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Marathon
by AndreaLyn
Wilson: She stole a kiss from Chase. What have you done lately?
House: I'm pacing myself.
Day One
House taps his fingers against the glass desk, listening to the slow drum. He didn't buy the motorcycle, but only because he's already got a Corvette and there's only so many mid-life crises he can have. He figures it's only a test drive away and that he can hang his sanity on that small, simple...
"House?"
House glances up, finds Chase standing in the doorway. "Sorry, no little girls for you to kiss here." Chase glowers at him and steps inside. Someone's still a little touchy, but not in the fun sexual harassment kind of way. "Okay, shoo," House tries again. He's finally feeling better, but this isn't going to help.
Chase offers folders out to House, his fingers brushing against House's in the process. "Autopsy results," he says, voice dry and ironic. "Copied to you from Wilson. Parts are highlighted."
"That bastard," House remarks good-naturedly, flipping open the charts. "See, can't say that I kill them all. At least, not permanently. This one walked out the fron..." When he looks up, Chase is gone. "Huh."
House glances down at the autopsy results to find a sticky note smack-dab in the middle of the page. When running a marathon, one tends to pace himself towards the beginning and sprint towards the end. Oh, and drink plenty of fluid.
Everyone's a doctor.
Day Two
The hospital has showers, but House doesn't really like to use them. They're so public. But quite often, he'll pop in there to get himself refreshed, stare in the mirror and run the tap so the showerhead will cascade scalding hot water over someone.
Yeah, House also enjoys flushing the toilet while someone's showering. But only when he's bored. Or it's a day that ends in `y'. There's a sharp wince the first flush, a gasp the second, and a very amusing, "Christ's fucking sake and all his bloody blood," on the third. House is actually grinning when the shower curtain is yanked open, revealing a dripping wet, very naked, very angry looking wombat.
"House," he growls. He'd look more menacing if he weren't, you know, soaking wet and looking like a puppy that got caught in the rain. "I'm trying to shower!"
"Don't let me stop you," House replies amiably, leaning against the counter. "I'm sure you'll get it right one of these days."
Day Three
"You're doing it wrong," House says bluntly, grabbing Chase's hand, about to redirect it in its movements around the patient's heart, but thinking better of it and trying to push it away. The patient is dying and Chase has been trying to manually massage the heart back. Apparently, the patient doesn't like technology.
Chase glares and looks a half second from shoving House off of him, but he slows himself and very calmly waits for House to finish before studying his technique and easing away, giving House the control; they're both up to their elbows in blood. Chase grabs a cloth and pats down House's forehead, seemingly content to take the backseat.
"You're not doing it right," he says calmly.
House glares before shifting slightly, finding a better angle and massaging lightly. "Backseat driver," he retorts as Chase's fingers glide over his forehead, only the faint barrier of cloth between skin and latex gloves as he works to make House comfortable.
Day Four
Chase walks into the office after the others have gone off to run tests and House stops in his tracks and stares. "Is that..." He steps closer and frowns, bending over, his coffee mug in hand as he peers at Chase's chest. There is a tired sounding sigh that comes from somewhere - probably Chase, but you can't rule out those tired air vents - and House just straightens his posture, reaching out and grabbing Chase by the tie, yanking him closer.
Chase stumbles forward, eyes wide. "House!"
"Your tie!" House remarks, staring with awe. "It matches your shirt!"
Another tired sigh. Maybe that's the window this time.
"Impressive. Except now I owe Cuddy ten bucks. I told her you wouldn't know primary colors if they bit you in the ass and painted you purple," House retorts, letting go of the tie and giving Chase a little bit of a push backwards. Chase sighs tiredly for the third time, his brow furrowing in put-upon woe as he makes his way to the table to do his research.
