Forever (PG-13)
Dec. 7th, 2006 03:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deelaundryPosted to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hw_fest, house_wilson, house_slash
Title: Forever
Author: Dee Laundry
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.
Notes: Set after the S3 Tritter arc. Spoilers up to Whac-A-Mole or so, but nothing after – just speculation that everything goes back to “normal.” Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
paperclipbitch (who's seen a version free of S3 spoilers). Written for the hw_fest challenge, prompt 185: “House and Wilson go to a karaoke bar, and an odd choice in song isn't so odd after all...” Thanks again and again and again to daisylily for the beta.
It’s ten-thirty on a Thursday, and Chase can’t imagine how he ended up here, squeezed between Cameron and Foreman, across from House and Wilson, in a booth that’s really meant for four. They’ve already drunk three pitchers of truly horrendous swill, and Cameron’s eyes are almost twirling in her head.
Foreman is solid; the beer hasn’t affected him much. House is barely drinking, but then he’s got his Vicodin back and that’s the buzz he loves best, anyway. Wilson’s head is hanging low; there’s something going on beneath that brunet shag, but stuffed if Chase knows what it is.
Chase isn’t even going to attempt to analyze his own reaction to the drinking, except to say that the taste of almost anything else would be better than this shit.
With a harrumph that is clearly manufactured, House looks up with over-bright eyes and declares that next they will be singing karaoke. Everyone groans, but House insists, and gets up from his seat. Chase takes a moment to be amazed that House would sing in front of them, and then, of course, of course, House has grabbed Wilson’s arm and is dragging him out of the booth.
“You first, Jimmy! Go and make love to the microphone!”
House manages to yank Wilson fully clear of the booth and then plants his own butt back down, right in the middle of the bench, promising with an eyebrow that any attempt by Foreman to slide over to the other side of the booth will be repelled with force.
Foreman grunts and shifts, digging his right hip into Chase, which sends Chase an inch or so over into Cameron’s space. Cameron giggles and babbles something about a lap dance. House stares at her as if she’s lost her mind, and maybe she has, because she seems to think he’s leering at her and she giggles again.
Why Chase ever slept with her is a mystery left to the ages (you were horny his dick reminds him; and you love it when they’re high says a little voice whose location he can’t identify). Why House hasn’t is another mystery – the usual reasons a man in his position might not are laughably unlikely to phase him – but Chase is tired and wants to go home.
He’s two seconds away from interrupting Foreman’s monologue on retirement accounts – you’re established, you’re successful, we get it – and saying his goodbyes, when the music starts up and a tenor wafts across the air.
Turn down the lights; turn down the bed.
Turn down these voices inside my head.
There's no stage at this bar, no obvious area where the singer would stand, and the way their heads all pivot, even House’s, looking for Wilson is kind of funny. But then Chase spots him in a corner of the bar and the bow of his head drains Chase’s humor away.
Lay down with me; tell me no lies.
Just hold me close; don’t patronize.
Don’t patronize me.
In his peripheral vision, Chase can see House still searching for Wilson. Foreman points him out, and House has to turn halfway around to see. To watch more comfortably, he slides until his back is against the wall and his right leg (wrong leg) is stretched across the bench.
’Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.
Here in the dark in these final hours,
I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power.
But you won’t. No, you won’t.
Even as he’s watching Wilson, Chase notices Cameron is trying to sneak him looks. When he reluctantly glances toward her, she smiles the slyest of smiles and tilts her head gently toward House.
’Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
House’s eyes are trained on Wilson, but Chase can’t read his expression.
I’ll close my eyes, then I won’t see
The love you don’t feel when you’re holding me.
Even Foreman is glancing toward House. It could be that House doesn’t notice the three of them watching him, but it’s more likely that he’s just ignoring it.
Morning will come, and I’ll do what’s right.
Just give me till then to give up this fight.
And I will give up this fight.
Wilson’s not looking at any of them. His head is still bowed; his gaze is toward the floor. He has no need to look at the karaoke monitor hanging to the right of the bar –the words spill out of his lips easily. Nobody would call his voice gorgeous, but the emotion is ringing through loud and clear.
‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.
Here in the dark in these final hours,
I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power.
But you won’t. No, you won’t.
‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
His voice fades on the last few words, and he’s gone from the spot before the music ends. He’s turned his face away, but he stumbles slightly as he walks off and his shoulders might be trembling.
The rawness of emotion confuses Chase; Wilson is usually so calm and collected that the contrast startles. After Wilson disappears down a hallway, Chase turns his attention back to the table.
Foreman is the first to speak. “What the hell was that?” he demands of House.
“Karaoke,” House easily replies. He’s slid back to the center of the bench and stretched his legs, occupying the entire seat, like he knows Wilson won’t come back right away. “Foreman, you’re next. The song book is up at the bar.”
Cameron leans toward House, pressing across Chase’s personal space. Chase can smell stale beer in her hair. “That’s not what Foreman meant. How did Wilson pick that song?”
“Song book. At the bar.” House’s smirk has never been more annoying.
“He seems upset.” Unsurprisingly, Cameron won’t let it go. She’s leaning further, her hand pinning Chase’s leg as a means of support.
House’s smirk deepens. “He always gets boo-hoo-y over old movies and torch songs. But he’s not really upset; it’s not anything personal. He’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Have another beer, and Foreman, get your ass up there and sing.”
Chase nudges Cameron off him, back toward the wall, and then pushes Foreman out of the booth. “I’ve got to use the restroom. Back in a bit.”
Foreman’s bitching and Cameron’s whiny concern follow him down the hall. House’ll either be smugly amused or in a piss-poor mood when Chase gets back, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s got to see Wilson and find out what that was all about.
Smiling briefly at the bartender (nothing to see here; just going to the restroom), he makes his way down the hall. The hall dead-ends in darkness, and Chase is momentarily confused, but then he notices a triangle of light. A door to the outside is slightly ajar, and it turns out that’s where Wilson has gone.
Wilson looks good – he’s leaning back against a brick wall, arms crossed, tie gone, two buttons open on his blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is mussed, as if he’s run his fingers through it several times, and his eyes are closed. Chase imagines he can see the sweep of Wilson’s eyelashes, but he can’t, not at this distance and not in this light. He remembers, though. He remembers watching those eyelashes lay gently and then drift open. He remembers watching them flutter as Wilson trembled under his touch.
“Do you want to tell me what that was about?”
“No.” Wilson tenses and his eyes press more tightly closed.
Chase moves two steps nearer and thinks about reaching his hand out, but doesn’t. “You set the terms for this. You said you didn’t want to get ‘entangled.’”
“I didn’t. And I don’t.” Wilson turns away, presents his back. His voice is huskier than usual, strained. “Don’t read anything into it, Chase. Don’t get…sensitive.”
“This is ridiculous!” The anger explodes out of him before he even realizes it’s there. “You wanted a fling; you wanted to have fun. And we did; we do. You told me that was all I could expect, so that’s all I expected. And now you want to complain that I’m not treating you well?”
“I’m not complaining.”
“No, you’re just singing a fucking song about wanting me to love you.” Now he reaches out, and grabs Wilson’s arm. Needing to see his face, Chase tries to whip him around smoothly, but Wilson’s resisting, and it takes a few tries and a few stutter-steps by Chase before they’re in front of each other.
The welling in Wilson’s eyes pushes Chase’s fury higher. “Don’t try to tell me that wasn’t about me, about us.”
“Of course it was, but –” Their faces are only a few inches away from each other, but Wilson won’t meet his gaze. He’s looking up, blinking, and his chin is crumpling. Chase hasn’t been this close to seeing a man cry in years, and he’s never had a man cry over him. It’s unsettling but powerful in its own way.
Wilson closes his eyes again and seems through will alone to push it all back. His face tenses and then relaxes, and when his eyes open and meet Chase’s, some dampness on his lashes is the only thing that remains of the tears.
“You did what you were supposed to do, Chase. You did what I asked, and I’m thankful for that. Thank you.” He kisses Chase tenderly, and Chase can feel the farewell in it.
