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Any Port
by mercaque
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Foreman/Chase
Summary: Chase gets arrested during a break-in; Foreman bails him out. Chase/Foreman, angsty.
Spoilers: Alludes to the Chase backstory established in "The Socratic Method" and "Cursed."
Author's Notes: Constructive criticism very much welcome. Additionally, this was published just after "Skin Deep"; as of right now, my very minor speculation about Foreman's backstory is neither supported nor contradicted by canon.
*****
Bile and old vodka, Chase thought. He could identify the smell as soon as the door slammed shut behind him, and before long he was soaking in it, swimming in it, drowning in it.
It was inevitable, he supposed, that one day they would get caught "investigating" a patient's home. Chase had always been the most eager of his colleagues to follow House's hunches, right into other people's living rooms if necessary. And he had blithely brushed off both Foreman's groaning reluctance and Cameron's skittishness as entirely unappreciative of House's genius.
But getting handcuffed, booked, and thrown into a general holding cell - complete with orange jumpsuit - had seriously shaken his opinion. Like so many things Chase had once been absolutely certain of in life, his callous dismissal of Cameron and Foreman's hesitance now felt blind, childish. Foreman had experienced this once, after all. Should've listened to him, Chase thought. Should've realized why he was so determined to forget this rancid place...
It was like being sealed inside a mausoleum along with the dead. The air between the four slablike grey walls was damp, fetid and bone-penetratingly chilly. And if the other ten or so men in the cell weren't corpses, they might as well have been: some slumped in dirty heaps on the benches, others lolled against the concrete wall, and nearly all appeared to abuse one substance or another. Chase recognized the lifelong alcoholics immediately, with their red noses, their soggy eyes, their defeated sag, their wheedling airs.
Theoretically, he ought to have been well-equipped for this, having seen every shade of shitfaced once Mum started going downhill. But instead, his skin was crawling. The disconnected mumblings were all too familiar to his ears, the smell a pungent reminder of the empty hallways of Mum's house after she'd died. Chase desperately willed himself to block it out, but could only curse his inability to think of anything else.
And he further cursed his foolish decision to place his one and only phone call to House's office. There had been no answer. For all Chase knew, no one had even listened to the message, half-informative and half-shaky, that he'd left on the machine. They couldn't just leave him here, he thought; surely House would come eventually. But as the cold grey hours ticked by, and no sign appeared that anyone knew he was here, the decreasing likelihood of that scenario began to pick at his already-frayed nerves.
******
"I don't feel good. I don't feel good."
A sandy-haired man, with bloodshot blue eyes staring vacantly out of a leathery face, rocked back and forth on the bench. He looked as if he would vomit at any second, but wrapping his sinewy arms around his midsection, simply issued his mantra over and over: "I don't feel good. I don't feel good."
It was repetitive enough, and pleading enough, to disrupt Chase's already-feeble attempts to disassociate. He eyed the man with his medical training, and recognizing the classic pickled skin and bright red nose of a lifelong drunk, decided it was DTs. If that was the case, there was likely little that could be done in this jail cell. Which was unfortunate, because the constant murmuring was slowly driving him crazy.
"I don't feel good." The man's voice rose insistently. "I need a doctor. I n-n-nee..."
And he collapsed forward, falling to the ground in a violent seizure.
Chase leapt to his feet, his intensivist's reflexes overriding his personal distaste. Only a few seconds later did it vaguely register that no one else in the cell had budged.
"It's all right," he grunted, struggling to get a grip on the flailing inmate. Raising his head, Chase bellowed, "Will somebody help me here!"
Nobody moved.
Chase grit his teeth in frustration and pushed down on the man's chest, trying futilely to hold him still. "Can you hear me? I'm a doctor," he shouted, trying to ignore the peals of laughter that erupted around the cell.
The prisoner's twitching ceased for a split second, and his watery blue eyes locked on Chase, whose jaw dropped. In that moment he saw pure calculating reason on the prisoner's ruddy face, not the unfocused haze of a seizure victim.
"You're faking," Chase realized out loud, and his voice seemed to reverberate around the room.
"Shut the fuck up," hissed the prisoner, his movements quieted to a low-level spasming.
They stayed like that for a long silent moment. There was no movement in the room, but Chase could feel every eye upon them. Nothing happened, and no guards came.