Day Five
"Chase, in here, now," House snaps, grinning madly. It had only taken hours of practicing with Wilson and one of the patients in the clinic - eight year old who didn't want to go back to school - before he had it down pat, but now he has it and he intends to show off. He tosses one of his pills to Chase, giving him a glare of death that clearly communicates that if Chase loses the pill, his neck's on the guillotine. Chase catches it swiftly, tossing his hair off his forehead.
"What?" Chase asks with a shrug.
House tips his head back, opening wide. "Toss," he instructs.
He catches the look on Chase's face that clearly does its own communicating that House should be in a mental ward somewhere, but he lowers his hand and steadily gives the pill a good trajectory, right into House's mouth. He dry-swallows it quickly and grins triumphantly. "Better than a dolphin with a fish."
Chase frowns. "Still hoping your DNA shifts a percent?" he mutters dryly with a smirk.
"I'll call you and start chattering my success in brief squeals the day it happens."
Day Six
When House arrives at six in the morning to check on the patient, he finds Chase asleep on the conference table. Well, mostly. His head and his upper body are splayed on the table, hair spread out like a halo of perfectly pretty hair. House leans on his cane for a moment and debates just how he's going to wake Chase up. There are so many appealing possibilities here.
He walks quietly over to the other chair and slowly sits down, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hands as he stares at Chase, reaching forward and giving his hair a good yank.
"Ow," the tired mumble comes. "Mum, stop it..."
House snorts. Ten years and he's still dreaming his mother is waking him up. It'd be funny if it weren't so pathetically sad. One day, Chase is going to explode from that molten bed of issues running within him.
House yanks again.
"Stop it," Chase protests, shifting slightly and glancing up, face marked with his hands. His eyes widen.
"Good morning, sunshine," House greets. "Here's your hair. You can glue it back on later." He hands Chase a few strands of his hair and to his delight, Chase just stares at him with abject horror at losing something so very precious.
Day Seven
"Great, there he is," House remarks with delight, nudging Wilson along. "Come on, you're going to owe me a hundred bucks in a second," he relays, limping along quickly towards Chase, who pauses in the hall like a good little trained dog, waiting for his master to give him a command. Wilson trails him and mutters something under his breath, that sounds suspiciously like, `sexual harassment', but House never listens too closely.
Chase frowns, glancing from House to Wilson to House to Wilson and then to the patient's room just briefly. "Did you want something?"
"Just a little taste of Aussie heaven," House smirks and reaches his hand around, grabbing Chase's ass and earning a really interesting sound from Chase - something like a strangled shout.
"House!"
House gives Chase's ass a pat as he glances to Wilson. "A hundred bucks."
"Only you would grab not only Cameron and Chase's ass, but Foreman's too," Wilson mutters as he digs out his wallet.
Day Eight
"Where exactly do you go to get your hair done like that? Catholic Boys R Us?" House muses one day when he'd accidentally taken one too many Vicodin. "Pretty Boys Depot? Australia For Men?"
"Jealous your hair isn't as nice as mine?" Chase remarks, barely glancing up from the notes he's making. It's late and Foreman and Cameron have gone home when their fields didn't apply any longer, but the intensivist was helping quite well with the stats. House bounces the ball on the desk as he stares at Chase, Madame Butterfly playing in the background.
House tosses the ball to Chase and even though he's only half-looking, he catches it with one hand. "Cameron's jealous of your hair," he informs him. "It's a thing."
"A Cameron thing?"
"A hospital thing."
Chase glances up. "That doesn't make sense," he says plainly, tossing the ball back to House.
"Have I ever?"
Chase's smile is genuine as he laughs a, "No."
Day Nine
Chase's idea of breakfast, it turns out, is something encased in cardboard, tasting like it's days old and is probably tofu and recycled something and something else grain-and-nuts-and-oats. House takes one bite and wants to gag. Almost does. He winces and puts on a good show of showing Chase that he dislikes it.
"It's Raisin Bran," Chase says scornfully, grabbing the cardboard box from House. "And if you're not going to eat it, I will."
