Hangman

PART THIRTEEN
*
In the morning, Chase makes a phonecall. He listens to the mechanical ringing down the end of the phone. For once Chase isn’t worried about whether he’s doing the right thing or not. While he waits for someone to pick up and connect him through, he picks at a long, thin scab on his arm and wonders why the hell he ever thought House could save him.
“Hello, Flyright Airlines, how may I help you?”
Chase jumps slightly at the cheerful voice. He takes a deep breath.
“Hello? I’d like to book a ticket to Australia. One way.”
His hands are shaking but his mind is miraculously clear, maybe because this is the first thing he’s actually done for himself in longer than he cares to remember.
“When would you like to leave?” asks the woman on the other end of the phone.
Chase closes his eyes for a moment.
“Tomorrow.”
“Morning or evening?”
“Evening.”
“Thank you Mr Chase, you’ll need to arrive at-”
Chase ignores the young woman’s voice. He’s done it. He’s finally getting away.
*
The next morning, Cameron is sitting at the table, scribbling something that doesn’t look in the least bit medicinal.
“So, is our patient better?” asks House. Cameron flushes. “I’m so glad that you have time to write personal things. I’ll just tell the poor, crashing guy that-”
“It’s for Chase.” Cameron whispers, and House can read, even upside-down, her large, looping writing.
“ ‘Dear Chase,’” he read out loud, trying to humiliate Cameron further and also make the words seem real to himself, “ ‘ I will miss you. I hope that you finally find happiness in Au-’” House stops. “Australia?”
“He’s going home.” Cameron says tightly, eyes showing that she blames House completely. “He says he doesn’t want to stay here any more.”
House avoids Cameron’s accusing eyes.
“I’ll be in my office.” He stops halfway across the room. “Oh, and try not to let the patient die. We can’t let our standards slip just because our resident wombat is going back to Oz.”
Cameron watches House leave and wonders when he’ll remember that his office is currently being put back together. She lowers her pen back to the leaving card she’s writing. She knows no one else will bother.
*
House is sitting in his now upturned chair. He’s not really focusing on the room. Chase is leaving, House thinks, He’s going. House reaches into his pocket and draws out the picture of him and Wilson. He had come home to find it on his doorstep. He hadn’t been sure what he felt about it.
“But I can’t afford to lose anyone else.” House mutters.
Cameron watches him through the glass. She has never seen House limp so fast.
*
Chase’s belongings are already being chucked into suitcases when House gets to him. The Australian manages a smile when he pulls open the door, calm, a completely different man to the one who cowered beneath House two days ago with blood running down his shoulders.
“Hello.” Chase says, folding a shirt over his arms. There’s an awkward pause. “Is there any reason why…” Chase trails off.
“Don’t leave.” House says quietly. And then he looks down at the shirt Chase is folding. “You’re taking these with you?” he says incredulously. “They’re disgusting! Are you colour blind?”
“I like them.” Chase replies, giving him a filthy look and apparently ignoring the first thing House said.
“Chase, I’m-” House stops. Chase looks up, a sad smile crossing his face.
“See, even now you can’t say it.” House looks back at the floor. “You can’t say you’re sorry.”
“What makes you think I was going to say ‘sorry’?” asks House.
“Well, you were hardly going to confess your love to me.” Chase says bitterly. “What *were* you going to say? ‘I’m a bitter, lonely, bad-tempered drug addict who fucks-‘”
“That’s enough.” Snarls House. Chase turns away, a small smirk on his face.
“Since when have *you* ever had enough House?” Chase asks, packing the technicolour shirt in his already bulging suitcase. “And since when did you ever listen to anyone when they said ‘enough’?” He viscously zips up the case and turns around. “Sorry, was there something that you wanted? Don’t you have to get back to avoiding work?”
House opens his mouth to object, but then closes it.
“What’s the point?” he asks, still not meeting Chase’s eyes. He turns and heads towards the door.
