Swing
Rated R for swingers, peripheral sex and general weirdness. Ch/C and Ch/H. Set it season two, post-Vogler fiasco.
disclaimer: I don't own House or any of the characters. I'm also not a doctor. Or a swinger.
--
There is a street light flickering and sputtering above Chase's head as he stands immobile on the stoop, telling himself to reach for the doorbell. His head feels fuzzy, and the light isn't helping and he's suddenly so overwhelmingly tired that he wants to curl up right there in his jacket and sleep on the pavement.
Maybe he's stupid, and he's definitely being petty, but when he reaches out and the doorbell chimes, he knows it's too late to turn back. So he leans heavily against the button, hearing the bells again and again, and he'll wait until House answers the door because that's just what House won't be expecting.
--
"His lungs are filling with fluid."
The white board was a mess of scribbles which were making less and less sense as the night dragged on.
"And he's going blind."
Dr. House screwed up his face. "But other than that, he's fine, right?"
"Well, come on," said Foreman, "If we treated every patient who couldn't see and couldn't breathe…"
Chase might have chuckled at that if it were a little earlier in the evening, but they'd been stuck in the office for hours and even Cameron seemed to be losing her cheer. It had been a while since Chase had seen her like this—frazzled—and the way her hair was working its way out of its ponytail made her look, he thought, a little bed-headed.
"An allergic reaction," she said, for what must have been the fifth time that night, "It's the best explanation for the rash."
"Because that fits with the other symptoms so well too." House's trademark sarcasm.
"He came in with symptoms of anaphylactic reactions. And the epinephrine—"
"Relieved the swelling of a day old bee sting, which we've already ruled out as the cause of the attack," House finished. "So...other ideas?"
"There could be another environmental cause," Foreman said carefully, looking from House to Cameron, "Besides the bee sting. Swelling in the heart and joints could point to an allergen, if the immune system is compromised."
Chase shook his head. "Apartment's clean. We checked."
"Gee, you don't think he could have picked up something somewhere else?"
"Now boys, don't squabble," House said. He paced a line to his desk and back, tapping the patient's file against his good leg. "Think! The clock is ticking."
"It could be any number of viruses," Cameron said, but Chase could tell she was still banking on the allergen theory.
"Well, it could be a new, undiscovered condition," House replied, "But how about starting with something we could actually stand a chance of finding and treating? Dr. Chase, we've yet to hear from you."
"Inflammation of the joints and organs, mouth ulcers, rash." Chase ticked off the symptoms on his fingers. "Acute reactive arthritis?"
"All right," House muttered, "I'm sorry I asked you."
"What?" Chase snapped, failing to hide his annoyance. "He fits the demographic, and this could have been easily triggered by an infection like an STD—"
"Which he doesn't have," House finished. His expression changed to one of mocking. "His tests were clean and seriously, just because the man works at a sex club doesn't make him a walking STD. Way to be close-minded."
"He's a bouncer at the club," Cameron added, giving Chase a little eye roll. "It doesn't mean he necessarily...participates."
"And joint pain is the one thing the patient's not complaining of," Foreman confirmed, "Arthritis doesn't make sense."
"Fine," Chase said, "So we're going with an allergy?"
"Dr. Cameron," House called, eyes still on the whiteboard, "Run down to our patient's place of business and check for whatever the hell is making this guy swell up like Marlon Brando."
"But—" the word dropped from Cameron's mouth. "Now?"
There was a moment there where they all bent to look at their watches and Chase realized he'd left his at home.
"Why not?" House shot back. "The night is young. Take Chase with you; he'll show you the ropes."
Foreman raised an eyebrow towards House at the last suggestion. "Are you sure we're not jumping the gun on this?" he asked, "I mean, there are plenty of diagnoses that we haven't considered."
"And can you think of one that works?"
Foreman was silent.
"Aww, I know you want to go too," House taunted, "But I need you here to run some more blood work. You understand, right?"