When Wilson turns to leave, Chase grabs his hand. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I could love you, if you’d give it a chance?”
Wilson’s smile is fond, and sad, and completely dismissive. His hand slips away from Chase’s easily. “Go home, Chase. I gotta go let House fuck me.”
It takes Chase a few minutes to process what’s just happened. He hasn’t reached any conclusions by the time he opens the door to go back in, and he hasn’t reached any when he’s standing back by the booth. Wilson is next to House again, laughing, as House shouts, “You’re up, Cameron! I see you as an ‘It’s Raining Men’ kind of gal. Take comfort in knowing you can’t be any worse than Foreman was.”
“Hey, hey,” Foreman protests, but Cameron’s tipsy laughter is just a little too loud for House’s statement to have been off the mark.
Reaching across the table, away from Wilson and House, Chase grabs his beer and drains it in one gulp. He puts the glass back down and throws a twenty down next to it. “I’m going before you try to make me sing.” It’s a plausible enough lie; House might even believe it.
Chase smiles at them all as if it’s just any night out with colleagues, as if he’s graciously ignoring Wilson’s completely non-personal boo-hoo-ing. The smiles – and scowl – he gets in return are natural, and Wilson’s nod is perfectly polite.
As he walks out the door, he knows he’s not done thinking, but he has concluded one thing.
James Wilson is an ass.
***
Over the next two weeks, Wilson is absent from the diagnostics offices a little bit more than typical, but not so much that anyone other than Chase notices. (House no doubt knows, but he’s playing it close to the vest and Chase is most definitely not asking.) Chase keeps his chin up and his manner professional. When a fling’s over, no one gets dumped. It didn’t mean anything, so its ending doesn’t mean anything.
He clings to that line of thought all the way up until the night House makes him stay late to push a lab tech for results. “That’s one thing you’re good for – riding other people,” House had said. “Or is it being ridden?” The accompanying lecherous sneer had been so hideous that Chase had wished House would just pinch him on the ass for once and leave the ugly faces out of it.
It’s just past eight, and the results are finally in. Chase thrusts the papers in the patient’s file, opens House’s door with as much of a slam as the pneumatics will permit, and drops the file on the desk in front of House with a resounding thwap. “Everything’s there; goodbye.” He’s very studiously ignoring Wilson, who has been planted in the guest chair for an hour.
House twirls his cane a few times, and calls out after Chase. “What’s your rush? Hot date?”
“Yes, actually,” Chase replies. In turning back toward House – polite with eye contact even for bastards – he catches a stricken look on Wilson’s face and wants to puke. Grow up! he thinks, but even then he’s not sure who the most juvenile one is.
“Too bad,” House replies, “because you need to go through these with me. Wilson, you’re welcome to stay and watch Chase fumble another diagnosis, but maybe you’ve got better things to do.”
Wilson nods, and he’s still got that kicked-puppy look. It’s blatant and obvious, and Chase is angry that he’s not even pretending to hide it. Wilson knows Chase knows Wilson told House everything, but he doesn’t have to cut Chase’s balls off by bringing it out in the open like this. The song was one thing, plausible deniability, but this is ridiculous.
Chase is furious up until the second Wilson leaves the office, and then he’s just tired. There are facades all around him – fake walls and real walls and glass walls meant to be seen through. There are lines not to cross and lines that entangle, and he’s pretty sure one’s going to catch him across the throat at some point, garrote him and leave his head half hanging off.
He asks House the thing that’s topmost in his mind, because if it’s going to be in the open, goddamn it, it should really be in the open.
“Why do you keep Wilson on a leash?”
“Are you asking why a leash?” House has kicked back and put his feet up. He’s settled in for a long chat, and it’s not about the patient. Never was. He didn’t need those lab results; even Chase knows it’s Schaumann’s syndrome. “Or do you want to know why I don’t let Wilson go?”
“The latter.” Chase flops into the guest chair and deliberately takes a position that doesn’t look anything like how Wilson sits.
House’s teeth are bared, but the heat in his voice is difficult to assess. “Because he’s mine. I tattooed my name inside his ass the first day we met. I own him, and he loves that.”
