Masochist Chapter 1: Masochist, a house, m.d. fanfic

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[Masochist::Chase]

You know this feeling—this, this thing you have for him isn't something from a fairytale book. Its not red roses and white doves and happily ever after. Its not, because for anyone to be with him, they'd have to a masochist of the highest level—and your not really with him. You're not really "with" anyone, despite the rumors going around that you've been taken off the market.

You also know it'd never work out. Ever. He's impossible to be with in that way; he's impossible to be with in any way, really. Maybe that's where the attraction came from. You've always been a little self-destructive, always liked a little pain—another reason it wouldn't work, because you don't mind bruises on your body, but your emotions were always fragile, even when you hide behind that passive face.

But you deal. Its difficult, any one who'd ever been in your shoes, knows that being in love with Gregory House is akin to going to hell and telling Lucifer 'strap me up'.

And, maybe because you're such a masochist, and maybe even though you have fragile emotions, you sometimes need that sort of pain too, that you begin this, this other thing.

You two aren't in love with each other. Never will be. Hell, one of you isn't even gay (and that had actually been surprising, but you aren't either, really). But you both need something, some type of release, and honestly, you think that maybe its better that you're the one James Wilson is fucking, because you don't have any attachment and can't get pregnant. And him? Well, he's House's best friend. That's enough emotional masochism right there.

You have other ways to deal, too. Ways that even if your coworkers and boss and friends could guess your leaning of men and pain, couldn't guess this. Clubbing. You don't seem to be the type that goes to those scenes (and what if they knew about the other scenes you go to?) and you don't appear to have much of a fashion sense, and definitely not the type to let go and just be for a while, though sometimes just being has you going to other's apartments, or singing in a darker club or going to the place you try not to but end up showing at once a month anyway.

(And, you think dryly after another one of House's fits and how annoyed you were to find your heart beating faster when he looked at you with those arctic blues—if you knew how much trouble being in America was, you'd just have stayed in Melbourne.)

(You also think, after House makes an offhand compliment to you for saving the patient's life, how worth it this sometimes was.)

Now though, you're at home getting ready to go out to one of the clubs you're actually known at. Or, at least as known as you can get while pretending not to be Robert Chase.

It isn't difficult for you to pull out a different name and appearance. You've been doing it since college, seminary school even, when you had the chance. The club you're going to, Dark Horse, knows you as Nebez, and you carefully put on the features Nebez has: indigo colour contacts, ebony hair—a mixture of temporary dye and hair extensions that allows you to have it in a pony tail and it still reach your shoulders—paler skin and a tattoo of a black star with three small spikes around it on the crease where jaw and neck meet, right under your left ear.

Once you're done applying the temporary ink-tattoo (which will take you hours to get off before work) and the complexion makeup, you go to your closet and pull out a plastic tub filled with clothes no one knows you own (except for Wilson).

The leather pants are a purple that matches your eyes and slung low enough to show the other temporary tattoo— a calligraphic Kanji that means 'watchman'—and tight enough that you have to go commando underneath. Your shirt is white and does nothing to cover your torso, purposely ripped in some places with black mesh sown underneath, sleeves just strips of fabric that wrap around your upper arm nicely, and the neckline demolished. There's a belt too large for your thin waist slung sideways across your hips, the metal prods shining in the light of your apartment and the glittery red of the three calligraphic butterflies contrasting with the rest of you. To complete the image, you slip on a pair of black boots with calligraphic butterflies that match your belt.

And after a pause, you decide to fill the few piercings you have. It's something else your colleges don't know about you; who would suspect Robert Chase to have a lip, eye brow, four ear, and belly button piercing? You figure once or twice some one may have noticed, but if they wanted to confirm, they'd ask.

(You ignore the fact that your colleges have asked about you multiple times—and in House's case blackmailed—but you always act dumb or some how redirect the conversation.)

Grabbing your 'clubbing coat', you smile to yourself, the lip-ring glinting, and snatch your keys off the bedside table before leaving the apartment. You don't bother bringing your phone.

The next morning you wake up in a stranger's bed, a stranger's apartment and a stranger beside you. Its something that happens a lot to 'Nebez' and you don't bother trying to dig up last night's events. You some how have managed to have a perfectly good memory while drunk. A glance at the bedside clock tells you that you're going to be late for work, but you'll have enough time to pass it off as working in ICU.