"Way to fuck that up, shithead!" the prisoner bellowed, launching forward.
He drove a sharp shoulder into Chase's belly, knocking the wind out of him. Chase fell back with a rough gasp, throwing up feeble arms to shield himself; a ruthless fist smashed into his right eye anyway, and the world suddenly burst into a thousand white spots. His ribs absorbed the next blow, and then another, and then mercifully, the pounding stopped. When he tentatively opened his good eye, Chase could see the man being dragged out of the cell.
Chase crawled blindly back to his spot against the wall, clutching his face and gasping for breath. Blood was already pooling and swelling under his skin around his right eye. The concrete was icy, but he sagged against it anyway, and before long his eyes slid shut.
*******
"Robert Chase?"
Chase's head lolled to the side, his semiconscious haze broken by the sound of his own name.
"Robert Chase!"
"Yeah," he rasped. Dizzily, he got to his feet, trying to ignore the sharp ache in his ribcage and the heavy swelling on one side of his face.
"Come on," the warden ordered him, and a light sneer curled his lip. "Your homeboy's here."
My what-? Chase staggered dumbly for the door, the fog not yet having cleared from his mind; his stomach constricted when the racial sting finally sank in. Foreman?
The warden latched onto his arm with a fierce pinch, oblivious to the sullen glare Chase shot his way, and led him down a long windowless corridor. As they walked Chase's pulse began to pick up speed, and a spark of euphoria flared in his chest. Freedom, he realized. Someone had finally come for him.
But why, he wondered, would it be Foreman? House, Chase decided glumly. He likely couldn't be bothered, so he handed the chore off to the person it would annoy the most; it wasn't difficult to imagine the massive grudging eyeroll that order likely received. How humiliating, Chase thought, that he should be so happy to be such an inconvenience.
A noxious blare announced their arrival in the waiting room, and the noise startled Chase nearly out of his skin. With the sudden jolt of adrenaline came a new flood of self-consciousness - he must look abjectly ridiculous, with his jumpsuit and his black eye and his filth. He lifted a defensive hand to his face, already bracing for the ridicule Foreman, or whoever, would doubtless have in store for him.
"Hey, Chase!"
He'd guessed correctly; Foreman waited casually, hands in his pockets, with a duffel bag slung over his shoulders. He was impeccably dressed, with a purple hat and scarf offsetting his smooth dark skin, and he unwittingly made Chase feel doubly grimy by comparison. But Foreman seemed oblivious to Chase's discomfort as he strode forward, dismissing the warden with a jerk of his tufted chin.
"About damn time." Chase hoped a joke would disguise his overwhelming relief, but his voice was hoarse, and it earned him only a look of curious concern.
"Fast as I could." Foreman swept a clinical gaze over him, a guarded sympathy slightly softening his methodical eye. "Let me look at you."
Chase's shoulders tightened at the unexpected pity from his colleague. "I'm fine."
"Are you kidding me?" Foreman gently pried Chase's fingers away from his wounded eye. "Who the hell did that to you?"
"Somehow, I didn't get a name," he snorted.
Against all instincts, Chase found himself desperate to accept Foreman's concern at face value. But it seemed too good to be true. The derision, the condescension, the scorn - they had to be lurking just around the corner somewhere. After all, this was probably child's play compared to Foreman's criminal escapades, and it was nearly impossible to picture the imperturbably cool Foreman being stupid enough to fall for the sick-prisoner routine.
Thoroughly unsettled, Chase finally just mumbled, "Do you mind if we get out of here?"
"Sure." Foreman unslung the bag around his shoulders. "I figured you might want to change."
"But," he protested, "they said they'd have my clothes..."
"Hate to break it to you, but they're probably gone." Foreman put a hand to Chase's shoulder and led him toward the desk. "If my memory serves, keeping track of things isn't always their number one priority. But we can check anyway."
Foreman was proven right; the desk officer sullenly produced Chase's keys, his pager and a now-cashless wallet, but informed them that his clothes had somehow disappeared among all the garments they had collected from today's detainees.
"Told you," Foreman grumbled when they were out of earshot.
Too drained to press the issue, Chase grabbed the bag and shuffled off to the men's room to change.