"This is bullshit," Chase muttered, and shortly after, found that a manic-looking House had invaded his personal space.
"Would you care to repeat that for the class?"
"You don't actually think we'll find anything." Chase tried to stand his ground, "You don't even think there is an environmental cause—you're just sending us off to some swinger's club to make asses of ourselves. We're wasting time when this guy is half dead!"
At this, a thin smile made its way across House's face, and he leaned forward to throw an arm around Chase's shoulders. Chase stiffened, but House had his neck in the crook of his elbow in a mockery of good-natured brotherhood. "Dear Dr. Chase," he quipped, "I honestly can't see why you would pass up an opportunity like this one. Who knows? You might get lucky."
Chase shrugged the arm off, ducking to conceal his blush. "Fine, whatever. We'll go on your wild goose chase."
Cameron looked at him, eyes asking we will? but Chase chose to ignore her, and to turn away from House completely. He'd felt suddenly awkward, being pressed into House's shoulder like that; flushing from the contact, not the jibe. Chase ran a hand through his hair and tried to regain his bearing.
He would be a pawn, he would be a great pawn—and that was all he was to House afterall—but he didn't want to like it. Sometimes it was just easier to hate it.
--
Chase drives, and when they pull up in front of the Garden of Earthly Delights, he lets the car idle in the parking lot. Cameron is making no move to get out, or even to unbuckle her seatbelt.
"Hieronymus Bosch," Chase remarks. She nods curtly, and he realizes she is nervous and that she'd probably rather be anywhere else. This isn't where all that med school is supposed to lead, sure, but neither is breaking and entering and making coffee for your boss. Looking up at the green vine-like letters of the neon sign, Chase can't honestly say he's surprised.
"Do you think we should have worn our lab coats?" Cameron asks, "So we seem more legitimate?"
"We'd just look like fetishists." Chase laughs. "Come on, let's get this over with."
The door below the neon lights opens into a dull looking lobby, remarkable only by a half naked mannequin propped against the counter. Behind the counter sits an equally unremarkable man, devoid of color. He's maybe 40 or a little older, but his skin is ashen, his hair prematurely graying.
"Evening," Chase says, nodding.
The man behind the counter is writing something down, and he's clearly preoccupied as he mumbles a greeting to the doctors. "Evenin'. How're you folks doing tonight?"
"We're here on behalf of one of your employees," Chase continues. "A Geoffrey Sawyer?"
"Yeah?" The man finally looks up, pocketing whatever he's been working on and lifting a round pair of glasses from his nose. His eyes settle quickly on Cameron. "Yes, well, I'm the manager. Call me Dave. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Dr. Chase, and this is Dr. Cameron. If you weren't aware, Mr. Sawyer was admitted to the hospital a few days ago with severe respiratory problems."
"We'd like to check the premise," Cameron offers, "To make sure it's nothing he was exposed to here. Any allergen that could have set off the attack."
Dave narrows his eyes. "Wait a minute. Are you here running a health inspection?"
"Nothing like that," she assures the manager, "We just need a little time to collect some samples of anything that could contain a toxin. We're only here for our patient."
"I don't know what you're looking for," Dave says, "But I run a pretty clean business. If Sawyer's caught something, he probably got it somewhere else."
Chase wishes Dave would stop talking to Cameron's breasts. Laying a protective hand on her shoulder seems like the right thing to do, so Chase does it. Her eyes flit to his face, but she says nothing as he gently steers her toward the main curtained entrance around the counter.
"In that case," Chase says, "We'll be out of your hair in no time."
"Hold it. You still have to pay the door fee."
Chase can feel Cameron tense as she turns back to stare at the manager.
"But we're not—" she stammers, "We're just here for the samples."
"Fifty dollars for both of you," Dave says, throwing Chase a wink that makes him gag just a little. "That's a discount. Your lady's cute."