You nudge your one-night and get a sleepy grunt. "Leavin' now, mate." You say, accent stronger than ever. You don't try to play it down as Nebez.

"'Kay. Cer'l in ca'nit if joo wan' some." He says before rolling over. You smile and find your clothes, but don't take the offer. You do get some Aspirin and set it by the guy with a glass of water. Then you leave, sore in the best ways (to you) and with some new marks you're going to have to hide. But its okay because now your masochism has been sated and there's a less likely chance for you to jump House.

You do end up jumping Wilson later in a broken MRI room, though.

You know this, this thing with Wilson isn't a relationship. It isn't because you're in love with House, and Wilson has a thing for Cuddy. You don't usually talk to each other at work (bar the few times one of you have had enough and jump the other) and whatever relationship you could have is more about sex, emotional turmoil, ranting and some pain than it is about a relationship. Or, at least a healthy one, you think as you walk with him.

Wilson said he wanted to take you out tonight. No—more of, he wanted to get drunk and fuck you, but before that, he kinda likes the company. Its not your type of place, he says with a playful grin. Before now you would have never thought Wilson as 'playful', but the man was good at coy and flirt, which you thought made sense seeing as he slept with pretty much all his nurses.

The place is a bar. A nice bar, actually, with tables and low music and a sign saying 'karaoke'. They have good alcohol (though not the stuff you usually drink at bars) and no one has hit on you yet, which is great because you're with Wilson as Robert Chase and not as Nebez, or Absinth, or Hanisel or any other name you go by.

A part of you is scared because of this. Your masochist side says bring it on, though, and grins in the back of your mind. This isn't your type of place, but Wilson is giving you a look and he's become sorta okay with your pain fetish, and after House's more derisive than usual comments today, you're just waiting for the 'go'.

After a few drinks you decide the 'go' is the karaoke. Wilson snorts in his beer and gives you a different look, the type that ask 'are my ears going to start bleeding' and you can't help the smirk that crosses your face.

Bluntly said—you go to a lot of clubs. A LOT of clubs. You're known at a lot of clubs. A LOT of clubs. And, you're mostly known for the fact that you sing, you have a fetish, hot body, and a tendency to sleep with anyone willing to bite, male or female. But it's the singing that gets you into Dark Horse, and Random and Firefly and about four or five other clubs for free or a very, very low price. You're known as something much different than the slightly goody-goody that follows House like a puppy and listens to everything he says.

"I'm pretty good at singing," you say, knowing what you want to sing isn't the type of song for this place. You go up there anyway and look through their selections. None of it is they type you sing—still, singing, well, you like it. So you choose a song you know and can get pretty well and you take the microphone off the stand, sit down on the stage and wait for it to start, shooting a grin a Wilson.

His eyes widen as Eddie Money's Take Me Home Tonight starts to play and you sing, your accent not heard at all. Your eyes are closed and you nod with the beat while the crowd has started to get a little more crowd-ish and is dancing.

When the song ends you go back to Wilson, who has somehow become rather drunk in the time it took to sing (3 minutes and 34 seconds, you mutter incredulously) and is moaning over Cuddy again and asks you in a puppy-whine sort of way, "Chase, please hit me." You only tell him he's not into that (and he isn't) before dragging him up and paying the bill, making sure he doesn't fall or run into anything on the way out.

You never noticed a pair of arctic blues that had seen the whole thing. And the next day when you arrive at work walking with the ever-so-slight mostly unnoticeable stiffness you never notice them narrow. And after a surgery in ICU, you definitely don't notice them as they see the marks on your back when you change.

You notice House is being more of an ass that usual, though. And when he looks at you as you walk in the conference room, you can't read his eyes (not a huge problem, because you usually can't) but you somehow know that something has happened, changed, and you're not sure what that means.

You left work early today. Its not extremely unusual, you do it every once in a while, and you have so much overtime that Cuddy can't exactly berate you for it either. Plus, anyone would leave work early if they had the day you did. Your jaw still hurts from where House punched you and you know there's a bruise staining it.

