Archive of Our Own ^beta

The corridors of Princeton-Plainsboro were quiet at this hour - quiet enough that Chase could pretend he wasn’t among the only ones left. The fluorescents hummed overhead, casting cold light on the stack of charts on his desk. It was nearly midnight.

He hadn’t noticed.

He hadn’t planned on staying late at first. But then a consult turned into a full work up, and before he knew it, he was offering to check on another patient. Then another. Then another.

And now, with half a sandwich he never touched growing stale beside him, he was knee-deep in paperwork that didn’t belong to him.

Anything was better than thinking.

“Still here?” Camerons voice made him flinch. She leaned against the doorway, brow furrowed. “It’s almost twelve.”

Chase didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just catching up.”

“On whose work?”

He shrugged, flipping a page. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you’re burning yourself out,” she said softly. She stepped into the room, crossing her arms. “Chase, you haven’t taken a break all day.”

“I’m fine.” He said it too quickly. “I just- there’s a lot to do.”

“Then let someone help.” She watched him, and he could feel her gaze. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

That made him freeze for a second. Then he went back to writing, his voice clipped. “I’m not.”

She sighed, defeated for now. “Just don’t forget to eat.”

He waited until her footsteps faded before letting the pen slip from his fingers. His hand was trembling. He pressed it into the desk until it stopped.

He didn’t need sleep. He didn’t need food.

He just needed to work.

---

House pushed open the diagnostics conference room door with his cane, the other hand occupied by a coffee he’d stolen from the nurses station. The room was dim with the lights low and blinds half closed against the harsh morning sun. Still, it wasn’t dark enough to hide the fact that Chase was already inside.

Sitting at the table. Same clothes as yesterday.

“Wow,” House said, voice cutting through the quiet like a scalpel. “Didn’t realize we were running a hotel now. Should I get you a wake up call and a mint for your pillow?”

Chase didn’t look up. “Morning.”

“That’s one word for it.” House stepped inside, eyeing him. His hair was a mess, and the dark circles under Chase’s eyes had gone from 'insomniac-chic' to 'walking corpse'. “You’re early.”

“Just getting started on the case load,” Chase muttered, flipping through a file.

“You mean the case load I dumped on Foreman yesterday?” House took a slow sip of coffee. “Tell me, when did you clone yourself? Or are you just stealing his work now?”

Chase stiffened, but didn’t respond.

House tilted his head. “You didn’t go home last night.”

“I stayed to follow up on a couple patients,” Chase said, still avoiding eye contact. “No big deal.”

“Oh, definitely,” House said, dragging out the sarcasm. “Normal people pull all-nighters in hospitals all the time. Especially after killing a patient. Nothing says ‘I’m doing great’ like voluntarily living in the place where it happened.”

That got a reaction. Chase’s jaw clenched, and he finally looked up, eyes tired and sharp. “I said I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” House said, dry, “and I said I believed you. Oh wait- no, I didn’t.”

Before Chase could reply, the door opened again. Foreman entered, talking mid-sentence until he saw them. He stopped. “Jesus, Chase. Did you even go home?”

Chase stood abruptly, gathering files. “I said I’m fine,” he repeated, voice tight. “Drop it.”

And then he left the room without waiting for a response. House stared after him, lips pursed.

Foreman raised a brow. “You gonna do something about that?”

“Nope. Watching him implode is half the fun.” House just shrugged, sipping his coffee again. But he didn’t look away from the door Chase had gone through.

---

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of Chase showing up early, staying late, working through breaks, skipping meals, and brushing off concern like lint off his lab coat. It wasn’t subtle, just convenient to ignore.

Until it wasn’t.

“You’re dropping things,” Cameron pointed out gently one afternoon as Chase fumbled a vial, nearly knocking over a tray. She steadied it before it hit the ground.

“Just tired,” he said, forcing a tight smile. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“That’s been every day,” she said. “You look- Chase, you look bad. When was the last time you actually went home?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved past her, pretending to read a chart he’d already looked at twice.

Foreman cornered him later that day in the hallway. “You’re burning the candle at both ends,” he said bluntly. “Whatever this is - penance, self-destruction, I don’t care. You’re screwing it up for the rest of us.”

“I’m doing my job,” Chase snapped. “Better than most.”

“You’re going to crash.”

Chase stared at him, jaw set. “Then I’ll crash later.”

---

House noticed, too. Of course he did. He just said less and watched more.

