Disclaimer: I do not own House.

The only noise that filled the car was the roar of the engine and the soft clicks of House's cane. He had been fiddling with the radio for the past ten minutes, before proclaiming all radio music as absolute crap and flicking it off.

Chase saw his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Tap. Tap. Tap Tap.

He wanted more than anything to just yell, "Shut the fuck up!" But the problem was- well, what it always was- it was House. House, who never listened to anyone and who never held any regard towards acts of common courtesy. House- who would do the exact opposite of what he was told. So, if he gave him any kind of acknowledgement, he knew that the tapping would just commence with renewed vigor.

Chase had been so glad to be rid of the mind games. And now he was forced into playing once again.

House started humming, completely in-key, but maddening nonetheless. It sounded disconcertingly like a jazzed up version of Yellow Submarine.

His less-than-perfect car screeched obstinately as it was forced to swerve into a parking spot. Chase unloaded the obscene amount of food from the trunk, while House yelled half-hearted insults from the passenger seat. Bags hanging off every limb, Chase made his way into House's apartment.

He accidentally dropped a six-pack from shock as he peered into the apartment. It was a complete and utter mess. There were clothes strewn across the whole interior, empty take-out containers rotted on top of furniture, and there was a thick blanket of dust that covered everything. This was not a place that a grown man could live. A doctor, even. For shame. Chase awkwardly put down the bags and turned to House. "What happened to this place? It looks like some of the slums you forced me to break into when we had a case."

House collapsed on the garment-ridden couch. "Well, you know how it is. Bum leg and all."

That was his answer for everything. It was always his pain and his disability. Like it was an excuse for living life like a bum or a jerk or whatever he decided to be that week.

Chase exercised the notion that without the team House was lost. Completely unrealistic, but nice to entertain the thought, anyway.

As he started to walk towards the door, relieved that the reign of Housian terror was coming to an end, he felt a cane whack against his middle. "Hey, how about staying for a drink?"

Chase released himself from the cane's grip and folded his arms across his chest, paranoid about House's behavior. "Let me get this straight. You want me to… stay."

House rolled his eyes and shrugged, giving him the aw shucks face. "Come on, Chase. I know you want to. All those lingering looks at my hot bod, you've been waiting four years for this moment. But I am trusting you to not take advantage of poor old me when I get completely smashed." House paused and gave him a pointed look. "So, come on, what do you say? One little drink?"

Chase stared in disbelief. "You… you fired me."

House raised his eyebrows but didn't respond.

Chase tilted his chin upward and tried to mask his astonishment. "You fire me… and you expect me to hang out in your rotting apartment, and have a genial chat over drinks? I'm sorry… but when did we become friends."

House grinned. "Aw… really, Chase, you hurt me. I've known you for four good years and I hold you in the highest regard possible. So, why don't you sit down and let's have a good old heart-to-heart like friends should."

Okay, so House wanted to spend time with him. Chase could deal with that, maybe. Resigned, he observed House's expression but couldn't figure out what he was plotting. God, this night had been weird. House shopping was strange enough, and then having to drive him home and to find this wreck of a place. Then, as if in the middle of a differential diagnosis, something clicked in Chase's mind. "House, where's Wilson?"

House mumbled into the beer can that Chase had brought him. "Why do you want to know?"

Chase oozed confidence, giddy from having something over House. "Well, it's just that Wilson tends to clean up every once in awhile. You know, keep you from going off the deep-end. And why else would you be shopping? You hate shopping."

House let out an overdramatic gasp and clutched his chest. "Well, you know. It's just so sad. Me and Wilson… oh, dear Wilson… he broke my heart. And that was it, we're over. Broken up. Done with."

Chase rolled his eyes and leaned back into the couch, knowing it would take awhile. "Really, what's going on?"

House turned on the TV and flipped through the channels absentmindedly. "Chase, I told you to ignore the rumors going around the nurse's station. Wilson and I are not a married couple… I don't rely on him to do everything. Much."

"I didn't say you were married. I just know that he usually keeps this," he gestured at the surrounding clutter, "from happening."

"Okay, okay. Geez, were you always this nosy? If you must know- which you obviously do- then I'll tell you. Wilson's been on this kick for me to make changes." House drew out the word with a grimace. "And he decided that I used him as a crutch and that I needed to learn to get along without him. So, now, I'm on my own. And, this is the result."

Chase nodded his head. "So, it was a bet."

"Fifty bucks if I could go two months without his help."

