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House idly twirls his cane, lost in thought, when his attention is perked up by movement in the corner of his eye. A quick glance tells him that it’s just Chase – he wonders briefly why the hell he’s here so late. Usually he’s the first out the door.
In fact, he’s noticed Chase being a little weirder than usual recently. Probably that new girlfriend of his keeping him busy, which of course House has been giving him shit about - bullying his favorite twink is one of his most treasured pastimes, after all. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong with him. Other than the fact that he’s Australian.
It’s this thought that prompts him to push himself to his feet with a soft groan, shuffling silently into the outer office. Chase seems distracted, and doesn’t hear him coming up behind.
“Boo.”
The startled squawk he gets in return is utterly delightful. Chase physically jumps, whirling to face House with wide, panicked eyes. Alright, a bit of an overreaction, but funny nonetheless.
“Jesus, House,” he snaps, clearly trying to mask his fear with anger as he clutches his hand to his chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
House is about to reply with one of his usual witty comments, but the words die in his throat as he catches sight of... something. There’s a dark purple mark just barely peeking out from beneath Chase’s sleeve – definitely a bruise. Fascinated, House reaches out to grip his wrist, ignoring the hurt and confused noise as he rolls the sleeve up.
“My, my,” he purrs, grinning like the cat who got the cream as the bruise is revealed. It’s much bigger than he first thought, a wide, shadowy ring around his upper wrist, and his mind immediately goes to handcuffs. “What have we got here? I knew you were kinky, Chase, but apparently you’re more of a masochist than I thought.”
The words are nothing worse than he usually dishes out, and he’s expecting a fun reaction – House has grown almost fond of Chase’s terrible attempts to argue back at him – but he’s disappointed when the man seems to shrink away, hunching his shoulders in on himself and dropping his head.
“Sorry.”
The word comes out soft and almost terrified. House frowns; this is not the Robert Chase he’s used to. He should be snapping back at him, yanking his hand away, smacking him off, something - but instead he’s cowering like a kicked puppy.
Something’s wrong.
With narrowed eyes, House searches Chase’s face, not quite sure what he’s looking for. There’s bags under his bloodshot eyes, his lips are chapped and his hair seems a little more rumpled than usual – but none of that’s particularly out of the ordinary, especially after the long case they’ve just had. All he has to go on is the bruises.
Inspecting them closer, he feels unease worm into his gut. Chase stays stock-still as House turns his wrist over, taking in the half-healed oval imprints of... fingers?
...Oh.
Something uncomfortably close to sympathy bubbles up in House’s chest, but even more pressing than that is the anger that follows soon behind. Not at Chase, of course, but at whoever the hell did this to him. He has a sneaking suspicion as to who it might be.
House is careful to keep his tone neutral as he speaks, not wanting his anger to show – partially to keep up his usual uncaring demeanor, but mostly because he has a feeling Chase will react pretty poorly to shouting right now.
“She’s hurting you.”
The response is immediate. Chase finally yanks his hand free and scowls, defensiveness taking over his features as he takes a wary step back and cradles his arm to his chest. At least he’s actually looking House in the eyes now – small victories.
“I’m fine.”
“Hm. Given the nature of that reaction, I’m inclined to believe that you’re lying.”
That earns him an eyeroll and another pace backwards, but House moves to follow him, not willing to let this go so easily. He’s never been particularly concerned with boundaries, especially not towards people he cares about, and he’s not going to start now.
Not that he cares about Chase like that, of course. This is purely a logical concern – he needs all of his fellows at the top of their game. That’s all.
Anyway.
He reaches out once more, wanting to see the severity of the bruises. Chase goes to move away again, and there’s clearly an argument on the tip of his tongue, but one glare from House silences him, and he stands still in defeat. He knows he’s not getting out of this. His spinelessness is typically a trait House mocks him for, but right now he couldn’t be more grateful for it.
With gentler hands this time, he guides Chase to shuck off his labcoat and unbuttons his shirt cuffs. Chase goes limp as his sleeves are fully rolled back; he winces as the fabric brushes over some of the heavier bruises, and House murmurs a quiet apology without even thinking, too focused on the horrifying sight before him to keep up his usual facade.
There’s far more than he first assumed. Some are relatively small – if he had to guess, they probably came from various objects being thrown – while others are large, clearly made by a much heavier impact. They paint Chase’s arms in various shades of purple, green and yellow, clearly in different stages of healing.
This isn’t new.
There’s a soft sniffle from Chase as House looks up at him. He’s trying not to cry, but with his sleeves rolled up he has nothing to wipe his tears with, and they spill out over his lashes anyway. A brief jolt of panic goes through House – this is absolutely not his forte. People crying is one thing, but his own employee – who’s being physically abused – is a whole different can of worms.
Still, it’s not like he’s just going to leave him there. As much as he loves giving Chase shit, he can admit that he likes the guy, and he genuinely does feel bad for him, gruff persona be damned.
So – semi-reluctantly – House opens his arms and pulls Chase against his chest.
Immediately, the crying worsens, great heaving sobs that wrack through Chase’s body from head to toe. He tucks his face into House’s neck, who winces at the wet feeling of tears on his skin but puts up with it anyway. Long-buried instincts bubble up to urge him to rub a palm soothingly over Chase’s shoulders, big broad sweeps in time with his breathing in an attempt to calm him down.
It seems to work. Eventually – far too long, in House’s opinion, his leg is screaming at him – Chase’s cries begin to taper off. He seems to have a moment of clarity, clearing his throat and stepping away awkwardly. House lets him go, this time, steadfastly ignoring the pang of loss in his chest.
Chase goes to speak – probably to apologize, or to grovel, or something – but House cuts him off.
“You’re leaving her.”
His tone is firm but not harsh – a simple statement. Chase sniffles again, looking torn.
“I- I can handle it,” he mumbles wetly, which would be hilariously ironic given his current state if it weren’t so sad. “It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse.”
Alright, that’s- that’s something to dig into another time, House thinks to himself. Right now he needs Chase to get it through his thick skull that this shiny new girlfriend of his is not a very nice lady.
“So? Just because you can take it doesn’t mean you should. Plus, you’ve been distracted ever since you got with her. I need a functioning team, not one who’s all distracted and off in la-la land all the time.”
Okay, maybe that was a little bit harsh. Not by his usual standards, but considering the circumstances? Yeah. And maybe something about those big blue eyes staring up at him, always so adoring even when House is berating him, softens his heart a little.
“And...” he murmurs, suddenly finding himself unable to look at Chase. “I want you to be okay.”
After a pause, they lock eyes again. Tears well up in Chase’s – such a crybaby, honestly, though House finds that the thought is almost fond – and he rushes in for one last hug. House, still feeling a little vulnerable from all this emotional intimacy, lets him.
“Thank you,” Chase whispers into his neck. House’s hands come up to wrap around him without thinking.
“Don’t mention it.”
Chase’s responding smile against his skin makes it all worth it.