Chase avoids looking at Cameron by fumbling for his wallet and finding the money. He smoothes a ten and two twenties out on the counter, and Cameron lets him pay. It's just as well that she does, really. It's business—PPTH will pick up the tab in the end after a dramatic scene of Cuddy waving the receipt in House's face, demanding, "How do you justify this?" And that alone would be well worth fifty dollars.
Dave grabs the cash and licks his thumb to count the bills.
"Little heads up on the rules," he says, "'Case you've never been to a swinger's club before. You don't touch anyone, 'less you ask and they say yes. You ask once and only once. Play nice. If anyone makes you feel uncomfortable, talk to me or one of the bouncers. Fresh sheets and towels are on the racks in the next room; you're in charge of that part yourselves. Questions?"
Chase and Cameron's eyes meet, and he's surprised to find she no longer looks embarrassed—maybe even amused.
"You know we're actually here on business," she says. Dave winks again.
"Course, love. I get it."
--
They've been there for less than ten minutes, and already Cameron is distracted by a couple fucking noisily on what looks like a vinyl-covered massage table. Chase tries to concentrate on the more mundane: bagging a sample from each bowl of food along the buffet and bar table.
Cameron has stuck close to his side since they walked through the curtains and into the dimly lit anti-paradise that is the Garden, as if the proximity is keeping her safe. Maybe it's working for her, but Chase can already feel the stare of a girl by the ice-machine boring holes in the back of his neck. Every once in a while, he catches a glimpse of her in his periphery, and yeah okay, she's cute. But kind of scary at the same time; the kind of girl you'd see in the back pages of the free gazette or snorting coke in a public bathroom.
"They've been going at it forever," Cameron whispers, and Chase forgets about the girl. Cameron is so obviously leering at the couple on the massage table that it's hilarious and kind of...
Hot.
"What happened to 'strictly business?'" Chase teases, throwing another sealed baggy into his messenger bag.
"They're right there!"
"Cameron." Chase clamps his jaw against a smile—she's practically bent over backwards watching. "I can finish up here. Go check the showers for mildew."
That snaps her back to attention. "Alone?"
"No one's going to bother you. Start with the showers down that hall, then I'll meet you upstairs."
Cameron nods, but she looks uncertain. Just as she's turning to leave she pauses and her voice drops low. "Wait."
"What?"
"You've been here before!"
Chase opts to shove the strawberry he's about to bag into his mouth instead. "Once," he says, hoping it's incomprehensible. But Cameron seems nonplussed that he may have just eaten contaminated food, so...
"What do you do on your days off?" she asks wickedly.
"Look, it was a one time thing. There was this girl..."
"The banker?"
He was caught. "Well...no."
"Another girl? Chase!" But she's teasing, not upset. Maybe this is making her nervous, and she's just masking it by acting about thirteen.
Or maybe watching two people copulate by a buffet table has loosened her up. Chase lightly reprimands himself for thinking her a prude—Cameron is okay, and working for House has certainly stripped away enough of her initial, annoying idealism. He realizes that it's been a while, probably too long, since he's thought of her as more than a colleague. He wonders very briefly what it might be like to fuck her on a massage table, in front of everyone who wants to watch. Hell, it might be fun.
If she weren't so damn head over heels for House, that is.
She wasn't his to think about anyway, Chase reminds himself. And she wasn't...
"Well, I guess I'll go get the showers," Cameron says. "See you upstairs."
"Uh...yeah," Chase says. He watches her go and eats another strawberry, imagining how her mouth would taste and if it would make him feel happy again.
--
Chase makes his way through the narrow hallways, pushing past a crowd gathered by an open window to a "private room." The hallway spits him out into another large room which has a wall of TV screens playing various pornos. Chase only allows himself a quick look at the flesh colored blur before he gets back to business, donning fresh gloves to check the vents.
The scary girl, who was watching him downstairs, is now all but wrapped around the jukebox in the corner, gnawing on one of her long manicured nails. Chase hopes she won't see him, but she looks and she does. He hears her choose a song and a girl rocker's voice fills the room.
"Hi," says Scary, too close to his ear.
"Hi."