“It’s not a healthy relationship.” Even as the words leave his lips, he knows it’s a stupid thing to say. House and healthy don’t belong in the same book, let alone the same sentence.
“Having twice-weekly ten-minute fucks in the on-call room hardly qualifies you to judge.”
It’s a slap, but it doesn’t sting. If he thinks that’s all that went on, maybe House isn’t as all-knowing as he thinks. “Wilson is smart, and funny, and caring. He’s a good guy, and I am too. We could have had a real relationship, a happy and healthy one. But he wouldn’t let me get close to him, even though he wanted that so badly, because of you.”
House laughs with a chuckle that shakes his whole body. “Oh, Lord, that stupid song got to you. I told you to ignore it, that it wasn’t personal.”
“But it was. He was singing it to me.” Chase detests the plea that’s crept into his voice.
In a surprisingly swift, smooth motion, House brings his legs down and leans over the desk. His face seems to bloom in the light from the desk lamp. “You don’t think you’re special, do you? You don’t think you’re the only one he’s felt this way about?”
“Of course not,” Chase lies.
“You’re young, and you’re foolish, but I can’t imagine you’d be that naïve.” House sits back and smirks again, his eyes aimed at a spot above Chase’s head. “Wilson loves the melodrama. He loves being torn and lovesick, and he adores moping. Certainly I do my part to keep him wreathed in tragedy. The infarction, chronic pain, drug addiction, rebellion against Vogler, my little pretend obsession with Stacy, the shooting. And then when things were looking up a little, a simple thermometer up a cop's ass was all it took to get the house of cards tumbling again.
“But even a workhorse like me needs a break sometimes. So I indulge him by letting him have his flirtations and flings. Even the marriages are just longer, and more expensive, flings. And then when he’s had just enough happiness to make the angst sweeter, I let him come back to me. He always does, and he always will.”
Chase shakes his head and shifts his bag from one hand to the other. He’s heard enough; it’s time to go. “So Wilson was singing that song about you. You’re the one he can’t make love him.”
Another hearty laugh from House. “I was wrong.”
Chase looks up in surprise; House’s eyes are twinkling with what might be affection if it wasn’t House. It irritates Chase. He'd love to spill House’s secrets, but who’s he going to tell? Who’d believe him?
“I was wrong,” House repeats. “You really are that naïve.”
House’s last words that evening echo in Chase’s mind all the way home. “Wilson knows I love him. I’m the only one who loves him enough to feed him what he needs. You probably could make him happy, and he’d be bored in a week and a half. I’m going to make him deliciously miserable forever.”
hw_fest, house_wilson, house_slashTitle: Forever
Author: Dee Laundry
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.
Notes: Set after the S3 Tritter arc. Spoilers up to Whac-A-Mole or so, but nothing after – just speculation that everything goes back to “normal.” Dedicated to
paperclipbitch (who's seen a version free of S3 spoilers). Written for the hw_fest challenge, prompt 185: “House and Wilson go to a karaoke bar, and an odd choice in song isn't so odd after all...” Thanks again and again and again to daisylily for the beta.It’s ten-thirty on a Thursday, and Chase can’t imagine how he ended up here, squeezed between Cameron and Foreman, across from House and Wilson, in a booth that’s really meant for four. They’ve already drunk three pitchers of truly horrendous swill, and Cameron’s eyes are almost twirling in her head.
Foreman is solid; the beer hasn’t affected him much. House is barely drinking, but then he’s got his Vicodin back and that’s the buzz he loves best, anyway. Wilson’s head is hanging low; there’s something going on beneath that brunet shag, but stuffed if Chase knows what it is.
Chase isn’t even going to attempt to analyze his own reaction to the drinking, except to say that the taste of almost anything else would be better than this shit.
With a harrumph that is clearly manufactured, House looks up with over-bright eyes and declares that next they will be singing karaoke. Everyone groans, but House insists, and gets up from his seat. Chase takes a moment to be amazed that House would sing in front of them, and then, of course, of course, House has grabbed Wilson’s arm and is dragging him out of the booth.
