Work Text:
GET A ROOM
"He hit me. He bloody hit me." Chase gave an incredulous little laugh; even hours after the event, he still couldn't quite believe it. One fist thumped against the door frame; he lifted his head so that the blond bangs fell away from his eyes, revealing an unnatural brightness there. Chase's grin struck Wilson as more of a grimace, a desperate attempt at a smile. "He punched me. I never expected that. With everything else, with all the shit he gives out, I never thought he'd hit me." The Australian's tone was light, conversational, and, Wilson thought, tinged with incipient hysteria – a natural development for any poor sucker who braved a relationship with House. As House's best and long-time friend, hadn't Wilson himself been driven to absurd heights of frustration, head-shaking disbelief, and stunned speechlessness in the face of House's overwhelming arrogance or stubbornness? The oncologist could only imagine how much more a romantic partner of House would have to endure – yet, like Chase, Wilson would never have expected physical assault from the man. He stared unhappily at the livid bruise on Chase's face and his shoulders sagged, but, nevertheless, Wilson stepped back, pulling the door open wide, and told Chase to come in. After all, what choice did he have?
Chase paced, hands in his pockets and head down, back and forth between the window and the door of Wilson's hotel room.
Wilson, hesitantly: "He's not himself. With this whole Tritter mess, and without Vicodin, House isn't ..."
"Do you think you need to tell me that?" Chase stopped his angry perambulations and glared at Wilson. "I know you're his best friend, but I live with him; do you think I don't know what this is doing to him? But what do we do about it? "
Wilson could find no words; the immensity of House's situation overwhelmed him. Cringing at his own feeble remarks even as he made them, Wilson stammered inadequately, "He loves you. He really loves you, you know that, right?"
Chase closed his eyes in frustration. "That's not ... yes, I know, of course I know. At least, I thought I knew but now ..." He sighed, raked his hand frantically through his shaggy blond locks. "No, I don't mean ... oh, I don't know. He loves me, but he's become cruel since Tritter and since he's stopped taking his pills. I told you about that little girl's surgery – he just wouldn't be bothered to listen to me. He would've cut off her arm and her leg. And he looked at me ... he looked at me like he hated me. I'm trying – trying – to stand by him, to not take it personally, to remind myself how much he must be suffering without his meds ... but ..." Chase took a deep breath. "I'm sort of afraid of him. He's out of control." He looked at Wilson beseechingly, and Wilson felt a surge of protective tenderness toward the young man.
"I don't know. I don't know what to do." Wilson didn't reveal that the incidents with the little girl and with Chase getting punched had finally driven home to him that he couldn't rely on House to do what was necessary, that he'd approached Tritter and negotiated a deal for House in exchange for his own testimony about the forged prescriptions. The oncologist looked at the livid bruise – purple and blue, passion and sorrow - marring Chase's smooth skin and marveled at the seemingly infinite ways in which House's love could wreak damage as well as delight.
"Um ... anyway," said Chase, fidgeting uncomfortably under Wilson's gaze, "I didn't know where to go, so I came here. Can I stay?" He looked hopefully at Wilson's face, and shifted from one foot to the other.
Wilson wondered yet again at the bizarre blend of boyish awkwardness and ageless understanding that made up Robert Chase, and, determinedly resisting his sudden urge to stroke the Australian's face (or hair ... or both) in resonant empathy, said, "Of course, you can stay. Make yourself at home."
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When House arrived home that night – his nerves jangling, the pain in his leg searing – it took him longer than it should have to make sense of the weird sensation of emptiness that he felt as soon as he walked in. He knew something was wrong, but he was distracted and in pain, so it took several minutes of banging around the apartment, calling wildly for Chase (each cry increasing in urgency), before he registered that his lover wasn't there. "No," House said darkly to himself, "Not 'not here,' but 'gone.' There's a difference." He breathed deeply, trying to control himself, to gather his thoughts, but it wasn't until after he'd hurled a few breakable items furiously at the wall that House knew what he had to do.
