Postcards From Ruritania - Chapter 14
Again, a long absence but with reason. This was a difficult chapter for me to write.
Summary: The story takes a turn toward darkness, as Chase encounters some terrifying aspects of the fanficverse. "No one’s coming to save you, Robert. Haven’t you learned by now? No one ever comes to save you.”
Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.
Warning: Unlike the previous chapters of this story, Postcards is now entering a darker, more serious setting. This chapter contains harsh language, violence, and nonconsensual sexual situations. I strongly recommend that younger or sensitive readers avoid this chapter.
****
Chapter 14. Hour of Need
Chase switched off the cheap 19 inch TV, fed up with mindless programs in endless succession, and threw the remote to the opposite side of the futon. It skidded off the thin cushion and landed on the ground, where it immediately broke open, spilling its metallic innards to roll unheeded across the floor.
Getting up and pacing around the room, he came to a stop before his bookcase and stared bleakly at the contents. No action adventures, no sci fi thrillers, no real-life tales of survival on Everest or in the Amazonian rainforest…He reached out tentatively to one screaming pink copy of The Princess Diaries, then hastily pulled his hand back as if burned. He was desperate but not that desperate-at least, not yet.
The blinking red light on the answering machine caught his attention, so he wandered over to the kitchen countertop and stared down at the tiny LCD screen. He'd long since turned the sound down, not wanting to hear the myriad questioning, pleading, or demanding messages from colleagues trying to reach him after he'd stormed out of the clinic. Pressing the back button, he noted the numbers on the caller ID function: House, Cuddy, Cameron, House, House, oh god, Wilson, House, and Foreman. Chase frowned at the last number, realizing that he was, surprisingly, most disappointed in the neurologist. He knew that House was capable of any amount of mindfuck just for the sheer fun of it, and Wilson, who wasn’t half as nice as he appeared, was likely to join in with House on his pranks. Cameron followed some sort of internal logic that only she understood, as he had learned to his cost (and now it’s over), but Foreman-Foreman had always been reliably stoic, pompous, and predictable. Now Chase didn't even want to answer his call, for fear of catching the insanity that had apparently taken hold in all of his coworkers.
Strolling over to look out the window, he leaned his forehead against the glass, watching the evening light cast a violet wash across the cars and buildings lining his street. Normally, he would find the sight soothing in its quiet beauty, but tonight, it merely added to the sense of ennui that pervaded his being. Nothing appealed to him, he thought as he absently watched the motorcycle pull up to the open space across the street, especially not the thought of going out. There was something pathetic about going to the movies or to a restaurant by oneself on a Sunday evening. He’d had a brief reprieve during his affair with Cameron, and sometimes he wondered if he missed the comparative freedom of coupledom more than he missed the sex or intimacy.
Regardless, he was going to have to motivate himself to do something, or he’d be stuck with bread and water for dinner. Maybe pizza delivery, he mused, watching the man with the cane expertly dodge traffic as he crossed the street toward his building.
“Damn it!” yelled Chase, finally realizing who he’d been watching while his mind drifted. Another bloody confrontation with House to top off the day! He went to unlock his front door, controlling his frustration with the skill borne of long practice. It was a cheap move to leave the door slightly ajar, thus robbing House of his triumph in maneuvering his way into the apartment, but he’d take his victories where he could find them.
Less than a minute later, House poked his head around the door. “Nice for you to leave it open for me,” he panted. “Now about installing that elevator-“
“Of course. I’ll make sure to petition my landlord first thing Monday morning, so that you can have even easier access to winding me up.” Chase looked up from his carefully casual position on the futon-couch. “Care to have a seat, or will this be a quick annoy-and-run for once?”
House glanced at the low couch, visibly calculating how much effort it would take to lower himself down and struggle to his feet again, then shook his head. “No thanks; I’m not exactly in the mood for deep-knee bends today-or any day, really.” He leaned on his cane and stared into Chase’s eyes. “I had all kinds of clever quips ready, but it’s been a long day, so I’ll get to the point. What’s wrong with you, Robbie?”
“With me? Oh, that’s rich! I spend an entire Sunday afternoon being nearly run down in traffic, then forced into a stupid costume, made to play doctor with a bunch of lunatic clinic patients, and finally roughed up by my colleague, and you want to know what’s wrong with me?”
“Yes.” House had a puzzled look on his face. “You shouted at everyone in the clinic, including Foreman and Cameron-which really hurt their feelings, by the way.”
Chase gave a snort of disbelief. “Oh, right!”
“Yes, roight!” House imitated his accent. “Ever since your latest coma, you’ve been distant, angry, and confrontational.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m tired of being yanked around with statements like that. Latest coma, my arse! I’ve never been in a coma before, as you well know. Plus you’re a fine one to be chiding me for being angry and confrontational-unless you’re asserting your copyright on those traits.” Chase lowered his voice with an effort. “What is it you want from me, House?"
House shrugged impatiently. "I’d tell you, but you’d probably just dust up into another one of your hissy fits. Yes, I know you have memory loss issues, but damn it, when are you going to get back to normal? It's like…like you're trying to distance yourself from everyone who cares for you, as if you want to go back to being the lonely, alienated person you were when you first took up the fellowship."
For some reason, those words stung so much that Chase had to fight down a lump in his throat. "So that's your assessment, is it? I guess things have improved so much over the last four years, what with my becoming the subject of constant ridicule, being abruptly dumped by the one person I let myself care about, and-oh, here's a good one-getting punched in the face! What's your suggestion to continue my trajectory of growing popularity? Allow myself to be groped by all of my colleagues in the name of departmental goodwill?”
House frowned in confusion. “It never bothered you before.”
Chase leapt up from the futon couch, infuriated. “I’ve had enough of your bloody mockery! I don’t need this, I don’t need you, and I want you out of my place now!” He strode over to his apartment door and yanked it open.
House looked at him pensively before moving to the door, exaggerating his uneven gait. He stepped into the hallway and turned around. “This conversation isn’t over yet, Robbie.”
“Yes, it bloody well is,” retorted Chase, slamming the door in his face. Marching over to the window, he watched until House gunned his motorcycle and took off down the street.
Sighing, he retrieved the scattered bits of his remote before unfolding his futon. He flopped down on it and tried to put the parts in the right places but soon lost interest. Loosely grasping the components, he stared thoughtfully into the gathering gloom of his apartment, trying to analyze the sense of unease that now pervaded his being. It was as if a small voice inside him kept chanting, This isn’t right, this isn’t right; none of this is right!
“Tell me something I don’t know, mate,” he said aloud, then switched on a lamp and bent over his task once more.
****
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
The door practically jumped under the barrage of knocks showered upon it. “Bollocks!” Chase leaped up, spilling the remote onto the floor once again, and yanked the door open. “I swear to God, House!” He stopped, confused by the strangers standing in the hallway. “Er, beg pardon. I thought you were someone else.”
“Did you hear what he said?” asked the burly, unshaven man to his two companions. “Beg pardon. Doesn’t he have the sweetest accent?”
Chase frowned. At first, he’d thought they were a set of Bible-thumping missionaries out to convince him that being Catholic wasn’t quite Christian enough to guarantee his place in Heaven, but they weren’t dressed as neatly as most doorstep missionaries. The first man who’d spoken was short and balding but thick-necked and heavily muscled, his baggy pants and nylon Nets jacket unremarkable. The tall man on his right was at least fifteen years younger, with a nervous, shifty gaze under his black knit cap from which protruded a dull brown ponytail, his spot of chin hair, grey hoodie, and loose bondage pants proclaiming his slavish adherence to the grunge fashion of the moment. The third man would’ve been called nondescript, with his short brown hair and medium height and build, except that he had what the ER staff at PPTH called “crazy fucker” eyes.
Chase began to feel that he’d made a mistake in opening his door so quickly. He backed up slightly, bracing his arms against the doorjamb, and unconsciously set his stance. “Can I help you?” he asked warily.
“Can he help us?” repeated the third man with a giggle that matched his insane eyes-and with that, Chase slammed the door shut. But before the latch could click, the door slammed open again, its edge catching Chase across the temple. He stumbled back, one eye blinded by stinging fluid dripping down the side of his face.
‘Blood,’ he thought foggily as his arms were seized, and he was hauled backwards across the room. ‘Head wounds always bleed a lot, but they’re seldom as serious as they look.’ At least, that’s what playing football had taught him long before he’d ever entered medical school.
The other thing that footie had taught him was how to take a hit and keep going, something at which he was sadly out of practice, save for House’s punch a few months back. True to form, he was already regaining his bearings but decided to let his eyes roll back until he figured out what these men were after. If they were hoping to make a huge haul from robbing a doctor, they were bound to be disappointed by his meager possessions-and he’d watched enough true crime programs in this country to know that disappointing criminals was a dangerous move. Best to let them think they’d knocked him silly, which might frighten them into running off before they ransacked his apartment.