He made a game of it - how many yawns before ten a.m., how often Chase’s hands trembled when he reached for something, how pale he could get before anyone else called it out. House never directly mentioned it, just tossed barbs and one-liners like darts.

“You’re starting to look like Wilson during oncology season,” House quipped during a morning differential. “Is that a symptom of guilt, or are you just allergic to sleep?”

Chase rolled his eyes and continued writing on the whiteboard. But the marker slipped slightly in his grip. He covered it by switching hands.

---

Wilson dropped by diagnostics later that afternoon. He looked at House, then at Chase through the glass - who was now chewing on his nails (or rather what was left of them) as he scribbled down notes with torment evident in his fogged eyes.

“He’s not okay,” he said quietly.

House didn’t glance up from his computer. “He says he is.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No. But he’ll break eventually. They always do.”

Wilson frowned. “And you’re just going to wait for that?”

House gave him a shrug, face blank. “Wouldn’t want to rob him of the dramatic collapse he’s working so hard for.”

Later that night, Cameron walked past the lab and found Chase hunched over the microscope. Same clothes as that morning, maybe yesterdays.

She knocked on the glass. “You need to eat. I brought takeout.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said that the last time I asked.”

“Then maybe you should stop asking.”

---

The vending machine groaned as House slammed his cane into it again.

“Either give me the damn Snickers or refund me,” he muttered.

Behind him, the elevator dinged open. House glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Chase walking past, stiff posture, face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Hey, Zombie Barbie,” House called. “What are we doing? Testing how far into the grave you can get before HR notices?”

Chase didn’t stop walking. “Busy.”

House frowned. Chase always had some sort of biting retort. That dull, flat tone? That was new.

---

At the nurses station, Wilson was already talking to Cameron when House wandered over.

“He lost more weight,” she was saying, voice tight. “He’s visibly thinner. I don’t think he even realizes it.”

“He’s not sleeping,” Wilson added. “And from what I hear, he’s only drinking coffee and those god-awful vending machine burritos.”

House looked unimpressed. “So he’s finally becoming a real doctor. You should be proud.”

Cameron shot him a look. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Then do something,” she snapped.

House took a sip of his coffee and didn’t answer.

---

That evening, Chase was in the locker room changing out of his scrubs and moving like someone twice his age. Foreman came in just as he was rubbing his temples, fighting an overbearing headache.

“You’re deathly pale,” Foreman said flatly.

Chase gave him a sideways glance. “Thanks. You’re as charming as always.”

“You have rounds at six a.m. You should go home.”

“Already signed up for a late consult.”

Foreman stepped in front of his locker. “You’re not a martyr, man. You’re a human being. You screw up, you take responsibility, then you recover. You don’t grind yourself into the ground until someone has to scrape you off the tile.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that.”

Chase's face twisted. “I am! Just-” He stopped, exhaling hard. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

The slam of his locker echoed long after he left the room.

That night, he fell asleep in the on-call room, curled up on the too small cot in his lab coat, phone clutched in one hand. He didn’t remember lying down. Didn’t remember falling asleep.

He didn’t hear Cameron crack the door open and pause, worry etched across her face before she silently pulled it shut again.

---

The overhead lights in the OR were harsh, surgical white and humming faintly. Chase stood over the open chest of the patient, his gloved hands steady as he guided the instrument with practiced precision. Sweat collected at his brow, just under the edge of his cap. He blinked it away.

He could do this. One more procedure. Just one more.

Cameron was assisting, Foreman monitoring vitals. Everything was smooth, controlled, calm, and then the room spun.

It started slow. A flicker in the corners of his vision. A sense that the floor had tilted a little. Then stars - spots of light blooming like fireworks behind his eyes.

He blinked hard, shook his head.

“Chase?” Camerons voice cut in, careful. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared down at the patient. Hands no longer steady.

“Chase,” Foreman said, sharper this time, “what the hell are you doing?”

Chase slowly set his instrument down on the tray. His fingers trembled as they left it. He took a single step back from the table, arms raised slightly like he didn’t trust himself to touch anything else.

If he was going to faint, he wouldn't be going face-first into the patient.

“I-” he started, voice quieter than he thought it was. “I think I’m gonna-”

And then the ground rushed up to meet him.

The sound was sharp crack, like someone dropping a melon from waist height. His head hit the tile hard. The clang of metal as he collapsed pulled everyone’s attention instantly.