Minutes later, House was tearing down the street on his motorcycle. And as he rode, the same scene kept playing and replaying, over and over, in his mind:
It had been only about 2 months since he and Chase had begun dating, or screwing, or hanging out together, or whatever the hell they were doing. Chase was at House's apartment. But it had been one of those nights when no amount of Vicodin could sufficiently alleviate House's pain, and Chase had looked on helplessly as House, his face contorted in agony, groaned and writhed on the bed. Chase had tentatively approached him, not knowing how to help yet desperately wanting to, but House had lashed out at him angrily.
"Get away from me! Damn it! Don't touch me. Get the fuck out of here – I don't want you here. Get out!"
Chase hadn't felt hurt – only helpless. He could see how badly House was suffering – was, in fact, shocked and frightened by it despite all his experience as a doctor: it was so horribly different when it was someone you knew (someone you ... loved??) that was in pain. Chase could feel himself beginning to panic as he hovered ineffectively around the diagnostician, but he knew one thing for certain: he was not going to leave House in this condition, no matter how cuttingly House insulted him. So when House stopped ordering him out of the apartment and, instead, begun to demand Chase to bring him the morphine kit, the blond (who had no idea that House owned any such thing) rushed to follow House's gasped directions and do so. Chase, as a doctor, of course knew the danger of what House was about to do, but he made only half-hearted protests. And then, upon seeing House's fumbling, frantic attempts to inject the drug and blind to all but the overwhelming desire to see House free from such intense pain, Chase had snatched the syringe from House's hand and injected the morphine himself. Then, sitting behind House on the bed, Chase, a stricken expression on his face, had held House tightly against his chest and buried his head against House's neck while the drug took effect. House had muttered, just before descending into oblivion,
"I'm glad you didn't go. I don't sleep as well when you're not here."
Chase had replied simply, "Then I'll always be here."
It was those five words – Chase's quiet little profession of unshakeable devotion - that echoed in House's brain as he drove.
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"He left me. He fucking left me."
House's expression and tone of voice proclaimed a total incomprehension and incredulity that such a thing could have happened. He rested his head against the door frame, and waited for Wilson's response. There was none. House exhaled loudly, then impatiently burst through the doorway, pushing his friend aside as he stormed into the living room of Wilson's hotel suite. Wilson followed wearily.
"House ... what happened today?"
"I just told you! Chase took off. Are you deaf?"
"Uh ... you're saying he took off for no reason?"
House stopped his wild pacing and narrowed his blue eyes at Wilson. "Well," he said. "There may have been a little situation ... oh, fuck it. You know already what happened, I can tell. You've got that constipated look in your eyes that you always get when I screw up."
Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "You're just now acknowledging you screwed up?!"
House replied in a cold, steely voice, "I didn't do anything wrong until today. Granted, punching Chase was a pretty big screw-up, but the rest of this crap is not my fault!"
Wilson sighed tiredly. "House. Come on. Take some responsibility for what's happening."
But House's attention was elsewhere, focused on a light brown leather jacket draped carelessly over a chair.
"That's Chase's jacket. I'd recognize it anywhere; it's the sole piece of clothing he owns that isn't hideous." House swung around to face Wilson. "Is he here?"
"Yes, he's here. House, he just showed up, upset over everything that happened, and said he needed a place to stay ..." Wilson's voice trailed off under the force of House's furious glare. "What? You're mad at me now? After all the problems you've caused me, you're mad because I gave your boyfriend a place to stay? A place to stay after you punched him? After you punched him because he tried to stop you from ordering a surgery that would have needlessly maimed a little girl?" Wilson stared incredulously at House, but finally said resignedly, "He wanted to take a shower. He's either in the bedroom or bathroom. Go on – go get him. Just try not to hit him again."
House snapped, "I don't need advice from you, Mr. I-can't-keep-it-in-my-pants. Don't pull that self-righteous crap with me; you must have been panting at the idea of him staying here."
"Yes. Right. This whole situation with Tritter and everything was a devious plot on my part to steal Chase away from you. You did nothing wrong; you're the innocent victim here," replied Wilson disgustedly.