It was filled with Foreman's own clothes, the unexpected charity of which made Chase's heart beat a little harder. They were large enough on his slender frame to be slightly embarrassing; his hipbones barely held up Foreman's charcoal-colored pants, and the white shirt fell past his knuckles. Still, they were soft, and comfortable, and most importantly, clean. Chase lifted a sleeve to his nose and breathed deeply, smiling as the musky earth-and-soap scent temporarily chased the jail cell's alcoholic stench from his nose.
He left the stall with a slight smile still curving his mouth, but it disappeared with a startled gasp when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. As he washed his hands, Chase couldn't stop staring at the violent purplish-black bruise that engulfed his right eye.
"Jesus." His murmur echoed off the tiles. No wonder his vision was significantly dimmer on one side.
When he emerged from the men's room, Foreman was again waiting with hands in his pockets. His brown eyes danced over Chase with a momentary unease, but his voice was steady as ever. "Ready?"
"Do I, uh, need to post bail, or... something...?" Chase asked hesitantly, embarrassed by his baldfaced ignorance.
But Foreman only smiled beneficently and tilted his head back, as if playing the part of an openhanded king. "I took care of everything, at least for now."
On some level, he probably should have balked at Foreman's self-satisfaction, but instead warm gratitude tingled in Chase's veins.
"I think the real question," Foreman continued with that same smile, "is whether you're more desperate for a shower, or some food."
An immediate stab of hunger made the decision for Chase. "Food."
"Thought so. Let's go."
*****
Twenty-five minutes later, Chase was gulping down great mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Foreman had pulled into the nearest 24-hour diner, that peculiarly New Jersey institution which Chase would never again take for granted.
The right side of his face was still a blind heavy ache, but he was otherwise beginning to relax, the warmth flowing back into his bones. It was an overwhelming relief not to be alone with grisly thoughts of Mum anymore, even if Foreman's faintly amused demeanor across the table was increasingly maddening. He seemed so casual, Chase reflected enviously, as if getting arrested were something the grown-ups just dealt with. As if fears and smells and memories were just trivial things to be locked away and put on a shelf...
Foreman's voice, low and placating, interrupted his brooding. "So, how long were you in there?"
"I don't know," Chase answered through a mouthful of bacon. "What time is it now?"
"Eight-thirty."
"Wow," he murmured. It had been bright and sunny when the cops came for him; now the sky was pitch-black. "I guess about nine hours, then."
"Long time," Foreman nodded approvingly.
It probably wasn't meant to be patronizing, but Chase's pride chafed anyway. He went silent and frowned down at his plate, engrossing himself again in his food.
Foreman waited a few moments before trying again. "Who did that to you?"
The memory of how he'd been fooled only deepened his scowl. "It was stupid."
"Was it the cops?"
Chase snorted; his had possibly been the most docile arrest in history. "No."
"Somebody in the cell?"
"Yeah."
Foreman opened his mouth, on the verge of asking more, but mercifully sensed he ought to drop it. "Asshole."
Chase laughed in spite of himself. Eager to change the subject, he ventured a question of his own. "Well, how was it for you? When you... got in trouble?"
Foreman seemed amused by the diplomatic description of his juvenile record, and Chase realized it was the first time his face hadn't simply clouded over at the mere mention of it. Of course, that particular reaction now made a hell of a lot more sense.
But all Foreman did this time was purse his lips contemplatively. "Wasn't fun."
He did not elaborate, and after a long silence, Chase rolled his eyes. "That's it?"
His brown eyes flickered uncomfortably for only the briefest of seconds, but that was all it took for Foreman to unwittingly give himself away. "Not much to tell."
Chase tilted his head curiously, his pulse picking up speed. His colleague's cool veneer had cracked ever so slightly, and he was suddenly possessed of an urge to peel it back even more, although he guiltily realized he was motivated by a desire to turn the tables as much as any concept of friendship. Regardless, the defensive hunch of Foreman's shoulders suddenly fascinated him, like a small clue in a much greater puzzle.
"Well, what happened?" Chase asked, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.
"I broke the lock, the alarm went off, the cops came." Foreman explained it broadly, as if simplifying a complex medical procedure for a patient. It was a fairly transparent attempt to close the subject, but that hardly made it less grating.
Chase poured a healthy dose of skepticism into his voice. "And that's it."
"Pretty much."
"You're sure?"
"Why don't you tell me what happened to your face?" Foreman challenged him suddenly.
