dawn. Did you bring a juice box and a snack pack for the road?”
Chase exhaled, half a sigh, half a laugh. “Good morning to you too.” He grabbed his bag and stepped toward the car.
“Morning? Eh.” House waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not morning until I’ve had at least a gallon of coffee and made a bad life decision.”
Chase popped the trunk and tossed his bag inside before climbing into the passenger seat. The car smelled like coffee, stale takeout, and a faint hint of Vicodin. House glanced at him as he pulled back onto the road.
“Ready for forty-eight hours of mind-numbing lectures and sycophantic networking?”
Chase smirked. “You’re the one who spent an entire week convincing Cuddy you’d actually go.”
House gave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, and she’s still making me take a babysitter. Should’ve faked a coma.”
Chase rolled his eyes and settled in as the city streets blurred past. This was going to be a long trip.
House tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as they cruised down the still-sleepy streets of Princeton. The sky was beginning to lighten, pale streaks of gold breaking through the thick morning clouds. Chase slouched slightly in his seat, arms crossed, already resigned to whatever nonsense House was about to spout.
“You ever wonder why people say ‘slept like a baby’ when babies wake up screaming every two hours?” House mused.
Chase arched an eyebrow. “Not really.”
“I mean, if you’re gonna use an expression, at least pick something that makes sense. ‘Slept like a teenager on a Saturday’—that’s a phrase with integrity.”
Chase smirked. “So, you’re advocating for more honesty in idioms now?”
“I’m always advocating for honesty,” House said, mock-offended. “Especially when it makes people uncomfortable.”
Chase huffed a laugh, shaking his head.
House wasn’t done. “Speaking of honesty—how do we feel about pancakes?”
Chase blinked. “Uh… good? Generally positive?”
“See, that’s the problem. Everyone just accepts pancakes as the breakfast gold standard, but are they really? You pour syrup on them and, what, they just become soggy sugar sponges? Where’s the structural integrity? The versatility? The—”
“They’re pancakes, House,” Chase cut in, amused. “You put syrup on them because that’s the whole point.”
House made a dismissive noise. “Yeah, but you’re Australian. Don’t you people eat weird stuff? Vegemite and, like, kangaroo steak?”
Chase sighed. “Yes, House. I regularly wrestle a kangaroo for my breakfast. It’s a national pastime.”
House shot him a sideways glance. “I knew it.”
Chase chuckled, shaking his head. “Vegemite’s not weird, by the way. You just have to eat it properly.”
“Which means what, exactly? Whispering an ancient spell while spreading it on toast?”
Chase smirked. “Something like that.”
House nodded sagely. “Figures. Australians are just British people with better tans and worse taste in food.”
Chase rolled his eyes but let the conversation drift, the warmth of their easy banter settling into the car. The road stretched ahead, empty and still, the hum of the engine filling the spaces between words.
After a while, neither of them said much. The need for conversation faded, replaced by a comfortable silence. Chase stared out the window, watching the morning unfold as they drove on.
This was going to be a long trip. But, he had to admit—at least it wouldn’t be boring.
The city streets gradually melted away as House merged onto the highway, the smooth asphalt stretching out ahead of them. The traffic was light, the early hour keeping most sane people off the road. House settled into a more relaxed posture, leaning back in his seat, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel. He tapped his fingers against it in an irregular rhythm, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror but otherwise looking content to let the car eat up the miles.
Chase turned his head, watching the landscape blur past the passenger-side window. The trees were still bare from winter, their skeletal branches clawing at the pale sky. The morning light had lost its early golden hue, settling into something cooler, more distant.
He exhaled slowly, shifting against the seat. It had been a long week—longer than usual. Their latest case had been a brutal one, a patient with rapidly deteriorating organ failure that kept them running in circles until, in typical House fashion, a last-minute revelation had saved the day. But the stress, the late nights, and the constant mental gymnastics had worn Chase down more than he’d realized.
The first twinge of discomfort came on subtly, a faint, rolling sensation in his stomach. He ignored it.
Instead, he focused on the steady hum of the car, the dull vibrations through the seat, the rhythmic whoosh of passing cars. But the longer he sat still, the more the feeling crept in—mild at first, then more persistent. His stomach felt off, unsettled, like his body was trying to tell him something he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Great. Just what he needed.
He swallowed and shifted slightly, trying to ease the sensation, but he knew better than to adjust too much. If he made it obvious, House would notice, and the last thing Chase wanted was to hand him ammunition on a silver platter.
House would be relentless.
“You get carsick?” House would ask, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“No.”