Chase had never understood their stupid bets. Although he was sure that Wilson was just using them to get House to do what was good for him. Like that bet he made Cuddy establish- that House couldn't go without vicodin for a week. Wilson had thought he was so sneaky- going through Cuddy- but it was completely obvious what he was up to. This was probably the same deal. He'd be out fifty bucks, but his best friend would be a giant step in the right direction. But, now Chase was stuck in the middle. "So, that's what this is all about, then? You want me to be your temporary Wilson?"

House was easier to figure out then he thought. Well, okay, maybe not sometimes. But after being forced to be around him for four years, you start to be able to find your way around his twisted mind a little bit better.

House seemed unfazed, even though Chase thought he was on a roll in House-reading tonight. "Hey, you both do have the hair."

House suddenly peered closer and Chase fingered his hair self-consciously. "Did you dye your hair?"

"Erm… no."

"Yes, yes you did! It's darker. It's brown. Really, Chase, the nurses would be so disappointed in you."

Not like it mattered anyway, since he was fired.

"Actually, I kind of… un-dyed it." Chase avoided House's stalking eyes.

"Yep. I knew it. Cameron so owes me twenty. She actually thought it was real. But I told her- no ones hair can go from banana-blonde to straw-blonde to dark-blonde, all in a three year period."

Damn, Chase had been so careful. But the store ran out of that brand and then he forgot what shade… and DAMNIT! Now House had more to ridicule him mercilessly about.

"Why would you dye your hair, anyway? The blonde made you look completely unprofessional; Foreman always had to reassure the patients that you were an actual doctor and not just a kid playing dress-up in daddy's clothes- which you kind of were, come to think of it."

Chase chewed on his lip (ignoring the jab) and tried to think of a response. Because House was right (as always.) The blonde hair made him look like a kid. It was a huge mistake to dye it in the first place, but it wasn't like he could stop dying it. Everyone would notice it getting darker and would know that he did things like dye his freakin' hair. And then he would never be able to stop the mockery.

"Ah, you know, the ladies."

Chase thought that would suffice, he didn't really care what House thought anyway (He didn't, right?)

"Oh, right. The reason you took the job in the first place, right? The ladies. I believe your exact words were that you were able to tell women you were a doctor and actually have time to date them. Oh, how disappointed you were when you found out that you had to do actual work."

Chase's eyes widened. "Who told you that?"

House gave a sharp laugh. "Who else? Foreman. I think he was trying to get me to play favorites, as in he was trying to become the favorite"

The Aussie felt his throat constrict in anger. "Is that why you tortured for me all those years. You were trying to get me to quit because you didn't think I wanted the job for the right goddamn reasons?"

House stood up and loomed over him in all his six foot two glory. "Oh, get off it! I knew that you didn't appreciate the job the first day you walked in. You never wanted to be a doctor, and I didn't need Foreman to tell me that." House took a step back and rested his chin on his cane. "Although, let me tell you, he did. A lot. What did you ever do to him, anyway, 'cause the boy really does not like you."

Chase shifted uncomfortably under House's gaze. "Foreman's a bastard. He thinks that because he's from the 'bad' parts of town he's better than me or something. Thinks I had it so easy my whole life that he should start making it more difficult for me now."

After this proclamation Chase wondered once again what the hell was happening. Was he having an actual conversation with House? Were they being honest. And where were all the insults? Yes, there were a few faint-hearted ones thrown his way. But not once did his former boss call him incompetent or an idiot… or British.

And bonding over Foreman-bashing? Way weird. Fun, but weird.

Chase got antsy and brushed past a towering House to the other side of the room, wanting to regress to their usual relationship: Chase quietly loathing while House completely indifferent, unless opportunities of torment came along.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a new-looking guitar, the only thing that looked clean in the whole godforsaken place. He didn't bother asking permission (House wouldn't, so why should he. It's not like he was getting paid anymore.) and he gingerly picked it up. He fingered the frets with his left hand and strummed softly, noticing how in-tune it was. He played the first few chords to an old camp song and whispered the lyrics to himself, mostly for lack of knowledge of any other song.

Hey, if House decided that they would be friends then Chase would ride the wave… and enjoy the benefits- like his cool guitar.

And he played the instrument, later accompanied by a slightly drunk House on the piano, and they made their own jazzy little tune, that sounded loads better when buzzed. House fell asleep with his head rested on his arms, drooling onto the fine wood of the piano. And, only slightly after that, a light-headed Chase snuggled into the couch and forgot the fact that this was the apartment of the man who fired him with no warning… the home of the man he so despised…

And he completely ignored the high-pitched ringing of the phone in his pocket- 'Cameron Calling' flashing alarmingly on its front.

A/N: You like? I'm starting to think of this as a 'practice' Housefic. A little lesson with the characters- 'cause they are much trickier than the sit-com characters I'm used to. Hope I'm doing an okay job with them. Review, please!