Title: UnravelFandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: House/Chase
Genre: Angst, Romance
Warning: Homosexual themes, non-consensual relationship (sort of)
Rating: NC-17 for safety

Disclaimer: The show House, M.D. and it's characters are not mine...they're unfortunately owned by David Shore & Co.

Unravel

Sometimes Chase wonders if he's like that guy in the movie Groundhog Day who kept waking up to the same thing every morning. Sounds realistic to Chase. Theories about stopping time aside, it's perfectly possible for him to feel just like that man. He's got a hectic, demanding job; people depend on him to survive; every day there's a new ambulance wailing or a new death blamed on Chase. Kind of monotone, really, if you forget about the myriads of small catastrophes that occur every hour at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. How could it ever be monotone? he thinks.

Exactly. It can't. Not with House around.

Chase doesn't want to think about House. It's all he seems to do lately. Normal, mundane things remind him of House--glass vials, the pharmacy, patients going into cardiac. Not to mention that when House is actually around Chase, it's infuriating and exhilarating all at once. He speculates that maybe this is what getting high is like; it's like falling and finding yourself all at once. He finds it almost tempting to drown himself in narcotics, but doesn't do it. Too afraid. Chase has a headache from all the thinking, and no matter how much cafeteria coffee he drinks, the pain won't go away. Neither will House. It's insane.

Or maybe Chase is the crazy one.

House is like a tapeworm, Chase muses, passing a hand over his tired eyes and chewing on the end of his pen. Yes, House is a frustrating, tenacious parasite. The man's presence insinuates itself everywhere, no matter if wanted or unwanted. House dissects whatever comes his way, coldly, calculatingly. He uses people without a second thought, leeching away individuality and independence. Around him the world slowly shrinks and loses color, becoming a reflection of his cynical attitude. People are his playthings--they're willing, coming into it, but coming out, they want to run away. House never lets them forget that he is always right, always stronger, always in charge. He observes and makes conclusions and then discards the empty husks of ideas, lives and diagnoses alike. House does it with dignity. He does it as if he's disinterested.

That's what draws Chase in, kicking and screaming, day by day.

He can't get House out of his mind. The tapping of cane against linoleum haunts his dreams. While Chase's conscience is breaking down his confidence, it almost sounds like House's angry, bitter, spite-filled words. Chase flinches when he hears the rattle of the pill bottle again, because he knows that if House ever asks him to write a prescription, he will. He can never say no to House. Is it possible to be addicted to a person?

Sometimes Chase thinks he hates House. For doing this to his life, tearing it apart like this, Chase isn't an experiment, not a differential, he has no right--Then House says something to Chase that makes his jaw drop and his cheeks flame, and for a second he sees the charming rogue behind the selfish bastard. It's a brief spark of something in House's eyes that makes him see the difference, but then it's gone. Chase wonders how much the pain and the Vicodin and the lies have changed House.

Eventually Chase has no compassion left for House. A well-placed comment there, a jibe here, a poke at Chase's pride right there. The man knows just where to pull so that Chase pushes back, and barely three hours into the day they are screaming at each other. The Australian accent makes Chase's words raw and unrecognizable when he's angry. Insults he doesn't really mean about House are shouted. ("Fuck you, you selfish son of a bitch!") Chase looks haggard and ready to collapse when House finally leaves him alone, but the rage is still simmering under the surface. He is ready to snap, all over again. Grudgingly, he returns to the conference room. Foreman and Cameron are there in the aftermath of the fight, but Chase huddles in a corner with them even though he'd rather be left alone.

Shivering slightly, he returns to the comfort of crosswords. ("Oh, I'm selfish now? You're the one who sits on your ass all day doing crosswords! I at least save lives!") He can't even figure out the answers anymore. What's a nine-letter word for "helpless"? Foreman says "desperate," and Chase wants to throw up. He wants to rip the newspaper to shreds, tear the sedative drips out of his ICU patients and hear them groan in pain. The newspaper is tossed in the trash. Chase leaves the room. You destroy lives too, House, he thinks. Dejected, he wanders aimlessly and winds up in House's office. The swivel-chair is empty; he doesn't want to sit, but he does anyway.

House stops by, looks at Chase and Chase looks back. The expression on House's face is dark and malicious. He steps into the room, pushes the door shut with the tip of his cane. The blinds flick closed, and he hobbles over to stand in front of his own desk. Chase doesn't move, just stares up at House as if daring him to do something. Flickering grey eyes meet cold, burning blue. All of House's being bears down on Chase, suffocating him. House's eyes swallow him, close around him; he's plummeting and he's scared. He feels trapped and House can see it.

"Poor little wombat drowning in his own misery?" House mocks cruelly, dry-swallowing two Vicodin without taking his eyes off Chase. The rough tone of voice jostles Chase back to reality. "Go sulk in a storeroom somewhere. I need my office."

Chase shakes his head and doesn't follow orders, not this time. "House." He says it quietly, hopelessly, more of an exhalation than a word. The glare of the blue eyes seems to intensify, as if to say why are you not leaving? but he doesn't back down. "What happens next? What happens to us next?" House laughs, a dry, humorless sound; he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He's too close to Chase for comfort, invading all the rules of personal space ever invented. Chase squirms.

"Next?" House asks, incredulous. "There is no next. Nothing's changed." That bark of a laugh returns; House claws a hand through his hair. Harshly, he continues, "You still feel the same way about me as you've felt for months. You're completely wrapped around my finger." Chase's head is swimming. "But I'm not done with you yet, Chase. I plan picking you apart. I want to see what makes you tick. Want to see if I can make you lose the remaining wits in that pretty head of yours." He runs a callused thumb over Chase's jawline. His voice drops. "It'd be interesting, wouldn't it?"