House whines slightly and Chase pauses before the plastic spoon meets his lips. House stares up like a pitiful child, his eyes wide. "I wasn't done," he gestures to it and grabs for it back.
"You didn't like it!"
"I can get used to it," House retorts defensively, yanking the container back and waiting for Chase to leave before dumping it in the trash and ordering a pizza. Maybe if Chase eats grease, his entire face erupts into acne. Either way, it's a fun theory to test and it's two for twenty day at the Pizza Joint.
Day Ten
House arrives in the morning and stumbles and staggers and limps to the bathroom to splash his face with water, half-awake and not quite drugged enough to face reality. He turns from the mirror, only to be confronted with a half-naked Chase, towel slung low around his hips, face, neck, and torso all dripping with water.
House stares because he's too tired to come up with something witty. And besides, staring is good enough to throw Chase off his guard as any abrasive remark could be.
"Well?" Chase arches one eyebrow. "Done undressing me with your eyes? I've only got a towel on, shouldn't take that long."
House mumbles something in reply. "You look like a drowned rat," is all that comes out and Chase just grins and then laughs as he pushes past House for the sink and grabs a few paper towels for his hands, heading for the lockers.
Day Eleven
House sits in his office, watching General Hospital every other moment and watching Chase masticate a pencil in the moments between. It is absolutely fascinating. Chase has been going at the thing like it had personally hurt his family or something. Chase is only working on a crossword puzzle, but he's defiling that pencil pretty well.
House gets up during a commercial break and leans into the room, one hand on the doorway. "Has anyone ever told you that you have an oral fixation?"
"Yes," Chase replies tiredly, as though he's heard it dozens of times before.
House nods, having expected that. "Has anyone ever told you that you should put it to better use?"
Chase gapes at him.
Score.
Day Twelve
House drops a phonebook in Chase's lap. Cameron looks on in confusion and Foreman looks on expectantly, like there's a point to House's madness and usually there is. But not today. It's their lunch break, but Chase is scribbling away at some work-thing as he eats a sandwich, distracted. Well, he had been distracted until that phone book had hit his groinal area.
"Okay, I can't research medical symptoms with a phone book," Chase says dryly. "And our patient isn't exactly looking for a plumber."
"It's lunch and I'm bored," House sighs, sitting down and hanging his cane up on the whiteboard. "Robert Chase, read the phone book for us, would you? Starting with `A'. I love those A's, so many Architects and Aficionados."
Chase stares at him, blinking those pretty long eyelashes in what must be irritation. "You're not serious."
"Make it to C, like a good little koala," House smirks.
Day Thirteen
If House were to ever switch body parts with anyone, he'd want Chase's lips. They really are nice lips. In fact, he tells Chase so one night when they're at the office, having a drink with the others, but the others go home and Chase and House are tipsy and laughing about something like intensive care and patients and Chase is falling forward, pressing his forehead to House's shoulder as House laughs loudly. They're both far too drunk when House mumbles, "prettiest mouth by far."
Chase seems to sober up slightly. "You an inmate? M'I trying to pry information from you?"
"Nah," House mumbles, pouring them both another shot. They're sitting on the floor now. Cuddy's left for her office and Wilson's left for his wife, Cameron for her grieving and Foreman for his life. "Jus' got pretty lips, you do."
"They're not s'bad," Chase acknowledges, and if House looks close enough, he'd see that Chase never takes that shot, sets it down beside him as he leans forward and cups House's cheek with his fingers, leaning in for a slow kiss, pretty lips pressed to House's before easing away slowly.
House's breath comes back to him and he laughs. He's drunk. They're both drunk and Wilson's voice is colliding in his head like a comet spiking across the sky. She stole a kiss from Chase...
"So, do I kiss better than a nine year old girl?" House drunkenly slurs, effectively ruining the moment.
