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It was kind of good that everything went the way it did. Now that's fucked-up of you to think, which is why it's a thought that's never gone past your lips. But the motions had unfolded like that of a train wreck, unable to take your eyes off disaster; some unquelled feeling of lachesism that had arisen like a bubble at the surface of water.
House in the wind, Cuddy fleeing all the same when you watched her pace down the hospital floors in the click of her heels, a resignation letter in her grip. Foreman was the natural successor. But where did that leave everyone else?
You had been practicing medicine for so long you had forgotten that there was a world out there; a world of misery, suffering, happiness, war. Pacing the same four corners of the state of New Jersey until the white coat hanging from your frame was no better than the gallows.
Which is why, the night after, Chase invites you for drinks at his. Foreman had a pile of paperwork that made his never-ending forehead look small. Taub had landed another career for him to eventually mess up. Thirteen... your communciations with her went blank once the aftermath had cooled, but you know she'll come back soon enough. And so, it was just you, the early thirties American with a bad case of a fucked-up childhood and Chase, a guy you had worked with for so long you couldn't really quantify a life in which you weren't friends.
You brought the drinks, of course.
"Someone's an alcoholic," He remarks sarcastically, sharp eyes drifting to the white plastic bags hanging down by your arms. "Enough drinks to get an elephant drunk."
"Har har," You return the humour, "I thought the others were gonna turn up."
He shrugs, fixing his gaze on you.
You look dishevelled, as though you had let yourself go in some way. It felt raw, but Chase didn't know if that was because this was the first time you had come over to his in years, or if it was because in the time he had known you, you always kept people at arms bay, even more than the other fellows' rational unwantedness at House invading their privacy.
But you had been here long enough to understand him, to see him change, to listen, to advise, to laugh. He didn't want to confront what was staring at him in the face: that he likes you. Because you had always chided or mocked him over his promiscuous lifestyle. And if he even thought of it, he knew it would ruin what the two of you had, he knew it would send you running, make you hate him.
Chase swallows that thought back again, "You just gonna stand there?" He quirks an eyebrow, half-wondering if he was inadvertently flirting.
Luckily, you're almost too used to him, "Move aside, your crocodile tear charm act is so 90s."
You step in, moving towards the open kitchen and dumping the drinks on the counter, "Get it?" You laugh, turning your head to face him, and you look pretty, "'Cuz you're Australian?"
"Crikey," He replies coolly. Or so he hopes. He's got a sick arrthymia in his heart every time you look at him like that, look at him warmly.
He watches you collapse onto his sofa, getting comfortable. You arch an eyebrow at him, "Come on, Steve Irwin. These bottles aren't gonna finish themselves."
Chase smiles.
He hadn't felt like this in a while.
"So what are you gonna do now?" You drawl, bringing down your third bottle of beer to the coffee table with a thunk.
Chase, nursing his second, shrugs. The routine of his life had collapsed so suddenly it gave him so much space he didn't know what to do with it. "Not sure, House'll be back."
"From prison?" You scoff, tilting your head at him.
He gives you a knowing look, to which you shake your head in a small giggle. And it escapes your lips so gently like a flute.
"I guess so," House is House. That bastard is gonna add 'ex-con' to his list of misanthropic achievements. "Dunno if I wanna hold out on that though."
"On hope?"
You bite your lip at that word. Hope. It has failed you. A four lettered word shoved into heads lost in belief and faith. Hope has no place for you. And no place for Chase.
Chase starts on his third beer, not that he's keeping score or anything, although he knows his ego will be slightly bruised if your ability to out-drink him presents itself here again as it has done on many occasions.
"House will come back," He says carefully, as though he gives it thought, gives his words weight. The level of history shared runs deep in his veins like spilt blood. "Be it six months, a year, or even two."
You feel light-headed just at trying to think. "You seem confident."
"That's because I am," Chase retorts, and you're right. In his tipsy stupor, confidence exudes from his voice finely.
"So you're gonna wait around for him here?"
That makes you want to laugh. You didn't pitch Chase for that kind of guy. Not with his flimsy flings and lack of a wedding ring after that whole fiasco.
"Nah," And that Australian accent floods through. It's a fresh pace from New Jersey. Sorely needed. It keeps you sane, but you won't admit that. "You?"
"As if Foreman has the budget for us," You roll your eyes, "I'm a top doctor, y'know."
Your sarcasm allows for a laugh to belt between the two of you, and Chase takes it, holds it close to his eardrums until it burns inside him. He inches closer, shuffling on the sofa.
You elaborate, feeling your big mouth start to run off with the taste of beer rimmed on your teeth and tongue, "Diagnostics is gone. Destroyed with one car and a living room. I dunno if I even want to continue right now."
"Continue," He repeats, furrowing his eyebrows, "Medicine?"
You nod, "I want a vacation, honestly. I want a fucking break. Now that we don't have House breathing down our necks, we have the whole world at our fingertips. What are you gonna do with that?"
"Probably surf," The answer comes quicker than he thought. He missed Australia.
You try picturing a shirtless Chase surfing waves on Bondi Beach and that image makes you chuckle, and then it makes you blush. You quickly screw that off your face, hoping the alcohol hides it. But as far you know, you wear your heart on a sleeve.
Chase is handsome, but in a dreamy way. A real-life television beauty. He's cocky, and smart, and a damn good doctor. You really can't fault him. Not when you know him as well as you do.
"Did you surf when you were younger?" You blurt, almost borderline interrogating him, but your expression betrays your curiosity. And he can see the glint on your eyes reflected by his bright ceiling light; you look cute.
He nods, slouching back, but keeping his gaze on you, "Mainly during uni. You already know what my childhood was like."
Locked in the study. Cleaning up his mother's vomit day in and day out. Watching his sister grow into a person who resented him.
"Doesn't Australia have tons of sharks?"
"You do realise only like 12 people die every year from shark attacks?"
You roll your eyes, "Okay, big-brain. Don't come running back to me when a shark chomps off your pretty face."
Pretty face.
"Why not?" Chase smirks, "I'll just take the first flight back. You can treat me."
You don't know what to say to that. Your mind is moving slow but your heart is jumping fast. Like it is going to come out of your throat and land on the coffee table alongside the group of empty beer bottles.
You blink, slowly speaking, as if you're trying to comprehend your own words. "You would do that?"
He doesn't even skip a heartbeat at the reply, "Yeah."
You want to pull away from his gaze, feeling it intensify, but a part of you wants something else entirely.
Chase swallows, deciding to take a leap. "Why don't you come with me?"
"To Australia?"
"No, to China. Yes, Australia," He says eagerly, almost matter-of-factly. He says it so rationally that neither of you realise this conversation is guided by drunkenness and emotions.
You feel a small smile working it's way onto your lips. "Are you asking me on a date, Robert?"
"Maybe I am," His words start to slur.
Chase can feel his heart pounding fast. As though the veil of his masked face had melted, as though everything he had ever felt about you was ready to explode at his fingertips, urging to love you.
He wonders if you can feel it. (You can.)
You now know it's you talking now and not the beers.
"Fuck it, let's go to Australia."