"What're you doing?"
Chase knows he must look strange poking his latex-gloved fingers around in the air vents, but considering there were so many other things to stare at here...
"I'm...checking for toxins." Then, as an afterthought, "I'm a doctor."
And just like that, Scary is digging those fingernails into his arm. "Kinky," she says, "Is this okay? Friendly touch?"
Chase doesn't feel like saying yes or no to that, so he just shrugs.
"Why are you really here?" she asks.
"A man who works here is...really sick right now. Dr. Cameron and I are making sure it's not from something he picked up at the club."
"The girl you were with earlier...she your partner?"
"I work with her."
"Yeah?" Scary says and she pulls her hand away so she can bite at her nails again. She's making Chase more nervous now that he'd care to admit, and she's probably enjoying it.
"Excuse me," he says, attempting an exit, but she moves so she's right in front of him and their legs touch.
"Wait," she says, "I've seen you here before. I knew you looked familiar, and your accent. You're Australian?"
"Uh...maybe. I mean...yes..." This is awkward.
Chase thinks the ensuing silence will be awkward too, but it's quickly interrupted by a deep laugh bubbling from Scary's throat.
"I've never seen you before," she says. "I was messing with you."
Chase feels the blood drain from his face, and he tries to laugh too, but nothing comes out. Scary reaches for him again, and this time her fingers brush his neck.
"You do look sad though. Are you sad?"
What's weird is that she doesn't say this seductively, but helpfully: like she really cares. If he were House, Chase thinks, he could think of something to say. Some smartass answer, something defensive, something that's not the truth. But if House were here, and this girl was touching his face, he'd probably take her home and fuck her.
That thought makes Chase strangely jealous, though he can't pin down why. House isn't even here.
"What's his name?" Scary asks, and Chase realizes he hasn't been paying attention.
"What?"
"The guy who's sick. You said he works here. What's his name?"
"Sawyer," Chase says, pushing every thought of House to the back of his mind, "You know him?"
"Yeah, he's a bouncer, right? Cool guy, too bad he's sick," Scary's eyes leave Chase for what seems like the first time in the conversation. "That's his girlfriend over there with the towels...maybe you should go talk to her."
"His girlfriend?" Chase asks. He might have been drifting in his own thoughts, but this brought him back—the patient had a girlfriend? Whom they had heard nothing of until now? The guy had said he wasn't involved!
"Well," Scary clarifies, "when she's here, she's his girlfriend."
"Um...thank you," Chase says, stripping off a glove and offering her a handshake. She stares, but doesn't take his hand, so he pats her side instead which seems to make her happy. And it feels surprisingly nice.
--
Cameron comes back while he's talking to Sawyer's girlfriend, who's introduced herself as Gigi. Probably not her real name.
"But is he going to be okay?" Gigi is asking, with what sounds like genuine concern. But Chase is distracted by the reappearance of his colleague, who catches the eye of everyone in the room when she rounds the corner and plops down in a chair in front of the porno mosaic.
"Hang on," Chase tells Gigi. He turns to Cameron, who looks not uncomfortable by the leers shooting her way but almost...smug. "Showers?" he asks.
"The place is completely clean," she says.
"Ironic."
"Who are you talking to?"
Gigi is standing behind them with her arms crossed, managing to pout and shove her breasts together, despite her apparent concern.
"Patient's girlfriend...or something like that. She said she hadn't seen him all week and was worried."
"But she didn't come see him," Cameron says, "Oookay."
"She didn't know where he was. She works here too, and I guess that's the bulk of their interaction." Chase pauses, licking the sweat from his upper lip. "Um...I want you to ask her something for me."
"Me?"
"I don't want to sound like I'm...you know."
Cameron raises an eyebrow.
"Ask her if she's clean," Chase says hurriedly, "I mean, ask her if she's been in contact with any STDs."
"We already have the patient's test results for that...I don't see how asking her..."