Water Break
The third time that House catches Chase in the shower, he sits down on a bench and stares at the silhouette that the flimsy hospital shower curtain creates.
Chase peaks out and water trickles down his cheeks, shining in the fluorescent lights. "The water's fine," he smirks and House just smirks back.
Everyone's a smartass.
Day Fourteen
House is sitting and sipping at his coffee and he's quite obviously staring -- leering is the proper term, but he's not one for proper. He's staring...leering. Staring...leering. Oh, damn it, he's leering, fine, at Chase's ass. There's a point to said leering and Chase is turning five different shades of red as he avoids asking. It's when he turns and House continues leering at the crotch that the shades of red ratchet up a few notches.
"What are you staring at?" Chase asks with a tired sigh, as though it weren't obvious.
House gestures with his coffee mug, amused smirk on his face. "Do you actually buy your pants two sizes too small to show off that finely bred Australian package of yours?" he inquires, sipping slowly at the lukewarm coffee.
Chase just crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side, a scoff of laughter escaping his lips, like he doesn't even want to consider giving House a reply. He shakes his head, grabbing a folder and leaving the room.
"You do realize the labcoat is getting in the way!" House shouts after him.
Day Fifteen
What's funny about Chase is that even though he's been in New Jersey for over two years now, he still doesn't get the weather, still complains about the way it's so hot in July and the way it's so cold in December. Cameron just looks at him pitifully and Foreman tells him to go home, but House just encourages him to wear a bathing suit in January. So it's funny when Chase stumbles into the office on a rainy day in April - so rainy that God's angry enough to make House fear for his ark-building pyramid scheme - soaking wet from head to toe.
He's squelching into the office with every step and House stares with Cameron and Foreman and no one says a word. Chase's jacket is sticking to his skin along with every other piece of clothing that he's wearing. If shoes were able to stick to skin, Chase's shoes are doing just that.
"Didn't you bring an um..." Cameron begins to ask meekly, but Chase's glare shuts her up. Foreman starts to laugh quietly and House's smile is growing from smirk to plotting grin.
Chase digs through the cupboards and when he flicks his hair off his forehead, it creates the picture of a wet dog shaking off its water, but the hair just lands on his face again with an unpleasant sound that really resembles a `flap'.
He turns, glaring at the three of them.
When he's gone, House turns to Foreman. "Okay, go rig a bucket of water over the door, he'll love that."
Day Sixteen
House has been coerced into this dinner because Cuddy says she'll give him an extra week off clinic duty and she'll personally stop bugging him for three days of that week. It's like gold in some misshapen, really odd administrative form that wears power-suits. He smiles with coquettish glee as he realizes that one night in a tuxedo buys him a week of freedom. Not too bad.
He's being seated when he stops. Cameron's in a gown, not bad, Foreman's there, there's Cuddy, Wilson, all the regular trappings. "Who's your date?" he mutters distractedly to Cameron, gesturing to the well-dressed man at the table. Cameron just stares at him and so does Foreman. "I'm taking an interest, so sue me."
"House," the Australian voice pipes up.
House takes a good look. Said well-dressed man is Chase.
He'd been thrown by the `well-dressed' part.
"You look good," House remarks with surprise and confusion. "Don't go making it a habit or anything." House sits and pours himself a glass of wine, and through dinner, he does not sneak glances to wonder how in hell he could mistake Chase for a stranger.
Maybe he does sneak a few glances, but no more than five.
Day Seventeen
"I can kiss better than a nine year old girl, you know," House begins the conversation with one late night when he's got Chase on research duty for stealing his donut that morning. Such is the cruel, barren landscape of House's rules. One day, he gets leering, the next, research.
Chase barely looks up as he flicks the page, his head resting in his hand. "Yeah?" he mumbles distractedly. "Prove it." He flicks the pencil back and forth distractedly and the sound he makes when House actually leans down and kisses him sounds like a surprised, `mpfphoumfph!' He blinks and his eyes are wide.
