Another case solved. His team had been pounding the pavement for nearly two days, while House had stared at the whiteboard, in some kind of semblance of sitting shiva (or at least, that was what Wilson had said before House had barked at him to get his poncy Jewish ass out of the room before he kicked it there). He desperately needed to sleep, the dreams that would come be damned. Thank god for Cameron, who still, even after five years, took it upon herself to do the paperwork. If it hadn't been for her, he probably wouldn't have been home until morning. God, he loved having minions some days. Especially on days—or nights, as it were—like this.

As he brought his car to a halt, he reflexively reached over to shut off the radio, remembering too late that he'd shut it off as soon as he'd gotten in the car.

“—and police are encouraging people to stay—”

House jabbed his thumb down on the button so hard that his thumb exploded in pain, and he swore loudly. Shaking his hand in an effort to get rid of the throbbing pain, he gritted his teeth and told himself that he had not just jammed his thumb by turning off the radio.

He stopped moving his hand, bringing it closer to his face. He tried to bend his thumb hesitantly, but at the slight movement, sharp pain rocketed down to his palm.

Well, damn. Maybe he had jammed his thumb turning off the radio.

Thanks a lot, Chase.

Mindful of his thumb, House picked up his cane and pushed the door open and got out of his car. It was a blissfully warm summer night, not too muggy, and it put him in the mood for ice cream. He might have gone and gotten some, if it hadn't been so damn late and he hadn't been about to fall over from exhaustion. He was struggling to hold his cane and make it all the way up the stairs as it was—and the thumb wasn't helping anything.

He did make it up to the door without falling over, though, and after a second or two of fumbling with the keys, he made it through the door. He shut it behind him, listening as all the city noise was instantly sealed off, and then reached over to turn the lights on.

And then someone grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back, and shoved him up against the door.

There was the sound of his cane clattering to the floor, and then the only sounds in the room were his own breathing and someone else's much louder and more erratic breathing.

House sighed. “Hi, Chase,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I don't suppose you feel like sitting down for some tea and crumpets?”

Chase moved so that he was practically pressed against House. “Shut up.”

“You know,” House remarked, “I remember a time a few years ago, when you had me up against this door, except I don't think that your intentions were quite so honorable as they—ow! Not fair!”

His arm had been sharply twisted at an unnatural angle.

Then suddenly, Chase's voice was hot in his ear. “I remember a time a few years ago, when you testified against me in court. Ring any bells?”

“Stop living in the past, Chase,” House said dismissively. “That was then. This is now. And right now, I don't care if you're an ax murderer or not—while you're out, let's get on with that steamy goodbye sex that your lawyer so rudely denied us. C'mon. I won't even call the cops when we're done.”

“I didn't do anything wrong,” Chase said, his grip tightening to the point that it was painful. “And you're going to help me prove it, or I'll kill you.”

House snorted. “Please. Like you'd—”

Then he lost the ability to speak as excruciating, white-hot pain seared up and down his leg. He couldn't scream even though there were colors flashing in his mind and his stomach was lurching—his body was absolutely rigid. His mouth opened, his tongue working in a silent scream.

Chase removed his hand from House's thigh. “Try me.”

Chase stands before him.

Only it isn't right. This isn't his Chase. House knows what his Chase looks like, and he's certain that his Chase has green eyes, not bloody sockets, and that his Chase has four limbs, not three. He knows that his Chase doesn't have a stubbled scalp, or skin that is half-decomposed, or dried blood splattered across his chest. His skull is not bashed in. His arm does not hang from his side, limp, bent to an unnatural angle. And while his Chase may have no dress sense whatsoever, he knows not to wear clothes that are ripped and caked in mud.

This Chase, though, does not. He stands before House, and if he had eyes, he probably would have been staring at him.

House stares at the eye sockets instead. They're a mess of blood, and he feels sick just looking at them. Not his Chase, not his Chase, not his Chase...

“I did it for you,” this Chase suddenly says.

Except that it's his Chase's voice, and it sends shivers down his spine.

“I did it for you, House,” Chase says, taking a step forward. His leg twists, the muscle clearly not functioning well enough to support him, and House instinctively reaches out to keep him from falling.

His hand grabs Chase's arm, and there is a horrible, wet squelching noise, and then he's only holding an arm.

Down on the ground, bleeding freely into the grass, Chase smiles up at him.

“I knew you didn't want to be alone,” he whispers tenderly. “I came back for you.”

House drops the arm to the ground. He feels sick.

“Aren't you happy?”

No. No, no, no, no, Chase, no what have you do—

House jerks awake.

His heart is racing and he's covered in sweat, and he can't get the image of zombie-Chase out of his head. Adrenaline is still coursing through his system. He squeezes his eyes shut, wanting to forget and remember the dream at the same time, but it seems that his brain his choosing to remember it because it keeps replaying in his mind. The images, flashing like strobe lights, make him sick—Chase's arm falling off, the contented smile on his face, Chase's reassurances...