For a moment they faced off silently, like cowboys at high noon, neither daring to crack first. Foreman's benevolent pride had vanished, replaced by the cold arrogance he usually reserved for defending a diagnosis. There it was, Chase thought, the haughty contempt he'd been waiting for.
But instead of relief that the other shoe had dropped, he only felt his heart sink. The hard set of Foreman's face was a painful contrast to the genuine goodwill he'd first displayed when Chase emerged from the holding cell. A slow creeping shame rose in his cheeks as it became suddenly, painfully apparent how badly he had miscalculated Foreman's motives.
"I got tricked," he admitted quietly.
Foreman relaxed his guard only a little. "Yeah?"
"This guy in the cell had a seizure," Chase explained grudgingly, still unable to hide how stupid he felt. "I tried to help him. Turned out he was faking, and... well, you know." He gestured loosely to his face.
Now Foreman's dark eyes, fixed firmly upon him, warmed with sympathy. But there was still an undercurrent of skepticism. "There something else, too?"
Chase's lips tightened. He couldn't possibly be so transparent, that Foreman could come so close to guessing about Mum... Well, it didn't matter. Chase may have felt bad, but he still had his limits.
Not bothering to mask his annoyance, he replied, "Is that not enough?"
Thankfully, Foreman backed off with the rueful duck of his head. "No, no. Hey, I'm sorry. It sucks getting burned like that."
It was an obvious opening; still smarting a little, Chase went for it immediately. "Is that what happened to you?"
"Sort of." Foreman paused, and a sour self-consciousness crossed his face. "See, it wasn't just me trying to steal that car. It was also these three friends of mine. I was just the only one who got caught."
Chase blinked. "They left you behind?"
Embarrassment flickered in his eyes, but otherwise Foreman continued without acknowledging the question. "Anyway, the cops really wanted the other guys' names, but I said no." His expression took on a faraway cast, edged by a self-satisfied smile. "They kept me for 24 hours straight without giving me my phone call. Which was a violation of my rights, by the way. They kept telling me I could cut a deal, but I wouldn't break."
The image of some hapless cop attempting to outstubborn a fifteen-year-old Foreman rose up in his mind; the poor fool likely had no idea what he'd gotten himself into. Chase couldn't help chuckling. "I see some things haven't changed."
Foreman laughed halfheartedly, but it faded quickly into a pained smile, and when he spoke his voice was startlingly soft. "Well, it turned out my loyalty was... one-sided." He shook his head. "Stupid."
Chase opened his mouth to ask more, and found it got stuck in an astonished gawk, as a million possibilities ran through his mind. The specifics were largely unnecessary; Foreman still looked faintly bewildered, not to mention crushed, by the betrayal. It hurts exactly because you'll never find out why, Chase wanted to tell him, but that would've opened up a whole new conversation he really didn't feel like having right now.
"Assholes," he finally offered, and Foreman broke into genuine laughter.
They trailed again into silence, but this time it was companionable, each man lost in his own thoughts. Foreman picked absently at the remains of his sandwich, his dignified features slightly overcast with regret.
Chase, meanwhile, scooped up the last of his scrambled eggs, watching his coworker in a new light. Foreman's presence was no longer maddening, but rather inspired something altogether indescribable - an unsettling, uneasy tenderness. He was captivated by the pensive sag of Foreman's solid shoulders; by his supple, masculine fingers, toying with the fork; by the musky scent, drifting up from his borrowed clothes, that seemed to reassert itself.
"Hey," Chase said quietly, trying not to give away the sudden turn of his thoughts. "Thanks for coming to get me."
Foreman looked up, startled out of his introspection, and his gaze darted to Chase's wounded eye. "Well, sorry I didn't come sooner."
"At least you did," he shrugged. And then, suddenly curious about what else he had misgauged: "Speaking of which... I left that message for House."
"Yeah, he went home early." At Chase's perplexed look, Foreman threw up his hands. "Hey, don't ask me. You're just lucky Cameron decided to go through his voicemail."
Chase snorted, and couldn't quite keep the tentative hope out of his voice. "And yet you're the one who came."
Foreman's eyes flickered, and for a second he looked fascinatingly guilty. But then a sly smile crept across his face. "Yeah, well, I was just excited not to be the only 'criminal' on staff anymore. Do you have any idea what it was like, hearing House's endless crap?"
"I'm sure I will soon," Chase groaned, but he was laughing.
