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Inertia
by AndreaLyn
It's easy to believe in chain reactions when the catalyst has such potential for both disaster and promise. A butterfly doesn't flap its wings and no hurricane forms, but a half-drunken Chase does kiss Foreman in the scattered shadows under the streetlights and what he creates is a perfect storm all of its own. Chase, learning, always learning from House, has been gravely curious, wondering what Foreman's lips tasted of, what it would be like to slowly touch his cheek, wondered if Foreman fell to vices like the rest of the human race.
A kiss like two lovers would dance; slow, sure.
Foreman doesn't protest, but it's not him agreeing. It's two shots of tequila and four beers and basic human nature - those carnal sins of pleasure, enjoyment - that kick in and finish the job. It lasts shorter than even the worst one-night stand; a paltry fifteen seconds and it's over.
The damage is already done.
*
Work is a land of curious questions, all in the form of Cameron, who couldn't handle three shots and a margarita, had ordered a cab and departed before The Event. Her questions come like staccato beats, desperately swift, desperately fast, and often desperately discordant from what Chase wants to hear.
"How do you feel?"
Fire one.
"Did you get home okay?"
Fire two.
"Did anything happen?"
Target acquired.
Chase looks to meet Foreman's eyes, but his gaze isn't there to meet. It's fixed firmly on the glass of the table and he looks ashamed for all the world to see. It strikes Chase then, that maybe he shouldn't be learning curiosity from House, who never gets close enough to the flame to get burned. Foreman only looks up to answer Cameron's questions and he only answers one:
"Nothing happened."
Chase's kiss was equivalent to nothing, fungibility in full effect. Chase gives Cameron the most sincere smile he can muster; happy at least to know where he stands when it comes to Foreman.
*
Apparently, nothing can occasionally result in something. Two weeks had gone by and Chase had assumed things had reverted to form, like Newtonian physics, but there's no motion to be found; that which is left at rest stays at rest. But two weeks later, he starts noticing, starts catching Foreman's gaze when he thinks Chase isn't looking, finding Foreman always sitting right next to him now.
Give an object a push and it comes out of rest.
Chase smirks as he thinks how Foreman is just as susceptible to the laws of human nature and physics, both. Another week passes and Chase notices an increase in the looks, somewhat out of place friendly touches - `here,' touch on the forearm, hand on his back, `Chase', brush of knuckles against his shoulder, `this way' - and there's an increase in genuine smiles from Foreman and then one night, it comes:
"Chase, you're good with technology? I've got an issue with wiring that's driving me crazy."
"Not crazy enough to pay," is his wry response, but he accepts on the condition that he gets good beer out of it, not American piss.
Foreman agrees.
*
Seeing a person so much, so many hours a day ought to result in insanity. Chase should be nearing the brink of madness working with Foreman, eating their meals together, and now spending so many nights together. Fixing his wiring had turned into beers and sports talk. Then, there had been pool and darts. Two days later, some fancy place with Cameron as their buffer. There have been movies, bored phone calls, crappy 1 AM Life Network movies, even clinic paperwork once in an empty exam room.
Cameron comments on it, of course, her hawk-like vision no longer so narrow with her gaze turned away from House. She's back to peripheral vision and the staccato questions have returned. "So, what, do you guys hate me now?" but how to explain that it isn't about hating her or excluding her, but that the object they put into motion just never included her in the small print.
Before Chase can even think to answer, Foreman does it for him.
"Don't be ridiculous. It's nothing."
Chase can't help but smirk at that, wondering where this nothing will lead.
*
The first time they kiss, stone cold sober, they're laughing about House's latest attempt to thwart Cuddy. The key slides in the lock and Foreman's hand is pressed to the small of Chase's back, leading him inside as his body trembles with the amusement of House's `adopted' little brother, who snuck House, cane, et al out of the hospital for an `emergency'.
Chase turns to thank Foreman for the ride and to ask if they're still on for the car show when he sees how close Foreman is, feels that he's wound up with his back pressed to the cherry wood paneling of his foyer and Foreman leans in, one hand cupping Chase's cheek, the other wrapping around his waist to draw him closer, kissing slowly, but not awkwardly, with a heat and a force that Chase never thought Foreman might possess.
They are both left breathless and they fall into the corner, Chase's hands grasping fists of fabric - Foreman's shirt, coming untucked - for support.