Chase jerks away, claustrophobic, shoving at the table, at everything he can find, knocking the chair over and going with it. "Get away from me!" He sprawls on the floor, slowly gets up on hands and knees, pushes himself to his feet. House is laughing wickedly as he scrutinizes. Chase doesn't notice when everything around him suddenly starts to shatter, but he can't hold back anymore. "Leave me alone!" He sounds hysterical. "Stay out of my life!" Wants to get out. Needs to get out. Chase makes a break for the door, dizzy, disoriented, choking on air. House is making his blood melt. He's shaking, screaming. "I HATE you, House! I HATE YOU! I ha--" The cane trips him before he can finish. No time to try to break the fall, except he's not falling. There's an arm around his waist, and House's hands on his shoulders, and House's breath on his neck. Too close. "Get off of me," Chase says, as calmly as he can. It doesn't sound calm by a long shot. He's breathless and it comes out closer to a whisper. "House, I don't--"

"You do. That's what all this comes down to, Chase. You want me." House's voice in his ear. Chase can feel the shape of the words forming in his brain as he hears them, but their meaning slips away. You want...I want...what? He's foggy. He feels drunk. Had House drugged him with something? Chase shakes his head numbly, almost loses his balance. Unrelenting hands seize his collar and slam him backwards against the glass wall. His head collides with hard surface. House steps closer and Chase sees stars.

"What do you want from me, House?" he asks again when a hand snakes up his side. Chase wrenches the pad of blank prescriptions out of his pocket. "If you want a script, okay. Okay. I'll write you one, yeah? The whole intimidation thing isn't necessary. Just--"

A kiss is not what he expects. Especially not one like this. It's intense and demanding and doesn't give Chase time to adjust. Like House, he thinks, absently because he's trying so hard to breathe. House's stubble feels rough and foreign against his face. Chase lets House tilt his head back and slumps against the glass wall, feeling utterly humiliated. House is twisted, his mind scorns. Don't give in. But then it dawns on Chase that he already has. He's trapped under House because of the cane cutting into his waist. And his tie is loose, and his lab coat is half-open, and he probably looks terrified, but he's not resisting. Chase tries to pass off the lack of protest on his own part as delayed reaction. The problem with that logic is that five minutes have probably already elapsed; Chase can't remember when he actually started kissing back, but now he's definitely involved and it's not one-sided anymore. In his head the mantra of "This is not normal, not right and not happening" keeps Chase at least somewhat detached. What he's doing now goes against everything he's ever been taught about right and wrong. How did he wind up here, cornered by this man, being violated and practically reciprocating? Oh god, oh god, oh god. No.

"This. This is what I want." House's voice is scratchy. It takes Chase a few dazed seconds to realize it's over, and he takes in several lungfuls of oxygen gratefully. "And I'm not going to be nice about it, either," House continues. "I take what I want, when I want, without asking for it first."

Chase swallows. "I can't do this. I'll sue. You're my boss. You--you're not allowed--It's infringement of my rights. It's sexual harrassment. It's against the law..." His voice falters. "Let me go."

"Please. You don't have grounds to sue, Chase. You said no to me just once, and that was before I even touched you. Beyond that point you were probably as willing as it gets. Passerby would probably even assume we're consensual, what with the way you were clinging to me and moaning. Are you always such a whore with your men?" House drawls, earning a peeved glare. "If you quit now, your fellowship is easily replaceable and there are thousands of doctors out there just dying to work for Gregory House."

Chase quakes with fury. How dare he. "Fuck you," he hisses, smashing a fist into House's face. The blow is solid, connecting with bones. He feels them break under the force, watches House reel away from him. The cane is knocked to the floor along with House, who falls heavily. As House reaches up a hand to touch his injured cheek, those eyes stare up at Chase reproachfully. "Fuck you," he says again. He kicks the cane out of House's reach and storms out of the office.

It's only when he's halfway to the ICU ward that Chase looks down at his hands and realizes they're covered in House's blood. Bile rises in his throat. He freezes the middle of the hallway, a headache starting behind his eyes. No… The realization of what happened nearly blacks him out. Feeling feverish, Chase locks himself into an empty exam room and sits down on the eolls stool. He isn't consciously aware of crying, but half an hour later an entire box of tissues is gone. He sobs because he feels overwhelmed and confused and he doesn't know what to do. In the back of his mind he knows it's ridiculous for a man his age to cry, but he can't stop and frankly, barely cares. Nausea swells over him in waves and he hunches over the stainless steel sink in the corner, throwing up. The mental monologue continues, haunting him, sounding just like House. "Are you always such a whore with your men?") He is weak and huddled in a heap on the floor when Cameron finally finds him. Her eyes ask questions about the blood on Chase's sleeves, but she doesn't voice her worries aloud.

Cameron leads Chase back to the conference room. He takes the cup of steaming coffee from her blankly, not caring that the hot Styrofoam burns his fingertips. Foreman does try to ask questions, but Chase gives enough monosyllabic answers that the neurologist soon stops attempting. They leave him be, and the darkness outside grows more and more similar to the darkness inside Chase's mind.

Staring at the dregs in his cup, Chase wishes he were invisible. For a wistful split second, he wishes House didn't exist. Then he imagines a world without House. Cuddy would have no one to hound about clinic duty. Cameron would have no one to worry over. Foreman would have no one to match wits with. There would be no more sarcastic non sequiturs, no more distractions from the doldrums of work. Less lives saved; more unsolved cases. Chase realizes the hospital would fall apart without House's childish petulance, his infuriating charisma and yes, his daring willingness to take risks. Princeton-Plainsboro would crumble at the edges with House gone, but it's nothing compared to what happens when he's actually around.

Chase is already starting to break.