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The Arrangement
by Vita
This isn't how her mother raised her, she thought to herself. Not that her mother expected her to live like a nun, but she had infused Allison with the idea that sex was supposed to mean something. Allison had revised the idea to suit her own purposes - maybe it wasn't always love, but it should, at least, indicate interest.
Having sex without love is bad enough, but she's been having sex without even like, and that's sort of pathetic.
The giddiest teenaged girl could tell this was decidedly not a romance. Chase never stayed the night - he barely stayed half an hour afterwards, most of the time. He never kissed her goodbye, he never said anything about it the next day, not since the first time. Of course, since he'd recanted on "this shouldn't happen again" with one phone call, maybe they both understood that there wasn't a point. No, Allison decided, it wasn't really a relationship, it was more of an experiment. Chase was an attractive Australian lab rat.
The college girls at Princeton would have described it as a "friends with benefits" situation, with a wink and an over-privileged smile, but Allison thought friends was probably stretching the truth. Heck, it was giving the truth a Thai massage. (The kind where you wore sweatpants. Not the kind House talked about.) The less elegant ones would have called Chase a "fuck buddy", and given Allison an approving thumbs up for her selection. She couldn't leave it alone, though, she couldn't just accept it for what it was. Allison wanted the situation to make sense, so she turned to science.
Any scientific experiment, of course, required hypotheses. Allison took the time to write them down (once upon a time, she'd owned a real, locking diary, but now all she had was a lowly spiral bound notebook that she'd picked up at a back-to-school sale) so that she could reason out what she'd been thinking when she slept with Chase the first time. The reasoning behind the initial incident wasn't all that complicated - she had been afraid that she'd missed the point, spending all her life trying to be good, and maybe it didn't matter. She knew he wouldn't tell her no - he was terrible at saying no. And well, he was cute. She had also been completely certain that she never wanted to repeat that night, so the real study began when she decided that it would happen again.
Hypothesis: It was a very stupid thing she did while she was high.
"I think I want a drink," she said, when she called him the second time. "Come over?" To keep herself honest, she made actual drinks before he arrived, mixing vodka and cranberry juice. The drinks weren't important - Allison found them still sitting, ice melted, on her kitchen table in the morning - but she'd wanted them to be there. In case of emergency, consume contents of glass. But when he brushed her hair aside and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, she realized that she wasn't going to need it.
Hypothesis: Part of the appeal of non-relationship sex is ease of escape.
Afterwards, Chase's goal usually seemed to be setting a new land speed record in dressing, sometimes barely saying a word short of "see you tomorrow." Allison couldn't quite shake off the feeling that someone ought to be leaving money on a nightstand, although she wasn't sure who was who in that equation. Maybe that was just the influence of House and his endless supply of hooker jokes.
Sometimes she didn't bother getting up to see him off, and then he would bring her a glass of water for reasons she didn't entirely understand, but she supposed that the first time she might have requested one. Most of the time, though, she would pull on her robe and follow him to the door so she could lock it behind him. Almost invariably, she would lean her head against the cool wood and promise herself that was the last time, and her resolve would last exactly until the next time.
Hypothesis: If the subject was getting sex, the experimenter can say whatever she wants to him.
Yeah, well, that turned out not to be entirely true. Apparently there was an exception for insults to sexual prowess. Although considering Chase only blew her off once, it was certainly worth the satisfaction of the snap.
Hypothesis: The subject allows the experimenter to expand her emotional repertoire.
Allison hadn't expected to do this more than once, and she definitely hadn't expected to make a habit of it. Maybe they all had their addictions - House to his pills, Wilson to his women, Cuddy to her work. Maybe hers was this - pleasure without connection, without the caring that she poured out to everyone else.
Chase doesn't particularly want her concern or her kindness, and it's liberating to let her more vicious instincts have their time. The most successful trials in their non-romance didn't happen on days where she was sad or in a pleasant mood. No, they occurred on days where she was ticked off and a sarcastic comment wasn't enough, days where she wanted to strangle House and smack the smug expression right off Foreman's face, and she took it all out on Chase by biting and clawing and ordering him around.
He seemed to like it. Ew. But it was kind of fun. "Don't you wish Cuddy had made me the boss now?" she had asked him smugly, nudging his knee with her own.
Chase had covered his face with his hands. "Please don't mention Cuddy while I'm naked," he said. Whatever that meant.
