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Chase is scared. Chase is incredibly scared.
The walk from the examination room, down the hallways that seem to go on for ages, and out the front door—like he's walking himself out the door to his own execution.
His pocket feels heavy with the prescription his new psychiatrist had given him, with directions to the hospital pharmacy. He knows he needs to go get it sooner, rather then later. The psychiatrist had scheduled a follow-up appointment with him to see how the meds were doing, specifically working around the hectic schedule he had made up right at that moment.
He finally reaches the final door, a bright laminated paper stuck to the door that said EXIT TO WAITING ROOM, and sighed in relief. Pushing open the door, he was thankful that he hadn't told his partners about today's appointment, let along where he was having it.
No one was in the lobby, excluding a young girl on her phone, leg jittering up and down like a pogo-stick, so Chase made his way out the door and into the main hospital lobby.
He could leave. The psychiatrist wouldn't know—would she? If he just, didn't take the medication, or even pick it up from the pharmacy.
Or. She could get it mailed to his house. That would be much worse.
Chase turned his heel towards the hospital pharmacy.
-
The bag tumbles up and down in the passenger seat as he drives home, the little tiny pills inside shaking aggressively like it was trying to run away from him. A little niggling voice in his head is telling him to toss the medication away right now—the psychiatrist would never know. Ryan and Bubba would never know.
He could probably continue on like everything was fine if he really tried hard enough.
But—he'd promised. Annoyingly. After Bubba had found him dissociated behind a trailer one time after a terrible race—he'd promised he'd try and get treatment. See if the hollow husk in his chest could be filled.
Chase does not toss his medication away onto the highway. That would be called littering.
-
Neither Ryan or Bubba are home when he finally gets back, Blitz bounding over with a bone in hand, and tail wagging. He sniffs at the mysterious bag in Chase's hand, but finds that it wasn't anything of interest, more focused on his bone that looks like it's been through a thunderstorm.
"D'you know what, buddy?" Chase says. Blitz tilts his head in interest, slobbering over his mildly disgusting bone.
"D'you wanna sleep on the bed?" Chase continues, knowing for a fact that Blitz was in fact, not allowed to sleep on the bed.
Blitz nods his little head vigorously, bone squeaking every time he nodded.
"C'mon, let's go," Chase goes to the bedroom, the medication in his hand jingling as he does. Blitz's little paws click clack on the hard wood floor as they make their way into the bedroom.
Chase tosses the medication into one of his clothing drawers, slamming the door and listening to the medication rattle inside of it like a maraca.
He proceeds to flop, unceremoniously onto the bed and shoves his face into one of the pillows. Blitz leaps onto the bed next to him, wiggling his cold nose in between the gap between Chase's nose and the pillow, trying to lick at his face.
"Can you stop," he asks, muffled into the pillow. He doesn't want him to stop. The cold feeling of Blitz's nose against Chase's warm skin makes him feel real, like he's not floating through space.
The psychiatrist said, "it was called dissociation." and that it was "unhealthy for Chase to continue in that state constantly."
Annoyingly.
Eventually, Blitz gives up, and does a few circles on the bed, before plopping down almost directly on top of Chase, legs tightly pressed against Chase's own legs.
Thank fuck. He tilts his head to the side to breathe more properly, and shuts his eyes, trying to close his eyes and take a cat nap before—
"Clyde~!" Ryan calls from the front door, "Baby! We're home!"
Chase grumbles. Blitz perks up, tail smacking against the bed like a drum.
He hears two pairs of foot steps enter the room, and Bubba's voice saying, "Blitz! You're not supposed to be on the bed!"
Blitz whines, but stands up regardless and gets up from the bed, heavy feet thumping onto the ground. Chase doesn't get up from his relatively comfortable position on the bed, grumbling a hello to them instead.
A heavy weight settles on the bed next to him, a hand brushing a thick strand of hair from his face, "Hey sweetheart, we wake you up from a nap?"
Chase nods, shoving his face back into the blankets, and avoiding their gaze. One lazy eye stays on the cabinet, where the prescription bag is crushed between his five hundred NAPA polos and the cabinet.
They have a discussion over his head, something that Chase barely pays attention to, contemplating more about how easy it might be to suffocate himself in the bedsheets, just in case.
Ryan walks around to the cabinets, and in the moment Chase realizes—he's about to open the cabinet. He's not about to get on the bed in his dirty clothing. He always takes his clothes.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Chase shoves his face further in the pillows when he hears the drawer open and Ryan stop for a moment.
Blitz whines from his place beside the bed, putting his head atop the blankets, trying to reach for his owner.
Ryan pulls out the medication bag, and says, "Chase? Is this yours?"
No shit it's his. It has William Elliott written across the top like a warning label.
"Put 'em away," he says, still muffled into the blankets. He furiously blinks away the tears that are threatening to gather along his waterline. He doesn't want to see them right now.
The room goes quiet except for Blitz's low whining against his hand, trying to get him to look up. Underneath him, the pillow becomes wet with tears, that he muffles.
"Chase—baby," the heavy weight where Bubba sits grow heavier, and someone's hands are on his face, brushing away the thick strands of hair falling in front of him, "Can you look at me?"
He can't help but be petulant, shoving his face further into the pillows.
"Leave me alone," he grumbles, and tries to grab a pillow to shove over his head, but they don't let him.
Ryan gently takes the pillow from him on his other side, where Blitz still whines, begging to be let on the bed again, "No can do, Clyde. C'mon now, lemme see those eyes."
Giving in, he finally turns around, and sits up, pushing his back up against the headboard of the bed, knees curled up to his chest—like he's 4 and the monsters are under the bed again.
"Areyoumadatme?" Chase asks, rushed and shaky. He would like to get it out of the way. He knows they're probably mad. Furious, even. Probably thinks he's stealing drugs.
"Why would we be mad?" Bubba asks. He sounds genuine, like he's actually confused at why Chase is so scared at the brown paper bag he's shoved in his drawer.
"Because—" Chase stumbles over his words like a child, "Because I—"
"Finally got help?," Ryan butts in besides him, "No baby, not at all, we're not mad at all."
Bubba nods in agreement, warm hand on his warm cheek, "If anything we're so fucking proud of you, okay? Nothing to be worried about."
Bubba's thumb runs over Chase's cheek, clearing the hot tears that are falling from his face, "You hear me? We'll do this together like we always do, alright?"
Chase nods. He thinks he believes it now.