House - House/Chase - Hard R

Title: Double Ironed
Pairing: House/Chase, some House/Wilson
Summary: He died last Christmas.
Word Count: 3,000
Author's Notes: THANK YOU: stephbass and onewayfreak, written for santahouse_md, subsection: violet_quill



He died last Christmas. Foreman called it, two thirty-eight in the morning.

He didn't die well. He died believing that House would, House could, if House just tried hard enough, save him. He wasn't scared, had no reason to be, as he couldn't -- or just refused to -- see how House was coming apart at the seams.

Last Christmas was suffocated, jerky. There were no pretenses of coffee mugs or newspapers, just an aching silence over the office as they sat in the dark, absorbing, thinking. Chase's blood, cold and dry on Cameron's scrubs, but she didn't seem able to blink, let alone change.

Foreman had been the first to leave, four in the morning, without a word. He'd been predicting this. House was going too wide, he was being too thorough; no body could take this; "you're going to kill him," 'like you almost killed me' hung heavy and unsaid in the air. But even he'd looked stunned when Chase's heart refused to start back up.

The hospital was slowly stirring to life around them when Cameron finally got to her feet, pausing at the door. House imagined her mentally shuffling through her options: "There was nothing you could do" or "You did your best" or "It wasn't your fault."

She took a shaky breath and left.

House hadn't wanted to do it, last Christmas. He'd gotten no satisfaction from it, hadn't expected any, and if there had been anyone he trusted enough to perform it . . . maybe Foreman. But he wasn't asking Foreman.

"Results were inconclusive," House declared, the day after Christmas, slapping his notes on the table. Both of them looked so shocked, Cameron's hands actually shook as she picked up the report, flipping through. Abdomen, extremities: unremarkable. Heart muscle: smooth and unblemished. Brain weight: average.

"You did an autopsy?" she asked, looking mildly betrayed, and House wondered if he should remind her that Chase had been dead at the time.

"Someone had to."

"You did the autopsy," Foreman said, standing slowly.

"Respect for the dead looks a little naïve on you, Foreman," House said blandly, moving to the whiteboard.

"Respect for Chase," Foreman said, dropping the name flat on the table, either not noticing or not caring how it made Cameron twitch. "Are you gonna pretend this autopsy was anything but you finishing your game?"

"Which is still on, as the results were inconclusive," House said, uncapped his marker, scratched off Triopia -- timeframe didn't fit. "I'm thinking Hanhart syndrome. And we never cleared Chands from the table."

Foreman quit the next day. Cameron stuck around long enough for him to eliminate Hanhart syndrome and missed his epiphany of TBS.

That was last Christmas, though.

Five days from this Christmas, House is slapping a well worn folder on his desk, popping two pills and leaning back.

"That's mine, isn't it?"

A lesser man would've screamed. House is that lesser man, though, so that's exactly what he did, nearly choking on the half swallowed Vicodin. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

Chase looks like he's toying with acting surprised at this, but smiles instead. This isn't the Chase that had been run through their rigorous tests, that had winced at the pain, growing paler and paler as they cut in and sliced away and hoped that maybe this sliver, this section would tell them what they needed to know. This Chase is whole and healthy and apparently pleased with himself, hands behind his back, as he rocks onto his heels in front of House's desk. "I'm right, aren't I?"

House glances down at the folder, Rt, Chase labeling the tab in Cuddy's neat, careful loops and curves.

"You're dead," House finally says.

"I am," Chase agrees. He's wearing his lab coat, his name tag with that awful picture of him. He looks like a fucking alien in it, and Chase is standing in front of his desk.

"You're in my office."

"Yes," Chase agrees again.

" . . . You're dead."

"You did the autopsy," Chase agrees a third time, scanning his desk before frowning. "You didn't lose the tennis ball?"

"Shelf," House answers, watching Chase walk back and nab the oversized toy from its perch. "You're dead."

"So, are you crazy?" Chase asks the ball, tossing it between his hands, looking pleased, like it's an old friend, and then as he looks up at House, "Or am I a ghost?"

"Those are my only options?"

Chase raises an eyebrow, leaning against the shelf and putting the ball back where he found it. "I doubt this is just an intensely vivid daydream."

"House!" Wilson yells, barging through the door. House only lets his gaze shift a second from Chase but that's all it takes, and he's gone, the ball sitting, still and innocent on the top shelf.

"Cuddy's on the --" Wilson stares at the file held in House's hand, and he sighs. "--warpath. At least tell me you solved Otto's case before cracking that open again."

House forces himself to set the file down, knowing he sounds distracted as he answers, "Late onset of Gaucher's." He proceeds to deflect Wilson's attempts at conversation for the next half hour, when he gives up with a huff, saying House and the folder obviously need some time alone together.

