#house.md

[vicodini]

1. Them secretly flirting

ₛ₀₆ₑ₁₅

House is secretly relieved and in love with Chase, and thrilled to see him.

Chase’s smile is totally giving off “Hey Greg, I still love you!” vibes. It’s so cute. And House, bless his oblivious heart, is completely missing the memo. too stunted by Chase’s pretty face and hair.

Chouse is perfection

[beastblade69]

still can't figure out how to stylize wilsons face BUT drawing house is satisfying

will try to draw smth better soon ig, college is fucking killing me (I'm already dead)

[beastblade69]

NEVER LET METALHEADS INTO FANDOMS. BEHOLD... ROCKSTAR HOUSE

ANNNDDDDDED FINALLY HILSONN

YASSSSSSS

IDK WHYYY THIS SONG ATARTED PLAYING AND I IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT OF THEM 😭😭😭 HELP IT'S ABOUT A THREESOME HELPPP

these are messy BUT at least I was able to draw smth that doesn't look like complete crap 💯💯💯 art student struggles are real

[vicodini]

My baby.

Beside the House, Robert Chase is the most tragic carachter. He's got a alcoholic mother and a father who didn't find the milk and a divorce later on.

My poor baby can't catch a break, its sad. Not only that but between that his father leaving him as a child, comeing back his father dies because of cancer.

The most tragic is that the fandom doesn't like him.

He's a good if not great carachter

He's funny at times a little awkward even.

He's bonita

Both him an House are surely autistic

Chase is my baby, and I love him

[vicodini]

2. Them secretly flirting

S4.E12

Blinkie made by @echoesinamber

Chase just walks into the office, asking if House needs more time. I like to think out of context and say he's indirectly asking House if he has had enough time to decide or needs more time to decide about a date.

House be like "No, I want that date, Now." He just doesn't say it. He just looks as Chase and be like, I'm bussy can this wait a minute?

[vicodini]

I still love you  - Choreman

Picture by - @justtoomuch

The stale air in the conference room had a faint scent of dry-erase marker and burnt coffee. They had been stuck in there for the past hour and a half, debating. Dr. House, perched dramatically before the whiteboard, resembled a crazed conductor leading a silent orchestra.  He scribbled barely decipherable medical symptoms, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath, his brow furrowed in concentration as he impatiently waited for someone – anyone – to grasp at something even if it were just straws. The whiteboard itself was a chaotic tapestry of interconnected lines, half-formed diagrams, and abbreviated medical terms, a visual representation of the turbulent process churning in his brilliant but erratic mind.  Empty coffee cups and discarded papers littered the table. 

“Fever. Rash. Elevated CRP. Pain localized in the joints. What am I missing?”

Taub leaned back in his chair, tossing a pen between his fingers. “Could be viral arthritis.”

“Could be you’re wasting oxygen,” House fired back. “Foreman?”

“Still waiting on the lumbar puncture. CSF looked clear visually, but we’ll know more when—”

“Blah, blah, tests take time,” House interrupted. “How about someone has an opinion before our patient flatlines out of boredom?”

Chase sat across the worn oak table in the dimly lit office, his posture rigid.  The harsh fluorescent lights above cast an unflattering glow on his face, highlighting the ashen pallor of his skin – a stark contrast to the deep tan he'd cultivated during his two years working outdoors.  The usually crisp knot of his silk tie was loosened, hanging slack against his starched shirt.  His hands, usually expressive and animated, were clenched tightly in the deep pockets of his expensive wool overcoat, the tremors barely able to be hidden.

“I still think it could be vasculitis,” he said, voice faint. “Could explain the systemic inflammation—"

House cut him off with a wave of the marker. “Oh great, vasculitis. Let me guess what’s next: you’ll say lupus.”

Taub smirked. “It’s never lupus.”

Everyone chuckled except Chase. He was breathing too fast. The kind of breath that tried to go unnoticed — short, silent, forced through the nose. He swayed slightly on his feet, then stiffened like he could will himself steady. Foreman noticed the stillness first. Chase’s posture was too rigid now, as though he were holding himself up by sheer will. His lips had lost their color.

“Robert?” Foreman asked carefully, standing halfway.

Chase blinked. His eyes tried to find the sound, but they didn't land anywhere. He opened his mouth, like he was going to speak—then. A cracking sound as his knees suddenly give out and hit the floor. His body followed fast — head slamming into the corner of the table on the way down before crashing to the floor like dead weight. The impact echoed. The entire room froze.

“CHASE!” Foreman lunged, nearly knocking over his chair as he dropped to his knees. “Somebody call a code!”

Chase lay motionless, sprawled out unnaturally, one arm pinned awkwardly under his torso. Blood trickled from his temple where it hit the table edge, sharp against the floor. His chest rose too fast, his breathing shallow and erratic.

House crouched beside them, all traces of sarcasm gone. “He’s febrile,” he said instantly, the back of his hand brushing Chase’s forehead. “Boiling.”

“Skin’s clammy,” Foreman muttered, fingers pressed to Chase’s neck. “Pulse is weak and thready. He’s hypotensive.” His voice cracked, just slightly, but he didn’t stop working.

A nurse rushed in with a crash cart. “Page the ICU and bring a gurney!” Foreman ordered. “We need fluids, O2—stat!”

House stared for a moment longer, then stepped back and out of the way. His face had gone still. Foreman stayed kneeling, his hand on Chase’s chest, counting each rise and fall, willing them not to slow.

The ICU room was too quiet.

Chase had a nasal cannula threaded under his nose. His vitals had stabilized, but only after two liters of fluids, oxygen, and a careful cocktail of antivirals. His fever hadn’t broken yet.

“Viral pneumonia,” Foreman muttered to himself. “Progressed into sepsis. He never told me. He lives with me, and he didn’t say a word.”

