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There are six different bars in walking distance of the hospital. Limping distance, at that, although House takes the bike regardless. A good hunch sends him to the shittiest bar first, and the greasy blond hair he spots in the corner is vindicating.
Booth, not counter, that is a surprise: House had figured Chase was the type who preferred public flagellation.
He hasn’t quite committed to saying anything, isn’t even sure he’ll go inside the bar once he’s confirmed Chase’s presence, although somehow House finds himself clomping up to the booth anyway. A number of greetings spring to mind: jokes about alcoholism, Australia, divorce as a genetic trait. Happy Thanksgiving, factual enough to be cutting: “God, you’re a cliche,” he settles for, making sure to laugh.
“What do you want?” Chase asks sullenly. His eyes are tellingly red. He reeks of beer and sweat and it’s all so transparent, so goddamn boring that House feels a wave of sudden acute impatience, doesn’t need this conversation to predict its outcome, the ins and outs of his employee’s breakdown. Dirty clothes on the floor. Beer bottles on the coffee table. Sleeping on the sofa because the bed smells like her.
Stacy, he thinks: it is the first time that particular neuron has fired in a long while. He’d slept in his bed like always. ‘Course, with the leg and all. It is not a train of thought conductive to being kind (neutral) to your employees: I got you and the wife a toaster for your wedding, House thinks about saying as he thuds into the opposite end of the booth.
“God, you’re a cliche,” he repeats, deciding to admire the dedication as Chase lifts his glass sullenly and drains it. “I didn’t think you were even capable of growing facial hair.”
Chase’s lips pucker around a word as he slams his glass down. Fuck you, perhaps. That’s the problem with Chase, though: he never fights like House wants him to. Just ducks his head and takes it.
“Here,” House says, once it is abundantly clear taking it is Chase’s only plan for the evening. He slides the folder — battered and creased from its time in his armpit — onto the table. He waves for the bartender’s attention; brandishes his cane when the guy — sullen, tattooed, probably at least one kind of Hepatitis — doesn’t seem inclined to take his order: “Two scotches. Neat. His tab,” House bellows above the music and four other people here at barely five PM on a Tuesday, then turns back to Chase, who is gazing blankly at the folder.
“Transfer paperwork,” House informs him. “Welcome back to the fellowship program. You’re taking a pay cut, by the way. Hope that new joint mortgage — ooh, sore subject.” Chase’s fingers whiten, and House wonders how much tactile pressure it takes to shatter glass.
“You tracked me down to deliver paperwork?” Chase asks finally. His voice is suspiciously steady given the way he reeks of alcohol: House can manage the same trick, but he supposes genetics give Chase the advantage.
“Less vacation time, too.”
“No,” Chase says, which is halfway interesting; he tears his gaze from the folder and House meets them curiously. Red and watery and exhausted. Chase’s emotiveness has always been one of his more peculiar qualities, in House’s opinion. The sort of thing most distant, overbearing fathers would beat out of a boy. “You don’t do that.”
“It appears that I did,” House says, willing to humor this tangent. A second barkeep staggers over annoyed with their drinks: “Thank you,” he says, dripping sincerity. It’s a cheap scotch, far too sharp on House’s tongue, but he supposes at least one of them isn’t in this for flavor.
“I can’t believe it,” Chase says, the sarcasm bringing out a certain drunken drawl to his voice and accent. “You’re checking up on me.” He is red-cheeked and offended, shakes his head and looks away. “Taub thought I was going to go home and shoot myself,” he adds belligerently.
“And that offends you because it’s advice from Taub, or because we both know little boys who kill themselves go straight to hell?” House asks.
Chase takes two long swallows of his scotch. Definitely not in it for the flavor. House suspects Chase might really respond with something as banal as I’m going to hell either way. Probably even believes it, which strikes House as both perverse and boring; he’s with the epicureans on this one. “You feel bad,” Chase says instead, which is grating. "You're worried about me."
You beg Cameron to come back yet? House thinks about asking. He also thinks about asking are you okay. He has no intention of going down either road, but they cross his mind, just as it had crossed his mind last night to call Cameron himself. It is utterly insignificant. House thinks a lot of things.
He remembers Chase strolling in his first day of the job, confident and cocky and ten years old. This kid has never wanted for anything in his life, House thought. This kid has never had so much as a bad hair day.
Well, here we are, and all that. “I'm concerned that my newest employee is a useless drunk," he says, drawling it out so Chase knows he's lying.
