Work Text:
Chase is sitting at a corner table outside the cafeteria when Wilson spots him, a cup of tea in hand. (No, not tea, he thinks, he's not British. Thinking he is yet another reminder that Wilson spends far more time with House than is strictly wise.)
Wilson sits down and, with no preamble, says, "He's not going to fire you."
Chase looks only mildly surprised that Wilson would know. "He's not?"
"No. If he were going to, he already would have."
Chase just nods, none of the relief Wilson had expected, takes another drink. "Thanks."
Wilson sighs and squints against the sunlight. Chase looks tired, worried, vaguely frayed around the edges. He's looked like this for weeks now and though he and Chase have never quite been friends (because that's the way House wants it, even if Wilson isn't supposed to know), he remembers that Chase used to smile, used to laugh, that he had a sharp and irreverent wit that was at least half the reason House kept him around. That man has been replaced with this one, whose own guilt and regret is far worse than anything House could inflict upon him. House doesn't know guilt and regret, not really, and Wilson wonders if he's even capable of recognizing it in Chase.
He asks what everyone wants to know and from the look on Chase's face, it's the first time anyone has. "Why?"
Chase finishes whatever was in his cup (and it was tea, Wilson can see now he was right) and tears idly at the paper rim. He seems to be giving it some thought, which surprises Wilson; he'd assumed they were thoughts that already kept him constant company. (Or perhaps, he reflects a touch bitterly, that's particular to a marriage that's falling to pieces.)
Finally, Chase gathers the torn pieces into a neat pile and shrugs. "I don't know."
Wilson has no choice but to take that at face value. He has some ideas of his own; he's known House long enough and well enough to understand what draws people to him. He doesn't know Chase the same way, though, and his guesses would at best be shots in the dark.
"Why do you do it?" Chase asks unexpectedly, then clarifies, "With House, I mean. You two..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely. (And that, Wilson thinks, is as good a representation of their relationship as any.)
Usually this would give him pause, but the echoes come easily. "There are five things I have: no kids, a marriage -- my third, no less -- about to go up in flames, a golfing championship I have no hope of defending, this job, and an incredibly fucked-up friendship with a man who...." he goes quiet and repeats Chase's vague gesture.
Chase laughs, and it sounds just like Wilson remembers. "You don't know either, do you?"
Wilson pauses, then grins. "No. I guess I don't." He stands to leave, whatever work he was doing done, and Chase smiles up at him.
"Thanks."
And Wilson knows that at best, he's pushing the boundaries of the gray areas. At worst, he's violating at least three ethical principles (and those are only the ones that spring immediately to mind). But it seems like maybe he understands Chase more than he thought he did and even a shot in the dark is better than nothing at all. "You should call your dad, Chase. See how he's feeling."
Chase frowns, then nods. "Yeah, okay."
As Wilson walks away, he can hear Chase shredding at the cup again.
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It's the middle of the following week, Wilson and House sitting down to lunch while House makes yet another in a long series of amusing and inappropriate comments about various parts of Cuddy's anatomy. Wilson tuned him out ten minutes ago at "funbags" and it's with his diverted attention that he realizes he's drinking tea. That he has, in fact, been drinking tea for the last week and a half.
He didn't even think he liked tea.
He laughs.
House is miffed, to say the least, and even moreso when Wilson declines to explain.
But he can't. It's something only Chase would understand.