"Well?" House inquires, pressing his thumb to the corner of his lips.
Chase glances up at him and his eyes are wide as marbles. "You used your tongue," he remarks with surprise.
"What? The kid didn't do that?"
That had ruined that moment.
Day Eighteen
Chase leaves the ward to the chorus of children shouting, "Bye, Dr. Chase!" in a led melody of high-pitched voices. House is waiting outside with a helium balloon attached to his lips, sucking in the air. Chase barely pauses to place his hands on his hips in order to most effectively glare at House.
"Hi, Dr. Chase!" House sounds in a high-pitched voice of his own, thanks to the helium. He hands the balloon to a passing child and walks alongside Chase. "You are, undoubtedly, the Prince Charming of the pediatrics ward."
"Do I need to find a Sleeping Beauty?" Chase asks, going along with the joke.
House shrugs. "The last coma patient we had just woke up, so you're out of luck. The next best thing you can do is just toss that ever-perfect hair of yours and stand there in a noble and respectful way."
Chase holds the door open as they arrive at the office. "If I'm Prince Charming, what does that make you?" he inquires curiously.
House just looks at him with an expression that is `duh' personified. "The fairest in all the land."
"You're mixing your fairy tales," Chase warns.
House just smirks. "Better than mixing my metaphors."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Or does it?"
Day Nineteen
"Dr. House checks in to clinic duty," he announces as he limps into the clinic slowly, hitching the cane up into his arm and grabbing the file that Brenda holds out for him. He feels vaguely glared at, so he just ignores everyone as he signs in. "Be glad I showed up."
"Twenty minutes late," Brenda retorts. "Your patient's waiting."
House mutters something under his breath about the concept and the flexibility of time, but he takes the chart and pushes into exam room one anyway, glancing up. "You're not supposed to be the patient," is the first thing he says, because he's found Chase in there, cradling his hand. "What'd you do? Overdose on hair gel?"
"Sprained my finger, I just need it taped," Chase replies briskly, professionally. He's already laid out all the materials on the crinkly paper beside him. House has to appreciate his moxie. "Went to work out to get some frustration out," he says pointedly at House, as though he should know just what frustration Chase is talking about, "and wound up with a weight falling on it."
House takes Chase's hand into his own delicately and gently and studies it. He holds it lightly as he looks up into Chase's eyes, his palm flat against Chase's and there's something there, something like trust in Chase's eyes.
It's almost like they're holding hands, palm to palm in holy palmer's kiss.
House waits until Chase has settled down, until he's relaxed and then he pushes Chase's fingers back into place, a sharp and fast movement that accompanies a sick crackling of bones that makes Chase yelp and House grin.
"Next time? Stick to whatever pretty boy sport you usually do," House advises as he gets out the splint. "Polo or spectating. Whichever keeps your hair in place."
Chase glares at him and his eyes aren't blazing with trust right now. "Next time, don't frustrate me to the point of spraining my finger!" he retorts wildly, earning a backbone if only for a brief second.
House just pushes the fingers in return.
Day Twenty
"Tea?"
"Coffee," Chase replies, his bandaged hand resting atop the table. House delivers a piping hot mug of tea to Chase and he earns a glare. House just puts on his best hurt-puppy face, one that makes Cameron giggle lightly and earns a snort from Foreman. "I said coffee."
"I heard tea," House immediately responds, grabbing a marker. "It's sacrilege if a Brit doesn't drink tea at high noon, isn't it?
"I'm Australian," Chase stresses, tipping his head to the side and gritting his teeth. House wonders if Chase grinds them at night, wearing down those perfect little caps of those perfect little white teeth.
House scribbles a few symptoms on the board. "If you keep saying it, I'm sure it'll come true," House assures and he laughs a little harder when Chase uses his good hand to flip him the bird. That one's universal in all those Queen-on-the-money countries, looks like.