He doesn't open the folder, instead giving himself a brief exam before riding home; his coordination, logic, comprehension, unless all entirely shot, seem just fine.

"What, you're gonna visit three times to teach me the true meaning of Christmas?" he asks when he sees Chase waiting beside his bike in the garage, wishing he could be surprised by his return. To be honest, it would be more frightening if he'd never seen Chase again; the idea that whatever's powerful enough to cause him to see it in the first place is random or by chance doesn't sit well at all.

He's wearing a leather jacket over a sweater vest, hands in the pockets, standing straight when he sees House approaching.

"Seriously, I wasn't being glib. Why are you here?" House asks when Chase says nothing.

"So, you decided I'm real?" Chase asks.

"I decided humoring whatever you are is probably the best course of action," House says. "What do you want?"

"Nothing in particular," Chase says, fingering the seat of the bike, and House is comforted by the fact that death doesn't seem to improve a person's ability to lie. "You hired new people?"

"They quit," he says flatly.

"No one special?" Chase asks, moving to the side so House can reach his helmet and straddle his bike.

"Special how?" he's calm as he clicks his cane into place. "Special like, Cameron? Like, Foreman? You?"

Chase doesn't smile or look particularly amused. He looks happier, though. "I think you'll like it."

"What?" House says, over his bike roaring to life. He peels out of the garage, leaving Chase standing there, and pretends not to hear his last words.

"Being dead."

**

"How many patients have you worked on this year?" Chase asks.

Granted, a dead employee is a good deal more interesting than a breathing peer, but Wilson's question of, "Are you just coming in? It's almost noon, how long do you think Cuddy's going to put up with this?" is slightly less annoying.

"Yes, and probably a better half of a decade."

"Was it more than thirty?" Chase asks, brow creased in thought, walking on the other side of Wilson and following them both into the elevator. "It didn't seem like that many."

Either Wilson thinks Chase isn't worth mention, or House's guess that he's the only one who can see him is correct.

"And you're willing to put that to the test?" Wilson asks.

"We worked on about fifty a year, right?" Chase asks. "I never really bothered to keep track."

House sighs, takes two pills. "Apparently."

"House, I can't imagine many deans would be willing to put up with your antics," Wilson says. He acts as though he's been saving up this last bit for a while, taking a breath and bracing himself, "You need to pull yourself together. It's been nearly a year." But it's the same thing he's heard, since early March or late February. The doors open and House walks quickly for his office, not responding because it's nothing Wilson hasn't heard before, and he briefly wonders at a world where Wilson would have the same courtesy for him.

"House," Wilson barks. House stills but doesn't turn as he catches up. "Esther, you were obsessed about for years, but you could put it aside." This is new. "You're refusing to make this anything less than your top priority; you can't keep living like this."

"Not planning to," House says, irritably. "I'll figure it out."

"You're not going to force the answer out of it and you know it," Wilson says. "Just, give it a rest. For a month, at least."

Wilson's earnestness fades just slightly in his surprise; the hallway's temperature has plummeted. His brows draw down as he crosses his arms, looks like he might say something - maybe about the cold, maybe just to bring home his earlier statement - but instead he shivers and walks back to his office.

Chase is staring at House, just behind where Wilson had been standing.

"What?" he snaps, and Chase shakes his head, hands up. A nurse stares. House doesn't even remember letting his gaze shift, but then Chase is gone, just like that.

**

He hears it playing as soon as he switches the engine off; has placed it as Surf City, USA by the time he's unlocked the door.

Chase is sitting on House's piano bench, pressing on House's piano keys, but seems to be stuck at the chorus, unable to get past where it's two to one. He plays it twice before going back to the beginning.

"No, really, make yourself at home," House mutters, dumping his cane on the coffee table, his body on the couch.

"Why'd they quit?" Chase asks after a while, just loud enough to be heard over the ridiculously peppy song.

"This may shock you, but I'm not the easiest guy to get along with," House says. "None of them even lasted a month."

"No, I meant Cameron and Foreman," Chase says, and doesn't seem able to look away from the keys as he plays. He's obviously a beginner, or was.

"How many songs can you play?"

"Four," Chase says, switches to a song House quickly recognizes as Good Vibrations. He sees House's expression and smiles. "Mum was a fan."

House stares at Chase, and then says frankly, "You're happier."

Chase agrees, still keeping a careful gaze on his fingers, the moves stilted, not perfect by any means, but there's something in it most rich, white boys who learn the piano to please their mothers, lack. He should've kept at it.

"So what's it like?"

Chase glances up briefly.

"Being dead, what's it like?"

Chase thinks, weighing his words. "It's like . . . have you ever lost your car keys, and then realized they were in your hand the whole time?"

"It's like being a 60 year old man?"