But she does it anyway, maybe because their search was unsuccessful, maybe because she thinks he's actually onto something, but most likely because she's Dr. Cameron and that's what she does. Chase sinks into the chair after she leaves and blinks at a screen showcasing a familiar looking porn star getting anally reamed by a cock the size of California. All the pornographic moans and groans from all the different screens blend together, and Chase really can't tell if she's enjoying it or not and it's making him nervous.
Cameron comes back, and immediately Chase can tell she's onto something. "She said...a little over a month ago, they were both tested for Chlamydia. They were positive, they were treated. Our tests didn't catch it. Why wouldn't the patient mention something like that?"
Chase rubs his chin. "Didn't have it anymore, didn't think of any reason to. He was embarrassed."
"The UTI," Cameron says suddenly, "It wasn't a UTI. He said he'd had one about a month ago, right? And it was treated. But..."
"Either a lie or a misdiagnosis," Chase agrees. They are onto something now, and he's found he can no longer sit still. He jumps to his feet and begins to pace a circle around the chair.
"Misdiagnosis. It was in the records."
"But there was an inflammation of the urethra. Just like the inflammations everywhere else..." Cameron's been tapping her foot, but now she stops and looks up, "The Chlamydia. It was the trigger."
They've found the missing piece. When they look at each other, Chase can tell they are both thinking the same thing.
"Reiter's!" he says. Reactive arthritis.
"So you were right."
"And so were you, maybe. Something had to cause the complications."
Cameron sweeps out an arm. "The bee sting. It must have aggravated the inflammation."
For a second they just stand there, in the middle of a sex club, reveling in the solution they've uncovered. Then the moment's over.
"We have to call House," Cameron says. Chase shakes his head.
"It's late. I'll call Foreman. He's still at the hospital—if we're right, we should tell him to start steroid treatment for the eyes and the rash. NSAIDs for the other symptoms."
Cameron nods. "We shouldn't have taken him off the steroids in the first place."
"Well...House was wrong."
Maybe he sounds too cocky when he says that, maybe too jovial. Cameron is talking about a mistake, a poor decision that could have led to a man's blindness or worse. Chase is talking about one-upping the boss, putting House in his place, and getting the chance to feel superior—but he didn't intend to make that quite so obvious. It's not that he doesn't care about the well-being of their patient, or his girlfriend who is still in the corner. It's just, perhaps, that he cares more that House was wrong.
Even if it was such a small victory.
And he knows that may make him a bad doctor, or a bad person but he's beyond that stage of self-flagellation so he doesn't care. Or at least, he tries not to. Was it really all that different from how House treated him?
He betrayed House. House betrayed him. It was all semantics. When Vogler told him House had tried to fire him Chase was hardly surprised; that was why he needed the protection in the first place. But then Vogler was gone, and miraculously, Chase still had his job.
Or maybe it wasn't miraculous after all.
--
There was that time, when House was supposed to be in the clinic and Chase was supposed to be in the ICU. But House hated the clinic and the ICU had just lost a twelve year old to a car accident, so Chase was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and so was House. And so was Wilson.
Chase was always envious of how well House could read people he'd just met. Like Sherlock Holmes, able to piece together patient's histories by something as simple as a bracelet or a tattoo. But to Chase, it was just that—a bracelet or a tattoo—and if he tried for anything more he'd just be guessing. But he was good at reading people he knew, and he knew Dr. House.
House and Wilson had split a sandwich over the desk, and they were laughing and making crumbs, and it seemed so unnatural to see his boss like that that Chase paused by the glass wall and watched. House did not look up; he was distracted. Maybe Wilson had a gob of mustard on his face, on the corner of his mouth. Because House reached up and lightly brushed his knuckles against his companion's face, lingering a little too long for a friendly gesture—and what was a friendly gesture from House anyway?
Chase fell against the door, saw House freeze. Their eyes met for a second and Chase mumbled something about getting a book, but now he knew, and House knew he knew, so...