Cameron dropped what she was doing. “Chase!”

He lay still, limbs splayed awkwardly, the whites of his eyes visible under fluttering lids. Blood trickled from the side of his head, a thin red line against pale skin.

“Get a gurney in here now!” Foreman barked, already kneeling beside him - the last thing he heard before darkness took over, finally putting him at peace.

The room was chaos, the kind that only came when someone on their side of the table went down.

Somewhere upstairs, House stared at the file in front of him and frowned - feeling, for just a second, that something had gone very wrong.

The ER was all motion and urgency - nurses shouting vitals, carts wheeling past, and somewhere in the chaos, Chase lay unconscious, a fresh bandage at his temple. His scrubs had been cut open, IV lines running from both arms, heart monitor beeping steadily beside him.

Cameron stood just outside the trauma room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching through the glass as the team worked to stabilize him.

Upstairs, House was lounging in his office chair, a tennis ball in one hand, lazily tossing it against the wall and catching it again. His eyes flicked across the whiteboard, though it was clear he wasn’t really reading it.

The door slammed open. Foreman burst in, breathless.

House didn’t even look up. “If this is another intervention, I’m gonna need cake.”

“Chase collapsed.”

The ball missed House's hand, thudded to the floor.

He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Mid-surgery. He dropped his scalpel, backed away, and just went down. Hit his head hard. He’s in the ER.”

House stood up. “Vitals?”

“Unstable. He wasn't conscious when they wheeled him out. He hasn’t woken up.”

House grabbed his cane and moved faster than Foreman thought he could. Not limping lazily the way he usually did, but full-speed, sharp-footed urgency.

Foreman watched him for a second, then followed.

Back in the ER, Wilson had arrived, standing next to Cameron. He glanced over as House barreled in.

“You finally heard?” Wilson said, voice tight.

House ignored him, stepping straight to the glass and looking in. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes scanned everything - the IV lines, the heart monitor, the stitched wound on Chase’s head, the oxygen mask.

“How long has he been unconscious?” House asked.

“Over twenty minutes,” Wilson replied.

“CT?”

“Being prepped now.”

House stared a moment longer, then muttered, “Idiot.”

Wilson looked at him. “You’re not talking about Chase.”

House didn’t answer.

---

Chase had been moved into a curtained-off recovery bay, IV fluids steadily dripping into his arm, oxygen still hissing softly at his nose. A clean bandage wrapped around his head, covering the wound where he’d hit the tile. He hadn’t stirred.

Tests had come back. Blood work, head CT, vitals logged by the second. Foreman and Cameron had reviewed them in silence, their expressions growing darker with each new line of data.

It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t just stress. It was system failure.

Chase’s electrolytes were a mess - sodium, potassium, magnesium all dangerously low. His blood glucose had plummeted. He was severely dehydrated, his body pulling fluid from wherever it could just to keep the basics functioning. His weight was down nearly fifteen pounds since his last check-in. Muscle loss. Low blood pressure. Anemia.

And worst of all, it had been happening gradually. Over days, weeks, right under their noses.

Wilson found House outside the diagnostics office, staring blankly at a whiteboard marker he hadn’t touched.

“He’s stable,” Wilson said tightly, holding a chart in his hands. “For now.”

House didn’t look up. “Head injury?”

“Mild concussion. Some bleeding, but superficial. Nothing serious.”

A pause.

“And the rest?” House asked.

Wilsons jaw clenched. He threw the chart onto House's desk. “Malnutrition. Severe dehydration. He’s underweight, electrolyte-starved, and so hypoglycemic I’m amazed he didn’t drop sooner.”

House finally looked at him.

“He’s got no reserves left,” Wilson snapped. “None. His body’s been cannibalizing itself just to keep going, and you didn’t take care of it?”

House said nothing.

Wilson stepped closer. “How the hell did you miss this? You see him every day. You tease him, you throw cases at him, you knew he was spiraling after that patient died. Why didn’t you keep an eye on him?”

Houses voice was quiet. “He said he was fine.”

“You don’t believe people when they say that,” Wilson shot back. “You taught me not to. Don’t pull that crap.”

House looked away, jaw tense.

“That boy idolizes you,” Wilson continued, not letting up. “He’s been killing himself to prove he’s still worth keeping around. And you-” He gestured broadly. “You just watched him fall apart like it was a fun science experiment.”

Houses fingers tightened around his cane. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then, House inhaled sharply.

“What room is he in?”