“Aw, look what you did, Vuk,” complained the man that Chase had mentally dubbed ‘Crazy.’ “Now he’s not so pretty anymore. Red’s not really his color.”
“Get Junior to wipe him up,” grunted the first man (Vuk, thought Chase). He forced himself to stay limp as the man muscled him onto his futon in an impressive show of strength. Moments later, a cold, wet cloth slapped against the side of his face. He kept himself from gasping aloud but couldn’t repress an involuntary shiver.
“Yer makin’ a bigger mess, Junior,” growled Vuk. “Gimme the damn washcloth already!” Junior made some sniveling, mumbling reply, and soon the washcloth was scraping painfully at Chase’s wound. This time he couldn’t suppress his indrawn breath.
“Ah, good, good!” cried Crazy. “You’re waking him up. Cleaning him up and waking him up, cleaning him up and waking him up!”
“Shuddup already! Don’t need none of yer damn sing-songs,” snapped Vuk.
Suddenly there was a metallic snick, and Vuk was the one to draw in a choked breath. “’Nuff of this shit! You wanna waste time cuttin’ me-or you wanna piece of him?”
It took everything Chase had to keep his eyes closed. Inside he was praying, Please let them get in a fight with each other, let them hurt each other but not me, Lord, you’ve never answered my prayers before but just this once, please-
There were a couple of shuffling steps, then a third voice spoke up. “C’mon, buddy,” he whined (Junior, thought Chase), “don’t do nothing to Vuk. If you cut ‘im, then I dunno what to do next. Never done this before…” he trailed off with a sniffle.
“Fine.” To Chase’s disappointment, the metal snicked once more. “Just don’t insult my songs anymore, Vuk. All I’m asking is a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me, R-E-S-P-E-C-T, take care, TCB-“
“All right!” Vuk sounded more impatient than scared. “You wanna stage a musical, or you wanna get this here show on the road?”
Chase's shoulders were grabbed roughly as he was dragged into a sitting position. Two sharp slaps across his face made him gasp and blink. It was no use faking unconsciousness; this gang of psychopaths was ready to hurt him whether he was awake or not, so he might as well have the use of his eyesight and limbs. As soon as his eyes focused, he glanced hopefully at the door but was disappointed to see that one of the thugs had remembered to close it behind them.
“Lookit them eyes,” giggled Crazy, snapping Chase’s attention back to the three men around him. “Are they green? Are they blue? Don’t matter which, since my love is true!”
The weird comment made Chase’s skin crawl, so he decided to address Vuk. No doubt the man was the most dangerous of this lot, but he also seemed to be the leader, not to mention the sanest. “Look, mate,” he said in a forced casual tone, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “I’m guessing that you’re looking for a profit here. I’ll be honest-I’m looking to avoid getting hurt. So I think we can make a deal. I’ll get my bank card and accompany you lot to the nearest bank machine…er, ATM, and give you what money I have. No fuss, I promise; I’m not trying to be a hero.”
Vuk grinned a feral grin, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. “Of course yer not, Robert. When have you ever been a hero-or even tried?”
“You know my name?”
“Genius, ain’t he? Yeah, I know yer name, Robbie-boy, same as my buddies here. But we’re real hurt that you don’t seem ta remember us-you might even say we're butt-hurt about that.” The last statement provoked a series of guffaws from Junior and high-pitched giggles from Crazy.
“I’m sorry,” Chase interrupted the disturbing laugh-fest. “I’ve been in hospital the past week, and people keep telling me that I’ve got holes in my memory. I don’t know; I can’t remember.” He gave a weak smile. “So no insult was intended to you… gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen!” Vuk joined in with his own guffaws. “We been wondering where you were, Robbie. So let me introduce us to you again: I’m-“
“No need,” Chase cut in again. “Best if I don’t remember much about you, right? Let’s get that money for you and call it a day.”
“He’s impatient,” said Crazy thoughtfully, flicking his switchblade open and closed. “I’m getting the drift that he doesn’t want to know us at all-and that is hurting my feelings.”
“What he wants ain’t the point here. We’re here for what we want-and it’s got nothing to do with money.” Three pairs of eyes fixed on Chase, along with three leering grins.
Chase thought he’d been frightened before, but that was nothing compared to the cold terror that curled through his body in icy tendrils, shortening his breath and sending his heart racing. He couldn’t think, every cell of his being screaming for escape-and before he knew it, he’d jerked away from the hands on his arms and bolted for the door. Shaking fingers grasped the metal doorknob, fumbling desperately to open it, open it, damn it, open!
The door swung open, a welcome draft of hallway air hitting him in the face-then just as suddenly slammed closed. Chase felt himself hauled back by his hair and thrown onto his futon, the frame breaking and collapsing beneath him with a loud crack-and God, couldn’t anybody hear that, wouldn’t any of his neighbors think it sounded wrong and call the police, or at least knock at the door and complain?
A cold line of metal pressed against his throat as hands grabbed his upper arms, holding him pinned in the wreckage of his bed. “Don’t!” he gasped. “No-don’t have to-“
“Don’t have to what, Robbie?” Vuk’s voice was uncharacteristically patient.
Chase fought back a sudden sob of panic. “Cut me. Don’t have to cut me. I’ll pay you-“
“Again with the money,” sighed Crazy, adjusting his blade against Chase’s throat. “Here I was having all these sweet fantasies about him, and he turns out to be another money-obsessed spoiled brat.”
Panic-stricken eyes traveled from face to unfamiliar face as Chase tried desperately to remember, because if he could remember anything about them, perhaps he could think of a way to get them to let him go.
“He still don’t know us,” said Vuk shrewdly. “Well, that ain’t no big surprise. Important doctor like him prob’ly sees hundreds of people a day, ain’t that right, sweetcheeks? Oh, I forgot: you can’t nod at the moment, can you? Not without spillin' a little red there, anyways. Well, I’ll go ahead with the introductions: I’m Vuk. Fixed your wreck of a car couple-two-three weeks ago. That one at your left shoulder is Junior.”
Junior grinned down, his warm, fetid breath making Chase want to gag. “I work at the new coffee shop on campus. You left me a nice tip last week.”
“And the one at your right-well, let’s call him Bud. Bud works the toll plaza at the Washington Bridge. You drove through there about a month ago.”
Chase tried desperately to get his brain to function. “And somehow I managed to make all of you mad at me?”
Bud/Crazy let out a peal of laughter. “We’re not mad at you, you silly boy! We love you!”
“Well, we think yer pretty fine-lookin', anyway,” grumbled Vuk reluctantly.
“This is insane! You don’t even know me! How could you-a tollbooth?” Chase shot a confused look at Bud. “You must see thousands of drivers every day!”
“Thirty-three thousand, five hundred and fourteen that day,” Crazy agreed, nodding happily. “But I still knew you were something special.”
This was making absolutely no sense at all. In a week full of insanities, this was by far the most demented- A thought flashed into Chase’s mind. This was the second time today he’d been held captive, although the first time had only lasted mere seconds. He struggled to free his arms from Junior’s and Crazy’s grasp, ignoring the knife at his throat. “Cameron!” he shouted. “Cameron!”
Vuk rocked back for a moment, astonishment on his face. “You seriously think a safe word’s gonna help you now?” He waved away Crazy’s knife as he leaned in towards Chase. “No one’s coming to save you, Robert. Haven’t you learned by now? No one ever comes to save you.”
The simple, bitter truth of those words grabbed Chase by the throat, despair crashing over him and dragging him down to drown him in a miasma of terror and hopelessness. No one was coming for him, no one cared, and it was pointless for him even to pray. Strange hands took hold of him, tearing his shirt and pulling down his jeans, and he could no longer lie to himself about what they were going to do.
“No!” he screamed, but sweaty hands clamped clumsily over his mouth and one nostril, and he was suddenly struggling for oxygen as well as freedom. Cold air struck his now bared skin, thick fingers digging sharply into his hips, forcing them down against the floor. Nausea swept through him, and he gagged, trying to force it back because if he vomited now, he was certain to aspirate-and these idiots would never know it, would never know that they were killing him-and even if they knew, they probably wouldn’t care.
Calloused hands grabbed roughly at his exposed genitals, and he sobbed with revulsion behind the hands on his mouth, his skin crawling as his entire body tried to shrink away from the aggressive violation. He started banging his head against the thin futon, cracking it against the floor, all the time begging for someone to hear him, (help me, God) or just let him lose consciousness, because he couldn’t take this, couldn’t take it.
“Stop him from doin’ that,” Vuk shouted thickly. “I’m almost-“ and Chase felt his legs yanked upward (dear God, why have you forsaken me)-and just as suddenly released, the pressure gone from his hips. He twisted and kicked madly, hands falling away from him as he scrambled to the nearest wall, backing himself into the corner by his bookcase, gasping for breath as tears blurred his vision. Something long and straight whistled through the air, punctuated by the muffled shouts of Vuk and his cohorts. A voice roared the word Police, as crashing, stumbling steps faded down his staircase, cut off by the slamming of a door.