"All that nothing," Foreman murmurs, voice soft and lazy like the ocean on a calm day, "was killing me."
Chase can't agree more. They don't move for a good while, Chase's grip relaxing and resting on Foreman's hips instead. The looks aren't being pulled, there's definitely touching and there is something more than nothing. Chase knows what lies beyond, past his professionally decorated rooms. There's cotton sheets, dark-wooded furniture, that's the next step.
He almost suggests it, but it's still too early for that. Foreman pushes in for a kiss - this one fierce and claiming - shoving Chase up against the wall with a clatter. Their hands are no longer sedentary, they reach for anything - mussing hair, wrinkling clothes, finding skin. Chase is forced to pull away, panting, eyes widened; now, he just wants to know one thing.
"What's gotten into you?" he asks, raggedly.
But he doesn't get an answer.
*
For a week, they don't talk. Foreman had left after several more groping kisses and then they don't speak, stop hanging out, stop looking.
*
On day eight of their week of non-communication, Foreman breaks. "I've got these reservations..."
"Great," Chase interrupts, "I'm sure Cameron will love them." He receives a withering glare. "C'mon, Foreman, what do you want me to think? You've said nothing to me all week past, `It can't be vasculitis'." He raises an eyebrow to challenge him, but Foreman doesn't say anything.
They're both guilty of a `productive' week. Foreman had taken Cameron out for drinks twice and twice had hooked up with the drug rep again, showing up late for work. Chase had gone to a bar twice, slept with a nurse in the on-call room and had almost made out with the bartender at his usual drinking spot.
"I've got these reservations," Foreman repeats himself. "It's nice. Fancy. You have to wear a suit."
"I haven't said yes, yet," Chase reminds him. They look at each other and neither looks away. Finally, House enters his office, seconds away from entering the conference room.
"We need to talk," is what Foreman says, quiet, quick, and serious. Great. A breakup when they aren't even dating. Foreman lightly squeezes Chase's forearm. "Pick you up at seven."
House enters before Chase can argue. Though, weeks later, he still did wonder what Foreman's face would have looked like if he had refused his date in front of both House and Cameron.
*
That night, promptly at seven, Foreman arrives at his townhouse in impeccable wear and a single yellow rose between his fingers.
Chase nearly slams the door in his face.
He'd gone through the painful process of dressing nicely; a navy silk shirt and a black suit, all matching. His grip on his door tightens as he strains to find his voice. The door, most notably, does not get slammed, but Chase is close to doing so. "What is that?" he manages to ask, nodding towards the offending flower.
"I found it."
"Okay."
Foreman grins sheepishly. "I bought it."
"For me?" Chase asks dubiously.
Foreman's irritated now. "It was supposed to be a nice gesture, look, do you want it or not?"
Chase doesn't waste a second in snatching it. "Fine." He affixes it to his pocket and it's like a beacon against his dark clothing. It looks almost...nice, he thinks as he checks his reflection in the mirror. "But this is not a date."
Another point. None of their outings have been dates; not even that night when they're in their nicest suits, even though they have reservations for a fancy restaurant, even with the presence of the flower, and despite the slightly nervous air around the both of them. Not a date. If the movie night - where Chase had found himself curled up asleep in Foreman's lap after an exhausting twenty-four hour shift in the ICU and then with House - didn't count as a date, and it didn't, then this definitely isn't one either.
Foreman just shrugs, not arguing the terminology. "It looks good on you."
Chase grins.
"Surprisingly," he adds. And now Foreman's grinning like he's got all the secrets.
*
The restaurant is indeed fancy, with fifty-dollar wines and a string quartet in the corner. It's too much like the restaurants he had been brought to as a child that it thieves his appetite, blocks his thirst for anything but water. He must have stiffened, because Foreman leans over the table and brushes his thumb against Chase's palm. "Where'd I lose you?"
Chase swallows. "Twenty years back."
Foreman nods, signals over the violinist and whispers something to him. The violinist - young looking man - grins and agrees, denying the money Foreman offers. Seconds later, The Who in violin form plays Behind Blue Eyes and Chase laughs loudly, tension falling from him like a sudden rain shower. He feels silly and normal all at once and Foreman's grinning back at him, laying out his napkin in his lap while Chase takes to his, folding it into an intricate swan.
For a breakup of a relationship that doesn't even exist, this is more than nice.