---

The hospital halls were dimmer now - late evening shadows stretching across the tile, most of the chaos tucked away into corners and overnight shifts. The bustle of earlier had dulled into something quieter.

Chases room was on the fourth floor, just past the nurses station. Wilson had left the door slightly ajar. House pushed it open with his cane and stepped inside.

The room smelled like antiseptic and saline. Monitors beeped steadily, soft and rhythmic. Chase lay still in the bed, pale beneath the scratchy hospital blanket, IV in one arm, oxygen cannula looped around his nose. His bandaged head rested against the pillow at an odd angle, and even unconscious, he looked exhausted, drained.

Too young to look that hollow.

House stood for a moment, just inside the doorway, cane in hand, watching.

Then, slowly, he limped over to the chair beside the bed and lowered himself into it with a grunt. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on Chase's face.

“You idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

The machines continued their calm, indifferent song.

“You don’t get to break down on my watch. That’s my thing.”

Still no response. Not even a twitch.

House leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly.

“I thought you’d bounce back. You always do. But no. You had to go full melodrama. Hit the floor, head wound, fluids, crash cart - real flair for theatrics.” He paused. “Bet you’ll try to apologize when you wake up. Try to tell us it was nothing.”

Another long pause.

“You nearly died,” House said softly, like he hated the sound of the words in his own mouth. “Over one mistake. One screw up. You think that’s all it takes to lose your value?”

House sat in silence for a while longer, tapping the handle of his cane lightly against the floor. “I should’ve noticed.” The admission was barely audible. He leaned forward again, elbows on the bed rail, fingers lightly tapping the metal. “You’re not off the hook, by the way. You still owe me clinic hours.”

And with that, he fell quiet. Just sitting, waiting, watching the slow rise and fall of Chase’s chest, making sure it kept happening.

---

The world returned slowly.

Chase's eyelids fluttered, heavy and sluggish, like they were glued shut. The first thing he registered was the cold sting of IV fluid in his arm, followed by the sterile hospital scent of bleach and plastic. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. His head throbbed with a low, rhythmic pound that reminded him of a hangover but deeper - more bone deep.

“Hey there,” a soft voice said. “Take it easy.”

He blinked a few times and turned his head toward the sound. A nurse stood beside him, adjusting the monitor beside his bed. She smiled, but it was the kind of smile people gave patients who were about to get bad news gently sugarcoated.

“Where am I?” His throat felt dry.

“Princeton-Plainsboro. ER recovery. You fainted two hours ago during a surgery. Hit your head pretty good.”

Chase stared at her, disoriented. “No, I- I have rounds,” he said quickly, trying to sit up. “I need to- where’s my pager? I have-”

“Whoa, whoa- hey,” the nurse said, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“No, you don’t understand - House assigned me to the pulmonary case. I’ve got a consult at seven and I need to finish-”

He pushed harder against the mattress, trying to swing his legs over the side. His muscles trembled. A wave of dizziness crashed through him, white-hot and nauseating. But his panic steamrolled through the discomfort.

“I have to work,” he insisted, voice rising. “They’re counting on me, I-”

“You’ve been unconscious for hours,” the nurse snapped, her calm professional tone faltering just a little. “You collapsed in the OR. You need to stay down- Doctor Chase, stop-”

The door slammed open.

House strode in like a storm system, jacket half-unbuttoned, eyes already locked on Chase’s half-upright form.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” House barked, his cane clacking hard against the tile. “Lie down before you faceplant again, you absolute moron.”

Chase froze. His eyes widened in guilt, surprise, and something like fear.

“I- I’m fine,” he said quickly, breathless, still trying to gather his bearings. “I can work, just give me ten minutes-”

“You couldn’t stand up five seconds ago without listing like the Titanic,” House snapped. “Your glucose tanked, your body’s a skeleton, and you’ve got the bedside color of a Victorian orphan. You are not fine.”

The nurse looked caught between annoyed and relieved. “He’s disoriented. Keeps trying to get up. Won’t listen.”

House pointed a finger at Chase like he was scolding a very stupid dog. “Sit your puppy-ass down.”

Chase flinched, blinking rapidly. “I need to-"

“You need to shut up and let your organs recover before they go on strike again.”

Chase sank back into the bed, the weight of House’s voice - that voice - finally pinning him in place. His chest heaved, panic still bubbling under the surface, but now buried under exhaustion and something colder: shame.