"Shut up and get another condom. I don't think we're finished yet." Chase had whined a little, but he always, always followed orders. She wondered if this was what some women really meant, when they said they wanted a man who listened.
Hypothesis: The experimenter felt lonely and isolated and sought out human contact.
Just once, she had said, "You don't really have to go."
They had been waiting for Foreman to wake up. She probably shouldn't have called Chase that night, but she didn't particularly want to feel miserable by herself.
Neither of them really wanted sex, though, and when they realized that the feeling was mutual, they'd ended up curled up in her bed, watching The Daily Show and not talking about what was really bothering them.
She said those words, aware that she probably sounded weak or desperate. Chase had glanced at her, and paused for just a moment before saying, "I don't think that's a good idea, Allison." Then he fell asleep anyway. She turned out the light and closed her eyes, drawing a strange comfort from the sound of his even breathing on the other side of the bed.
Hypothesis: The experimenter is pursuing an unfulfilling relationship with her colleague because she has not recovered from her infatuation with her superior.
Well. She wasn't even going to dignify that one with an answer, if only because she wasn't sure what the answer really was.
Hypothesis: A non-romantic relationship has certain conveniences.
She didn't worry about impressing Chase. She didn't care if her hair was a mess, or if her apartment was clean. She didn't light candles, or wear lingerie, or do anything that hinted that she actually had any particular feelings on his being there. The call, of course, revealed more than a clean apartment might say. Even if she encoded it, couched it in terms of wanting a drink (or less formally, telling him "9:00, be there, or I'm starting without you."), Allison knew she was admitting to wanting him there. But what was wrong with that? She was a red-blooded woman in her prime; it would be strange if she weren't interested in sex with a particularly attractive specimen...even if the specimen periodically behaved like a twerp with a stethoscope.
Hypothesis: Introducing rational thought into the equation will create difficulties.
"Why do you keep coming over?" she finally asked him one day. Chase stared at her with alarm, and she could almost see him calculating escape vectors in his head.
"I- I don't know. I guess because...you keep asking?" Chase said, his response half-answer, half-question. "I mean...it's just sex, right?"
"Yes, but...doesn't it bother you to just turn up whenever I ask you?"
"Well, no. I mean, there is sex."
"But don't you ever think about it?"
"No, I mean, yeah...oh, Christ." Chase pulled the pillow out from under his head and covered his face with it. "Look," she heard through a muffler of down, "I figured you had a reason. And it was your reason." He peeked out from under the pillow. "If you wanted me to know what it was, you would have told me. It's not like you're shy about saying exactly how you feel."
"Oh." His answer seemed reasonable, or what passed for reasonable in Chase-land, and Allison wondered if she was just overthinking the situation. Maybe there was nothing to it, just Chase being Chase.
"So, why do you keep calling?" Chase asked, his curiosity apparently piqued.
She swallowed. Because I'm fascinated by the fact that you keep showing up. "I guess...because it's fun."
"Exactly." Chase kissed her shoulder quickly and smiled. "It's not complicated, it's just fun. Just a friendly arrangement." His mouth drifted slowly along the side of her neck, searching out just the right spot for a nibble.
"Chase...it's a work night," she protested weakly. If she showed up at the hospital with a hickey, she would never, ever hear the end of it.
"Wear a turtleneck," he mumbled. Allison decided it was the best idea he'd had in ages.
Hypothesis: The subject may be capable of evolution.
Once he had figured out that Allison was not interested in a relationship (and double and triple-checked her motivations), Chase seemed to relax a little more. He flirted with her beforehand as if the outcome of the evening wasn't pre-determined, and lingered in bed afterwards, sometimes getting downright chatty. He was still his snippy self at work, but Allison didn't mind since it might keep House from noticing. There was the distinct possibility that House knew and didn't care, but it wasn't like him to pass up the opportunity to be unpleasant.
The non-relationship was like taming a stray sometimes. Chase was staying longer, acting nicer, all because he thought she didn't mean any of it. They were play-acting at being lovers, and as long as it was fake, Chase could put more into it. Staying around didn't mean he was in love with her, or represent commitment of any sort - in fact, it represented the antithesis of romantic commitment, attachment formed on the basis of there being no attachment involved.
The subject was quite impressively screwed up, now that she looked more closely. On the upside, now that he felt more comfortable, they could carry on a real discussion, one that wasn't awkward or strained or spattered with weird non-sequiturs.
"So I read in Cosmo..."
"No good thing ever comes from 'so I read in Cosmo'," Chase muttered.