Day Twenty-One
"House!" Chase declares excitedly, nearly tackling him with a hug as he enters the office that morning. House staggers backwards and he loses his cane, about two steps from collapsing to the ground. Chase is acting like a hyperactive puppy-dog and Foreman and Cameron are doing their best to pry him off as Wilson picks up his cane, handing it back.
Chase turns to Cameron. "You're pretty, you know?" he relays, going half-limp in their arms and grinning inanely.
"What's going on?" Wilson asks in shock.
Foreman glances over, exasperated. "Someone gave him too much Tylenol-3. They thought it was regular ibuprofen and Chase said to up the dosage because of his tolerance, but it's codeine!"
House's eyes light up and he snaps his fingers. "Everyone out. I want fun-time with Chase. Nothing funner when he's higher than a weather balloon."
Chase just bats his eyelashes at him. "House thinks I'm pretty," he announces and immediately wraps his arms around Foreman's waist, less out of any kind of affection and more of a desperation to stay vertical. "He says so."
"I also say that you come from a long line of British pansies," House adds. "And you fixate on the pretty part?"
"Cuz I am pretty."
Foreman lightly deposits Chase in one of the chairs and leaves as quickly as he can, leaving House with his request, a very amusing and very high Chase. House pops a Vicodin, dry-swallowing it as he sends off Wilson. He should be properly under the influence if he's going to keep Chase company.
"Wanna sing?" Chase suggests, giggling madly, before resting his forehead on the glass, laughing madly and generally amusing House. Nothing like a crazy person to get his day going.
Day Twenty-Two
House flips the picture back and forth, frowning at it. "It's impossibly cute," he tells Cameron, who snatches it back and proceeds to make a sound that resembles thirty-seconds of, `awwww!' before her face crumbles into a pout. "Children who are that cute usually turn out to be mass murderers or porn addicts or ugly."
"He was adorable then, and he's adorable now," Cameron debates.
"Adorable?" House remarks. "When's the wedding? Where are you two registered?"
"Where did you get these anyway?"
"Some Aunt," House adds with a smirk. "Sent up a package because I told her that her nephew is receiving a prestigious award and we're putting together some sort of show thing and we needed pictures."
Cameron's cute-face disappears and gets replaced all too quickly by the angry-face. "House!"
"I was bored. I wanted baby pictures and your relatives never replied to my letter," he protests. "Look! Robbie plays with a puppy!" he hands her a picture and it seems to appease her because cute-face comes back. "He's cute as a button, if buttons were actually cute and not just ugly, inanimate things."
The door is opened again. "Don't we have a case?" Chase inquires as he fidgets with the bandage. It's due to come off the next day and he's already picking at it like mad.
House flicks a picture around so that Chase can see it. "Good to see you're a natural blonde."
The shade of red Chase turns would look great on a shirt, House muses.
Day Twenty-Three
They have dinner at some casual diner and House steals fries from Foreman's plate, sips from Cameron's milkshake, and feels someone's sock crawling up his good leg. He doesn't really look, but from the way Chase is avoiding all eye contact with anyone, House puts good money on it being his sock. House drifts off, wondering just what this is. Revenge? Could be. Fun? Chase doesn't have fun unless you force him into it. "Chase," House snaps, getting his attention.
Consequently, the foot stops. Okay, good to have a confirmation.
"What?" he mumbles, poking at his sandwich.
"Good work the other day, on the kids in the ward," he says, not really genuinely, but just seeing if he can get a real smile out of Chase. Cameron steals from Foreman's plate too, earning a tired sigh, but he lets her do it. House has a feeling he won't be getting away with petty-fry-theft again, but there's always his own meal.
Cameron smiles, poking a fry at Chase. "They love you," she says.
"They loved his puppet show," Foreman remarks with a scoff, turning to Cameron. "I had to hold up the scenery while Dr. Dreamy there charms every mother and daughter in the place."