House moved to the side of the bed, looming.

“You collapsed,” he said, voice dropping a level. “In front of the entire OR. Cameron and Foreman thought you might be dying. Wilson thinks you’re an idiot. I know you’re an idiot.”

Chase stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No one ever means to nearly kill themselves with pride and guilt. It’s just a bonus side effect of being stubborn and emotionally constipated.”

The nurse gave House a long-suffering look, then turned back to Chase. “You’re going to be here overnight, at minimum. You’re on fluids, restricted movement, and if I catch you even thinking about pulling that IV out-”

“Noted,” House said. “He’s terrified of me. He’ll behave.”

Chase didn’t answer. He just lay there, face pale, jaw locked, breathing uneven.

House watched him a moment longer, then added, a touch softer, “You scared people.”

Chase’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

House turned to the nurse. “Go get him another blanket. He’s shaking like a rabid chihuahua.”

As she left, Chase’s eyes slid over to House, confused and wary.

“You stayed?” he asked, barely audible.

House gave a dismissive wave. “Briefly. Had to go cure cancer and solve world hunger, so I passed the torch to Wilson.”

There was a beat of silence.

Chase stared at him for a moment, then looked away, voice small. “I’m sorry.”

House rolled his eyes. “If you apologize one more time, I’m jabbing the IV into your neck.”

A ghost of a smile tried to form at the corner of Chase’s mouth, though it didn’t last.

House exhaled, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The monitor beeped. The hallway buzzed outside.

“You’re not going back on the floor until Wilson clears you,” House said. “And even then, I’m chaining you to the clinic.”

Chase closed his eyes. “Okay.”

A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by the gentle hum of the hospital and the soft rustling of the nurses footsteps as she checked in on the IV drip.

House, his arms crossed, was still perched by the side of Chase’s bed. His gaze was intense, but his usual sarcasm was kept in check for the moment.

The door clicked open. Wilson stepped inside, taking in the scene with a sharp glance. He paused just inside the doorway, his eyes flicking between House and Chase.

House didn’t move. “He’s fine.”

Wilson didn’t even look at House. “I’m sure he is.” He stepped further into the room, nodding to the nurse, who gave a soft smile and exited with her clipboard.

House raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me here?”

Wilsons gaze flicked toward him. “Actually... I think you’re done for the day.”

House frowned but didn’t argue. He stood up with a brief, almost reluctant glance at Chase, then limped toward the door. “You’re lucky I don’t make you work for the next month. Don’t get too comfortable.”

Chase didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the ceiling, shoulders tense, trying to act like he wasn’t upset. House left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Wilson took a slow step toward the bed, eyes softening. He adjusted the blanket around Chase's lap, glancing at the monitors again to make sure everything was still running smoothly.

“How are you feeling?” Wilson asked, his voice calm, but with an undercurrent of something that wasn’t quite concern. It was care, but the kind that came with knowing too much.

Chase shifted his position on the bed, but didn’t meet Wilson's eyes. “I’m okay. Just tired.” His voice was thin, almost lost, like he was trying to convince himself.

Wilson smiled gently. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

Chase swallowed, eyes stinging again. He blinked hard, pushing away the tears that had been threatening since he woke up. “It’s not that bad,” he muttered, barely audible.

Wilson’s smile faded, replaced with something more serious. He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly. “Are you sure everything's alright?”

Chase’s gaze dropped to his hands, lying stiffly at his sides. He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t without breaking down completely.

“I’m okay,” he said, finally, his voice cracking just slightly as he spoke the words that didn’t feel true. “Reall, I'm just not feeling good.”

Wilson’s eyes softened, and he reached over, gently placing a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “It’s okay to not be okay. You’ve been running on empty for a long time, and you’ve been doing it all alone. It’s not your fault.”

Chase shook his head slightly, pushing the feeling down. “I just... I didn’t want to let anyone down. I couldn’t-”

Wilson gave him a long, knowing look. “I know, but you don’t have to carry everything on your own, Chase. You need to take care of yourself first. You’re not much use to anyone if you’re running on fumes.” He paused, looking at him seriously. “Do you understand?”

Chase swallowed again, fighting against the tightness in his chest. He nodded, though the tears didn’t stop their slow burn behind his eyes. “I’ll try.”

Wilson’s expression softened, his voice a little quieter now. “Good. You’ve been through a lot. Just remember - you don’t have to be the only one holding it all together.”

