I've been attacked by a plot bunny. It wrestled me to the ground and wouldn't let go.

Yeah, Yeah. I don't own House. I do have some popsicle sticks and some glue: not really worth filing a lawsuit, is it?

Dr. Robert Chase stared at the squares of the daily crossword puzzle until they blurred. The little lines dancing only in his vision did nothing to help him make up his mind. He was sure that his decision making was being impeded by the fact that he could not stop singing, Should I stay or should I go now? to himself over and over again. One line and the tune was all he could remember. It was maddening.

He had not seen Cameron or Foreman since the punch. He had no idea what they had heard or what they would believe. The way they had been treating him, it was more than likely they would assume he had sold out House and deserved the fist to his jaw.

He sighed. Cameron and Foreman were certainly would not fall into the "reasons to stay" list. They were bad enough when they were at each other's throats, but their alliance since Foreman's near death experience made them almost unbearable. Then again, neither of them deserved the power of influencing his decision, so they would not go into his mental "reasons to go" list either.

He supposed that anyone else in his position would have gone marching up to Cuddy's office, told her he wanted out of his contract, severance pay, and to file a complaint. Or they would have gone to a lawyer and sued for much more than severance pay would have been.

He did not behave like a normal person because his reaction was not the normal response. He was not angry. He wanted to be angry, to be normal. But anger was nothing of what he was feeling.

He was disappointed. House was wrong. He was right. He had the epiphany in time to have the surgery stopped so that Alice did not lose her arm and leg. House had not wanted to listen to him. He had put his pain ahead of the child's well being. House had hit him. And, yet, when he weighed things in the light of morning, House was still the person he respected most.

Part of Chase's mind screamed for him to run before he got in too deep. The other part knew he was already in too deep because he cared enough about House to want to stick around. Even though the pathos was completely one-sided, he felt like House needed him. Someone had to help the others see that the pain was real and the drugs were his only solace. House functioned well with Vicodin. He barely functioned without it. Unbearable pain is described as unbearable for a reason. At least House had a reason for his addiction.

Chase knew that people with addictions were unpredictable. How much danger would he be in if he stayed? What precedent had been set?

Chase looked up from his thoughts when he heard his colleagues entering the room. He quickly looked down again. The two of them stopped talking. Cameron took a seat and Foreman went straight for the coffee pot. Keeping his eyes to the table, Chase couldn't help but smirk. Their silence was ridiculously juvenile.

Foreman set down his coffee and took a seat next to Cameron. Chase studied his puzzle, or at least he pretended to study it. He was not ready to answer questions about the purple bruise on his face.

A few moments passed in silence before House came in. His complexion was pale, dark circles were under his eyes, and his brow was moist with perspiration. He looked right past Cameron and Foreman and approached Chase, slamming his cane against the table.

Startled, Chase backed away from him. He looked up to try to gauge his boss's expression. Anger. Mistrust.

"Have you seen Cuddy?"

"No," Chase answered, keeping his voice low. "No need."

"I told you I don't need you to cover my ass. You have witnesses."

Cameron and Foreman both watched the exchange with confused countenances. Perhaps gossip had not reached them yet.

"It's between you and me," Chase replied.

"Why?" House asked, his expression dark. "Are you going to run to Tritter?"

Chase frowned. "I wouldn't go to that slimy bastard if you beaten me with your cane and let the girl go home without her arm and leg." He had a chill, remembering the way Tritter had patted his shoulder in the cafeteria. It was much more disconcerting than House's fist.

"Why are you still here?" House asked. Suspicion.

"You want me to go?" Chase countered bluntly. He reached down to pick up his satchel from where it was resting next to the conference table.

"I want to know why you haven't gone to Cuddy or Tritter. I hit you." Confusion.

"Once." Chase replied. He let his satchel remain where it was.

"You're not concerned?"

"Of course I am. The first time someone hits you, they're sorry. It was a moment of weakness or an overpowering emotion, or in your case, judgment clouded by pain."

"First time?" House repeated. Curios.

Chase continued. "The second time someone hits you, it's your fault. You did something stupid. You're a worthless waste of human existence and you deserved it."

House said nothing, but his eyes denoted that he was actually listening and inviting Chase to continue his explanation.

"The next time someone hits you, nothing is said. It's not justified. It's not denied. It's the way it is."

Cameron and Foreman may as well have been absent because the only two people that mattered at the moment were House and Chase.

"So, that's the conundrum. You're never sorry. Maybe you already think I'm a stupid waste of human existence. Do you, outside of an intense situation, believe that I deserved to be hit?" he asked House directly. "If we've skipped over stage one and stage two, I can accept that. But, you are not my father. You are not my mother. I do not have to stay here. I will not stay here and be your punching bag, House."

House nodded, understanding more of what Chase was saying than the other two would ever know. "Chase, you were right."

Their eyes met. Chase nodded. Percipience. House blinked and then turned around to the whiteboard. He was tired and he was still in pain. "Patient is a 43 year old male…"