"It's worrying, and then instantly realizing that there was nothing to worry about to begin with," Chase says. "There's so much to know." Good Vibrations switches to an incredibly awkward California Girls; Chase fumbles with it for a moment before going back to Surf City.

"Why are you here?" House asks, after Surf City bleeds into Little Old Lady From Pasadena.

"Why'd they quit?"

House thinks he fell asleep, he might've just closed his eyes for a few seconds; whatever the case, he opens them and the music stops shortly. The bench empty.

**

"When was the last time you and Wilson hung out?"

House doesn't even glance up from his lunch. "What sort of system do you have to go through?"

"What?"

"Do you need a permission slip from God to get down here or what?" House asks. "Did anyone have to approve your quest to annoy me, or can you just show up wherever you want?"

"I'm dead, not in school," Chase says. "When was the last time you and Wilson even talked?"

"If you're trying to make a point, just say it," House says, shortly. "You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are."

Chase waits a moment. "You're destroying your life."

"Yeah, if only I'd done something with my life," House sneers. "Like, I don't know, save people's lives."

"You really think that's what I was referring to?" Chase asks.

"It's what you should've been," House says. "As it's what matters."

"You're cutting away anything that's important to you," he says. "It's not terrible right now, but do you really think it's going to get better from here?"

"So how are your parents?" House asks abruptly. "Or are they in hell?"

Chase blinks, and actually looks annoyed. For a second, House forgets he's dead, the emotion is so blatant, flawed. Chase looks pointedly at the Vicodin bottle on the desk, then House's cane. "Hell is a subjective term."

**

This is a dream. House is sure it's a dream because Chase (who is dead) is naked in his bed, and, "Doesn't God have some pretty strong opinions on this?"

Chase is pressing against House's body, eyes half lidded. He's not terribly impressed. "Do you really want to have this discussion right now?"

House likes where this is headed, so, no, he wants to roll his eyes and be annoyed because he wants to say, 'as if you know the answer anyway.' He's even more annoyed because he can't; because he probably does, now. "If being dead is so great why the hell are we even here?"

"Walking is great, but you have to learn to crawl," Chase explains, breathing into House's collarbone, teeth and tongue graze just briefly with each word. "Infinity teaches nothing. You're learning the habit of consequences."

He's warm, surprisingly so for someone who's been dead for nearly a year. Chase's body, the last he'd seen of it was pale and blue, cold and limp and empty. It's almost glowing beneath him, his chest heaving with each breath, slick with sweat and it's not until House comes, spilling himself deep inside that he notices that the windows and mirror have steamed.

House wakes abruptly, the sheets neat and smooth, not so much as a dent on the second pillow, and he refuses to speculate either way.

**

It's late Christmas Eve, and House is slipping on his jacket, because if he's at home he'll probably be visited by two nagging spirits, and he might as well avoid the one that doesn't appear to have the ability to vanish into thin air.

There's a figure beside his bike, and House keeps his expression as blank as possible when he sees it's Chase; Chase as he last saw him, hospital gown and pale, sickly. Barefoot on the snow-covered street.

The attempt at manipulation would piss him off more than anything else if it weren't for that expression. It's Chase's last chance, he's sure of it. "Why are you here, Chase?"

"You know why."

"Go ahead, indulge me."

Chase sighs. "You have to put the file away, House."

He gets on the bike because it's easier than standing awkwardly in front of it in the cold, and because he knew it would make Chase squirm. "Just tell me what it was."

"It'll be the first thing," Chase promises, so fucking earnest. "The first thing you'll hear. The moment I can, I'll be right there and I'll say it. But you have to put it away."

"I'll put it away if you tell me."

"That's cheating, House."

"Would I have figured it out on my own?"

"This isn't twenty questions. Your life can't be about death, House."

"Just tell me and I'll stop!"

"And this isn't about you stopping or giving up, House," Chase says. "This is about you putting something to rest. Without knowing all the answers, or lying to yourself, or getting so frustrated you just quit."

"You woke from the dead to tell me that I'm too obsessive?" House demands. "Wilson tells me that on the hour. Jesus, you really are Chase."

He doesn't respond to the gibe, but he does look more worried. "House . . . there's so much you have to do still, you can't get stuck here. You have to move on."

House takes him in, all wringing hands and anxiousness, and suddenly, for possibly the first time in his life, the last thing he wants to do is argue, or bait, or have someone rise to it. "Let me guess, you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?"

He gives a half smile, "Two thirty-eight."

"Seems a little restrictive for an all-powerful being, doesn't it?"

"You're the only one here right now, House," Chase says.

This time, House is staring right at him, and he's gone. This Christmas, about one in the morning, when Wilson's inevitable calling comes, House opens the door for him, and finally lets Chase die.