So what? He didn't tell Vogler, he had no reason to tell Vogler. There were plenty of other things he could snitch on House about, things that seemed less cruel, less invasive to mention. He was just saving his job (if Chase didn't protect himself, who would?)—he wasn't out to bring House down, even though that was what Vogler had wanted.
So he said nothing about this. It was stupid, but knowing made him almost feel included. Almost. It did give him a deeper insight into House himself, which House hadn't wanted him to have. Chase was a subordinate, and underling, and he knew House would prefer to keep any and all personal information from his team.
But Chase knew. And he hadn't said a word, but that didn't mean he wouldn't—he hadn't made himself out as especially trustworthy. So was that why House kept him around?
--
When he drops Cameron off, he tries to kiss her. He's not sure why. Obviously he's attracted to her—he's done a poor job of hiding that—but he doesn't like her, not like that. And she wants House, not him. Maybe that's why he tries.
She says, "Robert," and that's weird because she hardly ever calls him that. And she gently pushes him away.
"Sorry," Chase mumbles. She smiles sort of sympathetically, but she's getting up to leave. He wants to grab her arm and tell her the secret, tell her that she's wasting her time with House. But he just nods instead. "I'm pretty tired."
"Go get some sleep," she says, "Foreman will take care of the patient."
Chase nods, but somehow it's no longer enough that they've solved the case. No longer enough that House was wrong. Chase watches Cameron until she's safely inside, and she turns and waves before closing the door. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms then slams his hands down on the steering wheel.
He is tired, that much is true. But he can't go home; not yet.
--
When House does answer the door, it's obvious he's been sleeping and he looks at Chase like he could strike him down with the sheer force of his glare.
"You were wrong," Chase says.
But it wasn't the catharsis he was hoping for.
"You couldn't save it 'til morning," House says. His voice is flat.
"I thought you should know."
"Am I assuming this is about the patient?"
"It wasn't an allergen. The guy had Chlamydia. It's Reiter's."
"Goodbye." The door starts to close, but Chase lashes out to catch it, and like that, his face is inches away from House's. The proximity feels strange, but Chase doesn't pull back.
"Wait. I need to talk to you."
"Oh, really?" House says, like he's enthused, but he's obviously not. Chase hates being mocked, and he hates it more when it's House. Not that he hasn't gotten used to it. But this wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go, dammit. He's made himself vulnerable. And now there's no turning back.
Chase grits his teeth. "Please."
House is still glaring, but the door swings a little wider.
--
House has made no move to turn on a light, so Chase resigns himself to the slivers of moon shining through the curtains and collapses on the sofa. House is ghostly in the dark, perhaps because he's hovering, pacing the floor and casting shattered three-legged shadows against the wall.
Chase's throat is dry, and he's dying for a glass of water, but somehow it doesn't seem appropriate to ask now.
"I didn't tell anyone," he said, "About Dr. Wilson."
"Why should I believe that?"
"Because I wouldn't!" Chase is suddenly aware that he is whining.
"You've never given me any reason to trust you." House's jaw is working, like he is chewing the inside of his cheek. He lowers himself onto the other side of the sofa, as far from Chase as possible. "When I found out Wilson had been forced to resign, I was sure..."
Chase doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. House's head is bowed now, his hands are stacked atop his cane. In the darkness, his face is dead, and Chase has to remind himself that this is a man who takes great pleasure in making his day-to-day miserable. This is the boss who has teased and belittled him, who's never said 'thank you' for a cup of coffee or 'well done' for a correct diagnosis. Because if he thinks of House as he is now, in the dark of his empty house, the self loathing will take over, and there will be no point to any of this.
So Chase thinks about the jokes, the jabs, how House can twist his words and play his emotions, how House can build him up and knock him down. And he's able to summon a tiny fleck of anger.
"Did you really think I would bother? The board shouldn't give a damn who you're fucking—"
"Well we're not, okay," House snaps loudly enough, it seemed, to shock even himself. "Not anymore."