Chase blinked rapidly, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he looked up at Wilson, giving him a faint, shaky smile. It was sad, worn, but it was still there.

Wilson smiled back, a little sadder this time. “Take care of yourself, alright? There's psychologists for a reason. And if you don't want to talk to one, then let us help you.”

Chase nodded again, more firmly this time. “I will.”

Wilson stood, moving toward the door but pausing just before he stepped out. “Get some rest, alright? I’ll be here if you need me.”

And with that, Wilson was gone, leaving Chase to sit in the quiet, the weight of everything pressing heavily on him. He felt the last bit of tension in his chest melt away, but only just enough to let the guilt and fear shift to a new, sharper corner.

The room fell silent again, the steady beeping of the heart monitor the only sound that remained.

The room felt too small, too cold. The harsh beeping of the heart monitor sounded like a countdown, steady and relentless. Chase’s breaths were shallow, quicker now, heart racing. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to block out the rising wave of panic clawing at the back of his throat.

I’m fine. I have to be fine.

But the thought slipped away as easily as it had come, and something broke inside him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His chest was tightening with every panicked, shallow gasp, and it wasn’t just his body that was collapsing now, it was everything. The weight of the last two weeks, the guilt of his patients death, the pressure to prove himself, to be enough, to be good enough - it was all too much.

He tried to force his lungs to expand, to slow his breathing, but it was like his body had forgotten how. He clawed at the sheets, his fingers digging into the fabric like it could anchor him to the world, but it only made everything worse.

Don’t panic. Just breathe. Just breathe.

The air around him felt thick, suffocating. The walls seemed to close in, a dark pressure pushing down on his chest, pulling him under.

“God, no-” He gasped, each breath quicker, more desperate.

His mind was racing, thoughts a chaotic blur of failure and you’re not good enough and you’re losing control. His body trembled as if it were betraying him.

He felt the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, his hands trembling violently as he pulled at the blanket, the panic like an electric pulse jolting through him. His heart thundered, and he could hear his pulse thumping in his ears as well as from the monitor as it screamed, a deafening reminder of how far gone he was.

The door slammed open with a loud crash.

“What the hell is going on?” House’s voice was low, but there was an underlying urgency there that sliced through the fog of panic.

Chase jerked, his breath hitching in his throat. He barely registered House’s figure in the doorway before he tried to sit up again, a strangled sob catching in his throat.

“Don’t-” Chase tried to speak, to tell him to leave, but the words wouldn’t come. His hands were trembling so badly now that he could barely form a fist, his chest tightening further as the air grew thick around him.

“Chase?” House snapped, stepping forward. “Are you okay? Are you finally dying?”

“Fuck off,” Chase managed to gasp, the words bitter in his mouth. He swung a weak hand in House’s direction, trying to push him away even though he couldn’t physically move.

But House didn’t back off. Instead, he stepped closer, his sharp eyes scanning Chase like he was a patient - another case to solve. House’s gaze flickered over him, and it didn’t take long for him to realize the panic attack was more than just a few ragged breaths.

“Okay, that’s not working,” House muttered, moving in with surprising speed. He grabbed hold of Chase’s shoulders with one hand, steadying him against the bed.

Chase flinched, the touch only making the fear spiral further out of control, but House’s grip was firm, unyielding. “Listen to me, Chase. Breathe. In, out. Like a normal person, got it?”

“I can’t-” Chase gasped, his voice shaky and thin. His chest was constricting, and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the overwhelming wave of panic that was choking him.

“Shut up,” House said, the usual snark gone from his voice. There was something else now, something like concern. “You’re not getting out of this by hyperventilating, so stop trying. Look at me.”

Chase’s eyes darted up, blurry from the tears and the panic. His vision was swimming. “I- I can’t... I-”

House leaned in closer, his voice low and steady. “You can. Breathe with me. In and out.”

Chase’s breath hitched again, but this time, he tried to match House’s rhythm. His chest hurt, but he forced the air in through his nose, then let it out in a long, slow exhale.

The world felt like it was spinning, but for a moment, he tried to focus on the words House was saying, the way his hand was still gripping his shoulder, steadying him.

“In. Out. Just breathe. You’re fine.” House’s voice was still rough, but there was no mocking, no sarcasm, just the barest flicker of something that bordered empathy.

Chase’s breathing slowed, just enough to feel like he wasn’t drowning anymore. The tightness in his chest began to loosen, and for a moment, he felt like he could exhale properly again.