House's lips tightened and he looked at the floor. For a moment, Wilson thought he'd actually reached House, that House was actually going to admit his culpability for all that had happened – but he was disappointed. House merely made an impatient noise and, turning his back on the oncologist, stomped over to the door leading to the suite's bedroom. All House could think of was Chase's voice assuring him that he'd always be there, murmuring the soft words over and over into House's ear, against his neck, until the morphine sent House into a drugged sleep. Everybody lies - but – God! – House had believed Chase! He'd let himself be supported by the Australian's arms; he'd relinquished control not only to the morphine, but to the young man who had whispered to him so earnestly and so lovingly ... and then who had fled to Wilson's hotel room at the first sign of trouble. House didn't knock on the door, but threw it open, entered the bedroom, and then slammed it closed behind him. He was furious.
The sight that met the diagnostician's eyes didn't serve to calm him. Chase was obviously fresh out of the shower: his thick, golden hair was wet and slicked back behind his ears, and he was clad only in one of the hotel's white terry-cloth towels, wrapped – loin cloth fashion – around his hips. Drops of water still glistened on his smooth shoulders as Chase turned – with that odd combination of puppy dog hopefulness and unruffled acceptance that so fascinated House – and faced the other man. House was maddened at the thought that it could just as easily have been Wilson who'd come into the bedroom and seen Chase half-naked – in fact, it would have been Wilson, if House hadn't arrived unexpectedly. Fuck, fuck, fuck. House forgot that he had meant to apologize to Chase for punching him, forgot the shock he'd suffered in the empty apartment when he'd realized just how badly he'd treated the boy over the last several days during the curtailment of his precious Vicodin supply. House saw the anxious hope that shone in Chase's clear eyes, and read there an invitation – an invitation for Wilson, not for him. Chase saw the cold, angry expression on House's face, and looked down at the floor.
House, his tone bitter, finally said, "Didn't take you long, did it?"
"What?"
"You heard me. It didn't take you long to move on, to hop into bed with someone else." House couldn't even look at Chase. He stared fixedly at the floor, and heard without surprise the fierceness in his voice.
"What are you talking about?" Chase's blue eyes widened.
"Did it have to be Wilson?" House's cry was anguished. "Did it? Did you have to go to him? You fuck me over yet again, but this time, you make sure it's worse. Now I've got nothing! I've got fucking nothing!"
Chase looked stunned. "House ..."
"You disgust me," House said icily. "Go on ... enjoy this cozy little love-nest. Let Wilson fuck you. Let him kiss you, and put his hands on you, and ..."
"Shut up! Shut up! You ... are you crazy? I'm not doing anything with Wilson!"
"Maybe not yet," House yelled. "But you're all ready and waiting for him, aren't you? Jesus, Chase!"
"You're mad." Chase stared in disbelief at House. "House, you know I ..."
"You what? You love me? You'll always be with me?" House couldn't contain his rage.
Chase felt a despairing sense of failure well up inside him, the same surge of guilt and helplessness which had crippled him whenever, despite all his careful efforts, his mother's drunkenness had disrupted his young life. The knot inside his chest tightened, and, for an instant, Chase thought he was going to vomit.
"You hit me," the Australian finally choked out. "You hit me!" Chase glared at House in angry bewilderment. "What the hell do you think I am? Do you think I should just take whatever the fuck you decide to hand out? Do you think I'm so under your spell that it doesn't matter how you treat me?" Chase was shouting now, his face flushed and his fists clenched. "I take all kinds of bloody shit from you: at the office, because you're my boss, and at home, because ... because I love you. Do you even realize? Do you even realize how selfish, how demanding you are? I put up with it, your friends put up with it, because, for some daft reason, we think you're worth it. I know it's been miserable for you lately; I know that without the Vicodin you're used to, you're in terrible pain. I know that you're suffering, and, God, Greg, I'd give anything to be able to help, but ..."
"You think you know about me?" House shouted. He violently swept his cane along the bureau, scattering Wilson's personal effects everywhere. "You don't know anything! You know nothing about me!"
"Alright! Alright!" Chase grabbed House's shoulder, and made the older man look him in the face. "I don't know, I can't know what it's like for you. I couldn't know what it was like for my mother, either. But I can love you anyway; I can try to help keep you together; I'll do anything, everything, for you, that I can – as long as I know you love me, and need me. As long as you don't take me for granted, as long as you appreciate ..."
"You told me you'd stay with me," House blurted out.
