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Get A Room - part 1
by Lex
GET A ROOM - part 1
(written for the House/Chase Fic Swap, for Roman)
"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?"
"Jesus." 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 fucking, 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! Jesus! 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/implore 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, choking back sobs, 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.
To be continued
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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