You feel slightly nauseous that you enjoy poking it. And slightly vindictive, but there isn't anything you could do—besides, pointing out House's diagnosis was wrong , pointing out that he had almost maimed a little girl and seeing the way his eyes had widened, that was revenge enough.

You're still going to Random tonight and you're still going to pick some one up and you're probably still going to call out House's name when you cum. It's a different sort of revenge, revenge on your feelings, because you know afterwards your going to feel like you betrayed someone you never had in the first place.

Usually you would call Wilson over, but he's going to have dinner with Cuddy tonight and you could never ruin that. Still you feel sorry for him; his chances with Cuddy are as high as your own with House—only Cuddy's nicer about it.

You phone is ringing then. Its House—you gave him that ridiculously loud and annoying ringtone so you'd know when to avoid answering back in your first year. You're torn between ignoring it and answering. On one hand, House could have you come back to the hospital and you've already applied your Nebez face; on the other, it could be really important. You sigh, then answer.

"What House?"

"Oh, snippety, snippety. What, Wilson ditch you?" It's not the words, or even the harsh tone that jolts you, it's the way House says it—it's the way he usually says things during his wheedling and manipulations. You feel your lips twitch up.

"Why would Wilson be with me?" You ask, confusion mostly genuine.

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"Um, because he's on a date with Cuddy, maybe?"

There was a pause and you feel your twitch widened into a smile. Though another part of you wonders how House knows, (even if his knowing is kinda wrong. There's no relationship).

"Huh. Cuddy, you say?"

"Yeah. Uh, do you need anything else?"

"Why, you in a hurry?"

"Yeah, sort of." You say, because its true. It would take you a half-hour to get to Random and you still had to brief the house band on the songs you were going to sing tonight.

"What for?"

"I've got to be somewhere."

"Where?"

Your annoyance is starting to rise a little and quickly snap out, "Random, okay? I'll see you tomorrow." And you hang up, toss your phone on your bed and hope that there isn't an emergency as you leave.

Random is a techno-Goth-punk club you found your first year in New Jersey. You've been coming since then and have managed to befriend the bartenders, bouncers and rest of the staff as Nebez Strazny, often called 'Straz' or 'Besany' (you have no idea where the last one came from). Your not the house singer in any of the clubs you go to; the staff know you have a 6am-1am sort of schedule most of the time, but every once in a while they'll call you up and ask you to come in.

(And you thank God that you managed to get that other cell-phone, the one you use especially for the clubbing thing, otherwise people would be asking who the hell Robert Chase was, because it only says 'Strazny's' phone and all your aliases are something Strazny.)

Walking past the bouncer, Geoff, with a friendly smirk, you can't help but pout as he lays a hard smack on your ass, for no other reason then the fact that you know it won't lead to anything. You two been there, done that and you still had his Random t-shirt.

The club is bouncing and pulsing with music and you feet all of the tension in your body drain as the music thrummed against your skin. You always had a thing for music, in any form really, but the type of music that made you thump from the inside, the music that opened something up in you, that was your type. That was what you sung.

One of the 'house girls', Trudy comes up with an excited grin. "Straz! You're here, great. The band's waiting f'you." You grin just as big and followed her backstage, where the band really was waiting for you, like over-eager puppies waiting for some cuddles. The image makes your snort in amusement.

"Hey," you greet with a hand-raise.

Then you're on stage, and that—that's amazing. You know you're a good doctor, one of the best intensivist at PPTH, and you've done damn well to survive House as long as you have, not to mention all the cases you've helped out with—and it's a rush. All of it is a rush you wouldn't trade for the world, even the absolutely awful parts, but this is a different rush, because up here you're not helping other people live, your being alive yourself.

"Well, hallo," you say with a devil-may-care grin as you grab the microphone and the band mates get to their respective instrument. The crowd is already stirring; regulars recognize you as another regular, newbies probably recognize you if they bothered to pay attention to the photos covering the hallway that leads to the bathrooms—there are no shortage of pictures on Nebez Strazny, doing all sorts of things.

"Tonight is ganna be a night of Foo Fighters…and a coupla others that…touch my heart." The music's starting with strums of a guitar and you raise the microphone to begin, feeling a sort of confidence that only comes out in these scenes start to fill your body.

"Keep you in the dark you know they all pretend

Keep you in the dark and so it all began."