Chase’s head ached, throbbing steadily in time with his pounding heart. Someone was nearby, someone making weird, keening little cries, like a child brought into the ER. He blindly stuck his hand out, wanting to shush the child (because the crying was making his headache worse), but found his hand seized in a strong grip as he was drawn into a warm embrace. He struggled for only a moment before he recognized House’s scent, the familiar blend of wool and scotch underlaid with a whiff of medicine and sweet tobacco. Burying his face in the scratchy wool of House’s jacket, he dimly noted that the annoying child had quieted, his cries muffled as if someone had picked him up and held him….
Oh.
With an effort, he stopped his gasping cries, drawing in deep breaths until he could trust himself to speak. "Gone?" was all he managed to say in a high, shaky voice.
"Yes, they're gone."
The scratchy rumble of House's voice had never sounded so sweet to him before. Chase realized he was still clutching at his jacket, as he had that long-ago evening when he'd believed House was dying-but this time, instead of standing stiffly in place, House was holding him, even caressing his hair soothingly.
No one ever comes to save you, Robert-but House had. He'd come back for him. Chase's throat tightened and tears rose in his eyes, tears that he desperately fought down. All he needed was to start bawling on House's jacket, and the man's patience was sure to end, making him shove Chase away-and he wasn't ready to let go. Not yet, anyway.
Long moments passed as they remained frozen in their strange tableau. Finally House spoke again. "Robbie," he murmured into Chase's hair.
Chase flinched slightly (Yeah, I know yer name, Robbie-boy), and House seemed to realize his mistake. "Chase, I have to get up and get you a blanket. You're getting cold."
At that moment, Chase realized that he'd been curled against House while wearing nothing more than a torn shirt, his jeans and undershorts having been ripped off him and thrown into the wreckage of his futon. Embarrassed, he forced his fingers to unclench from House’s jacket. A draft of cool air took the place of the man who’d just been beside him, making him shiver. There was the faint click of his closet door latch, and a few seconds later, a soft blanket wrapped around his body, soothing him with its warmth. He grasped it close with trembling fingers.
“Police?” he finally asked, wondering when he was going to be able to speak more than one word at a time.
“Not yet,” said House. “I heard the commotion inside your apartment and didn’t want to waste time playing twenty questions with 9-1-1. I only yelled ‘Police’ as I came through the door because…well, three thugs and a cripple, you know. Luckily, those Remedial Room rejects bought-“ He cut off as Chase began trembling violently.
Post-traumatic stress, Chase diagnosed himself. Deep breaths. Calming thoughts. Stop thinking how close it was. Stop thinking about what might’ve happened if they hadn’t believed House. Stop thinking how they could’ve hurt him as well-oh, fuck it all!
“You’re an idiot!” he yelled.
House actually flinched, blinking in surprise. “I…what?”
“What were you thinking, barging in here with no police? You could’ve gotten hurt! They might’ve-“ To Chase’s horror, tears started leaking out of his eyes. He quickly turned his back on House, swiping the blanket across his face and hunching his shoulders as he waited for the mockery to begin (Are you crying?).
“Hey,” House’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, “don’t get so worked up. They didn’t stand a chance against Dr. McCaney and his Boomstick of Doom, see?”
The flame cane waved under Chase’s nose, and he bit back a laugh. Or maybe it was a sob. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore.
“I’m going to call the police. But before I do…listen, you know the routine. They’ll want to take you to the hospital, and ask all sorts of questions once you’re there.”
“The hospital?” Chase turned around and looked up at House. “Why? I only have a few bruises and-“
“Chase.” House had a pained expression on his face. “I know what they-look, it was obvious what they were doing to you. You need to answer me truthfully. Was there…penetration?”
Chase blinked, not understanding at first, and then-“No! God, no, I…I would know, right?” (Fingers grasping his sex, his legs pulled up over thick shoulders) “I could tell if-“ and suddenly he became aware of how much everything was aching between his legs. But that was only from the rough handling of his testicles; it couldn’t be from- The trembling kicked in full force as bile worked its way into his throat. Suddenly his face was grasped between two warm hands.
“Listen to me, Chase. Come on, focus, damn it! Look at my eyes…good, that’s better. I’m going to give you a choice. Normally, I’d believe what you’re saying, but you’re not acting normal, for lack of a better word. If the police come here now, there will be questions, followed by the hospital and a rape kit, followed by more questions.”
Chase had a sudden vision of green eyes looking down at him, misty with sorrow, pity, sympathy (tinged with an undercurrent of disgust)-“No! No hospital! I…I don’t want her to know.”
"Her?" House frowned. "Who are you talking about-Cameron?"
Chase lowered his eyes. "I don't want to become her pity case. Her cause of the month."
There was a slight pause, and then-"Fine," House's voice remained strangely gentle. "But if you don't want the hospital, then…I need to examine you myself. Make sure that you're all right."
Chase’s eyes flashed up to meet House's gaze, horror flooding through him. Of all the humiliating, degrading-
"Stop thinking that way!" House sounded like himself again, harsh and abrasive. "You know damn well that this is a question of life or death! If you've blocked-if you've chosen not to remember, and that bastard is infected, you will die, do you understand? So you have a choice: me or the hospital. That's it."
Part of Chase wanted to pull the blanket over his head and pretend that none of this was happening, but the other part (the responsible son, the doctor) knew that House was right. “All right,” he said very softly. “All right.”
****
He stared up at his bedroom ceiling, the chill of the metal dissecting table seeping into his skin in spite of the sheet that House had thrown across its surface. Grasping the edge of the table, he pressed his fingers into the multiple holes designed to drain body fluids away during autopsy, trying to focus on counting them instead of on what House was doing.
“All right, Chase, just like before, I’m going to touch you as little as possible. You say ‘Start’ when you’re ready, and ‘Stop’ when you’ve had enough. Remember, you’re the one in control.”
Chase felt the blanket lift off his waist, and gasped, “Start!” Long fingers gently probed the bruises on his hipbones and lower abdomen. Despite the gentle touch, violent images flooded into his mind, and his breathing sped up as his fingers scrabbled desperately at the holes in the table. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen holes-oh God, I can’t do this anymore-
“That’s done,” said House. “Take a slow, deep breath now; good. We’re almost finished.”
Giving a shaky laugh, Chase addressed the ceiling. “So you do have a bedside manner. Who would’ve guessed? I ought to place a bet with Foreman and win myself some money.”
“Uh-huh.” House sounded distracted. “This is the last part of the exam, Rob-Chase. It’s also the toughest for you. Just the same as before: you control the timing, but try to give me at least ten seconds. All right, take another breath and pull your knees into your chest.”
“Start!” Where had he left off counting? Oh, yeah. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one (the memory of fingers pressing hard into his thighs), twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four (pulling on his legs, oh, God, make them stop, stop it, please, STOP!)
“That’s it; it’s over.” There was a note of triumph in House’s voice. “You’re right; there’s no sign of penetration. No blood or tearing; no bruising in the perineal region-“
Chase rolled off the table and stumbled to his bathroom, dropping to his knees and vomiting violently into the toilet bowl. Wave after wave of nausea swept through him, making his stomach clench and spasm. He panted between paroxysms, the tears running helplessly down his face as he vomited again and again, his stomach and throat burning with acid pain.
A cold cloth was placed gently on the back of his neck, somehow interrupting the cycle. He sucked in oxygen through flaring nostrils, fighting the urge to vomit once more from the sour taste in his mouth.
“Here.” The toilet flushed, and he was pulled to his feet. “Lean over the sink; good.” A cup of dilute mouthwash was placed in his trembling hand. “Rinse and spit gently-not too hard, or you’ll start up again. Let it trickle out of your mouth.”
Chase did as ordered, savoring the light peppermint taste of the mouthwash as it cleared away the bitter aftertaste of his stomach fluids. He took a proffered washcloth and finished cleaning his face as the blanket was draped around his shoulders once more. Looking up at the mirror, he was startled by the ragged reflection of himself: red-eyed, wild-haired, and unnaturally pale, with red fingermarks staining his jaw. Behind him floated House’s face, gaunt and unshaven, his eyes serious, almost haunted.
Chase tried for a light tone. “We look like hell.”
“You’ve been through hell.”
He closed his eyes. “I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“All these years, even with my stints in the ER, I always thought that this was something that happened to girls who weren’t…careful enough, I guess. They dated the wrong guy or walked in the wrong neighborhood at night, or something like that. I always felt bad for them, but I never thought…I never thought this happened to blokes who grew up playing Aussie-rules football.” His eyes lifted, and he smiled a bitter smile at his reflection. “Guess I was blaming the victim without realizing it. Now I know-all you have to do is open your door.”