"So, you're good with a sock, then?" House remarks, trying to keep the glee from his voice. To his delight, the socked foot returns to his leg, gently brushing and creeping up towards his thigh. "Never should've doubted you." And it's a strange world where playing footsie in a diner with one of his ducklings really isn't that strange, but just really intriguing.
Day Twenty-Four
"How come you can't get the hospital accountant to do this?" Chase mumbles, flipping through pages and pages of reconciliations and bank account statements. "I'm not that good with numbers." It's late and they're both sitting on the ground, piled up with receipts and other things that are there when tax day looms. He sighs and grabs the calculator again.
House rubs his eyes and pops another Vicodin, fingers fidgeting with something to do, so when Chase's hair falls in his eyes, he pushes it out so that he doesn't take a break from the calculating. "Wilson manipulates her time."
"Does he?"
Chase's grin is absolutely wicked and House feels a little redeemed. He knows he couldn't have been the only one to be thinking it.
"Talking about all that accounting stuff," House remarks, flipping through a few consult bills and chuckling to himself at how good doctors have become at the art of price gouging. "Credits and debits, bad debt expense, double entry bookkeeping."
"You make that sound far dirtier than it should be," Chase murmurs distractedly, chewing on a pencil.
"Maybe your books need to be put back in order."
"Maybe I just need a good accountant," Chase replies easily. "I'll have to give her a ring when I'm finished your accounts. See where she stands on the double-entry billing procedures."
House takes the calculator from Chase and earns a protest of a sharp noise. "That's clearly wrong." Chase snatches it back. "You're supposed to use a four to make the `H' in hello."
"Do you want to be investigated by the IRS, or not?"
House shrugs. "Depends what kind of a week I'm having."
"Do you really consider double-entry bookkeeping some kind of prelude to porn?" Chase inquires innocently, but the way he said those words tips off a far more mischievous purpose at work. House smirks and eases back. Let the kid have his work. Maybe it'll even get out some of that frustration.
Day Twenty-Five
Eleven thirty at night and House pops down to the bathroom to wake himself up with a splash of ice cold water to the face. Shower's running again and it's probably Chase, who just got covered in baby food from an overenthusiastic patient in the pediatric ward. House had warned him about going there and Chase hadn't heeded his warnings. Now, he's trying to shower off bits of peas and carrots. House slowly makes his way over to the shower, favoring his good leg as he goes and yanks the curtain back. To Chase's credit, he doesn't flinch, just keeps scrubbing his back.
"Meeting in an hour," House relays. Chase turns to glance at him. "My place, I think I know what the kid's got."
"Right," Chase agrees, and he turns back to the shower as House closes the curtain for him and walks towards the exit.
Meetings are still meetings, even if there's only two people. It's a rule.
Day Twenty-Six
Chase arrives at 12:30 on the dot at House's door, freshly showered and freshly shaved and smelling of some cologne that House doesn't recall smelling before. He's just about crossing the finish line if his little tally marks on a post-it note are anything to talk about. According to James, a marathon is twenty-six miles and here he is on day twenty-six with Chase alone in his apartment.
He'll cross that finish line all right. That and about five other euphemisms he'd coined one lonely November afternoon.
House closes the door behind Chase and pins him against the door with a slow kiss and this time, there's no joke about kids and there's no teasing and testing, there's just a kiss that Chase seems to get into, his breath hitching lightly as one hand cups House's cheek.
House eases away, nodding towards the bedroom.
Chase just nods.
Dear James, House's note will read in the morning. Please be informed that I had an excellent marathon. I will most certainly continue to extol the virtues of a paced lifestyle instead of this mad sprint you seem to enjoy. In the course of pacing myself, I still managed to cross the finish line, stealing no less than five kisses from Chase. And p.s. he also bought me breakfast in the morning. He's way ahead of you on that pacing thing. Better get running.
THE 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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