“You first, Jimmy! Go and make love to the microphone!”
House manages to yank Wilson fully clear of the booth and then plants his own butt back down, right in the middle of the bench, promising with an eyebrow that any attempt by Foreman to slide over to the other side of the booth will be repelled with force.
Foreman grunts and shifts, digging his right hip into Chase, which sends Chase an inch or so over into Cameron’s space. Cameron giggles and babbles something about a lap dance. House stares at her as if she’s lost her mind, and maybe she has, because she seems to think he’s leering at her and she giggles again.
Why Chase ever slept with her is a mystery left to the ages (you were horny his dick reminds him; and you love it when they’re high says a little voice whose location he can’t identify). Why House hasn’t is another mystery – the usual reasons a man in his position might not are laughably unlikely to phase him – but Chase is tired and wants to go home.
He’s two seconds away from interrupting Foreman’s monologue on retirement accounts – you’re established, you’re successful, we get it – and saying his goodbyes, when the music starts up and a tenor wafts across the air.
Turn down the lights; turn down the bed.
Turn down these voices inside my head.
There's no stage at this bar, no obvious area where the singer would stand, and the way their heads all pivot, even House’s, looking for Wilson is kind of funny. But then Chase spots him in a corner of the bar and the bow of his head drains Chase’s humor away.
Lay down with me; tell me no lies.
Just hold me close; don’t patronize.
Don’t patronize me.
In his peripheral vision, Chase can see House still searching for Wilson. Foreman points him out, and House has to turn halfway around to see. To watch more comfortably, he slides until his back is against the wall and his right leg (wrong leg) is stretched across the bench.
’Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.
Here in the dark in these final hours,
I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power.
But you won’t. No, you won’t.
Even as he’s watching Wilson, Chase notices Cameron is trying to sneak him looks. When he reluctantly glances toward her, she smiles the slyest of smiles and tilts her head gently toward House.
’Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
House’s eyes are trained on Wilson, but Chase can’t read his expression.
I’ll close my eyes, then I won’t see
The love you don’t feel when you’re holding me.
Even Foreman is glancing toward House. It could be that House doesn’t notice the three of them watching him, but it’s more likely that he’s just ignoring it.
Morning will come, and I’ll do what’s right.
Just give me till then to give up this fight.
And I will give up this fight.
Wilson’s not looking at any of them. His head is still bowed; his gaze is toward the floor. He has no need to look at the karaoke monitor hanging to the right of the bar –the words spill out of his lips easily. Nobody would call his voice gorgeous, but the emotion is ringing through loud and clear.
‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.
Here in the dark in these final hours,
I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power.
But you won’t. No, you won’t.
‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.
His voice fades on the last few words, and he’s gone from the spot before the music ends. He’s turned his face away, but he stumbles slightly as he walks off and his shoulders might be trembling.
The rawness of emotion confuses Chase; Wilson is usually so calm and collected that the contrast startles. After Wilson disappears down a hallway, Chase turns his attention back to the table.
Foreman is the first to speak. “What the hell was that?” he demands of House.
“Karaoke,” House easily replies. He’s slid back to the center of the bench and stretched his legs, occupying the entire seat, like he knows Wilson won’t come back right away. “Foreman, you’re next. The song book is up at the bar.”
Cameron leans toward House, pressing across Chase’s personal space. Chase can smell stale beer in her hair. “That’s not what Foreman meant. How did Wilson pick that song?”
“Song book. At the bar.” House’s smirk has never been more annoying.
“He seems upset.” Unsurprisingly, Cameron won’t let it go. She’s leaning further, her hand pinning Chase’s leg as a means of support.
House’s smirk deepens. “He always gets boo-hoo-y over old movies and torch songs. But he’s not really upset; it’s not anything personal. He’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Have another beer, and Foreman, get your ass up there and sing.”
Chase nudges Cameron off him, back toward the wall, and then pushes Foreman out of the booth. “I’ve got to use the restroom. Back in a bit.”
Foreman’s bitching and Cameron’s whiny concern follow him down the hall. House’ll either be smugly amused or in a piss-poor mood when Chase gets back, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s got to see Wilson and find out what that was all about.
