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Best Cure For A Hangover
by Megs
It is seven-oh-five in the morning. Eric Foreman wakes up because he is cold, curled in a
ball on top of unfamiliar champagne-colored sheets. Somewhere to his left, he hears
running water and the window is open, gauzy curtains that match the sheets fluttering in
the early morning breeze. His feet touch the cold hardwood floor and he falls back onto
the bed. At first he thinks his body hasn't had time to detoxify, but then he realizes that
he just has a hangover that he'll not soon forget.
So, with some difficulty, he slithers back under the bedclothes, ignoring the open window
because later in the day when it's hotter than hell, he'll be begging for that chilly breeze.
. - . - . - .
When he wakes up the second time, there is a glass of water on the nightstand and a
bottle of Motrin beside it. The digital clock says eleven thirty-four. He takes a long sip of
water gratefully, and when he lifts the bottle of aspirin a small piece of paper flutters to
the floor. He leans over the king-sized bed to read it, but all it contains is a mess of blurry
numbers that Foreman can only assume is Chase's cell phone number.
He wants to get up and go home--can't drive, don't have my car. Maybe he'll
catch a cab, or...no, he's too miserable to get up. Too miserable to do anything more than
sleep, but as he drifts off again he promises himself that he will leave before Chase gets
home.
. - . - . - .
When Foreman wakes up again, it is to the sound of a key clicking in the lock somewhere
far away from his dreamless sleep. The digital clock now says it's sometime past six, and
Foreman wants to jump out the window. Hide under the bed. Chase is calling his name,
his voice echoing in the massive apartment.
"Hey, Foreman? Are you still--" he is in the doorway now, leaning there in his leather
jacket, keys dangling from his fingers and a greasy paper bag in his hand. "You look
awful, man."
"Thanks," Foreman says sarcastically, sitting up with great difficulty. He sits for a
moment, ignoring the aching in his stomach and the dull throb behind his left eye.
He stands up finally, in just his boxers and socks. Chase has disappeared again, so he
begins to dress in his clothes from the night before, despite the fact that they smell as bad
as he does.
He stumbles into the bathroom and rinses his mouth out with Chase's Listerine, sprays
himself idly with Chase's cologne--English Leather.
When he finds his way into the living room--why does a single guy need such a big
fucking apartment?--he is relieved to hear Chase rummaging around in the kitchen.
Good. He doesn't need to see him before he leaves.
"Hey, man, I'm going to take off," Foreman calls, stepping into his shoes.
"No, wait a second. Come here."
Foreman sighs, but removes his shoes and slides into the kitchen. Chase shoves a plate
into his hands, and Foreman's stomach grumbles excitedly as he sees the fat Carl's Junior
burger aside two handfuls of fries.
"Best cure for a hangover," Chase says, biting into a burger himself.
"Best cure for a hangover is a nice big Bloody Mary," Foreman corrects. He wants to
leave, but he's too hungry. He takes the plate and starts eating eagerly.
"I don't think you'll be drinking again anytime soon."
"It's my vacation time," Foreman says. "What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know. I wasn't aware your idea of a vacation was getting pissed and showing up
at my flat at two AM," Chase says cheekily, catching a piece of shredded lettuce falling
from his mouth with his tongue.
"Shows how much you know," Foreman says. He helps himself to a napkin from a small
holder that Chase had placed beside a state-of-the-art toaster and sits at the breakfast bar.
"Better than drinking alone."
"You were drinking alone."
Foreman ignores Chase and points at a futuristic blender. "You can afford that, but you
have to buy me dinner at Carl's Junior?"
"I didn't have to. You got it good. Usually it's McDonald's for me."
"You score with McDonald's? Well, I guess you don't need a fancy restaurant with this
place."
"Nope," Chase says smugly.
Foreman looks away from him and tries not to think about the night before. Funny, he
can explain the Gate Control Theory of Pain Regulation but he doesn't know what could
possibly possess him to say the things--do the things--that he said and did last
night.
He can't remember, specifically, the ridiculous things he was saying, but he can
remember his hands on Chase's bare shoulders. His mouth on Chase's nose, Chase's neck,
Chase's cheek and, eventually, Chase's lips. But by then, Chase had realized what was
going on and had thrown him into his bed.
Into his bed.
More to break the silence than anything else, Foreman said, "How was the couch?"
A pause, then Chase said grimly, "Oh, I didn't sleep on the couch."
Foreman freezes, and he's growing hot, but then Chase laughs. "Got you, didn't I? You
should feel lucky. Ridiculously greasy American fast food and sleeping in my bed while I
take the couch."
"You must like me a lot," Foreman says coolly, though he's sure if he had Chase's
complexion he'd be bright red.
"I do. When you're drunk. You're easier to take that way."
Foreman throws a crumpled up napkin at him, and ducks when he sees Chase reaching
for the sprayer on his shiny sink.
"Oh. I brought you a milkshake," says Chase suddenly, and he nods at the refrigerator as
he swallows the last of his burger. "Should soothe your stomach."
Foreman opens the fridge and leans down, searching for the cardboard cup amidst
Chinese food cartons and bottled water. He straightens up in triumph, the shake in his
hand, but it almost leaves his hand as he comes face-to-face with Chase.
He's up against him, and Foreman is suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that he
smells like a dead body in a dumpster. Chase, on the other hand, smells like soap and the
slightest bit of BO from the day. If Foreman moves his head one inch, they will be as
close as they were last night. He isn't breathing.
But it's Chase who moves, leaning forward as he slides his nose up Foreman's jaw.
"You're wearing my cologne," he says, and then he brushes past the fridge and into the
living room. Foreman can swear that he's smirking.
Foreman shakes his head disbelievingly and gulps the shake quickly, ignoring the
massive brain freeze. He wants to go home, pass out again and enjoy the rest of his
vacation sleeping. In solitude.
Better get out of here, he thinks, and he knows he shouldn't have come in the first
place. They weren't the best of friends to begin with, but something's definitely changed
and he can tell. He didn't go to Johns Hopkins for nothing.
He polishes off the last of his dinner and rushes out of the kitchen. He finds Chase
sprawled out on the couch, the control to the huge plasma TV in his pale hand.
"I'll see you Monday," Foreman says, nodding at him as he slips into his shoes again.
"Thanks...uh, thanks for letting me crash."
Foreman's worry increases as Chase begins to stand, but he simply opens the door for
Foreman and stands before it, arms behind his back.
Foreman nods at him again, and as he steps into the brightly lit hallway, he feels free, he
feels like he can breathe, he feels like, maybe, they can both forget this whole fucked up
thing.
But Chase grabs his wrist, and, with surprising strength, pulls the bigger man to him. For
the second time in five minutes Chase is close enough to smell. Close enough to--
Chase kisses him on the mouth, quickly, his eyes closed. They flutter behind his lids as
Foreman stares down at him, too shocked to do anything else.
"Next time you need to crash somewhere," says Chase, pulling back, apparently unfazed
that Foreman did not reciprocate his kiss. "You're welcome to sleep in my bed. See you
Monday."
And Foreman walks away, his head throbbing and his stomach slightly fuller but still
laden with something; a feeling that has absolutely nothing to do with his hangover from
hell.
. - . - . - .
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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 Fox Television, 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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