"It was a sex article."
"Don't care. It's always about sticking your finger in someone's arse, which I'm sure has its charms for some people, but I'm not one of them."
Cameron snorted into her pillow. "Just for that, I'm making you take the quiz."
"What's a nice girl like you doing reading Cosmo anyway? Tawdry stuff."
"My salon doesn't subscribe to JAMA. And what, exactly, do you think I should be reading?"
Chase smiled. "Newsweek, so you can keep tabs on Sebastian Charles. Or, I'm going to guess from the treadmill that you like running, maybe Shape or Self. Of course, all bets are off if you're on a plane."
"On a plane?"
"Yeah. On a plane you can read whatever you want, you'll never see those people again." Chase got up and started looking around the floor. "What happened to my socks? Did I have socks?"
"So what do you read on a plane?" Cameron asked, without thinking about it. Chase paused, and she held her breath.
"Here they are," he said, and Cameron thought he wouldn't reply. But as he sat down to pull on the escaped socks, he started talking again. "I always buy two magazines in the airport. If I'm not interested in the person next to me, I read Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated, whatever. If she's attractive, I read Jane."
"Jane!?" Cameron exclaimed.
"Why not? It's relatively smart, funny...and come on, Heidi Klum's naked in there without a plain brown wrapper." Chase ducked to avoid a throw pillow, actually pitched at his head. "Besides, it definitely starts a conversation." He grinned candidly, and Allison saw, for an instant, what a stranger on a plane might see, looking at Chase - the sort of guy, who, if he sat down beside a woman, might make her heart beat just a little faster. If he was gracious enough to offer the window seat, there might well be swooning. Somehow, she'd become accustomed to the sight, probably distorted by weakness and arrogance that a stranger would never see. These conversations, they were dangerous things.
"Go home," Allison ordered, and pointed lazily towards the door. As always, Chase took off, but this time she let herself feel the warm glow of her own smile as he walked away.
Hypothesis: If the subject becomes stationary, then the experimenter is free to expand to a new site.
Apparently, Chase did have his limits. One of those limits was leaving his apartment during the World Cup. No, he was not moving from the couch during this game, and no, he was not going to TiVo the match, Allison, and if she was that desperate for company she could just come over there.
She stared at the phone as if it had grown tentacles, and then agreed, calmly ignoring his careless use of the word desperate. He handed her a beer when she arrived, and the sole moment of conversation was an explanation of something called the offside rule. He pulled her into his lap while the stoppage time was counted off, in prelude to what turned out to be a rather exuberant celebration of Australia's victory over Croatia (not actually a win, but a tie, and yet somehow a victory, and apparently there was no point in asking questions about the game because it made Chase whiny). Only when Allison stumbled out to her car did she realize that even though Chase had been all over her apartment, somehow she hadn't gotten any farther than his couch.
Hypothesis: If the experimenter loses control of the experiment, the subject may choose not to continue.
They'd had a good day this time. It was a warm, bright spring Wednesday, and the longer days gave her an urge to straighten things up, organize things.
Why she called Chase, she had no idea. Allison was relatively certain that she didn't have any sexual associations with cleaning products. Just boredom, perhaps, and maybe that was a little bit pathetic and she should get a hobby of some sort (imagine telling Chase she'd replaced him with a knitting circle). And possibly the bottle of wine she started drinking when the boredom kicked in, somewhere around the vacuuming.
She lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about cleaning. She was always straightening, always tidying. No one at work would bother if she didn't. She staggered to her feet to answer Chase's knock. He looked a little nervous when she opened the door, but she supposed it was the energetic music she'd been playing to keep her going.
He eyed her suspiciously, and sniffed the air. "Is that...lemon?" Chase asked.
"Just doing some dusting," Allison chirped. She guided him inside, locking the door behind him. "Sorry about the mess. Want a drink?"
"I think you've had enough for both of us," he said. He picked up the bottle on her table. "Oh, come on, Cameron. Yellow Tail?"
"It's good enough," she said, pouting a little.
"Is not," Chase replied, "I'll bring you some good Australian chardonnay, if you want."
"I thought I ordered a nice Australian chardonnay when I called," Allison drawled, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Chase raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Oh, my," Chase said, with a little bark of a laugh, "You are hereby flagged."
