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House grumbles as the weak but relentless knocking wakes him from his doze, squinting blearily at his clock. It’s 3AM. Who the fuck is knocking at 3AM? At the outside door, no less – not even the door to his actual apartment.
His first thought, of course, is to ignore the problem until it goes away, but he can still hear it even with a pillow over his head, and somehow he instinctively knows that it’s for him. God damn it.
With another muttered complaint, House grabs his cane and forces himself out of bed, telling himself that he’s only getting up because he wants to yell at whatever dipshit thinks this is an appropriate time to come calling. It definitely has nothing to do with the irrational twist of alarm that gnaws at his gut, screaming at him that something is wrong, that someone is in danger.
He opens the door, grimacing at the sudden blast of cold air that washes over him. It’s a stormy night, like something straight out of a ghost story – lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the sodden and bedraggled figure that graces his doorstep.
House’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Chase?”
He’s certainly looking worse for wear. The man’s in nothing but a T-shirt and some sleep shorts, which do nothing to hide the myriad of bruises that cover his trembling limbs. His usually voluminous hair hangs limp and soaked by his ears, and he clutches one arm to his chest - the wrist looks sickeningly green.
“Sorry,” he croaks out when House can do nothing more than stare at him, stunned. “Didn’t know where else to go.”
That spurs House into action.
“Get in here,” he orders, standing aside and bundling Chase into the warmth of his apartment. “Jesus Christ, what happened to you? You lose a fistfight with a kangaroo, or something?”
After their little conversation a few nights ago, House can hazard a pretty good guess as to the real reason for his battered state, but he wants to hear it firsthand.
Sure enough, Chase ducks his head, once more refusing to look at him. That’s as good a confirmation as any.
House sighs.
“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, not unkindly. “And she’s a piece of shit. You should report her, you know.”
Chase just shivers and curls further in on himself.
Right, yeah. He’s been outside in the rain for fuck knows how long, bruised to bits and soaked to the bone. A lecture won’t help him right now (side note, is this how Wilson usually feels when talking to him? Because if so... yeah, he kinda gets it, now).
“Stay here, I’m getting you a towel. Stop dripping on my floors.”
“Sorry,” comes another defeated whisper, and House immediately feels bad, much to his own distress. He limps quickly over to the linen cupboard and selects the biggest, fluffiest towel he owns, returning with it in hand.
“Here.”
In lieu of an apology for being a bit of an ass – he could probably handle the situation with a little more tact, but he’s stressed, alright? And it’s not like Chase is particularly going to expect one, coming from him – House carefully wraps the towel around Chase’s shoulders, pulling the edge up over his head like a hood and beginning the process of drying his hair.
“...Huh?” Chase murmurs as he realizes what House is doing, but one scowl quickly silences him into accepting the gesture without another word. By silent, mutual agreement, they know neither of them are going to mention this to anyone.
Something almost protective sparks in House’s chest when he finishes drying Chase’s hair and the other man looks up at him, his expression lost but utterly adoring. He tries to quash the pesky feeling, and is mostly unsuccessful. It’s nothing, he tells himself - he’s just tired, that’s all. It’s not as though he actually likes Chase, or anything like that. Nope.
But anyway, he’s getting distracted – there are more important things to focus on. Chase is still turning his floors into a floodplain with all the water that’s shedding from him, and that simply won’t do.
“C’mon.”
House gestures for Chase to follow, letting a bit of the gruffness slip from his voice. He turns without another word and limps off towards his bathroom, hearing the wet shuffle of Chase’s footsteps following close behind, then once they arrive at their destination House sits him down on the closed lid of the toilet.
“Stay,” he says, as though he’s talking to a dog – a thought that’s crossed his mind plenty of times before – and turns to head back to his bedroom, rooting around in his drawers for some clothes that will fit Chase. He settles on a worn band tee – surprise, surprise – and a pair of old joggers that are slightly too short for him, but will fit Chase’s smaller frame perfectly. Not that he pays much attention to Chase’s body outside of sexually harassing him.
When he re-enters the bathroom Chase is exactly where he left him.
“Here,” House says with a scowl, shoving the clothes roughly at him as though the act of being nice is physically painful. Which it is, if the way his chest twists at the sight of the other man looking so wet and miserable is anything to go by. Chase takes the clothes and glances at them, almost confused.
“Shower,” he clarifies. “Wash all that rain off. Don’t use up all the hot water.”
And then House very quickly gets the hell out of there.
He settles on his bed and lets himself get lost in thought as the shower switches on. Now that Chase is out of immediate danger, his emotions run their course from concern to anger, fizzling hot and bright in his gut. Who the hell does that pathetic excuse of a girlfriend think she is? If House had anything to say about it she’d be running for the hills for even daring to think about hurting his employee.
Regardless, Chase is never going to see her again. Not if House has anything to do with it.
The shower switches off a few minutes later, and Chase comes shuffling out, looking a little better with some color to his cheeks.
“Thank you,” comes the almost shy whisper, the first words he’s spoken in a while, and something in House’s heart melts. Fuck, no, that’s bad, he’s not supposed to be feeling sappy. Quick, say something clever!
“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t. I’d have to kill you if you did.”
Not his best work, but it makes Chase smile regardless. Which- again, not his intention, but he’s starting to think that this horrible, pleased little spark in his chest isn’t particularly planning on going away.
They stay there unmoving for a long, awkward moment, not quite sure what else to say. Then-
“I can go-”
“You can stay h-”
They both try to talk over each other at the same time, cutting themselves off with a laugh. The atmosphere feels... weird. Nothing like House has ever really felt before. There’s a capital-C Conversation to be had, they both know it, but right now there’s something soft and a little fragile in the air – a big talk right now would only shatter it.
“You can stay,” House reiterates, punctuating his sentence with a yawn. And while he could let Chase sleep on the couch, something in him rejects the thought of leaving him all by himself out there, so he adds, “in here. With me. If you want.”
“Really?”
Chase looks so hopeful and reverent that he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.
“Yeah. Just don’t hog the blankets. And don’t get used to it.”
House shuffles himself under the covers and turns on his side, listening to the rustle of blankets as Chase climbs gingerly in behind him. There’s still all those bruises and injuries to tend to, but House will take a look at them in the morning – right now, he just switches the lamp off and listens to the way Chase’s breathing steadily evens out, his warmth and weight an almost comforting presence behind him.
Just before he slips into sleep, House thinks to himself, I could get used to this.