House stood at the glass, watching from just outside the room, his cane tapping once against the floor. “He’s a doctor,” he said finally. “Which means he’s an idiot when it comes to treating himself. We’re trained to ignore symptoms until they scream.”

“He collapsed in front of us,” Foreman snapped, voice lower but sharper. “Hit his head hard enough to need stitches. He could’ve died.”

“And you think yelling at me will make you feel less guilty?”

Foreman didn’t answer. He turned back to Chase, who stirred faintly in the bed — eyelids fluttering without opening.

House tilted his head, something unreadable in his eyes. “Don’t let him go back to work too fast. He’ll try.”

Chase woke up hours later. His first sound was a soft, pained breath. Then his eyes opened, slowly. The light hurt. The room smelled too sterile. But when he turned his head slightly, the blur resolved into Foreman, sitting in a chair pulled close, their hands already laced together.

“You’re here,” Chase rasped, barely audible.

“I never left,” Foreman replied quietly. His thumb brushed over Chase’s knuckles. “Jesus, Robbie. You scared the hell out of me.” The thin green line jumped rhythmically over the black screen. Foreman had known that Chase loved being called Robbie and now he had proof on the monitor.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Chase murmured, trying to smile. It faltered into a grimace. “Didn’t think it was serious.” Foreman shook his head, looking at his lover. 

“You collapsed,” his voice shaking now. “Hit your head. You were septic. You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to be weak.”

Foreman leaned forward, forehead gently pressing to Chase’s. “You’re not weak,” he whispered. “I love you." Chase swallowed. He knew Foreman loved him, that's why they were together, and he loved the other man a ton too.” And I want you to stop pretending everything’s fine just because you’re good at hiding it.”

Chase closed his eyes. The edges of his mouth twitched, something close to surrender. “Okay.”

“Good.” Foreman pulled back, brushing his thumb along Chase’s cheekbone. “You’re going to stay here until the fever breaks. Then we’re going home, and you’re not touching a lab for a while.”

“You hate when I’m homesick.”

“I hate when you almost die in front of me more.”

[beastblade69]

HELLO GAY PEOPLE!!

happy to present y'all my new hilson drawing

ta-daaaaaa!!

wilson is in charge of their relationship obviously

aaaanddddd my fave asian gal parkkk

[vicodini]

secrets and thoughts

Chapter 1

Genre: Sick fick • Angst • Drama • Fluff

Pairing:

Gregory House x Robert Chase

Blinkie by @echoesinamber

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

The hum of the Centrifuge filled the otherwise silent lab,Chase sat hunched staring in the machine, which wasn't the smartest idea. He had lowered the brightness of the light as it made the throbbing ache worse, and while he could look up and away from the spinning collection bottles, ‌he didn't, which made the pounding worse. And yet, when he finally looked up, he saw black spots and streaks around him. He probably should’ve gone home that morning, but he’d been telling himself that he could run one more test. Meanwhile, House had been circling him all day. Every time Chase thought he was able to sneak away to an on-call room, House appeared and gave him either tests, research or other work.

About an hour ago, nausea had reared its ugly head. He had tried taking some paracetamol and metoclopramide against it, but it didn't do much, if anything at all. He adjusted the lab coat that had slipped off his shoulder, tugging it tighter to his body. He noticed how his body seemed to cool and warm up in bursts. He exhaled as he stared at the wall and dragged his hands over his temples. It had been days since he’d slept properly; he had been surviving on coffee, cola and Red Bulls. He looked back down at the Centrifuge hoping the machine had completed its cycle, which, to his dismay, it hadn’t

"Funny," House's voice sliced through the room as he stood in the doorway. His tone was low and laced with mockery. "I thought you were supposed to be healthy." Chase rolled his eyes, of course. Of all the people to walk in and see him like this, it had to be House. House leaned against the doorframe at his right side. "Unless the new experiment involves seeing how long you can stare at spinning bottles before you faint." Chase relaxed slightly, his jaw loosening as he turned to face House. The light behind House made the pounding in his head worse, seeming to streak.

“Not your best poker face,” House added with a sigh. He sighed? House doesn't sigh, he groans or stays quiet and judges others, instead. He moved closer, his weight placed a tad bit more on his cane as he limped. Chase looked back at his work.

“I’m fine,” it came out a tad bit too fast. He was used to saying it was the easiest thing to say after, ‘don't worry’. It was easier not to worry other beings, it wasn't like anyone had cared much about him anyway. His father ran away, and his mother was a drunkard who didn't care about him and on a bad day he would kick him black and blue. Life was easier when no one cared anyway.

House’s brow lifted while the corner of his lip lifted up. “Fine. The universal word for ‘don’t ask me what’s actually wrong.’” He walked into the laboratory letting the door fall closed behind him as his eyes seemed to scan over Chase, the younger doctor meanwhile and turned back to his Centrifuge. “Lucky for you, beside that fever you have I know what it is.” Chase also knew it was a migraine.

“Its Migraine”

“Tell me something new, House.” Chase murmured, not really caring about it, even if the room was spinning he continued with what he was working on. The centrifuge whirred louder, too loud. Chase clenched his cheeks, trying to ignore how much louder the machine sounded.

House placed his hand on Chases shoulder and shook his head, “Go home,” House finely spoke, there was no sarcasm. There should've been a joke, a snarky comment, a sarcastic quip but there was nothing. “You need some chicken soup and a dark room.” Chase frowned, that was new. House not being sarcastic or an ass was not something that was seen every day, or never.

Chase squinted his eyes, blinking at everything that seemed to grow louder, the beeping in the room further down the floor, the walking and talking from the people outside the lab. Until everything came to a halt, the slice became louder and the world darker. The last thing he felt was a hand on his shoulder.