“Really? ‘Cause you’ve got that whole ‘pale and regretful’ thing going on.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, if you’re gonna hurl, at least do it out the window. My car’s already a lost cause, but I have my limits.”
Yeah, no. Not happening.
Instead, Chase leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes, hoping that if he just didn’t think about it , it would go away. Maybe it was just the early morning catching up to him. The exhaustion settling in.
And, as if proving his own theory right, sleep took hold faster than he expected. The hum of the car, the rhythmic passing of tires over asphalt, and the sheer weight of the past week dragged him under. Within minutes, he was out, his body giving in to the much-needed rest.
House, of course, noticed.
He flicked a glance at Chase, noting the way his head had tilted slightly toward the window, breath slow and even. The corners of House’s mouth twitched, amusement flickering there before he turned his eyes back to the road.
“Lightweight,” he muttered under his breath, but kept driving, letting Chase sleep.
---
Chase drifted awake with the vague sense that something was wrong .
The world around him felt too sharp, too loud—the steady hum of the engine, the low crackle of the radio, the rush of wind against the car. His head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, and his stomach twisted violently, a deep, rolling nausea that hit him like a freight train. Every inch of him felt overstimulated, his skin too tight, his senses too raw.
And to make things worse, his bladder was uncomfortably full.
Swallowing thickly, Chase straightened in his seat, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He blinked against the brightness of the sun now streaming through the windshield, trying to steady himself. His pulse thrummed in his ears.
“House,” he croaked, his voice rough and uneven. “Pull over.”
House flicked his gaze toward him, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t answer—he couldn’t. His stomach lurched threateningly, and he clenched his jaw, breathing shallowly through his nose. House must have caught on, because with only a muttered curse, he flipped on the turn signal and veered onto the shoulder. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car slowed to a stop.
Chase fumbled with his seatbelt, fingers clumsy and shaking. He barely managed to unclip it before shoving the door open and stumbling out. The cold air hit him like a slap, but it didn’t help. His legs felt unsteady, and before he could take another step, his knees buckled.
He hit the ground hard, gravel biting into his palms as his stomach gave up the fight. He gagged violently, and then he was throwing up, his body lurching forward with the force of it.
He barely had time to suck in a ragged breath before another wave came crashing down, his stomach convulsing as he retched again and again.
The strain of it—his entire body tensing with every heave, the raw burn in his throat, the way his muscles trembled from the effort—became too much. His exhausted body had reached its limit.
And then, in the worst way possible, Chase realized too late that he couldn’t hold it anymore.
He barely had time to register what was happening before another violent heave ripped through him. His stomach twisted brutally, forcing out another wave of vomit, leaving his throat raw and burning. But in the back of his mind, beyond the nausea and the shaking, he knew.
He knew because the warmth spread too fast. Because the shame of it cut through the sickness like a knife. Because the one thing he’d been trying to avoid had just happened, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He had wet himself.
His breath hitched, but he barely had a moment to process it before his stomach rebelled again, dragging him forward with another miserable retch. His whole body trembled now, his limbs weak and useless beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into the gravel, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.
And then—House.
He heard the car door slam, followed by the crunch of boots on gravel. A second later, House was crouching beside him, one hand pressing firmly against his back, rubbing slow, steady circles. The touch was surprisingly gentle, grounding in a way Chase hadn’t expected.
“You should’ve told me you felt sick,” House said, his voice softer than usual.
Chase exhaled shakily, his throat tightening, his whole body curling in on itself. He was exhausted, humiliated, and his stomach still felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out. But worse than all of that—he could feel it coming.
The tears.
He would not cry. Not in front of House. Not after this .
But the more he tried to hold them back, the more they pressed against him, suffocating, relentless. His breath hitched, and suddenly, it was too much.
A quiet, broken sob slipped out before he could stop it.
House stilled for half a second, then his hand resumed its slow, calming movement across Chase’s back. “Hey, it’s alright,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”
Chase squeezed his eyes shut tighter, biting his lip, but it didn’t help. The tears came anyway, hot and silent at first, then harder, his shoulders shaking with them. He ducked his head, pressing his forehead against his arm in a weak attempt to hide his face. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice barely above a whisper.
House sighed, but it wasn’t impatient or exasperated. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said, like it was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. But Chase was still crying, still struggling to pull himself together, and that’s when House did something completely unexpected.
He pulled Chase into a hug.
It wasn’t awkward or forced—just steady, solid arms wrapping around him, pulling him in close. Chase tensed instinctively, every muscle locking up, but House didn’t let go. He just stayed there, holding him, like it wasn’t a big deal.