“Or sleep in your own bed or run an errand in broad daylight or live your life in any natural, normal way. Rapists are predators, Chase: twisted, vicious creatures that feed on human suffering. As far as I'm concerned, they can all be permanently removed from the gene pool without causing even a ripple of regret."
This last statement was issued in a voice so tight with rage that Chase blinked, startled out of his own dark thoughts. He'd never heard House so infuriated, short of the forced detoxing during the Tritter affair-and as he well remembered, an infuriated House was not a safe person to be around.
He turned away from the mirror, forcing himself to face House. "I think we ought to call the police now."
****
"So you think you could pick these guys out of a lineup?" The older, heavyset officer with the grey-streaked walrus mustache scribbled busily in his report book. The name printed on his badge ID had identified him as Officer Jaworski.
"Yeah." Chase kept the broken futon out of his line of sight and clasped his hands together, trying to keep them from trembling. He was dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a new tee shirt, with House's shirt over that, its long cuffs brushing his knuckles. The man had simply removed his shirt and draped it around him when the police knocked at his door, leaving Chase no time to ask why or even to thank him.
"You said you’d never met them before." The younger policeman seemed to have a permanent smirk playing around his lips, his dark hair buzzcut close to the scalp like a Marine's. "But they seemed to know you, though, right? Can you explain that?"
Drawing in a breath, Chase fought to keep his temper under control. However, there was no way he could control the other loose cannon in the room.
"Let's see," House snapped, crossing his arms over the Aerosmith logo on his black tee. "Maybe they saw him once somewhere and chose him for a target. Maybe they're psychopaths who pick a new victim every week. Maybe their mommies didn't love them enough. I don't know; I guess I should try to bring them in for questioning about their motives, among other things. Oh, wait, isn't that your job?"
"No need to get testy," said Jaworski as his partner scowled at House. "We're just wrapping up the final details for the report. Dr. Chase, if there's anything else you can remember about them, it'll make it that much easier to find them."
Chase repressed a sigh. "I've already told you everything they said. If I think of anything else, I'll call you, I promise."
"Maybe your memory just needs a little push," said the young cop. "You said you'd had an accident earlier this week that caused some memory loss. Maybe you don't remember meeting these men, but they remember you. Is there anywhere you go, let's say on the weekends, where you might've run into them? Like a bar…or a club?" His eyes narrowed as he looked Chase up and down.
"Davis," said his partner in a low undertone.
Chase felt a rush of blood to his face. This was hardly the first time he’d been confronted with this assumption about his sexual orientation, but tonight it felt especially frustrating, considering what he'd just undergone. It took everything he had not to nail this smartassed son-of-a-bitch with a right hook. "I don't go to clubs or bars," he said tightly. "I go to work, and I come home. That's it."
Davis smirked. "I get the feeling you're not being straight with me."
Chase saw movement out of the corner of his eye and made a quick sidestep, blocking House so that he stumbled against him. The last thing they needed was to get arrested for assaulting an officer of the law. Cold fury rose in Chase, muted by the numbness that had taken hold of him ever since the aftermath of House’s exam, and for once, the words flowed smoothly instead of being choked back in his throat. "I'll answer your bloody insinuations, Officer Davis. I don't pick up men in bars, because I don't pick up men anywhere. Furthermore, I fail to understand your point. Either you think I’m lying about my attackers to protect them or to cover something up-which begs the question of why I bothered to call the police at all-or you have a personal reason for questioning my orientation. In that case, I have to say sorry, but I'm not interested."
Now it was Davis's turn to flush furiously, and he took a step toward Chase.
"Davis!" Jaworski grabbed his partner's arm. "Go out to the cruiser and radio that we're done here. Now!"
With one last glare at Chase, Davis turned and stormed out of the apartment. Jaworski removed his hat and twirled it between his fingers in an embarrassed manner. "Uh, sorry about that. Davis gets…well, he's a handful sometimes. He doesn't mean any real harm, though." He smiled sheepishly at Chase. "I know you said those guys busted in to rob you, but…listen, I got a son about your age. I’m lookin’ at those marks on you, and I figure that if they had tried anything else-well, my boy would be likely to say the same sorta thing to the cops. Male pride and all that. The problem is, if you’re hiding things, it just makes it that much harder for us to find these punks.”
“Very good,” approved House, moving around Chase to stand nose-to-nose with Jaworski. “Good cop, bad cop; nice to see the old classical routine’s still in use.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “The thing is, I seem to remember that technique being used on crime suspects, not victims. So what exactly are you and your partner accusing Dr. Chase of doing?”
“We’re not accusing him of anything, sir,” said Jaworski, dropping the warmth in favor of cool professionalism. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume the victim in this case is telling the truth. What are the police going to do about this?”
“Try to find the perpetrators, of course.”
“But what are you going to do to protect Dr. Chase in the meantime?”
Officer Jaworski pulled at his impressive moustache. “We’ll probably have the neighborhood squad cars cruise past his building a couple more times a day; keep a lookout for suspicious behavior.”
“Excellent!” House’s enthusiastic tone made Chase cringe inwardly as he recognized the setup for one of his sarcastic slam-dunks. “That’ll make him feel a lot safer, I’ll bet, knowing that if the attackers are loitering outside his apartment for hours, hopefully wearing black masks and growling suspiciously, the boys in blue will be sure to notice them on their twice-a-day pass by. On the other hand, if the attackers manage to get inside his building in the hours between one of those two passes, I guess Dr. Chase is just shit out of luck, right?”
“Look, Dr. House-“
“No, you look,” snapped House. “Maybe you think every citizen who’s not a cop is, by default, an idiot. I think that of everyone who’s not a doctor, so that make us even. Between us idiots, it’s pretty obvious that the only way Dr. Chase is ever going to be safe again is if you find those lowlifes and lock them away. So I think you can take his word as given when he says he’s told you everything he knows about them.”
“Fair enough,” said Jaworski, replacing his hat on his head. “I’ll file the report right away. Dr. Chase...”
“I know. I’ll be at the station first thing in the morning to look through the mugshots,” Chase said quickly, hoping to prevent another hostile exchange between House and the police officer.
“Good.” Nodding politely at the two doctors, Jaworski made his exit.
Chase wished briefly for a couch or even a chair to sink down onto, but the thugs had destroyed the one decent piece of furniture in his threadbare apartment. Looking over at House, he noticed the older doctor leaning wearily on his cane, even more in need of a respite than he was. Waves of guilt coursed through him. “House, I…Listen, thanks so much.” Chase ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I can’t think straight enough to find the words, but I know I really owe you-“
House waved a hand impatiently. “Forget it. The question is, what are you going to do now?”
Looking bleakly at his trashed living room, Chase shrugged. “I can’t stay here, that’s for certain. If those blokes decide to come back…. I think I’ll pack a few things and check into a hotel.”
“With your maxed-out credit cards.” House peered at Chase’s despairing expression. “Don’t be stupid, Chase. You’re coming home with me.”
A weird feeling swept through Chase, and his throat tightened. Turning away from House, he shook his head. “You don’t have to-“
“Yes, I do. Just shut up and do as your boss says. Pack some things while I see if you have any worthwhile liquor on the premises.”
“In the fridge,” said Chase as he walked over to the coat rack and checked the pockets of his leather jacket for his cell phone. “Real German beer, not the usual American swill.” He held up his phone for House to see. “I have to make a few calls, see if I can get my credit line extended. I’ll pack while I’m calling, and meet you out here.”
House grunted in agreement, already rummaging in the refrigerator for the promised beer. Chase looked at him for one second, then headed into his bedroom, closing the door as he hit a speed dial number on his phone.
“Hi, it’s me. No, it’s okay-yeah-fine, apology accepted. Um, listen, Foreman, I have a favor to ask.
“I need to know how to get a gun.”
****
To be continued
****
Disclaimer: The police officers depicted in this chapter were fictional denizens of the "fanfic universe", and as such, were not meant to depict the actions or policies of real police officers of Princeton and Plainsboro in New Jersey.
Credit: The lyrics for “Respect” originally by Otis Redding, were adapted to a feminist version by Aretha Franklin and recorded by her in 1967.
Note: Thank you for making it to the end of this difficult chapter. I’ve struggled with it for several weeks, so I appreciate you giving it a chance. I would also like to warmly thank
kryssa_girl for her wonderful beta job, solicited at the last minute and carried out with great insight and skill. I owe you lunch, girlfriend!
There is a very fine line between drama and melodrama, and I've spent many sleepless hours trying to stay on the right side of that line. I have no idea if I succeeded, but I gave it my best effort, anyway.
Thank you once again for reading.
Aenisses (11-March-2008)
Next on Postcards:
Chapter Fifteen: http://aenissesthai.livejournal.com/6419.html
Previously on Postcards:
Chapter Thirteen: http://aenissesthai.livejournal.com/5594.html#cutid1
In the beginning:
Chapter One: http://aenissesthai.livejournal.com/1923.html#cutid1
Summary: The story takes a turn toward darkness, as Chase encounters some terrifying aspects of the fanficverse. "No one’s coming to save you, Robert. Haven’t you learned by now? No one ever comes to save you.”
Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.
Warning: Unlike the previous chapters of this story, Postcards is now entering a darker, more serious setting. This chapter contains harsh language, violence, and nonconsensual sexual situations. I strongly recommend that younger or sensitive readers avoid this chapter.
****
Chapter 14. Hour of Need
Chase switched off the cheap 19 inch TV, fed up with mindless programs in endless succession, and threw the remote to the opposite side of the futon. It skidded off the thin cushion and landed on the ground, where it immediately broke open, spilling its metallic innards to roll unheeded across the floor.
Getting up and pacing around the room, he came to a stop before his bookcase and stared bleakly at the contents. No action adventures, no sci fi thrillers, no real-life tales of survival on Everest or in the Amazonian rainforest…He reached out tentatively to one screaming pink copy of The Princess Diaries, then hastily pulled his hand back as if burned. He was desperate but not that desperate-at least, not yet.
The blinking red light on the answering machine caught his attention, so he wandered over to the kitchen countertop and stared down at the tiny LCD screen. He'd long since turned the sound down, not wanting to hear the myriad questioning, pleading, or demanding messages from colleagues trying to reach him after he'd stormed out of the clinic. Pressing the back button, he noted the numbers on the caller ID function: House, Cuddy, Cameron, House, House, oh god, Wilson, House, and Foreman. Chase frowned at the last number, realizing that he was, surprisingly, most disappointed in the neurologist. He knew that House was capable of any amount of mindfuck just for the sheer fun of it, and Wilson, who wasn’t half as nice as he appeared, was likely to join in with House on his pranks. Cameron followed some sort of internal logic that only she understood, as he had learned to his cost (and now it’s over), but Foreman-Foreman had always been reliably stoic, pompous, and predictable. Now Chase didn't even want to answer his call, for fear of catching the insanity that had apparently taken hold in all of his coworkers.
Strolling over to look out the window, he leaned his forehead against the glass, watching the evening light cast a violet wash across the cars and buildings lining his street. Normally, he would find the sight soothing in its quiet beauty, but tonight, it merely added to the sense of ennui that pervaded his being. Nothing appealed to him, he thought as he absently watched the motorcycle pull up to the open space across the street, especially not the thought of going out. There was something pathetic about going to the movies or to a restaurant by oneself on a Sunday evening. He’d had a brief reprieve during his affair with Cameron, and sometimes he wondered if he missed the comparative freedom of coupledom more than he missed the sex or intimacy.
Regardless, he was going to have to motivate himself to do something, or he’d be stuck with bread and water for dinner. Maybe pizza delivery, he mused, watching the man with the cane expertly dodge traffic as he crossed the street toward his building.
“Damn it!” yelled Chase, finally realizing who he’d been watching while his mind drifted. Another bloody confrontation with House to top off the day! He went to unlock his front door, controlling his frustration with the skill borne of long practice. It was a cheap move to leave the door slightly ajar, thus robbing House of his triumph in maneuvering his way into the apartment, but he’d take his victories where he could find them.
Less than a minute later, House poked his head around the door. “Nice for you to leave it open for me,” he panted. “Now about installing that elevator-“
“Of course. I’ll make sure to petition my landlord first thing Monday morning, so that you can have even easier access to winding me up.” Chase looked up from his carefully casual position on the futon-couch. “Care to have a seat, or will this be a quick annoy-and-run for once?”
House glanced at the low couch, visibly calculating how much effort it would take to lower himself down and struggle to his feet again, then shook his head. “No thanks; I’m not exactly in the mood for deep-knee bends today-or any day, really.” He leaned on his cane and stared into Chase’s eyes. “I had all kinds of clever quips ready, but it’s been a long day, so I’ll get to the point. What’s wrong with you, Robbie?”
“With me? Oh, that’s rich! I spend an entire Sunday afternoon being nearly run down in traffic, then forced into a stupid costume, made to play doctor with a bunch of lunatic clinic patients, and finally roughed up by my colleague, and you want to know what’s wrong with me?”
“Yes.” House had a puzzled look on his face. “You shouted at everyone in the clinic, including Foreman and Cameron-which really hurt their feelings, by the way.”
Chase gave a snort of disbelief. “Oh, right!”
“Yes, roight!” House imitated his accent. “Ever since your latest coma, you’ve been distant, angry, and confrontational.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m tired of being yanked around with statements like that. Latest coma, my arse! I’ve never been in a coma before, as you well know. Plus you’re a fine one to be chiding me for being angry and confrontational-unless you’re asserting your copyright on those traits.” Chase lowered his voice with an effort. “What is it you want from me, House?"
House shrugged impatiently. "I’d tell you, but you’d probably just dust up into another one of your hissy fits. Yes, I know you have memory loss issues, but damn it, when are you going to get back to normal? It's like…like you're trying to distance yourself from everyone who cares for you, as if you want to go back to being the lonely, alienated person you were when you first took up the fellowship."
For some reason, those words stung so much that Chase had to fight down a lump in his throat. "So that's your assessment, is it? I guess things have improved so much over the last four years, what with my becoming the subject of constant ridicule, being abruptly dumped by the one person I let myself care about, and-oh, here's a good one-getting punched in the face! What's your suggestion to continue my trajectory of growing popularity? Allow myself to be groped by all of my colleagues in the name of departmental goodwill?”
House frowned in confusion. “It never bothered you before.”
Chase leapt up from the futon couch, infuriated. “I’ve had enough of your bloody mockery! I don’t need this, I don’t need you, and I want you out of my place now!” He strode over to his apartment door and yanked it open.
House looked at him pensively before moving to the door, exaggerating his uneven gait. He stepped into the hallway and turned around. “This conversation isn’t over yet, Robbie.”
“Yes, it bloody well is,” retorted Chase, slamming the door in his face. Marching over to the window, he watched until House gunned his motorcycle and took off down the street.
Sighing, he retrieved the scattered bits of his remote before unfolding his futon. He flopped down on it and tried to put the parts in the right places but soon lost interest. Loosely grasping the components, he stared thoughtfully into the gathering gloom of his apartment, trying to analyze the sense of unease that now pervaded his being. It was as if a small voice inside him kept chanting, This isn’t right, this isn’t right; none of this is right!
“Tell me something I don’t know, mate,” he said aloud, then switched on a lamp and bent over his task once more.
****
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
The door practically jumped under the barrage of knocks showered upon it. “Bollocks!” Chase leaped up, spilling the remote onto the floor once again, and yanked the door open. “I swear to God, House!” He stopped, confused by the strangers standing in the hallway. “Er, beg pardon. I thought you were someone else.”
“Did you hear what he said?” asked the burly, unshaven man to his two companions. “Beg pardon. Doesn’t he have the sweetest accent?”
Chase frowned. At first, he’d thought they were a set of Bible-thumping missionaries out to convince him that being Catholic wasn’t quite Christian enough to guarantee his place in Heaven, but they weren’t dressed as neatly as most doorstep missionaries. The first man who’d spoken was short and balding but thick-necked and heavily muscled, his baggy pants and nylon Nets jacket unremarkable. The tall man on his right was at least fifteen years younger, with a nervous, shifty gaze under his black knit cap from which protruded a dull brown ponytail, his spot of chin hair, grey hoodie, and loose bondage pants proclaiming his slavish adherence to the grunge fashion of the moment. The third man would’ve been called nondescript, with his short brown hair and medium height and build, except that he had what the ER staff at PPTH called “crazy fucker” eyes.
Chase began to feel that he’d made a mistake in opening his door so quickly. He backed up slightly, bracing his arms against the doorjamb, and unconsciously set his stance. “Can I help you?” he asked warily.
“Can he help us?” repeated the third man with a giggle that matched his insane eyes-and with that, Chase slammed the door shut. But before the latch could click, the door slammed open again, its edge catching Chase across the temple. He stumbled back, one eye blinded by stinging fluid dripping down the side of his face.
‘Blood,’ he thought foggily as his arms were seized, and he was hauled backwards across the room. ‘Head wounds always bleed a lot, but they’re seldom as serious as they look.’ At least, that’s what playing football had taught him long before he’d ever entered medical school.
The other thing that footie had taught him was how to take a hit and keep going, something at which he was sadly out of practice, save for House’s punch a few months back. True to form, he was already regaining his bearings but decided to let his eyes roll back until he figured out what these men were after. If they were hoping to make a huge haul from robbing a doctor, they were bound to be disappointed by his meager possessions-and he’d watched enough true crime programs in this country to know that disappointing criminals was a dangerous move. Best to let them think they’d knocked him silly, which might frighten them into running off before they ransacked his apartment.