"What?"
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"That's what you said. You told me you'd always be there with me." House palmed his face wearily; his anger had suddenly dissipated and now he just felt exhausted and unhappy. "Don't you remember that night? That night with the morphine? You said you wouldn't leave me. But you did. You ran off, straight to my best friend's hotel room. I ..." House abruptly broke off his sentence. Then he said quietly, "You're right, Chase. I should never have hit you. It was inexcusable. Inexcusable. And ... and I'm sorry."
Chase blinked. "It can't happen again," he said uncertainly.
"No."
Chase saw how stiffly House was holding himself, sensed how difficult it had been for the older man to speak the words he had spoken, and the blond's face softened. "House," he said tenderly. "I left the apartment. I didn't leave YOU."
House gave a calculated, nonchalant shrug. "I'd get over it if you did, you know," he said defensively.
Chase knew House well enough to recognize these words as nothing more than the product of House's pride, and, out of love, Chase gave the older man the gift of not taking up the challenge they presented. So Chase merely said, "I know," calmly and without rancor. House's true feelings had been made clear enough, and they both knew it.
"Good."
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Finally House said, "Chase ..."
The hesitant knock on the door startled them both; they'd forgotten all about Wilson, waiting anxiously in the suite's sitting room. The oncologist's voice sounded nervous: "Uh ... everything ok in there?"
"Go away," said House darkly.
Silence.
Then, doubtfully, "Umm ... Chase?"
Chase looked surprised, House, irritated.
"I'm fine!"
"He's fine!"
From the other side of the door came, "Uh ... okay" and then the sound of Wilson walking away.
House grinned cheekily at Chase. "Looks like you've got yourself a knight in shining armor, Princess."
The blond gave a small smile, but his tone was serious as he replied, "I'd better not ever need one, House."
All traces of his former grin gone, his expression grave, House replied, "I promise you - you won't. I can't tell you I won't act like an ass, but I can swear to you that I'll never lay hands on you again."
Chase nodded. Then House, uncomfortable with the emotional current in the air, put on an innocent look and qualified his statement, "Well, except for when I grope you ... and when I ..."
"Alright, I get it, House!" Chase rolled his eyes. He figured that if he had a nickel for every time he rolled his eyes at House's behavior, he'd be richer than Bill Gates.
"So ... how about the make-up sex?"
Chase laughed. "I didn't know you were a 'Seinfeld' fan! But the make-up sex will have to wait; after all, this is Wilson's room, and he might not appreciate us having sex in it. Anyway, I thought your leg ..." His voice trailed off questioningly.
"I've taken care of that," said House dismissively. "And you'd better take advantage of my proposition, because you probably won't get another chance for a while. So now's your chance to stock up on some Greg House lovin'," the diagnostician leered.
"What are you talking about?"
House decided not to mention the latest developments in the Tritter situation. Chase would find out soon enough, and if House told him now, it would seriously decrease his chances of getting any tonight. But he had to explain about his leg, so he admitted, "I used up all my Vicodin."
"All of it?"
"Yeah - so how about getting naked?"
"But, House - that was your supply for the week! Cuddy's not going to give you any more. What are you going to do for the next 5 days?" Chase was exasperated, and his concern for House came out as anger. He raked his hand through his hair. "What the fuck were you thinking? Or couldn't you control yourself?"
"Calm down. I took them because the dosage that Cuddy prescribed was doing fuck all for me ... as you have reason to know. I needed to be able to talk to you. I couldn't do that with the pain I was in. I had to be able to function, to find you and bring you home. So I took them all."
Chase was speechless, moved beyond measure by his lover's confession, by the lengths to which House had gone in order to reconcile with him. He felt his love for the older man well up inside him, reduce him to a wordless humility, and his heart ached with it all. House was trusting him with this revelation, and Chase would not betray that trust by displaying too much emotion, making House more self-conscious as a result. So he just murmured, "Greg ... oh, Greg," and, tilting his head up, softly and sweetly brushed his lips against House's. He tried to put all his love, all his heart into that brief kiss. Then, sighing, he rested his blond head against House's shoulder.