Then he's screwing up his face and his lips are twisted, and if it weren't so dark Chase might have been able to tell if it was with anger or hatred or despair. But then again, probably not. House's head is still bowed, and Chase is struck with the desire to reach out and rub the back of his boss's neck even though rationally he knows it's one of the stupidest things he could possibly try. So he rubs at his own arm instead, like he's suddenly caught a draft.
"And I wasn't wrong," House adds.
"What?"
"I wasn't wrong. I sent you to the club because I knew you'd find something. And you did."
Chase's mouth falls open, but he can't think of anything to say. This is typical House—so typical House. And he didn't see it. And he came here to gloat.
Or maybe he came here to apologize.
"I really didn't tell anyone," Chase says. Not even Cameron.
"Hurray for you."
"And I won't tell anyone." Chase is gritting his teeth again, almost grinding them. "So don't let that stop you from firing me."
House looks grim. "Who says I was letting it stop me?"
"You don't want to fire me?"
"Do you want me to fire you? Is the guilt just eating you up inside?"
Chase shakes his head. "I'm not playing this game."
"Then why are you here?"
There isn't a good answer, so Chase doesn't even try. Was it because he couldn't stand the thought of House sleeping through the night, thinking his diagnosis was right? Was it because Cameron wouldn't kiss him? Was it because he had to say something about House and Wilson because that bit of information was hounding him every day and affecting him more than he cared to admit?
Something was missing, something was boring a little hole inside of him, telling a stranger in a club that he couldn't be happy, not yet. Was it anger, jealousy, the need to feel superior?
Or was it guilt?
"So Wilson and you—" he tries again.
"Drop it," House says. And if Chase didn't know him so well, if House had been any other person on the planet, he might have seemed a little like someone with a broken heart. But Chase isn't naïve enough to believe something that simple. Not with House, anyway.
And he wants to tell House why it bothers him to know. How, when he sees Dr. Wilson, it makes him wonder what it's like to kiss another man—to feel stubble against your face instead of smooth skin. Would the mouth taste the same? Would it be strange to smell aftershave instead of the inexplicable sweetness of women's shampoo? But when he thinks 'another man,' he always thinks 'House' and there's nothing he can do to change that. So he can't tell House, because House wouldn't kiss him—House would laugh in his face.
He needs to be able to look House in the eye, needs to stand up to his taunts and the random brush of a hand here or there without blushing or looking away. And it's not easy, but Chase does it. Then he sees House and Wilson, together in the hallways, and he's thinking about sex again and how they do it and what they say.
And maybe he was thinking about that, just a little bit, when he tried to kiss Cameron.
But House doesn't like Cameron, and House doesn't like him, and there's nothing they can do to change that.
"I guess I'll just forget about it then," Chase says. The sarcasm seems awkward and misplaced. House twists violently to look at him, to stare him down, but this time Chase stands his ground. And House deflates again.
Then before Chase really knows what he's doing, he's reaching out and—in the spirit of making bad decisions—he let's his hand fall to House's lap. And to a part of House's thigh, which he really shouldn't be touching. And House's glare is burning him, but he doesn't push or pull away. He's almost leaning into Chase's hand now, like it's normal, like it's supportive. Chase wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't know how, so he just stares back and keeps his hand where it really shouldn't be.
They stay like this for a long time, before House throws him out.
fin
A/N: SO HE SLEEPS WITH CAMERON. BWA.
So okay, this story underwent like 659584 revisions, and I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with it. Thus, concrit is very welcome. I just had to get this monster off my back. Some of the medical stuff might be a bit wonky, but I did what I could. I couldn't bear not to have a PoTW plot in this one.
My betas mentioned that this didn't really feel like a House/Chase (which it's not cause it's CHASE/HOUSE! ha!) until the end, which is unfortunate but true. So my apologies for that...I really did try to write it as a Ch/H. I'm working on a pseudo sequel that's a lot more slashy titled "Don't Lets Start," so be on the lookout, haha.
Poor Foreman has to work while everyone else plays. Look for more Foreman love from me later.