“Aw, look what you did, Vuk,” complained the man that Chase had mentally dubbed ‘Crazy.’ “Now he’s not so pretty anymore. Red’s not really his color.”
“Get Junior to wipe him up,” grunted the first man (Vuk, thought Chase). He forced himself to stay limp as the man muscled him onto his futon in an impressive show of strength. Moments later, a cold, wet cloth slapped against the side of his face. He kept himself from gasping aloud but couldn’t repress an involuntary shiver.
“Yer makin’ a bigger mess, Junior,” growled Vuk. “Gimme the damn washcloth already!” Junior made some sniveling, mumbling reply, and soon the washcloth was scraping painfully at Chase’s wound. This time he couldn’t suppress his indrawn breath.
“Ah, good, good!” cried Crazy. “You’re waking him up. Cleaning him up and waking him up, cleaning him up and waking him up!”
“Shuddup already! Don’t need none of yer damn sing-songs,” snapped Vuk.
Suddenly there was a metallic snick, and Vuk was the one to draw in a choked breath. “’Nuff of this shit! You wanna waste time cuttin’ me-or you wanna piece of him?”
It took everything Chase had to keep his eyes closed. Inside he was praying, Please let them get in a fight with each other, let them hurt each other but not me, Lord, you’ve never answered my prayers before but just this once, please-
There were a couple of shuffling steps, then a third voice spoke up. “C’mon, buddy,” he whined (Junior, thought Chase), “don’t do nothing to Vuk. If you cut ‘im, then I dunno what to do next. Never done this before…” he trailed off with a sniffle.
“Fine.” To Chase’s disappointment, the metal snicked once more. “Just don’t insult my songs anymore, Vuk. All I’m asking is a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me, R-E-S-P-E-C-T, take care, TCB-“
“All right!” Vuk sounded more impatient than scared. “You wanna stage a musical, or you wanna get this here show on the road?”
Chase's shoulders were grabbed roughly as he was dragged into a sitting position. Two sharp slaps across his face made him gasp and blink. It was no use faking unconsciousness; this gang of psychopaths was ready to hurt him whether he was awake or not, so he might as well have the use of his eyesight and limbs. As soon as his eyes focused, he glanced hopefully at the door but was disappointed to see that one of the thugs had remembered to close it behind them.
“Lookit them eyes,” giggled Crazy, snapping Chase’s attention back to the three men around him. “Are they green? Are they blue? Don’t matter which, since my love is true!”
The weird comment made Chase’s skin crawl, so he decided to address Vuk. No doubt the man was the most dangerous of this lot, but he also seemed to be the leader, not to mention the sanest. “Look, mate,” he said in a forced casual tone, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “I’m guessing that you’re looking for a profit here. I’ll be honest-I’m looking to avoid getting hurt. So I think we can make a deal. I’ll get my bank card and accompany you lot to the nearest bank machine…er, ATM, and give you what money I have. No fuss, I promise; I’m not trying to be a hero.”
Vuk grinned a feral grin, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. “Of course yer not, Robert. When have you ever been a hero-or even tried?”
“You know my name?”
“Genius, ain’t he? Yeah, I know yer name, Robbie-boy, same as my buddies here. But we’re real hurt that you don’t seem ta remember us-you might even say we're butt-hurt about that.” The last statement provoked a series of guffaws from Junior and high-pitched giggles from Crazy.
“I’m sorry,” Chase interrupted the disturbing laugh-fest. “I’ve been in hospital the past week, and people keep telling me that I’ve got holes in my memory. I don’t know; I can’t remember.” He gave a weak smile. “So no insult was intended to you… gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen!” Vuk joined in with his own guffaws. “We been wondering where you were, Robbie. So let me introduce us to you again: I’m-“
“No need,” Chase cut in again. “Best if I don’t remember much about you, right? Let’s get that money for you and call it a day.”
“He’s impatient,” said Crazy thoughtfully, flicking his switchblade open and closed. “I’m getting the drift that he doesn’t want to know us at all-and that is hurting my feelings.”
“What he wants ain’t the point here. We’re here for what we want-and it’s got nothing to do with money.” Three pairs of eyes fixed on Chase, along with three leering grins.
Chase thought he’d been frightened before, but that was nothing compared to the cold terror that curled through his body in icy tendrils, shortening his breath and sending his heart racing. He couldn’t think, every cell of his being screaming for escape-and before he knew it, he’d jerked away from the hands on his arms and bolted for the door. Shaking fingers grasped the metal doorknob, fumbling desperately to open it, open it, damn it, open!
The door swung open, a welcome draft of hallway air hitting him in the face-then just as suddenly slammed closed. Chase felt himself hauled back by his hair and thrown onto his futon, the frame breaking and collapsing beneath him with a loud crack-and God, couldn’t anybody hear that, wouldn’t any of his neighbors think it sounded wrong and call the police, or at least knock at the door and complain?
A cold line of metal pressed against his throat as hands grabbed his upper arms, holding him pinned in the wreckage of his bed. “Don’t!” he gasped. “No-don’t have to-“
“Don’t have to what, Robbie?” Vuk’s voice was uncharacteristically patient.
Chase fought back a sudden sob of panic. “Cut me. Don’t have to cut me. I’ll pay you-“
“Again with the money,” sighed Crazy, adjusting his blade against Chase’s throat. “Here I was having all these sweet fantasies about him, and he turns out to be another money-obsessed spoiled brat.”
Panic-stricken eyes traveled from face to unfamiliar face as Chase tried desperately to remember, because if he could remember anything about them, perhaps he could think of a way to get them to let him go.
“He still don’t know us,” said Vuk shrewdly. “Well, that ain’t no big surprise. Important doctor like him prob’ly sees hundreds of people a day, ain’t that right, sweetcheeks? Oh, I forgot: you can’t nod at the moment, can you? Not without spillin' a little red there, anyways. Well, I’ll go ahead with the introductions: I’m Vuk. Fixed your wreck of a car couple-two-three weeks ago. That one at your left shoulder is Junior.”
Junior grinned down, his warm, fetid breath making Chase want to gag. “I work at the new coffee shop on campus. You left me a nice tip last week.”
“And the one at your right-well, let’s call him Bud. Bud works the toll plaza at the Washington Bridge. You drove through there about a month ago.”
Chase tried desperately to get his brain to function. “And somehow I managed to make all of you mad at me?”
Bud/Crazy let out a peal of laughter. “We’re not mad at you, you silly boy! We love you!”
“Well, we think yer pretty fine-lookin', anyway,” grumbled Vuk reluctantly.
“This is insane! You don’t even know me! How could you-a tollbooth?” Chase shot a confused look at Bud. “You must see thousands of drivers every day!”
“Thirty-three thousand, five hundred and fourteen that day,” Crazy agreed, nodding happily. “But I still knew you were something special.”
This was making absolutely no sense at all. In a week full of insanities, this was by far the most demented- A thought flashed into Chase’s mind. This was the second time today he’d been held captive, although the first time had only lasted mere seconds. He struggled to free his arms from Junior’s and Crazy’s grasp, ignoring the knife at his throat. “Cameron!” he shouted. “Cameron!”
Vuk rocked back for a moment, astonishment on his face. “You seriously think a safe word’s gonna help you now?” He waved away Crazy’s knife as he leaned in towards Chase. “No one’s coming to save you, Robert. Haven’t you learned by now? No one ever comes to save you.”
The simple, bitter truth of those words grabbed Chase by the throat, despair crashing over him and dragging him down to drown him in a miasma of terror and hopelessness. No one was coming for him, no one cared, and it was pointless for him even to pray. Strange hands took hold of him, tearing his shirt and pulling down his jeans, and he could no longer lie to himself about what they were going to do.
“No!” he screamed, but sweaty hands clamped clumsily over his mouth and one nostril, and he was suddenly struggling for oxygen as well as freedom. Cold air struck his now bared skin, thick fingers digging sharply into his hips, forcing them down against the floor. Nausea swept through him, and he gagged, trying to force it back because if he vomited now, he was certain to aspirate-and these idiots would never know it, would never know that they were killing him-and even if they knew, they probably wouldn’t care.
Calloused hands grabbed roughly at his exposed genitals, and he sobbed with revulsion behind the hands on his mouth, his skin crawling as his entire body tried to shrink away from the aggressive violation. He started banging his head against the thin futon, cracking it against the floor, all the time begging for someone to hear him, (help me, God) or just let him lose consciousness, because he couldn’t take this, couldn’t take it.
“Stop him from doin’ that,” Vuk shouted thickly. “I’m almost-“ and Chase felt his legs yanked upward (dear God, why have you forsaken me)-and just as suddenly released, the pressure gone from his hips. He twisted and kicked madly, hands falling away from him as he scrambled to the nearest wall, backing himself into the corner by his bookcase, gasping for breath as tears blurred his vision. Something long and straight whistled through the air, punctuated by the muffled shouts of Vuk and his cohorts. A voice roared the word Police, as crashing, stumbling steps faded down his staircase, cut off by the slamming of a door.