They order red wine and drink it over talk of careers, have salad and shrimp bisque and talk about Foreman's family, never his. Duck is the main dish and they laugh about work and the various permutations that House, Cameron, Cuddy, and Wilson create. Crme brulee and spirited coffee ("Spanish," Foreman orders for them) headlines dessert as they each describe their perfect woman.
The bill comes with mints and after a heated debate, Chase pays because Foreman had paid for drinks the last two times. Chase is putting away his credit card and scrawling his loopy signature on the bill when it hits him. "You..."
"I what?" Foreman asked, slipping into his long jacket.
Chase frowns, tucking his wallet away. "You said we needed to talk. I thought you were ending our nonexistent relationship."
Foreman stands, leans over to tweak the rose in Chase's pocket. "No," he counters. "I said we needed to talk. And we did." He grins. "Nonexistent?"
"We're not dating."
There's no answer and the hand on the small of Chase's back returns as Foreman guides him out of the restaurant and as the valet disappears into the rainy night to retrieve the car, Foreman leans in and steals a kiss in the foggy night. "We are kind of dating, a little bit," he apologizes, exhaling the words.
"Oh?" Chase challenges, breathless. "Why's that?"
Foreman shrugs absently, hands in his pockets as he watches the valet cautiously steer the car around. "Just a feeling I'm getting." He opens the door for Chase and they drive back to Chase's place in silence, heading back to the cherry wood, the smell of cinnamon burnt into the walls from the one time a girlfriend had used his candles.
Chase leads Foreman straight past the foyer and into the bedroom, pushing him onto the starched sheets, enjoying the contrast between his white duvet and Foreman's dark suit.
"Dating," Chase muses as he gently plucks the rose from his pocket and lays it on the nighttable. Foreman is resting back on his elbows, waiting for what else Chase has to say. He slowly pulls his jacket off, then his socks. "If we're dating, then all those times we went out are dates."
"If that's how you see it," Foreman concedes, still just resting there.
Chase nudges the top button of his shirt undone. "So, we accidentally wound up going steady?"
"I don't remember anything about going steady." He's waiting, not undressing at all. Chase slides his belt off slowly, pants still on and shirt untucked. With the belt haphazardly tossed onto the floor, Chase crawls onto the bed - where he's brought so many girls, the occasional man, the bed with the sheets that are pressed on a daily basis by the cleaning service he hires.
He pushes Foreman horizontal on the bed, tugging his shirt from his pants and slowly presses kisses up Foreman's chest, the motion of whatever they've got now speeding at a higher pace. Every button pried loose is another slow kiss to Foreman's skin.
"Your place..." Foreman murmurs, relaxing back. "...smells of cinnamon."
"Long story," Chase mumbles, the words distorted by Foreman's breaths.
"Yeah? You'll have to tell me one day."
How surprising, how curious that Foreman isn't protesting. There's definitely hesitance. Chase has no idea if Foreman's done this before. Every so often, a limb goes in the wrong place and a kiss and a "sorry!" later and it's fixed. With a little struggle and a lot of teamwork, Chase gets Foreman undressed and proceeds to follow suit. They're not talking so much anymore and as Chase runs his hands - both slicked up with vanilla-scented lube - there's no sound but harsh breathing.
He uses both hands to prepare Foreman and their gazes meet, connecting and evoking sparks and Chase shivers, wondering what he'd unleashed that brisk night when he'd kissed Foreman. "How..." his voice is light with anxiety. "How do you want to do this?"
Neither way is easy, none of this is easy.
"Anything's better than nothing."
Indeed.
*
Chase arrives the next morning and hands Foreman a cup of coffee, a shared look and a shared smile given before they settle in, talking idly about some soccer match that had been on the other night, that they had watched in post-coital exhaustion, the television flickering ghostly lights over their bodies. They're probably sitting closer than before, but Cameron's not going to say anything.
"What's with you two?"
Of course, House will say something.
Chase glances up, smirks, and chews on his pencil. His shrug is careless and he's ready to get to work, not talk about their personal lives. "Nothing," he replies briskly and House takes that at face value. As they go about diagnosing the patient, Cameron's astute observations hanging in the air around them, Chase thinks to himself that an object in motion remains in motion until coming to a stop thanks to external forces.
His smirk grows slightly as House throws a small balled-up paper at Foreman, who scowls, but then turns his scowl into a grin directed straight at Chase, yet another inside joke between just the two of them.
Chase has no intention of stopping this whatsoever.
end
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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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