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Get A Room parts 1 & 2
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."
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
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
GET A ROOM - Part 2
"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. Jesus."
"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 played no part in any of it. 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, everybody lies - but - oh, 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 his lover. 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, 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 looked at the cold, angry expression on House's face, and bowed his head.
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 slate blue eyes widened.
"Did it have to be with 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 can't even begin to know ..."
"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, anything, for you - 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?"
"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."
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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