Chase’s head ached, throbbing steadily in time with his pounding heart. Someone was nearby, someone making weird, keening little cries, like a child brought into the ER. He blindly stuck his hand out, wanting to shush the child (because the crying was making his headache worse), but found his hand seized in a strong grip as he was drawn into a warm embrace. He struggled for only a moment before he recognized House’s scent, the familiar blend of wool and scotch underlaid with a whiff of medicine and sweet tobacco. Burying his face in the scratchy wool of House’s jacket, he dimly noted that the annoying child had quieted, his cries muffled as if someone had picked him up and held him….
Oh.
With an effort, he stopped his gasping cries, drawing in deep breaths until he could trust himself to speak. "Gone?" was all he managed to say in a high, shaky voice.
"Yes, they're gone."
The scratchy rumble of House's voice had never sounded so sweet to him before. Chase realized he was still clutching at his jacket, as he had that long-ago evening when he'd believed House was dying-but this time, instead of standing stiffly in place, House was holding him, even caressing his hair soothingly.
No one ever comes to save you, Robert-but House had. He'd come back for him. Chase's throat tightened and tears rose in his eyes, tears that he desperately fought down. All he needed was to start bawling on House's jacket, and the man's patience was sure to end, making him shove Chase away-and he wasn't ready to let go. Not yet, anyway.
Long moments passed as they remained frozen in their strange tableau. Finally House spoke again. "Robbie," he murmured into Chase's hair.
Chase flinched slightly (Yeah, I know yer name, Robbie-boy), and House seemed to realize his mistake. "Chase, I have to get up and get you a blanket. You're getting cold."
At that moment, Chase realized that he'd been curled against House while wearing nothing more than a torn shirt, his jeans and undershorts having been ripped off him and thrown into the wreckage of his futon. Embarrassed, he forced his fingers to unclench from House’s jacket. A draft of cool air took the place of the man who’d just been beside him, making him shiver. There was the faint click of his closet door latch, and a few seconds later, a soft blanket wrapped around his body, soothing him with its warmth. He grasped it close with trembling fingers.
“Police?” he finally asked, wondering when he was going to be able to speak more than one word at a time.
“Not yet,” said House. “I heard the commotion inside your apartment and didn’t want to waste time playing twenty questions with 9-1-1. I only yelled ‘Police’ as I came through the door because…well, three thugs and a cripple, you know. Luckily, those Remedial Room rejects bought-“ He cut off as Chase began trembling violently.
Post-traumatic stress, Chase diagnosed himself. Deep breaths. Calming thoughts. Stop thinking how close it was. Stop thinking about what might’ve happened if they hadn’t believed House. Stop thinking how they could’ve hurt him as well-oh, fuck it all!
“You’re an idiot!” he yelled.
House actually flinched, blinking in surprise. “I…what?”
“What were you thinking, barging in here with no police? You could’ve gotten hurt! They might’ve-“ To Chase’s horror, tears started leaking out of his eyes. He quickly turned his back on House, swiping the blanket across his face and hunching his shoulders as he waited for the mockery to begin (Are you crying?).
“Hey,” House’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, “don’t get so worked up. They didn’t stand a chance against Dr. McCaney and his Boomstick of Doom, see?”
The flame cane waved under Chase’s nose, and he bit back a laugh. Or maybe it was a sob. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore.
“I’m going to call the police. But before I do…listen, you know the routine. They’ll want to take you to the hospital, and ask all sorts of questions once you’re there.”
“The hospital?” Chase turned around and looked up at House. “Why? I only have a few bruises and-“
“Chase.” House had a pained expression on his face. “I know what they-look, it was obvious what they were doing to you. You need to answer me truthfully. Was there…penetration?”
Chase blinked, not understanding at first, and then-“No! God, no, I…I would know, right?” (Fingers grasping his sex, his legs pulled up over thick shoulders) “I could tell if-“ and suddenly he became aware of how much everything was aching between his legs. But that was only from the rough handling of his testicles; it couldn’t be from- The trembling kicked in full force as bile worked its way into his throat. Suddenly his face was grasped between two warm hands.
“Listen to me, Chase. Come on, focus, damn it! Look at my eyes…good, that’s better. I’m going to give you a choice. Normally, I’d believe what you’re saying, but you’re not acting normal, for lack of a better word. If the police come here now, there will be questions, followed by the hospital and a rape kit, followed by more questions.”
Chase had a sudden vision of green eyes looking down at him, misty with sorrow, pity, sympathy (tinged with an undercurrent of disgust)-“No! No hospital! I…I don’t want her to know.”
"Her?" House frowned. "Who are you talking about-Cameron?"
Chase lowered his eyes. "I don't want to become her pity case. Her cause of the month."
There was a slight pause, and then-"Fine," House's voice remained strangely gentle. "But if you don't want the hospital, then…I need to examine you myself. Make sure that you're all right."
Chase’s eyes flashed up to meet House's gaze, horror flooding through him. Of all the humiliating, degrading-
"Stop thinking that way!" House sounded like himself again, harsh and abrasive. "You know damn well that this is a question of life or death! If you've blocked-if you've chosen not to remember, and that bastard is infected, you will die, do you understand? So you have a choice: me or the hospital. That's it."
Part of Chase wanted to pull the blanket over his head and pretend that none of this was happening, but the other part (the responsible son, the doctor) knew that House was right. “All right,” he said very softly. “All right.”
****
He stared up at his bedroom ceiling, the chill of the metal dissecting table seeping into his skin in spite of the sheet that House had thrown across its surface. Grasping the edge of the table, he pressed his fingers into the multiple holes designed to drain body fluids away during autopsy, trying to focus on counting them instead of on what House was doing.
“All right, Chase, just like before, I’m going to touch you as little as possible. You say ‘Start’ when you’re ready, and ‘Stop’ when you’ve had enough. Remember, you’re the one in control.”
Chase felt the blanket lift off his waist, and gasped, “Start!” Long fingers gently probed the bruises on his hipbones and lower abdomen. Despite the gentle touch, violent images flooded into his mind, and his breathing sped up as his fingers scrabbled desperately at the holes in the table. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen holes-oh God, I can’t do this anymore-
“That’s done,” said House. “Take a slow, deep breath now; good. We’re almost finished.”
Giving a shaky laugh, Chase addressed the ceiling. “So you do have a bedside manner. Who would’ve guessed? I ought to place a bet with Foreman and win myself some money.”
“Uh-huh.” House sounded distracted. “This is the last part of the exam, Rob-Chase. It’s also the toughest for you. Just the same as before: you control the timing, but try to give me at least ten seconds. All right, take another breath and pull your knees into your chest.”
“Start!” Where had he left off counting? Oh, yeah. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one (the memory of fingers pressing hard into his thighs), twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four (pulling on his legs, oh, God, make them stop, stop it, please, STOP!)
“That’s it; it’s over.” There was a note of triumph in House’s voice. “You’re right; there’s no sign of penetration. No blood or tearing; no bruising in the perineal region-“
Chase rolled off the table and stumbled to his bathroom, dropping to his knees and vomiting violently into the toilet bowl. Wave after wave of nausea swept through him, making his stomach clench and spasm. He panted between paroxysms, the tears running helplessly down his face as he vomited again and again, his stomach and throat burning with acid pain.
A cold cloth was placed gently on the back of his neck, somehow interrupting the cycle. He sucked in oxygen through flaring nostrils, fighting the urge to vomit once more from the sour taste in his mouth.
“Here.” The toilet flushed, and he was pulled to his feet. “Lean over the sink; good.” A cup of dilute mouthwash was placed in his trembling hand. “Rinse and spit gently-not too hard, or you’ll start up again. Let it trickle out of your mouth.”
Chase did as ordered, savoring the light peppermint taste of the mouthwash as it cleared away the bitter aftertaste of his stomach fluids. He took a proffered washcloth and finished cleaning his face as the blanket was draped around his shoulders once more. Looking up at the mirror, he was startled by the ragged reflection of himself: red-eyed, wild-haired, and unnaturally pale, with red fingermarks staining his jaw. Behind him floated House’s face, gaunt and unshaven, his eyes serious, almost haunted.
Chase tried for a light tone. “We look like hell.”
“You’ve been through hell.”
He closed his eyes. “I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“All these years, even with my stints in the ER, I always thought that this was something that happened to girls who weren’t…careful enough, I guess. They dated the wrong guy or walked in the wrong neighborhood at night, or something like that. I always felt bad for them, but I never thought…I never thought this happened to blokes who grew up playing Aussie-rules football.” His eyes lifted, and he smiled a bitter smile at his reflection. “Guess I was blaming the victim without realizing it. Now I know-all you have to do is open your door.”