And, hesitantly, Chase let himself lean into it.
He was still shaking, still feeling awful , but for a moment, the world didn’t feel like it was closing in on him anymore.
Chase’s breathing eventually steadied, the sharp edges of his crying fading into quiet, exhausted sniffles. His body still felt wrung out, and his face was probably a mess, but at least the worst of it seemed to be over. He pulled away slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, avoiding House’s gaze.
House, for his part, didn’t comment. He just sighed, loud and dramatic as ever, before pushing himself to his feet. “Alright, stay put, Wombat,” he said as he wandered toward the trunk.
Chase sniffed again but managed a faint, tired smirk at the nickname.
House rummaged through the trunk for a moment before coming back with a half-full bottle of water and a handful of napkins. He dropped them unceremoniously in Chase’s lap. “Here. Try to make yourself look less like a tragic Victorian orphan.”
Chase huffed a weak laugh but took the water gratefully. He twisted the cap off with shaking fingers and took a sip first, letting it rinse out the awful taste in his mouth before spitting it onto the dirt beside him. Then he took a longer drink, letting the coolness settle in his throat before wiping his mouth with the napkins.
House watched him the entire time—not obviously, but not subtly either. Just a casual, assessing gaze, like he was making sure Chase wasn’t about to keel over again.
Feeling a little steadier, Chase pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly as the stiffness in his legs caught up with him. “I’m gonna change,” he muttered, grabbing his duffel bag from the trunk.
House raised an eyebrow. “Good call. The whole ‘piss-soaked and pathetic’ look isn’t really working for you.”
Chase rolled his eyes but was too drained to come up with a proper retort. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and clean boxers from his bag, then moved behind the car to change. The cold air bit at his skin as he swapped out his soiled clothes, but it was still a relief to be in something dry. He shoved the ruined clothes into a plastic bag from his bag’s side pocket, tied it shut, and made his way back round the car.
House was already in the driver’s seat when Chase slid into the passenger side. Without a word, House reached over and shoved a crumpled plastic bag into Chase’s hands. “In case you decide to redecorate my car.”
Chase sighed but took it. “Thanks.”
House threw the car into drive and pulled back onto the road, the Corvette rumbling back onto the highway. After a moment, he glanced at Chase again, expression unreadable. “Next time you feel like crap, just tell me.”
Chase turned his head, blinking at him.
House shrugged. “I’m an ass, not a complete monster.”
Chase let out a soft laugh, the sound lighter than before. “Noted.”
House smirked, eyes back on the road. “Now do me a favor and try not to die before we get there.”
Chase huffed another quiet laugh, rolling his eyes as he leaned his head against the window. “I’ll do my best.”
He drifted in and out of sleep, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, forehead resting against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. The vibrations of the car, the steady hum of the tires on the highway, and the faint warmth of the sun through the windshield all blurred together into something lulling, something that made it easy to let go—at least a little.
The nausea hadn’t disappeared completely, still lurking in the background like a dull, unwelcome presence, but it was manageable now. He wasn’t shivering anymore, and his body wasn’t wracked with violent heaves. That alone was an improvement.
For once, House didn’t talk.
He didn’t fill the silence with sarcastic commentary or pointed observations. He just let Chase rest , which was maybe the biggest surprise of the morning.
But Chase wasn’t entirely unaware. He could feel House glancing at him every so often—quick, sidelong looks, like he was checking to make sure Chase was still breathing, still stable. It wasn’t obvious or intrusive, but Chase caught it enough times to know it was intentional.
And the thing was, he couldn’t decide how that made him feel.
Part of him was embarrassed. Humiliated, even. He had puked on the side of the road, cried like a complete mess, and wet himself like a damn child, all in front of House . He wasn’t exactly the proudest moment of his life. Vulnerability was not something he handled well, especially not with someone like House—someone who thrived on people’s weaknesses, who wielded them like weapons when it suited him.
But at the same time… Chase felt safe .
Maybe it was the exhaustion making him soft, or the fact that House hadn’t mocked him nearly as much as he could have. But there was something strangely reassuring about knowing that House had pulled over without hesitation, had come around to kneel next to him in the dirt, had rubbed circles into his back while he fell apart. That he had handed Chase water and napkins and let him change without a single snide remark about how pathetic he must’ve looked.
That he had told Chase, just tell me next time .
That he had meant it .
Chase sighed quietly, shifting just enough to get more comfortable against the window. His body still felt heavy, drained, but the tension was slowly easing. Maybe he wasn’t fully okay yet, but for now, it was enough that he wasn’t alone in it.