“Good,” House muttered, still holding him in place. “Now don’t do that shit again. You scared the hell out of me.”

Chase’s breathing had slowed, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm House had forced him into. The panic attack was beginning to ebb, but in its wake, something darker was settling.

The exhaustion was like an anchor in his chest, pulling everything under. The fear, the guilt, the dread of failure - it was all crashing over him now, and for the first time since this nightmare started, he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

House’s presence was still heavy beside him, but for once, it wasn’t suffocating. The grip on his shoulder remained steady, grounding, and yet, somehow, it felt like it was pulling all the raw emotion out of him too.

“You good now?” House asked, his tone still rough, but edged with concern.

Chase nodded, but it wasn’t enough to convince himself, let alone House.

“What the hell were you thinking?” House’s voice sharpened as he leaned in closer. “You pushed yourself past the limit. Hell, you skipped the limit. You’ve been working yourself into the ground for weeks, and for what? To prove you’re still worth something?”

Chase’s throat tightened at the words. He blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in his eyes. But the words House had just thrown at him echoed through his skull like a cruel mantra.

“Prove myself,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself. “That’s all I’ve been doing. Trying to be enough.” His voice broke, and he choked back a sob, feeling like the walls were closing in again. “Trying to be better.”

House watched him carefully, his face unreadable. But Chase could hear the shift in his voice when he spoke again, quieter now. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, Chase. Hell, if anything, you’ve been doing this job far longer than you should’ve, given how much you've been carrying.”

The words hung in the air, but they weren’t enough. Not this time. The dam inside Chase had cracked, and there was no stopping the flood anymore.

“I-” Chase gasped, his chest constricting again. His voice faltered, and then it all spilled out in a wave of desperation. “I’m so sorry, House. I fucked up. I- what if I kill another patient? What if I don’t catch something, and someone dies because of me? I can’t- I'm not good enough. I never was good enough!”

His breath hitched again, and before he could stop it, his face crumpled into his hands, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m a failure,” he choked out. “I hate it. I hate being the one who screws up! I just- I just want to be good at this and I’m not.”

The weight of everything came crashing down in a flood of tears, and Chase could hardly breathe through the suffocating sobs. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. To pretend none of this had ever happened.

“I’m so tired, House,” he whispered, the words barely coming through between the gasps. “I’m just exhausted.”

House’s silence wasn’t comforting, but it was heavy with unspoken understanding. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything at first, just let Chase break down, let the words spill out unchecked. It wasn’t his style, but there was no judgment in his eyes now. No sarcasm.

“Chase,” he finally said, his voice quiet and rough. “You’re not a failure. You’re human. Everyone makes mistakes.” His eyes flickered, like he was trying to figure out the right words. “You’re not the first person to lose a patient, and you won’t be the last. But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless.”

The words were far from comforting, but they were what Chase needed to hear. They cut through the chaos in his mind for just a moment.

“I don’t know how to keep doing this,” Chase whispered through his tears, his voice fragile. “I don’t know how to keep pretending like I’m fine. I can’t be the one who fails every time.”

House didn’t move away. He stayed close, his presence steady but not intrusive. It was a weird kind of support - awkward, uncomfortable - but it was there.

“You don’t have to do it alone, Chase,” House said, his voice low, almost tired. “You can’t carry it all. I’m not going to let you.”

Chase’s chest hitched again as he exhaled a long, shaky breath. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a weight lifting, even if just a little.

“I don’t know how to trust anyone,” Chase whispered, his voice breaking again. “I keep screwing up. I- I can’t keep doing this, House.”

House hesitated, his eyes flicking down to Chase’s shaking form. “You’ll get there. You’ll learn. You can’t control everything. But you can control this moment. And right now, you’re still breathing. That’s enough.”

Chase squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop the flood of emotions. He had no idea how long he stayed there, crying into his hands, the weight of everything just too much. But eventually, his sobs slowed. His chest still heaved, but not as violently. He felt… drained.

House didn’t leave, didn’t tell him to suck it up or get over it. He stayed there, watching.

Chase finally looked up, his eyes red, his body trembling with exhaustion. He felt like every inch of him had been wrung out and left dry. But something had shifted, even if it wasn’t completely gone.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Chase whispered.

House glanced down at him. “You rest. You stop pretending. And you stop killing yourself trying to prove something.”

Chase gave a shaky nod, his voice hoarse. “Okay.”