The punchline — I’m not useless — goes unstated. Chase flips open the folder, shoving greasy hair out of his eyes. He is braced, House understands, for a joke, but the folder only contains HR paperwork: insurance, contract, medical records request.
One of the questions is emergency contact, and House is genuinely curious who Chase will pick now: he watches his gaze stop on the question, the way his right hand flicks towards his left. He is still, House notes with an odd remorse, wearing his wedding ring.
He’d thought about calling Cameron. The inherent problem: there is nothing to say to her. Nothing he can say, nothing he’d like to. Of course he’d thought of things he could say: you are a valued employee or we both know you’re dying to fix me, so why act coy? The problem is that if that isn’t true, House has to rethink his entire understanding of Cameron, and she’s gone: there’s no point in wasting the time.
Your husband is in pain, he’d thought about telling her. Short. To the point. It might even work. It had felt vaguely right they’d end up together: young, whole, and ridiculously attractive. If not right, predictable. To feel happy for young love is to imply an interest House frankly does not have. But a satisfaction at the predictability of hormones and genetics and biological needs to reproduce? Sure.
He used to see them leaving work together sometimes, or sitting in the cafeteria, or find Chase lurking in the ER when House needed him to do a surgery. Two pretty little blondes. Dewy eyed and at least for now undamaged. Wilson, he is certain, would say he is either jealous or proud of them. Come to think of it, so might’ve Cameron.
He didn’t call, of course. He isn’t going to. And if Chase wants to fuck himself up more by trying, that’s on him.
Chase finishes his scotch, his face reddening by degrees. “I called her,” he confirms, looking up furtively and immediately away, justifiably concerned House will laugh in his face for being predictable.
“And let me guess. She’s on the first flight outta Chicago.”
Chase’s hair falls over his forehead, his bowed expression. Random neurons fire, spell out Stacy. But House had never called her, never been so much as tempted. Chase? No way in hell. He begged her to come back, and House is just nice enough to not mention it.
“I,” Chase says, too chickenshit to do more than beg, than react passively, than let Cameron go. God, he’s going to cry, isn’t he? House watches his face furrow, eyes dampen. “No,” he says, and clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, obviously imagines he now looks and sounds impassive, not drunk and sweaty and at risk. “She didn’t want to talk.”
House feels sorry for the kid. The realization is surprising, more than a little unexpected: he does not care for it. He drinks his scotch, considering the possibilities. “I talked to her,” House says; Chase’s gaze shoots up from the grain of the table, eyes large and hurt. “We had a nice chat.”
He doesn’t elaborate; doesn’t need to. He almost feels badly — almost — watching Chase try not to crumple, to take this jab as some great proof. House wants to point out how obviously he is lying, how idiotic Chase is for falling for it so easily: how the fact that he does believe it is proof enough this divorce was inevitable, maybe even for the kid’s own good.
“What — what did she say?” Chase has never asked him so direct a question before. Not about himself, not so baldly, not Chase, always so careful and private and cool. He can’t look at House ask he asks, his knuckles clenched white.
There are a million things House could say next, each one crueler than the last. He opts for kindness, not because he cares so much as the fact that Chase is due in the office in just over twelve hours, alive and sober: “She doesn’t want to be around people like us.” Like you, he’d meant to say.
He had thought about calling her. Cameron does this on occasion, infuriating each time: climbs on her moral high horse and gets off on seeing the tops of everyone’s heads. And then calms down, gets interesting again, hypocritical and sharp and much less of a good girl she’d like to pretend. She might have chosen Chase thinking he was nice, was obedient and soft and oh-so-pretty, but Cameron doesn’t do bland, and even Chase is slightly more interesting than he lets on. Give her time, a month or two, and Cameron will start missing the place, will miss him — both hims. What House hasn’t decided is if she’s worth the effort. If maybe she’s right, as usual, and better off.
He’s expecting Chase might beg House to call her back, beg on his behalf. The kid nods, staring fixedly at the table, dad didn’t show up to another football game.
“Did you know she has an uncle who specializes in divorce law?” House asks conversationally, but Chase doesn’t flinch. He’s made his point, he supposes. House rests his palms on the table, begins the complicated process of wedging himself out of the booth. I guess you’ll find out soon enough, he doesn’t bother adding; Chase rests his elbows on the table, runs his fingers through greasy hair.
Finally, a bad hair day, House thinks, and is disquieted that he takes no pleasure from it.
-
When Chase comes into work on Wednesday, he is no longer wearing his wedding ring.