Smiling briefly at the bartender (nothing to see here; just going to the restroom), he makes his way down the hall. The hall dead-ends in darkness, and Chase is momentarily confused, but then he notices a triangle of light. A door to the outside is slightly ajar, and it turns out that’s where Wilson has gone.
Wilson looks good – he’s leaning back against a brick wall, arms crossed, tie gone, two buttons open on his blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is mussed, as if he’s run his fingers through it several times, and his eyes are closed. Chase imagines he can see the sweep of Wilson’s eyelashes, but he can’t, not at this distance and not in this light. He remembers, though. He remembers watching those eyelashes lay gently and then drift open. He remembers watching them flutter as Wilson trembled under his touch.
“Do you want to tell me what that was about?”
“No.” Wilson tenses and his eyes press more tightly closed.
Chase moves two steps nearer and thinks about reaching his hand out, but doesn’t. “You set the terms for this. You said you didn’t want to get ‘entangled.’”
“I didn’t. And I don’t.” Wilson turns away, presents his back. His voice is huskier than usual, strained. “Don’t read anything into it, Chase. Don’t get…sensitive.”
“This is ridiculous!” The anger explodes out of him before he even realizes it’s there. “You wanted a fling; you wanted to have fun. And we did; we do. You told me that was all I could expect, so that’s all I expected. And now you want to complain that I’m not treating you well?”
“I’m not complaining.”
“No, you’re just singing a fucking song about wanting me to love you.” Now he reaches out, and grabs Wilson’s arm. Needing to see his face, Chase tries to whip him around smoothly, but Wilson’s resisting, and it takes a few tries and a few stutter-steps by Chase before they’re in front of each other.
The welling in Wilson’s eyes pushes Chase’s fury higher. “Don’t try to tell me that wasn’t about me, about us.”
“Of course it was, but –” Their faces are only a few inches away from each other, but Wilson won’t meet his gaze. He’s looking up, blinking, and his chin is crumpling. Chase hasn’t been this close to seeing a man cry in years, and he’s never had a man cry over him. It’s unsettling but powerful in its own way.
Wilson closes his eyes again and seems through will alone to push it all back. His face tenses and then relaxes, and when his eyes open and meet Chase’s, some dampness on his lashes is the only thing that remains of the tears.
“You did what you were supposed to do, Chase. You did what I asked, and I’m thankful for that. Thank you.” He kisses Chase tenderly, and Chase can feel the farewell in it.
When Wilson turns to leave, Chase grabs his hand. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I could love you, if you’d give it a chance?”
Wilson’s smile is fond, and sad, and completely dismissive. His hand slips away from Chase’s easily. “Go home, Chase. I gotta go let House fuck me.”
It takes Chase a few minutes to process what’s just happened. He hasn’t reached any conclusions by the time he opens the door to go back in, and he hasn’t reached any when he’s standing back by the booth. Wilson is next to House again, laughing, as House shouts, “You’re up, Cameron! I see you as an ‘It’s Raining Men’ kind of gal. Take comfort in knowing you can’t be any worse than Foreman was.”
“Hey, hey,” Foreman protests, but Cameron’s tipsy laughter is just a little too loud for House’s statement to have been off the mark.
Reaching across the table, away from Wilson and House, Chase grabs his beer and drains it in one gulp. He puts the glass back down and throws a twenty down next to it. “I’m going before you try to make me sing.” It’s a plausible enough lie; House might even believe it.
Chase smiles at them all as if it’s just any night out with colleagues, as if he’s graciously ignoring Wilson’s completely non-personal boo-hoo-ing. The smiles – and scowl – he gets in return are natural, and Wilson’s nod is perfectly polite.
As he walks out the door, he knows he’s not done thinking, but he has concluded one thing.
James Wilson is an ass.
***
Over the next two weeks, Wilson is absent from the diagnostics offices a little bit more than typical, but not so much that anyone other than Chase notices. (House no doubt knows, but he’s playing it close to the vest and Chase is most definitely not asking.) Chase keeps his chin up and his manner professional. When a fling’s over, no one gets dumped. It didn’t mean anything, so its ending doesn’t mean anything.
