Written for hawkeyecat.

House M.D.: Voices Wake Us.
House/Chase.
For Kelly, who wanted, angst, smut and romance.



We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown;
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

He feels like he's suffocating, air thick like water, and the world is deep and silent around him. Muffled and slow, muted colours, and Chase wonders if it will always be like this, if there will ever be highs and lows and adrenaline, and he knows it used to be that way. Lazy summer afternoons, smoke haze of pot, ocean waves. Dark, cool chapels, coffee jitters of med school, and he arrives at Princeton Plainsboro as his world dulls at the edges. Frayed and soft, pencil-blunt, and he drifts through the shipwreck his life has become. Drowning and buried, and he wants to scream. Almost does, as he sits in the diagnostics department, finishes one crossword book and reaches for the next, and House glances up sharply, looks at him and away, and Chase feels, deep down, a slight trill of adrenaline.

Did you hear me?

But House is looking away, and he's never cared anyway.

~*~

The call comes a little after midnight, as Chase is drifting somewhere between sleep and not. Sharp ringing, and his hand feels heavy as he reaches out to the cell phone by his bed. Bright light hurting his eyes and he scrunches them closed, fumbles until his fingers connect the call, and,

"'lo…?"

"Come get me." Hard, slurred, and Chase rolls over onto his belly. Aching, warm, and he doesn't want to move.

"Why?"

"Because I'm drunk," House makes it sound like the answer to the world's easiest question, makes Chase feel like an idiot for even asking, and he grits his teeth. "Also, possibly, high. Are you sure that was vicodin you got me this morning?"

"I'm in bed!"

"I don't care!" Snapped back in the same tone, and House is huffing in Chase's ear. "Of course, I could always get on my bike and try drive myself home. Drunk. Did I mention the part where I might be high?"

"Where are you?" And Chase knows he's lost, thinks he can see the smirk on House's face.

"Good boy."

There's rain against the window, harsh and thick, and Chase thinks about drowning on dry land.

~*~

The bar is downtown, in an area Chase would rather not be in. Run down and dirty, and not nice. House doesn't do nice. Chase drives slowly down the road, peering at the shadows between lamps for a familiar shape. Steers slowly past the hookers and rentboys and people in between and nothing. Finds House slouched outside a bar, orange neon and brown shadow, and he's talking to a boy. Skinny, blond, and when House spots Chase's car, waves him over, Chase sees big blue eyes and feels sick. Pulls over to the kerb, and he's not getting out, he's not, and,

"Help me in?"

House is unsteady, hand on the car roof for support, but Chase has seen him worse. Gets out anyway, slamming the door in a fit of rebellion that only has House grinning lopsidedly at him. Helps House into the car, bruising fingertips against his arms, and he doesn't pull back. Never does, and House gestures distractedly in the direction of the boy he'd been talking to.

"Tip him, will you? I'm all out."

And Chase thinks, fuck you, but he hands the boy twenty dollars anyway. Gets in the car and drives away, and tells himself it isn't disappointment he feels when House slides his eyes closed and never looks at him, the whole time.

~*~

House has left the lights on in his apartment, all the better to see you with, my dear, and he's weaving only slightly as Chase takes his keys, opens the front door. Mail on the mat, coffee mugs by the couch, and Chase follows him in. Picks up the letters, flips idly through them. Consults, credit cards, and he sticks them in his pocket for Cameron in the morning.

House is making his way slowly through the apartment, and he's still clutching his cane. Chase frowns, because this is House's territory, his home, and the cane is usually ditched, painfully, at the door. Follows House through to the bedroom, and he's sitting on the edge of the bed. Hands tangled in his tie, and it's not going anywhere.

"Come here," and Chase kneels down by the bed, brushes House's hands away. Unknots the tie for him, and it hangs from House's neck, crumpled. This close, Chase can smell alcohol and sweat and despair, and he thinks of his mother, of unbuttoning her dresses for her when she was too far gone to do it herself. The top button of House's shirt is already open, and Chase's fingers feel numb.

"Are you okay?" It might have been a whisper, but Chase's world is muffled, and it could have been a scream. House looks at him, eyes vodka-red, and in this bright, quiet moment, it's okay to fall.

"Was it vicodin?"

And Chase frowns, thinks back – be kind, rewind – and nods.

"I thought you'd made a mistake." Wry grin, and "Which isn't beyond the realms of possibility, really."

"What-"

"Breakthrough pain," and House snaps it out, symptom and they already have the diagnosis, and Chase closes his eyes. House pulls the tie from around his neck, drops it on the bed.

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," and Chase thinks he might be right. House closes his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am so fucking tired."

Doesn't know why he says it, doesn't know he's going to, but it slips out anyway, and here's a vague thrill of something deep inside. Leans closer, and it's a secret in soft words. "Want me to blow you, help you sleep?"

And House laughs, a single sharp bark, and they both pretend they don't hear how it frays at the edges. They're too proud, too broken, to back down, and House nods, tries to smile, and it's a mask.

There's scars then, hidden under denim and words, and Chase traces them with his fingertips, kisses the lines and knots and it's like air. House's fingers twist in the sheets, in Chase's hair, the feeling of something sparks and grows in Chase's belly, and he begins to breathe easier.

~*~

House wants to whisper "Stay," but it never leaves his lips, and Chase is gone when he wakes in the morning. Chase slips out the door before it grows light, and it's still raining. Cold and heavy, and he tips his head back, lets the rain wash down his throat, under his clothes. Drowning, but it's different, and he's not fighting it this time.