“Or sleep in your own bed or run an errand in broad daylight or live your life in any natural, normal way. Rapists are predators, Chase: twisted, vicious creatures that feed on human suffering. As far as I'm concerned, they can all be permanently removed from the gene pool without causing even a ripple of regret."
This last statement was issued in a voice so tight with rage that Chase blinked, startled out of his own dark thoughts. He'd never heard House so infuriated, short of the forced detoxing during the Tritter affair-and as he well remembered, an infuriated House was not a safe person to be around.
He turned away from the mirror, forcing himself to face House. "I think we ought to call the police now."
****
"So you think you could pick these guys out of a lineup?" The older, heavyset officer with the grey-streaked walrus mustache scribbled busily in his report book. The name printed on his badge ID had identified him as Officer Jaworski.
"Yeah." Chase kept the broken futon out of his line of sight and clasped his hands together, trying to keep them from trembling. He was dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a new tee shirt, with House's shirt over that, its long cuffs brushing his knuckles. The man had simply removed his shirt and draped it around him when the police knocked at his door, leaving Chase no time to ask why or even to thank him.
"You said you’d never met them before." The younger policeman seemed to have a permanent smirk playing around his lips, his dark hair buzzcut close to the scalp like a Marine's. "But they seemed to know you, though, right? Can you explain that?"
Drawing in a breath, Chase fought to keep his temper under control. However, there was no way he could control the other loose cannon in the room.
"Let's see," House snapped, crossing his arms over the Aerosmith logo on his black tee. "Maybe they saw him once somewhere and chose him for a target. Maybe they're psychopaths who pick a new victim every week. Maybe their mommies didn't love them enough. I don't know; I guess I should try to bring them in for questioning about their motives, among other things. Oh, wait, isn't that your job?"
"No need to get testy," said Jaworski as his partner scowled at House. "We're just wrapping up the final details for the report. Dr. Chase, if there's anything else you can remember about them, it'll make it that much easier to find them."
Chase repressed a sigh. "I've already told you everything they said. If I think of anything else, I'll call you, I promise."
"Maybe your memory just needs a little push," said the young cop. "You said you'd had an accident earlier this week that caused some memory loss. Maybe you don't remember meeting these men, but they remember you. Is there anywhere you go, let's say on the weekends, where you might've run into them? Like a bar…or a club?" His eyes narrowed as he looked Chase up and down.
"Davis," said his partner in a low undertone.
Chase felt a rush of blood to his face. This was hardly the first time he’d been confronted with this assumption about his sexual orientation, but tonight it felt especially frustrating, considering what he'd just undergone. It took everything he had not to nail this smartassed son-of-a-bitch with a right hook. "I don't go to clubs or bars," he said tightly. "I go to work, and I come home. That's it."
Davis smirked. "I get the feeling you're not being straight with me."
Chase saw movement out of the corner of his eye and made a quick sidestep, blocking House so that he stumbled against him. The last thing they needed was to get arrested for assaulting an officer of the law. Cold fury rose in Chase, muted by the numbness that had taken hold of him ever since the aftermath of House’s exam, and for once, the words flowed smoothly instead of being choked back in his throat. "I'll answer your bloody insinuations, Officer Davis. I don't pick up men in bars, because I don't pick up men anywhere. Furthermore, I fail to understand your point. Either you think I’m lying about my attackers to protect them or to cover something up-which begs the question of why I bothered to call the police at all-or you have a personal reason for questioning my orientation. In that case, I have to say sorry, but I'm not interested."
Now it was Davis's turn to flush furiously, and he took a step toward Chase.
"Davis!" Jaworski grabbed his partner's arm. "Go out to the cruiser and radio that we're done here. Now!"
With one last glare at Chase, Davis turned and stormed out of the apartment. Jaworski removed his hat and twirled it between his fingers in an embarrassed manner. "Uh, sorry about that. Davis gets…well, he's a handful sometimes. He doesn't mean any real harm, though." He smiled sheepishly at Chase. "I know you said those guys busted in to rob you, but…listen, I got a son about your age. I’m lookin’ at those marks on you, and I figure that if they had tried anything else-well, my boy would be likely to say the same sorta thing to the cops. Male pride and all that. The problem is, if you’re hiding things, it just makes it that much harder for us to find these punks.”
“Very good,” approved House, moving around Chase to stand nose-to-nose with Jaworski. “Good cop, bad cop; nice to see the old classical routine’s still in use.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “The thing is, I seem to remember that technique being used on crime suspects, not victims. So what exactly are you and your partner accusing Dr. Chase of doing?”
“We’re not accusing him of anything, sir,” said Jaworski, dropping the warmth in favor of cool professionalism. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume the victim in this case is telling the truth. What are the police going to do about this?”
“Try to find the perpetrators, of course.”
“But what are you going to do to protect Dr. Chase in the meantime?”
Officer Jaworski pulled at his impressive moustache. “We’ll probably have the neighborhood squad cars cruise past his building a couple more times a day; keep a lookout for suspicious behavior.”
“Excellent!” House’s enthusiastic tone made Chase cringe inwardly as he recognized the setup for one of his sarcastic slam-dunks. “That’ll make him feel a lot safer, I’ll bet, knowing that if the attackers are loitering outside his apartment for hours, hopefully wearing black masks and growling suspiciously, the boys in blue will be sure to notice them on their twice-a-day pass by. On the other hand, if the attackers manage to get inside his building in the hours between one of those two passes, I guess Dr. Chase is just shit out of luck, right?”
“Look, Dr. House-“
“No, you look,” snapped House. “Maybe you think every citizen who’s not a cop is, by default, an idiot. I think that of everyone who’s not a doctor, so that make us even. Between us idiots, it’s pretty obvious that the only way Dr. Chase is ever going to be safe again is if you find those lowlifes and lock them away. So I think you can take his word as given when he says he’s told you everything he knows about them.”
“Fair enough,” said Jaworski, replacing his hat on his head. “I’ll file the report right away. Dr. Chase...”
“I know. I’ll be at the station first thing in the morning to look through the mugshots,” Chase said quickly, hoping to prevent another hostile exchange between House and the police officer.
“Good.” Nodding politely at the two doctors, Jaworski made his exit.
Chase wished briefly for a couch or even a chair to sink down onto, but the thugs had destroyed the one decent piece of furniture in his threadbare apartment. Looking over at House, he noticed the older doctor leaning wearily on his cane, even more in need of a respite than he was. Waves of guilt coursed through him. “House, I…Listen, thanks so much.” Chase ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I can’t think straight enough to find the words, but I know I really owe you-“
House waved a hand impatiently. “Forget it. The question is, what are you going to do now?”
Looking bleakly at his trashed living room, Chase shrugged. “I can’t stay here, that’s for certain. If those blokes decide to come back…. I think I’ll pack a few things and check into a hotel.”
“With your maxed-out credit cards.” House peered at Chase’s despairing expression. “Don’t be stupid, Chase. You’re coming home with me.”
A weird feeling swept through Chase, and his throat tightened. Turning away from House, he shook his head. “You don’t have to-“
“Yes, I do. Just shut up and do as your boss says. Pack some things while I see if you have any worthwhile liquor on the premises.”
“In the fridge,” said Chase as he walked over to the coat rack and checked the pockets of his leather jacket for his cell phone. “Real German beer, not the usual American swill.” He held up his phone for House to see. “I have to make a few calls, see if I can get my credit line extended. I’ll pack while I’m calling, and meet you out here.”
House grunted in agreement, already rummaging in the refrigerator for the promised beer. Chase looked at him for one second, then headed into his bedroom, closing the door as he hit a speed dial number on his phone.
“Hi, it’s me. No, it’s okay-yeah-fine, apology accepted. Um, listen, Foreman, I have a favor to ask.
“I need to know how to get a gun.”
****
To be continued
****
Disclaimer: The police officers depicted in this chapter were fictional denizens of the "fanfic universe", and as such, were not meant to depict the actions or policies of real police officers of Princeton and Plainsboro in New Jersey.
Credit: The lyrics for “Respect” originally by Otis Redding, were adapted to a feminist version by Aretha Franklin and recorded by her in 1967.
Note: Thank you for making it to the end of this difficult chapter. I’ve struggled with it for several weeks, so I appreciate you giving it a chance. I would also like to warmly thank
kryssa_girl for her wonderful beta job, solicited at the last minute and carried out with great insight and skill. I owe you lunch, girlfriend!
There is a very fine line between drama and melodrama, and I've spent many sleepless hours trying to stay on the right side of that line. I have no idea if I succeeded, but I gave it my best effort, anyway.
Thank you once again for reading.
Aenisses (11-March-2008)
Next on Postcards:
Chapter Fifteen: http://aenissesthai.livejournal.com/6419.html
Previously on Postcards:
Chapter Thirteen: http://aenissesthai.livejournal.com/5594.html#cutid1
In the beginning:
Chapter One: http://aenissesthai.livejournal.com/1923.html#cutid1