“House?”

The voice is hesitant and whispered, but House jumps all the same.

Chase rolls over on the bed, and House turns his head to look at the clock before facing Chase.

“Bad dream?” Chase asks him, but he doesn't look like he's teasing. He looks a little spooked, to be honest.

House doesn't say anything in reply, but he reaches out and pulls Chase closer to him. This healthy Chase. The one who isn't a zombie, who didn't just dig himself out of the ground in order to be with his narcissistic lover, who has wide green eyes and impeccable blond hair, who is... Shaking? Chase is definitely trembling. He runs his hands down Chase's arms, reassuring himself that they're both there, and trails his fingers down the fabric of the t-shirt shirt that Chase is wearing, down his nose and over his lips, and he's in the middle of stroking Chase's hair when a voice interrupts the reassurances he's filling his brain with.

“House, do you think it's possible to come back from the dead?”

And something in House's stomach goes cold.

Cuddy's day had been going extremely well, as she'd given House's whole department the day off after failing to diagnose a family of five quickly enough. The last one had died earlier this morning, but Cuddy hadn't called House to tell him yet. He could and find out tomorrow—and besides that, he had went home knowing that the man probably wouldn't last out through the night. She hoped that he wouldn't spend today moping around and getting drunk. She also hoped that poor Dr. Chase wouldn't be House's chew toy for the day. He had been loyal thus far, but House was always at his worst after losing a patient that he could have saved, if he'd figured it out sooner. And this time, there had been five.

She was walking down the hallways, en route to Wilson's office to talk to him about a sexual harassment claim that had been filed against one of the doctors in his department. It wasn't a very serious allegation, and the doctor in question didn't have a mark on his history, so she was fairly certain that it was nothing a small settlement couldn't fix.

Then she saw House and Chase coming out of a supply closet.

Actually, what she saw was House come walking out of the supply closet at a furious pace, pulling Chase along after him with such force that Chase was actually stumbling. Physically pulling him along, House's left hand in Chase's right. This in and of itself was bizarre—although it was certainly common knowledge that the two of them had a thing going on, it was only common knowledge because of House's frequent inappropriate comments and loud declarations, not because the two of them were ever actually caught doing anything affectionate. House had been strangely discreet about the physical aspects of their relationship.

“House!” she called, deciding that this was odd enough for her to investigate.

Two heads snapped around to stare at her. Chase immediately turned around and began walking away, but House yanked on his hand and Chase stayed put. House turned around, pulling Chase with him, and began walking towards Cuddy. They held hands the whole way there, all the while having a very quiet, furious conversation. Cuddy caught the tail end of it as they got closer.

“—trust me on this one, besides, the worst she'll do is—”

“—and I'll never be able to look at her again without knowing—” Chase stopped abruptly as he realized how close they were. Looking flustered, he gave Cuddy an awkward smile. “Hi. How are you?”

Cuddy glanced down at their hands, which were still firmly clasped together. She raised an eyebrow. “Are we... developing separation issues?”

Looking back up at them, she found that Chase had gone, not bright red, but pink in the cheeks. House was also looking vaguely uncomfortable, which, for him, said quite a lot. But neither one looked like they were going to answer her question, so she moved on.

“What were you doing in that supply closet?” she asked. “I gave you the day off. You don't even need to be here, you can do your business in your own beds.”

“We weren't doing anything inappropriate!” House protested. “We were looking for a hacksaw, actually. Stupid Wilson's second wife got his in the divorce.”

“House, I let you get away with a lot of crap, but I draw the line at lobotomies,” Cuddy said, folding her arms over her chest.

“It's not for a lobotomy,” House said, sounding a little irritated now. Then suddenly, he pulled his hand away from Chase's and held it up.

As Chase's hand followed House's upward, dangling a few inches below it, it became quite obvious what was going on. The two of them were linked together by a silver pair of handcuffs.

This changed things.

Cuddy smiled widely.

House was not pleased. “It was all Chase's fault!”

“Was not,” Chase mumbled, looking too mortified to say anything more.

“It was,” House insisted. “It was his idea in the first place, his stupid kink, and he was the one who grabbed the wrong pair of handcuffs.”

“Who has cuffs without an emergency release, anyway?” Chase muttered darkly.

“I told you to grab the pair in the bottom drawer,” House retorted. “Besides, aren't you supposed to check—”

“Boys!” Cuddy said loudly, and they both turned to look at her with sour expressions on their faces. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Maintenance is bound to have a hacksaw. Let me—”

“We already checked maintenance,” House announced.

“But did you ask?” Cuddy said pointedly.

“They don't like me. Not since I beat their boss at poker,” House said.

Cuddy raised an eyebrow.

“All right, so not since I paint-balled the morgue,” House admitted. “But still.”

Chase turned to stare at House in amazement. “You did what?”

House waved a dismissive hand (incidentally dragging Chase's along with it). “Long story.”

“I'll get them to take care of it,” Cuddy said. “I'll tell someone to meet you in your office.”