A quieter ballad closed out the CD, and Cameron decided to distract him from further insults to her taste in alcohol by asking him to dance. Chase looked at her incredulously, but he cooperated, like always. Allison decided that letting someone else hold her up was nice now and then. Something wasn't quite right, though. The hand at her back wasn't quite resting properly, nor did she particularly like the way his head rested against hers. Staring at the fibers in the fabric of his jacket, she realized that he was actually sort of dressed up, and no five o'clock shadow scratched her cheek when she leaned against it.
"You were out," she said softly, feeling a little bit stupid.
"Yeah...having one of those dates where I wished I'd get paged." Chase stroked her hair in a manner she might have described as fond, if she hadn't known better. "And I did, so...what's that Foreman says? It's all good." His voice sounded pleasant enough to her ears, but everywhere he touched her felt heavy and sad and Allison was afraid to ask why. Because if she had whys and whats, if she really knew him, and she started talking about her husband and Joe and everything...she'd probably transform her "friendly arrangement" into a twelve-car emotional pileup. Maybe she'd really had a little too much to drink.
"You suck at this, you know," she mumbled.
"Yeah? Well, you've got no rhythm. Just so you know." She grinned, and as the music ended she stayed swaying in the middle of her little living room, wishing away whatever was hurting him. She pressed her lips to his in a kiss that she hoped would be sufficiently distracting, but instead found him cool and unresponsive.
"Don't," Chase said firmly, and nudged her into plopping unceremoniously onto her sofa. He disappeared from view briefly and returned with a glass of water, followed by aspirin. Allison tried not to feel slightly huffy that he thought he could just go digging around in her medicine cabinet. Hmph.
"Why?" Allison asked, as he sank into the couch beside her. Chase's face got a funny little expression to it, and even with her mind swimming in Australia's-not-finest-vintage she waited for him to avoid giving her an answer.
"Well, once is a mistake. Twice and I really am a...well, not a good guy." He draped his arm around her shoulders and picked up her remote. "Besides, you taste like bathtub wine," he added cheekily. Allison elbowed him in the side as he turned on some lame police drama, but she smiled sleepily as she let her head drop to his shoulder, and let a flood of oxytocin trick her into believing that they actually felt contented.
Hypothesis: If neither subject nor experimenter has any objections, then the experiment can continue indefinitely.
Allison called him on and off, whenever she didn't really have a reason not to call. It felt comforting to have something she could count on, even if the something was better off dropped. Science, after all, involved ongoing study and reaching deeper understanding of the subject involved. The knowledge she could acquire here was admittedly limited, but she'd always enjoyed experiments, and this was no exception.
As it turned out, she was lucky. Chase liked experiments, too.
"C'mon. It's only kinky until you try it," he pleaded.
Cameron pursed her lips in thought, trying not to laugh at the discord of that statement with Chase's best approximation of puppy eyes. Stern, she could do stern.
So what had she learned? Her subject was not a jerk all the time (but still exhibiting jerk-like behavior at least 30% of the time that she was looking - the literature on missing data was awfully dull, so she'd stick with that statistic). He still hated talking about whatever he'd left behind (although he swore the shark story was true), hadn't mentioned Australia or invited her back to his apartment even once.
In short, Chase remained a tangle of history and experiences that she still knew nothing about. A mystery begging to be solved, but in the end, success was unimportant. She wondered, of course, if all her hypothesizing was meant to justify, or even to conceal from herself, what wasn't particularly good behavior. Maybe she cared more about Chase than she was willing to admit. Worse yet, maybe she didn't care at all, and she was just using him, although somehow, that line of thinking was always followed by Chase saying or doing something obnoxious, cowardly, or foolish, and she would decide that he deserved anything she threw at him (including his pants, that one time).
"Yes or no?" Chase asked, his head cocked playfully to one side.
"If House finds out, you'll be the prettiest cadaver at the medical school," Allison said menacingly.
"Believe me, if House finds out, I'll be delighted to kill myself, although I will be sure to mention you in my note." His eyes danced with what she could only describe as curiosity. For the first time, it occurred to Allison that Chase might be studying her just as intently as she studied him. Maybe Chase was testing her every time he came over to her apartment, examining whether or not he could trust her, and now, after months had passed, he was finally asking her for something. For some reason, the idea that Chase might have had his own agenda made her stomach do a little flip.
"Maybe," Allison replied, letting a mischievous smile break across her face as she trailed her fingers through his hair. Knowledge existed to be expanded and built upon, and the concept that there might be something interesting just beyond her current awareness was too tantalizing to resist. After all, the only thing to do when an experiment was finished was to take what she had learned, and start again.
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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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