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The day had been relentless, even by House’s standards. Diagnoses were piling up, patients were crashing left and right, and the team was fraying at the edges. But Chase was unraveling fastest of all.
He sat at the conference room table, staring at a chart in front of him, his hand gripping a pen so tightly his knuckles turned white. Foreman and Cameron had already left for tests, leaving Chase alone with House in the adjacent office.
“Chase,” House called from the other room, “come in here and tell me why our patient’s liver is staging a rebellion.”
No response.
House looked up, his brows furrowing. “Chase!” he barked louder this time.
Still nothing.
Curious—and annoyed—House limped into the conference room. What he found stopped him short. Chase was hunched over, his breathing shallow and rapid. His hands trembled as he clutched at the table, his chest rising and falling in erratic bursts.
“Chase?” House said, softer this time.
No answer, just more panicked breaths.
“Damn,” House muttered, recognizing the signs immediately. He stepped closer, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. “Hey. Look at me.”
Chase’s eyes darted to him, wide and glassy with fear. He looked completely lost, trapped in his own mind.
“You’re having a panic attack,” House said plainly, kneeling slightly to meet Chase’s eye level. “It’s just adrenaline and your brain being stupid. You’re not dying.”
Chase’s breath hitched, his chest tightening even further. “I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” House interrupted firmly. “Listen to me. You need to slow it down. Breathe with me.” He exaggerated a deep inhale through his nose, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly through his mouth.
“Come on,” House urged. “In. Hold. Out. You’re a doctor; you know how this works.”
Chase tried to mimic him, but his breaths came out jagged and uneven. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he clenched his jaw in frustration.
“I—I’m sorry,” Chase choked out, shaking his head.
“For what? Being human?” House said. “That’s my job, not yours.”
Chase let out a strangled laugh through his gasps, though it sounded more like a sob. House’s tone softened further.
“Look, you’re not alone in this, okay? I’ve been there. Hell, I practically live there. But you’re going to get through this. You just need to let yourself feel it and breathe.”
Chase nodded weakly, following House’s lead as best he could. His breaths began to even out, albeit slowly.
“There you go,” House said. “Keep going. In. Hold. Out. You’re doing fine.”
After a few more cycles, Chase’s breathing finally steadied. His shoulders sagged, and he buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed but relieved.
House hesitated for a moment, then placed a hand on Chase’s back, rubbing slow, grounding circles.
“You’re okay,” House murmured. “You’re okay.”
Chase leaned into the touch, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the attack.
“You don’t have to be perfect all the time, you know,” House said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You screw up, you freak out—who cares? It doesn’t make you less of a doctor, or less of a person.”
Chase didn’t respond, but a tear rolled down his cheek, and he swiped it away hastily.
House surprised them both by pulling Chase into a brief, awkward hug. Chase stiffened at first, but then melted into the embrace, finding a strange sense of safety in House’s usually sharp presence.
“Thanks,” Chase whispered, his voice hoarse.
House pulled back, clearing his throat. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Chase gave a weak smile, his chest feeling lighter than it had all day.
“Now,” House said, smirking as he gestured toward the patient file, “let’s go figure out why this guy’s liver hates him, and maybe I’ll only make fun of you twice today.”
Chase chuckled, shaking his head. “Deal.”