“Great!” House said brightly. “Now, if you'll excuse us, I have to go to the bathroom.”

Chase's eyes widened. “House! You can't wait ten minutes?”

“Oh, please,” House said, rolling his eyes. He began walking away, leaving Chase with no choice but to follow. “Nothing you haven't seen before.”

“Oh yeah? Because you've been taking a lot of things from me lately.” House's voice sounded through the glass and the blinds with almost perfect clarity. “My shirt, my book, my heart, my brownies...”

“I did not take your brow—wait... Your heart?”

Cuddy, about to barge in and demand that House do his clinic duty, stopped in surprise.

“Ah—oops...”

“You mean to tell me that—that all this time, all these years I've spent chasing after you... I haven't been wasting my time?” Chase asked, sounding almost scared to hear the answer. “But why now? How long have you felt this way?”

“Chase, some part of me has always loved you. I guess I just didn't want to admit it until now.”

Cuddy's mouth had fallen open.

“I don't believe you,” Chase said in a hushed voice. “You're just afraid of being alone. You're just tired of your own empty bed.”

“I'm not afraid of being alone—I'm just afraid of being without you,” House said. His voice sounded strangled. “Do you believe me?”

“I—” Chase made a choking noise. “I—I can't help myself. Even if you were lying, I'd believe you. La—House, I love you.

“And I love you,” House said. “I want to hear you moan and whimper out in the wilderness, under the cold night sky for the stars to hear. I want them to look down on us and see all that passion and ecstasy and be jealous of us. We'll make love like gods and the stars, those celestial voyeurs—they'll blush and turn away.”

Cuddy's mouth was still hanging open, and she felt her heart aching. The words were so—so romantic. She hadn't even known that House had the capability to be so wonderful. So sweet. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

“I don't know what to say,” Chase's voice came softly. “This feels like a dream.”

Deciding that clinic duty could wait, Cuddy spun around and walked away, making a mental note to change her Romantic Rating on her online dating profile.

“No, it feels like a vision, and you're my angel—” House stopped reading and glanced over at the wall. “Gone?” he mouthed, looking over to Chase.

Chase got off the couch and down on all fours, peeking underneath the blinds to check for high-heeled shoes. After a minute, he looked up at House. “Gone.”

Exhaling, House threw the romance novel across the room and fell back into the couch.

On the floor, Chase collapsed into helpless laughter.

Chase was sitting on the couch, staring listlessly at the television. He was bored. There was nothing on TV, House had been moody all day, and if he sat down with another crossword puzzle he was going to scream. It was a dull, rainy Saturday—because it did tend to rain on the days that he actually had off, and it was grossly unfair. Not that he would have went outside anyway, but even staying inside, rain made days slow and dreary. He had half a mind to go in and pick up a shift in the clinic or something just to keep himself from going insane from mindless boredom.

It was also usually his luck that the only things on television, on the days that he didn't have to work, were The Wiggles and infomercials. He stared glumly at the ring that was being displayed on the screen, and then tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

Hm.

Ceiling versus TV.

It was a close call.

But then he heard the familiar lopsided footsteps coming down the hallway, and he turned his head and look at House.

House paused just before the couch. He glanced at the TV.

“This looks riveting,” he said dryly.

Chase shrugged. “It was either that or The Wiggles. I'm not watching it anyway—it's all yours.”

But House shook his head slightly. “No... Not right now.” Then he blinked once, then twice, and when he opened his eyes again, they looked vague and unfocused. “You know, when I was five, I almost drowned in a river.”

Chase raised an eyebrow. “Swimming lessons gone wrong?”

“I got bored on a fishing trip—my dad had fallen asleep,” House said, staring off into the distance. “I took off my shoes, just to go wading, but there was a current. Sucked me under. I washed up two miles down the river.”

“That must have been terrifying,” Chase said, frowning. He wasn't sure what to say, actually. House never randomly told stories from his childhood—usually, unless it was relevant to a case or it was forced out of him, House kept anything that had happened in the last forty-five years of his life well under wraps. But here he was, staring off into space and talking about a fishing trip with his father.

But House shook his head. “I don't remember it. I just remember stepping in, and then waking up in the hospital. I've always wondered what happened for those two miles—I must have been conscious for some of it.”

“Yeah. Uh, probably,” Chase said awkwardly, for he really had no idea what to say at all. House was acting so strange.

Then House blinked again, and his eyes focused on Chase. “Enjoy your infomercials,” he said, nodding, and then he turned around and walked away.

Chase stared at the spot where he had been standing a minute ago in utter confusion, trying to figure out where the hell that had come from. He listened, trying to hear if House was doing something, but the only thing that he could hear was the pounding of the rain against the window and the spokesperson on the television. Frowning, he reached for the remote and turned down the volume, listening harder.

Running water.

It wasn't coming from outside, though—it was coming from inside.

Chase jumped off the couch and ran for the bathroom, shouting House's name.