You close your eyes and feel the pump of the song. This, you think, is gonna be good.

Send in your skeletons

Sing as their bones come marching in again

The need you buried deep

The secrets that you keep are at the ready, are you ready?

And you're dancing on stage, with that devil-may-care smile and a glow.

I'm finished making sense

Done pleading ignorance that whole defense

Spinning infinity, but the wheel is spinning me

It's never ending, never ending

Same old story

What if I say I'm not like the others?

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

You're the pretender

What if I say I will never surrender?

What if I say I'm not like the others?

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

You're the pretender

What if I say that I'll never surrender?

In time or so I'm told

I'm just another soul for sale, oh well

The page is out of print

We are not permanent, we're temporary, temporary

Same old story

What if I say I'm not like the others?

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

You're the pretender

What if I say that I'll never surrender?

What if I say I'm not like the others?

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

You're the pretender

What if I say I will never surrender?

I'm the voice inside your head, you refuse to hear

I'm the face that you have to face, mirrored in your stare

I'm what's left, I'm what's right, I'm the enemy

I'm the hand that'll take you down, bring you to your knees

So, who are you?

Yeah, who are you?

Keep you in the dark you know they all pretend

What if I say I'm not like the others?

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

You're the pretender

What if I say I will never surrender?

What if I say I'm not like the others?

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

You're the pretender

What if I say that I'll never surrender?

What if I say I'm not like the others?

(Keep you in the dark)

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

(You know they all)

You're the pretender

(Pretend)

What if I say I will never surrender?

What if I say I'm not like the others?

(Keep you in the dark)

What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?

(You know they all)

You're the pretender

(Pretend)

What if I say I will never surrender?

So who are you

Yeah who are you

Yeah who are you!

You finish with a shout and the crowd, a dancing wriggling mass is screaming the way people do at concerts, and you…you're actually trying to figure out if that was a good song to sing. Vaguely, as the next song starts, you wonder who you were thinking of, you or House.

All my life I've been searching for something

Something never comes, never leads to nothing

Nothing satisfies, but I'm getting close

Closer to the prize at the end of the rope

All night long I dream of the day

When it comes around and it's taken away

Leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most

Feel it come to life when I see your ghost

Come down don't you resist

You've such a delicate wrist

And if I give it a twist

Something to hold when I lose my grip

Will I find something in that

So give me just what I need

Another reason to bleed

One by one hidden up my sleeve, one by one hidden up my sleeve

You spin a little walking to one of the guitarist, Heath, and continue with slow beat movement of your leg.

Hey, don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Weight keeping me down

Hey, don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Weight keeping me down

Will I find a believer?

Another one who believes

Another one to deceive

Over and over down on my knees

You can't help but move a little, as if using Heath as a stripper's pole, getting on your knees in front of him and wrapping one arm around his waist. Some people laugh—Heath rolls his eyes.

If I get any closer

And if you open up wide

And if you let me inside

On and on I got nothing to hide, on and on I got nothing to hide

The guitarist couldn't help his wicked grin as he bent down, still managing to strum before yanking you by your hair and stealing a harsh kiss. You make sure to bite him before smoothly spinning on your knees and continuing the song, like nothing had happened.

Hey, don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Weight keeping me down

Hey, don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Weight keeping me down

All my life I've been searching for something

Something never comes, never leads to nothing

Nothing satisfies, but I'm getting close

Closer to the prize at the end of the rope

All night long I dream of the day

When it comes around and it's taken away

Leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most

Feel it come to life when I see your ghost

And I'm done, done onto the next one

Done, Done and I'm onto the next one

Done, I'm done and I'm onto the next

DONE! DONE! ONTO THE NEXT ONE

DONE! I'M DONE AND I'M ONTO THE NEXT ONE

DONE! DONE! ONTO THE NEXT ONE

DONE! I'M DONE AND I'M ONTO THE NEXT!

Hey, don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Weight keeping me down

Hey, don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Weight keeping me down

DONE DONE ONTO THE NEXT ONE

DONE I'M DONE AND I'M ONTO THE NEXT...

When you finish, your at the edge of the stage, a slick sheen of sweat covering the revealed parts of your body (and there's quite a bit of it) and your glad that those temporary tattoos of yours won't get all icky with it. Panting, you turn on your heel, coming back to the middle of the stage before looking at your audience.

