There's No Such Thing as a Free Ride

disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with House or FOX in any way. I write for fun, not profit.

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"Want another?" asks the girl behind the bar, who's almost pretty and almost friendly and who's been making Chase Bloody Marys, complete with the celery garnish, for the last few hours.

Chase holds his glass up weakly, and she takes it from his hand.

"What happened to your face anyway?"

He rubs the bruise on his jaw and immediately regrets it because it's still swollen and it still hurts like hell. He should say, you should have seen the other guy. But that's a stupid cliché, and she isn't that pretty, and he's too tired to make up anything better.

"Abusive relationship," he says, and he grins.

She raises her eyebrows. "Whatever. I'll be back with your drink."

He wonders if she can tell, in the dim light of the bar, that the fist-print on his face was a man's, not a woman's. And if she had thought he was serious. She barely looks at him as she sets down his drink on a cocktail napkin and turns to another customer, their exchange drowned out by the buzz of other late-night drinkers.

There's a band playing in the corner, but they're not very good, and the bar's acoustics are not very good so Chase has been ignoring them. He sips his drink and stares blankly at a group of women huddled in a booth and giggling about something.

He's too drunk to drive home.

He's too broke to call a cab. He pulls out his wallet to check anyway, and there's barely twelve dollars after he settles his tab. Eleven and change, even.

He's just drunk enough to beg for a ride.

He pulls out his phone and his contact list is embarrassingly short, mostly people from work. The thought of calling House makes him want to laugh and then throw up, and then there's Cameron, but she'll see his face and ask questions and then she'll be all sympathetic and sorry, and maybe they'll fuck even though they really really shouldn't...

He settles for Wilson. Wilson doesn't really like him, sure, but he'd feel a sense of responsibility—he always did. And he's already seen the bruise and probably surmised who's fist had left it there. But Chase gets Wilson's voicemail and realizes Wilson's phone is with Wilson's car—a hostage of the impound lot, collateral damage of Tritter's crusade against House and his Vicodin addiction.

Chase hates House. He really hates him. He's crushing peanut shells between his fingers and hoping darkly that House is suffering. All the affection he might have had for House, all the admiration—it's becoming a cold lump in his throat; maybe in his heart. Hate is easier. He's known that for a long time. It was easier when he'd hated his father; it would be easier hating House too. No more groveling, twisting himself in knots seeking approval.

Chase downs the rest of his drink and it makes him hiccup. He scrolls through the names and numbers on his cell, again.

This time he dials Foreman.

Foreman is a strong grip, cold hands, guiding Chase from the bar, through the parking lot.

Foreman's car smells like leather and Foreman and the window glass is cool when Chase leans a cheek against it. He can feel Foreman's disapproving stare whenever they stop for a red light.

"Try not to puke until we get there."

Chase can't believe he's doing this—Foreman will never let him live it down—but he feels like shit so he doesn't care.

"Okay," he whispers.

Foreman lets out a small chuckle. "I almost can't believe you. Today was bad, but it wasn't that bad."

"It was that bad," says Chase, and he's drunk and miserable, so lifting his face and letting Foreman get a good look at the bruise seems like a good idea. Foreman whistles.

"What happened to you?"

"House happened. He didn't want to listen to me—my diagnosis. I had to stop the surgery, or that girl would..."

"And he hit you?" Foreman sounds incredulous, but then he shrugs and seems to accept it. "Well, he's an addict in withdrawal. He probably wasn't thinking straight."

"He's out of control!"

"Maybe you should talk to Cuddy."

Chase shakes his head until it starts to make him dizzy.

"You didn't want advice," Foreman suggests, "You wanted pity."

"I wanted a ride!"

Foreman laughs again. "You're drunk."

"No shit."

Chase props a foot against the dash now, just to see if Foreman will stop him. He doesn't.

"What's your street again?" Foreman asks.

"Carver. It's up a few more blocks."

For a moment Foreman is silent, and Chase's stomach starts to churn again.

"You talked to Tritter, didn't you," Foreman says, and maybe it's a question, but probably not.

"I didn't tell him anything."

"So that's not why House decked you?"

"I told you—"

They almost miss a stop sign, and Foreman has to slam on the brakes. Chase feels his head snap forward, then back again, and he feels even dizzier and worse than he had at the bar. Now that the car is stopped, Foreman whips around to look him straight in the eyes.

"You made a deal with Tritter, didn't you?" he demands. "I don't know what for, I don't know what he offered you—but I can't believe you sold House out. Again."

"But I didn't!"

"Yeah, sure. It was just a coincidence that you and Tritter were acting all buddy-buddy in the cafeteria. And then he released our accounts."

Chase rubs his temples. "There's just nothing I can say to convince you otherwise."

"Sorry." Foreman sort of scoffs. "But you haven't exactly got a history of being trustworthy."

The car is still stopped, idling at the stop sign. There's no one else on the road at this hour, and Chase probably wouldn't care even if there were. He can't stand the way Foreman is looking at him, like he's nothing, the lowliest form of life out there. And his jaw is still throbbing, and the alcohol is going to make it swell like a bitch...and dammit, Foreman is still looking at him like that.

"I thought I was hardwired to kiss ass," Chase spits.

"And now you're working for Tritter, not House. What's the difference?"

And Chase is angry and frustrated and he wants to punch Foreman in the face, to see how he likes it, but the angle's way too awkward and the alcohol has made him sloppy, so he reaches out and grabs the lapel of Foreman's coat instead.

"Do you think I want to lose my job?" he demands.

Foreman seems surprised.

"Do you think Tritter offered me something better?" Chase continues. "Come on. What did he offer you?"

"Don't go there," Foreman says. wrenching his lapel from Chase's grip. "You're drunk, and I'm going to take you home and you're not even going to remember this conversation in the morning."

Chase leans back in his seat and laughs lightly. He'll remember; he always remembers.

"Carver?" Foreman asks, and the car starts rolling again.

"Yeah."

When they pull up in front of Chase's flat, Foreman turns off the engine and they sit in silence. Chase watches the blinking turn signal reflected against wet pavement. Had it rained? He hadn't noticed.

"I hate House," Chase says, "But I didn't rat him out."

Foreman ignores the last part of that. "Lots of people hate House. Join the club."

"Well," says Chase, "Thanks for the ride."

"You gonna make it up the stairs okay?"

Chase makes a face. "I can still walk, thanks."

Foreman shrugs and sweeps out a hand, like okay, you're dismissed. Chase opens the door. He thinks maybe he should thank Foreman again, or try again to convince him that he didn't tell Tritter anything, or invite him in for some coffee, or hell, lean over and kiss him, because while he's thinking of stupid ideas anyway...

But he just gets out of the car and doesn't look back until he hears Foreman drive away.

fin

a/n: Voila, my short fic with the long title. Hurt/no comfort because, while I like Chase/Foreman, I'm also inherently evil and wanted to write something plausible. Feedback is appreciated!