"At least now he'll have to spread it around," Foreman pointed out.
"You and me, huh?" Chase asked.
Foreman grinned. "Looks that way."
*****
They kept up a steady stream of meaningless chatter during the drive back to Chase's apartment. Foreman updated him on the patient whose medical condition had prompted Chase's ill-fated break-in in the first place, and they spent most of the drive batting possible diagnoses back and forth, a new camaraderie infusing their usual competitiveness. Before they knew it, Chase's apartment building loomed in front of them.
"Well, here it is," Chase said reluctantly.
Foreman turned off the car, and a tense silence hung between them.
"Want to come up for a drink?" Chase finally asked.
"It's a worknight," Foreman demurred instinctively. But his hand was already unlatching his seatbelt.
No words were exchanged as they walked up the stairs, the uneasy quiet again descending upon them. Chase fished his keys out of his borrowed trousers, and it wasn't until he was fumbling with them in front of his door that Foreman finally spoke.
"Your eye okay?" he asked quietly.
"It'll be fine," Chase answered reflexively. His breath quickened when he felt light fingers brush along his temple.
"Good," Foreman murmured.
Chase barely knew how to take the straightforward affection in Foreman's voice, and his old instincts told him he dared not trust it. But the alternative, of sitting alone in his oppressively quiet apartment, was almost too awful to contemplate. And Foreman had been good to him so far. Maybe, just maybe... Chase turned impulsively, letting his key hang in the lock, and planted a kiss on Foreman's mouth.
The other man froze, and for a horrible stomach-turning moment Chase wondered if he had again miscalculated. But then Foreman's lips opened warmly, and his fingers nestled in the back of Chase's blond hair, and he returned the kiss with a fervency that made Chase go limp with relief.
They pulled back after a moment, their heavy breathing loud in the still night air. Wonder swirled in Foreman's steady gaze.
"Come on," Chase whispered. His fingers shook a little as he opened the door, but Foreman's gentle hand at the small of his back reassured him.
When the door closed they shared a nervous, expectant look, and then Foreman ventured a second kiss, exploratory but gentle. Chase's hesitance melted away, his arms encircling Foreman's waist and pulling him in closer. They necked in the hallway for a few moments, lips moving over skin, trailing hungrily along throats and cheeks and jawlines, Foreman's movements endearingly clumsy in his efforts to avoid Chase's bruising.
At last Chase pulled back, a warm smile on his face, and then simply leaned in and rested his head against Foreman's broad shoulder. He closed his eyes and savored Foreman's arms cradling him, the low quick thrumming of his heartbeat, the gentle fingers stroking his hair.
Chase's blue eyes fixed on the soft brown skin of Foreman's neck, and licking his lips he was again aware of its slightly salty taste, of the way his facial hair had lightly tenderized his skin... desire rushed hotly through Chase's veins, flushing his skin, prompting the beginnings of an erection between his legs. His swollen eye throbbed harder as the blood went to his face as well, the sharp twinge spicing Chase's arousal.
"Didn't you ask about a shower before?" he murmured suggestively against Foreman's jacket.
He lifted his head, and the arch of Foreman's brow suggested he was thoroughly enticed. Chase led them toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his oversized shirt and shrugging it off. Behind him Foreman stripped off his jacket and loosened his tie.
The entire apartment was fairly sparse, a holdover from Chase's days in the seminary, and the bathroom was a similar study in economy: white tiles, clean but not sparkling, a narrow shower with a sliding plastic door, a few towels folded on a shelf. Foreman's gaze darted all around the room, and Chase felt briefly defensive of his domain; but there was no judgment, only an appreciative curiosity.
His eyes came to a dead stop on Chase's chest.
"Jesus Christ, Rob." Foreman's face slackened as he caught sight of the blue-and-black bruises splashing across Chase's bare torso. He stepped forward, tracing the edges of the bruising lightly with his fingers, and sucked in a sharp breath. "Who the fuck did this?"
Chase flushed, thrilled and embarrassed and aroused at the protective ire in Foreman's eye. "Same guy."
"I swear to God..." he began darkly, but Chase cut him off with a sudden fierce kiss. Foreman moaned a little, desire slowly dampening his anger.