The tension began to disappear from House's body, and he curled one arm around Chase. With the other hand, he brushed the hair - those ridiculous bangs! - which was, as usual, flopping goofily over Chase's blue-green eyes. "Jesus," House wondered with affectionate amusement, trying without success to keep the long hair from falling right back over the intensivist's face. "How the hell does he work like this? How can he see anything?" The kid looked like a sheepdog! Well, ok, a sexy blond sheepdog, but a sheepdog nonetheless. House looked down at the beautiful face resting on his shoulder: the eyelashes fluttering against the smooth cheeks, the alluring mouth, and the fair skin, marred by ugly bruise on the jaw. House winced. The discoloration served to strengthen his conviction that he would never be able to make Chase (or any lover) happy for long (hadn't Stacy been proof of that?) - but, with the Australian, he wanted very badly to try. Anyway, he knew that, at least for now, Chase really did love him. Sighing happily, House buried his face in Chase's soft hair. He said gruffly, "Love you, baby."
Chase lifted his head, a million-watt smile lighting up his face. House thought, in the instant before Chase kissed him, that the eyes turned up to his looked as clear and as tempting as twin swimming pools, and he drew a long, shuddering breath. Chase bit his lip; it never failed to amaze and astonish him that he could elicit such a response from House: that he was granted the privilege of seeing a side of House unknown to almost anyone else: that when they were alone, House called him, "baby," and sometimes even "sweetheart." Chase reached up to pull House's head down to his own and soon they were kissing in earnest, their passion and urgency immediate, House breathing hoarsely into Chase's open mouth, Chase trying frantically to pull House's body even closer to his own. House's hands on his ass made Chase wild; he groaned and, taking House's tongue into his mouth, sucked it in the way he knew drove House mad. The terry-cloth towel was easily ripped from around Chase's waist and dashed to the carpet, and Chase's knees almost buckled as House's fingers circled his cock.
House purposely began to slow the pace a little, wanting to enjoy the sight of his lover writhing under his touch. He stroked Chase's hard cock, pressed it with the flat of his hand, and lewdly whispered sex words against the white neck. Chase thrust desperately against House's hand, panting raggedly, and gasping out incoherent exhortations. House loved how noisy Chase was during sex; he loved how Chase looked with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, how the boy moaned and whimpered against House's mouth. House wasn't going to be able to hold off much longer. He was hard and ready, so when Chase, finally managing to form actual words, groaned, "I want you so much, Greg," House wasted no time in pushing the Australian onto the nearest of the two double beds. He hastily tore at his belt, wanting to be balls-deep inside Chase's tight little ass, hearing the blond moaning beneath him, and begging House to fuck him harder, harder
It took both men some time to register that, in an incomparable display of bad timing, Wilson was knocking insistently at the door.
"Hey, House? Chase? Listen, what's going on in there?"
The pair stared at each other. Chase had to hide his head under the pillow to stifle his laughter at the expression on House's face. House made a strangled sound in his throat, punched the mattress, and choked out threateningly, "GO AWAY!"
"Oh," came Wilson's reply. "Oh, ok." There was quiet for short time, but then Wilson spoke through the door again. He sounded apologetic but determined as he said, "Uh, look, guys, are you going to be ... err ... talking much longer? It's late, and I want to get to bed. Can't you get a room?"
"We've already got one."
"You do?"
"Yeah - we're in it."
Wilson stared stupidly at the closed door to the bedroom. He heard what sounded suspiciously like a peal of laughter from Chase, and then what was most definitely a low chuckle from House. Still, the oncologist remained where he was, a look of disbelief on his face. It wasn't until the sounds of laughter gave way to other noises - throaty moans, gasping cries, the low rumble of House's voice as he muttered some unintelligible encouragement to his partner, and the rhythmic thump of the headboard as it hit the wall repeatedly - that Wilson shook himself back to reality: there was no way he was going to get into that room tonight. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly. He was resignedly beginning to unfold the sleeper sofa when Wilson heard Chase utter a series of ecstatic cries, rising in volume and culminating in a final urgent shout.
"Wonderful," Wilson remarked sarcastically to himself. "The kid's a screamer." He wearily dropped the sofa cushion he was holding to the floor and picked up the telephone to ask the concierge for a pair of earplugs.
END