"This song," you say, "is a particular favourite…" You nod to Risha, the drummer and they start. This song, you think, is a bit accurate on your feelings some days. But only some, you remind yourself as the beginnings of Learn to Fly start.

Run and tell all of the angels

This could take all night

Think I need a devil to help me get things right

Hook me up a new revolution

Cause this one is a lie

I sat around laughing and watched the last one die

(House was being more grumpy than usual, having ran out of Vicodin and on a rage about something or another. All he caught was 'brown haired…damn biting…Bri...idiot….WILSON!' before House stormed off, not even glancing at him, surprisingly. Chase wasn't bothered, really, because House often didn't look at him.)

I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life

Looking for something (to) help me burn out bright

I'm looking for a complication

Looking 'cause I'm tired of lying

Make my way back home when I learn to fly high

("Hey! Stop staring at my Wombat." The fact that House was yelling this at their patient didn't surprise him much, nor the words. It couldn't, because if he was surprised then other feelings would try to sneak up too. Still, as the older man snipped at the sick girl and almost defiantly stuck his cane out in front of Chase, the blonde felt warm.)

I think I'm done, nursing patience

It can wait one night

Give it all away if you give me one last try

We'll live happily ever trapped if you just save my life

Run and tell the angels that everything's alright

("Are you going to visit me today?" Wilson asked as he took a bite of his salad. Sometimes Chase wondered how they fell into this odd, almost relationship-like arrangement. It wasn't a relationship, though. They had discussed that early on. Chase wanted some one who could leave bruises and bite in the middle of pleasure and Wilson wanted someone to screw. It was an easy, nice arrangement seeing as they were in love with their bosses who would never look twice at them.)

I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life

Looking for something (to) help me burn out bright

I'm looking for a complication

Looking 'cause I'm tired of trying

Make my way back home when I learn to fly high

Make my way back home when I learn to

Bridge

Fly along with me, I can't quite make it alone

Try to make this life my own

Fly along with me, I can't quite make it alone

Try to make this life my own

(The fact that his father was there bothered him much more than he allowed to show. That House had invited the bastard left a red patch of anger and unnecessary betrayal in his chest.

"You don't get it, do you?" Chase asked his boss later after his father left. Green eyes stared into arctic as House slowly raised a brow. The blonde let out a slight huff of laughter that was anything but humorous. "No," he whispered, "you don't. You wouldn't, would you? Congratulations, House." He said bitingly before leaving.)

I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life

Looking for something (to) help me burn out bright

I'm looking for a complication

Looking 'cause I'm tired of trying

Make my way back home when I learn to…

I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life

(They say you don't just wake up one morning and decide you love someone. That's sorta what happened to Chase though—he had been passed out in the conference room and woke up to House staring at him. If that wasn't disturbing, then the unusual act of kindness was:

"Go back to sleep, Wombat. Everything's fine." Chase didn't know what happened but nodded anyway. House left, the clicks of his cane fading away. A second later Chase had shot up on the couch, eyes wide with realization and the thought of 'fucking hell, this sucks'.)

Looking for something (to) help me burn out bright

I'm looking for a complication

Looking 'cause I'm tired of trying

Make my way back home when I learn to fly high

Make my way back home when I learn to fly

Make my way back home when I learn to… to… to… to

("I'm in love with House. You're in love with Cuddy. Seriously, Wilson, all I want is just a fuck and a bite mark that might make me wake up and tell my brain to stop."

"It won't."

"How do you know? It might just do the trick."

"Chase, if that stuff worked, I wouldn't be in love with Lisa in the first place."

"Indulge me?")

But can someone like me fly?

You never noticed, and probably never in a million years think, the arctic blue eyes from the back that had watched you, had heard you, and ultimately, had recognized you.

A/N: This was fully intended to be a oneshot, but with the ending it sounds like another chapter will be up... maybe there will be another chapter, but not any time soon. I'm too busy with SwI right now. One day, one day. [le sigh]

Eh, sorry if everything was sort of out or whatever with Chase, but, well he always struck me as masochistic and everything...and I could totally see him and Wilson taking their unrequited love out on each other.

Ignore all the spelling mistakes. My computer is rebelling.

Ciao,

XIII