“I leave at six.” Chase says behind him. House nods and walks out.
*
Wilson isn’t actually sure how he got here. He sits in the back seat of House’s car. Somehow, House is driving Chase to the airport, and Wilson is riding along for reasons he can’t follow. None of them are saying anything. Chase is looking out of the window. Wilson guesses that he’s taking a last look at the country. At his home. Wilson glances at House. Cold and closed as usual. The only way this car journey could be more awkward would be if they were all naked. Actually, screw that. If they were all naked- That thought is interrupted by Chase speaking.
“You don’t have to do this.” He says quietly to House. “It’s clear you don’t want to. If you just stop here I can get a cab-”
House says nothing but steps on the accelerator. Chase turns back to look to the window. Wilson leans forward.
“Chase. Robert,” Wilson says, “I wanted to… apologise.” Chase turns to look at him. Wilson feels a blush rise in his cheeks. “It was wrong, the way I treated you.”
“This whole situation is wrong.” Replies Chase, not accepting but not rejecting Wilson’s apology. There’s a closed edge to his voice, one that reminds Wilson strongly of House. Chase bites at his thumbnail and goes back to staring out of the window. House coughs in the front seat. Chase half-turns to look at him.
“Look. I tried to say it before and I couldn’t do it then.” House swallows. Wilson has never actually seen House this nervous. The older doctor flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m-” House struggles with his own tongue. “I’m- I’m…” He swerves the wheel angrily. “I’m sorry, damn it.”
Chase stares at him for a moment.
“It’s too late Greg.” He whispers, and presses his hands to his eyes. House looks back at his hands.
“I know.” House whispers, half to himself, half to Chase. “I just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you.”
They pull into the airport car park a few minutes later. Chase turns around in the passenger seat to look at Wilson.
“Wilson,” Chase starts, “I’ve enjoyed our friendship. Well, while it lasted. I wish what had happened could just be forgotten, but-”
“I know.” Wilson says, smiling softly. “And it’s ok.”
For a moment the two men smile at each other.
“Send me a postcard?” asks Wilson. Chase’s smile saddens.
“No.” he replies gently. “I don’t think so.” He turns to House. “Thanks for the ride.”
And he pulls open the passenger door. House puts a hand on Chase’s arm.
“I’m sorry Robert. I truly am.”
Chase stares at the older man. The man who broke him, hurt him, even made him bleed. And for once he’s being sincere.
“I know.” Chase says. He smiles. It’s not a friendly smile, not a weak smile. It’s a smile of acceptance. He gets out and then turns back.
“It was my fault.” He whispers. “I always knew I could never be enough for you. I just tried to ignore it in the hope it would go away.”
He compulsively leans back in and kisses House, hard, one last time, and then picks up his two suitcases (does he really want to take so few things with him?) and walks away.
House and Wilson sit in the car watching the young man walk out of their lives. At the entrance to the airport, Chase turns and waves. Then he turns back and goes through the doors.
Inside the car there is silence. House is still numb from the kiss and Wilson’s trying to realise what’s happened. Wilson clears his throat. House turns to look at him slightly.
“Want to get a pizza on the way back?”
“Are you ever going to trust me again?” asks House bluntly. It’s not an apology; just a question.
“How about we take it slow?” asks Wilson, moving to come and sit in the front seat.
House glances at Wilson. Wilson looks back. House turns back to the steering wheel.
“We’d better move.” House says, his voice gruff, “I don’t want to have to pay for a parking ticket.” Wilson smirks to himself.
“If you want to sit here for a while, I’ll pay.” He offers. House smiles slightly at him.
“I think I’ll stick to my piano stool.”
Neither of them move. House’s fingers slide off the ignition.
“Think he’ll keep in touch?” asks Wilson.
“With us? I doubt it.” House pauses. “I can’t run in and tell him not to leave.”
“You want me to do it?”
“What else are friends for?”

~The End~