Chase reluctantly broke the kiss, breathing hard, and went to turn on the shower. Foreman, meanwhile, pulled off his tie, shirt and slacks in quick succession. Dark curly hair brushed lightly across his chest, trailing down from his belly button to his boxers, where a thick unyielding bulge announced his unmistakeable arousal. Chase's cock throbbed harder at the sight, and he flicked his fingers impatiently under the flowing water. Finally satisfied it was hot enough, Chase stood, stripped off the rest of his clothing and climbed into the shower.
Even as his painfully hard erection demanded attention, Chase stopped to appreciate how heavenly the hot sharp water was as it bit into his tired muscles and washed the dirt from his skin. He sighed happily, eyes closed, mouth open in an unguarded smile; when he opened his eyes Foreman was staring at him with brazen admiration.
"Come on already," he chided him with a grin.
Foreman laughed and stepped into the shower after Chase, sliding the plastic door shut behind him. He hissed a little when the near-scalding water hit his skin, but quickly acclimated, and soon Chase was watching the rivulets trace the contours of Foreman's sensual flesh - down the sturdy chest, the soft belly, the crevice where his ass met his waist... the thick, jutting erection.
But he had barely taken all this in when Foreman was leaning in, kissing his mouth sharply, then moving down to tease briefly at one of Chase's pink nipples, which promptly perked in response. Goosebumps erupted all along Chase's body, and his sex throbbed insistently.
"Foreman... please..." he begged.
Foreman gave him a look that was nine-tenths amused and one-tenth withering. "I think we're on a first name basis, you know," he murmured, his mouth trailing tantalizingly lower.
"I stand corrected, Eri-" Foreman's hot mouth enveloped his cock. "Oh God!"
Chase clutched blindly at the door handle in an effort to steady himself, his knees nearly buckling as Foreman's skilled tongue danced along his shaft. Foreman wrapped one firm hand around the base of Chase's cock, and the other trailed curiously along his body - cupping his ass, scraping light fingernails along his thigh, flicking at the skin just behind the knee. That last touch gave Chase an unexpected jolt, and he gripped the door handle with increasingly white knuckles.
Foreman's lips moved up and down his cock faster now, his steady rhythm matching the increasingly fiery tingle that radiated through Chase's skin. And then for a blind exhilarating moment, Chase thrust forward uncontrollably, his fierce climax bursting in Foreman's eager sucking mouth, dimly aware that he was crying out inarticulately the entire time.
He sagged against the cold tiled wall as the aftershocks subsided. Foreman was lightly kissing his way back up Chase's body, and Chase leaned into him for support, still breathing hard.
His mind began to clear slightly, and he realized Foreman still had a fat, throbbing erection of his own. Without a second thought Chase wrapped his fingers around it and began to pump firmly, and Foreman's fingers dug involuntarily into his skin. Chase kissed greedily at Foreman's neck and shoulders, pink lips devouring rich black skin, stroking faster at the hot rigid length in his hand.
Foreman's eyes began to flutter helplessly as his orgasm approached, his full lips parting, his head thrown back.
"Oh... oh, God..." he moaned desperately.
When it became clear Foreman was about to go over the edge, Chase smiled to himself and dropped to his knees, closing his lips around Foreman's cock, his tongue flicking at the head; Foreman's sharp, orgasmic howl rang through the steamy air, and he thrust fiercely between Chase's lips, his hot salty seed spurting down his throat.
Foreman's eyes were still at half-mast when Chase stood up, and a tired grateful smile perked his lips. He brushed the back of his hand against Chase's non-injured cheek, and a minute later swept in for a kiss. For a moment each man tasted his own sex, and then Foreman stepped out of the shower, leaving Chase to yet again bask in the hot flowing water.
********
Foreman borrowed one of Chase's T-shirts to sleep in; it was only fitting, Chase felt, that he should return the favor. The fact that it was slightly too tight on Foreman's bulkier frame made for a nice visual, although Chase was too crushingly tired for it to register as anything more.
He turned out the lights and crawled into bed, where Foreman was already drifting off. But he nonetheless slung a possessive arm around Chase, who smiled and fondly kissed his face. His raw gratitude was shrouded by the darkness, a fact for which Chase was grateful. I love you, he contemplated saying; but aloud only whispered, "Good night, Eric."
Foreman smiled a broad sleepy smile and again cocooned Chase securely in his arms, and the heavy rhythm of his breathing lulled him to sleep.
-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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