He clings to that line of thought all the way up until the night House makes him stay late to push a lab tech for results. “That’s one thing you’re good for – riding other people,” House had said. “Or is it being ridden?” The accompanying lecherous sneer had been so hideous that Chase had wished House would just pinch him on the ass for once and leave the ugly faces out of it.
It’s just past eight, and the results are finally in. Chase thrusts the papers in the patient’s file, opens House’s door with as much of a slam as the pneumatics will permit, and drops the file on the desk in front of House with a resounding thwap. “Everything’s there; goodbye.” He’s very studiously ignoring Wilson, who has been planted in the guest chair for an hour.
House twirls his cane a few times, and calls out after Chase. “What’s your rush? Hot date?”
“Yes, actually,” Chase replies. In turning back toward House – polite with eye contact even for bastards – he catches a stricken look on Wilson’s face and wants to puke. Grow up! he thinks, but even then he’s not sure who the most juvenile one is.
“Too bad,” House replies, “because you need to go through these with me. Wilson, you’re welcome to stay and watch Chase fumble another diagnosis, but maybe you’ve got better things to do.”
Wilson nods, and he’s still got that kicked-puppy look. It’s blatant and obvious, and Chase is angry that he’s not even pretending to hide it. Wilson knows Chase knows Wilson told House everything, but he doesn’t have to cut Chase’s balls off by bringing it out in the open like this. The song was one thing, plausible deniability, but this is ridiculous.
Chase is furious up until the second Wilson leaves the office, and then he’s just tired. There are facades all around him – fake walls and real walls and glass walls meant to be seen through. There are lines not to cross and lines that entangle, and he’s pretty sure one’s going to catch him across the throat at some point, garrote him and leave his head half hanging off.
He asks House the thing that’s topmost in his mind, because if it’s going to be in the open, goddamn it, it should really be in the open.
“Why do you keep Wilson on a leash?”
“Are you asking why a leash?” House has kicked back and put his feet up. He’s settled in for a long chat, and it’s not about the patient. Never was. He didn’t need those lab results; even Chase knows it’s Schaumann’s syndrome. “Or do you want to know why I don’t let Wilson go?”
“The latter.” Chase flops into the guest chair and deliberately takes a position that doesn’t look anything like how Wilson sits.
House’s teeth are bared, but the heat in his voice is difficult to assess. “Because he’s mine. I tattooed my name inside his ass the first day we met. I own him, and he loves that.”
“It’s not a healthy relationship.” Even as the words leave his lips, he knows it’s a stupid thing to say. House and healthy don’t belong in the same book, let alone the same sentence.
“Having twice-weekly ten-minute fucks in the on-call room hardly qualifies you to judge.”
It’s a slap, but it doesn’t sting. If he thinks that’s all that went on, maybe House isn’t as all-knowing as he thinks. “Wilson is smart, and funny, and caring. He’s a good guy, and I am too. We could have had a real relationship, a happy and healthy one. But he wouldn’t let me get close to him, even though he wanted that so badly, because of you.”
House laughs with a chuckle that shakes his whole body. “Oh, Lord, that stupid song got to you. I told you to ignore it, that it wasn’t personal.”
“But it was. He was singing it to me.” Chase detests the plea that’s crept into his voice.
In a surprisingly swift, smooth motion, House brings his legs down and leans over the desk. His face seems to bloom in the light from the desk lamp. “You don’t think you’re special, do you? You don’t think you’re the only one he’s felt this way about?”
“Of course not,” Chase lies.
“You’re young, and you’re foolish, but I can’t imagine you’d be that naïve.” House sits back and smirks again, his eyes aimed at a spot above Chase’s head. “Wilson loves the melodrama. He loves being torn and lovesick, and he adores moping. Certainly I do my part to keep him wreathed in tragedy. The infarction, chronic pain, drug addiction, rebellion against Vogler, my little pretend obsession with Stacy, the shooting. And then when things were looking up a little, a simple thermometer up a cop's ass was all it took to get the house of cards tumbling again.
“But even a workhorse like me needs a break sometimes. So I indulge him by letting him have his flirtations and flings. Even the marriages are just longer, and more expensive, flings. And then when he’s had just enough happiness to make the angst sweeter, I let him come back to me. He always does, and he always will.”
Chase shakes his head and shifts his bag from one hand to the other. He’s heard enough; it’s time to go. “So Wilson was singing that song about you. You’re the one he can’t make love him.”
Another hearty laugh from House. “I was wrong.”
Chase looks up in surprise; House’s eyes are twinkling with what might be affection if it wasn’t House. It irritates Chase. He'd love to spill House’s secrets, but who’s he going to tell? Who’d believe him?
“I was wrong,” House repeats. “You really are that naïve.”
House’s last words that evening echo in Chase’s mind all the way home. “Wilson knows I love him. I’m the only one who loves him enough to feed him what he needs. You probably could make him happy, and he’d be bored in a week and a half. I’m going to make him deliciously miserable forever.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-07 08:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 12:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-07 09:13 pm (UTC)Ow. Good God, they are so fucked. Ow ow ow.
*this means I think it's great, by the way*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 12:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-07 10:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 12:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 01:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 03:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 08:21 am (UTC)Oh. How sweetly cruel House is to Wilson!
Love this.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 02:48 pm (UTC)And that, of course, is why they are so right together. They are both totally fucked up. In a good way XD
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 02:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 05:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-08 06:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:38 pm (UTC)Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-10 01:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 06:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 08:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 12:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 06:16 pm (UTC)Fic: Forever
Date: 2006-12-09 10:48 am (UTC)Sharp and twisted and oh, God, Wilson.
Wilson/Chase woohoo!
And House sitting back and watching it all.
Excellent.
And for a song fic, too, I read the lyrics. :-)
Re: Fic: Forever
Date: 2006-12-09 01:56 pm (UTC)Re: Fic: Forever
Date: 2006-12-09 10:45 pm (UTC)And everything makes sense for the characters: for House to insist, Wilson to accept and, given House's manipulation of everything, for Wilson to choose that song.
I read the lyrics because the characters were not only listening to them, but were intrigued by them.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 06:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 05:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 08:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 05:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-10 12:23 am (UTC)-yep. Thats exactly how it goes.
^_^ good job!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 05:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-10 09:28 am (UTC)I'm a songfic-hater and find them normally pretentious to clicheed to emo!angsty but this was the first one for ages where I actually read the complete songtext. Which says a lot about the quality of your writing - but will also mean even more disappointment should I unintentionally stumble again over one of the more usual horrid incarnations of the genre....
It might be wrong (and cruel if it wasn't a fictional character) but I couldn't help but laugh when Chase started to think Wilson was singing, and truly meaning, that sentiments to him because the notion was just so absurd with House in the picture. Poor deluded Chase.
And that last paragraph could be straight out of TV-canon (minus the buttsex ^_~): it sums up their relationship and respective hang-ups so perfectly. Not a nice read but a great one - thanks for writing and sharing!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 05:19 am (UTC)Chase gets spun around in this fic a lot, but he did get it right (initially) that Wilson was singing about him. His delusion was in thinking that it mattered, that Wilson cared about him personally. Poor Chase, but he is a big boy and will re-bound quickly.
House and Wilson deserve each other. In my happy moments, that's positive; in bleaker times, well, you get this fic.
Thanks so much for the detailed comment!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 12:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-11 05:25 am (UTC)Thanks especially for the comment on POV - I don't write Chase very much so holding him IC was hard.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-28 12:16 am (UTC)Perfect! Painful, but perfect. Poor little Chase...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWGkDLGwenQ (RSL really can sing, haha)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-28 12:47 pm (UTC)Here's him singing in Chelsea Walls: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSDqHawCCEY
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-25 07:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-25 08:15 pm (UTC): )
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-10 09:40 am (UTC)i never thought how you could easily apply it to H/W so well heh :)
I like this fic but woah it took a curve there with the end!