Honestly this is the most spontaneous thing I've ever written. And longest.
Forgive me if I'm brain dead. It's... a ridiculous time in the morning to be writing fanfiction.
TITLE: Much Ado About 'Not Much'
AUTHOR: misstressmax (lj) somatogenic C/F & H/W
RATING: PG-13 to be safe
WARNING: crack! fluff! laughter!
SUMMARY: Chase and Foreman realize something Very Important.
DISCLAIMER: Oh geez. Not mine, bucko.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've never written this couple before, or even seriously thought about them (together) so the entire thing was pretty out of the blue for me to write, but once these fingers start tapping... ALSO: old lady (you'll know her when you see her) is based off my friend, and this fic is for her and her continual support of 'subtext'. WRITTEN DURING 3RD SEASON.
To be honest, Chase wasn't really in love with Cameron.
Well, I mean, he was but not really.
Chase had never really been in love before. And he was painfullyaware of this. He just... didn't know what it felt like. Maybe he hadn't met the right woman yet. Maybe his parents didn't love him enough as a child. But the truth of it is, Chase has never been in love but wants to be. Very. Badly.
He's heard the love songs, seen chick flicks all his life, seen those beautiful, perfect smiles beaming at each other. And maybe he wants a piece of that happiness. Nothing wrong that, wanting to be happy.
So he does this... obsession thing, in place of love. He knows it's what he should do if he were in love (like we've- he's- said, he'd watched The Movies). He hopes, maybe, if he acts it long enough, or accurately enough, it'll become the real thing.
Cameron knew that. It's why she dumped him. And how did she know it?
Becausehe told her.
Andwhy did he tell her?
Because he thought she would help (damn that post coital bliss loosening his resolve. His tudor always said it'd be his un-doing [and it was unfortunately theirs too, since they we eventually fired after his parents found out he was being taught things outside school curriculum ).
But he forgot that Cameron traded hearts with that bitch ice queen from Narnia and didn't exactly feel like dealing with that. Which was the point of their relationship, anyway. But he still kept up the act, not just because he thought he'd finally get to her, but also that he knew Cameron well enough, and the general female species, that she liked to be flattered by male attention every once in a while, to know that she was really sexy and attractive and that the extra five pounds she'd gained recently from stress weren't the things keeping her from the dating pool, but that she'd just not found the right person yet, and-
What Chase doesn't know (at least consciencly, anyway) is that he doesn't have to pretend anymore.
Because he already loves someone.
You know that aforementioned tudor? And 'their' carefully gender neutral pronouns?
It's because it was a guy. Chase likes to forget this part of the story.
At least on the outside.
His name was Charlie, beautifully pale with his blue blue veins visible around his joints, hazel eyes, and fluffy sandy hair (for, even if you have just the slightest bit of Aryan blood in you in Australia, the moment your hair hits the sun it bleaches out immediatly. Lately, Chase has had to go to beauty salons to keep his hair color up, his natural mousey brown inexcusable).
He loved that man, in a puppy love sort of way. Which is why his parents sent him to the seminary. And medical school. They tried to show him that not only God disapproves of him, but science too.
This is also why he was left out of his father's will. And the reason his mother gave him for why she drank. But they never talked about that. And never would.
Which leads us to know. Chase in love.
But who is he in love with (besides himself)?
Not House (Chase didn't exactly have a thing for 'older men').
Defiantly not Wilson (re: above. And also he suspected that there was more between them that they let on, even to themselves).
Then who?
The one person he claimed to hate (or at least extremely dislike).
The person he could not have less in common with (besides being a racial minority and having some pretty fucked up family issues [though who didn't, now a days).
The one person, who, honestly, could never feel the same about him:
that's right. Foreman.
He hated saying it out loud. Fuck, he hated thinking it out loud.
But there it was.
The cold, naked truth:
He, Robert Chase, is in love with one Eric Foreman.
What's a poor wallaby to do?
-
As Chase sat there in the cafeteria, miserably drinking his ultra sugary half milk half coffee afternoon treat (and then not drinking it, which he thought was infinitely worse, since all he did then was look longingly into his trendy earth killing Styrofoam cup and sigh, the little puffs of air rustling his bangs slightly. Not that he noticed things like Chase's bangs and whether or not they were moving or not-) that same one Dr. Eric Foreman was watching him, nursing his own cup o' joe, as described.
He sat there on the other side of the caf, suspiciously watching the younger man drink and not drink his coffee. He watched him with the air of a man not exactly having made up his mind about the person or thing in question, which he was not.
Three years and he did not know this man yet. He thought he knew him; he was predicable enough. but it was the little details hiding behind the expected behavior that threw him sometimes. He didn't think about the man anymore than he should (or so he told himself) but yet he had never really taken the time just to sit down and analyze this creature known as his fellow colleague. He had never, as horrible as this sounded, even to himself, thought about one Robert Chase as a fellow human. He resolved to do so then, saying it was the least House like thing he could do under the circumstances.
He walked over to Chase's seat and sat down across from him.
Chase looked up at him with watery eyes.
Foreman wished he hadn't sat down.
-
Twenty minutes later (and 17 past their lunch break) Foreman was no closer to understanding the man practically blubbering across from him than he was before. If anything, he was more confused. The man was lonely, he gathered, otherwise he wouldn't have just told him his whole life's story, garbled and rushed, wide eyed and trembling with-
-trembling with emotion? Startled by this thought, he glanced down to check. Chase's hands were flying. They were on his coffee cup (slowly being drained between the brief breaths he took between changes of topics of his story) fingering his tie, playing with his hair, and just plain fidgeting with everything in arm's length. Including, he discovered, finally detaching himself completely from Chase's narrative, his hands.
The next time this happened, Foreman's left hand trapped Chase's onto his right, like a cat on a mouse, and a shocked silence took over. Foreman slowly looked up at the man (now gripping) his hand unashamedly, the very man who swore complete indifference and dislike to him, and gave him a good, hard look.
The usually composed man was frazzled and a wreck, his own self denial of himself and the situations surrounding him coming crashing into his shallow world.
But what Foreman did know was that this was not his usual state of mind. And that people around them were starting to stare.
Uncomfortably, he shifted in his seat, and some how managed to catch Chase's eye. This was his undoing.
Inside his co-workers stunningly blue eyes ('stunningly blue eyes'? he didn't want to think about why those particular adjectives came to mind just now) he saw himself reflected, sixteen yeas old, eyes wide when he heard the police sirens approaching his first break in. That horror of knowing your life was about to change forever in a way not entirely pleasant shown and glimmered in his unshed tears.
He carefully rolled his own eyes, breaking that second's bond and making Chase turn his face away from his, downcast.
"Look," he breathed, not knowing how or why the words coming out of his mouth were coming out of his mouth, "you'd better take a personal day. You- you're- you can't drive in this condition?" it wasn't a question but a statement and all Chase could do was nod dumbly in reply, shocked into silence. "Damn. I'll have to drive you. You'll- I'll have to drive you back tomorrow too- for your car," he announced all of this as it came to him, not needing or wanting Chase's input for this impromptu plan. He also said this with looking at Chase either.
Resolutely, Foreman got up, leading Chase in a brisk walk to the elevator. If Foreman's mind hadn't been buzzing, repeating his plan and refining it with every step, he'd have noticed a few things. Like that the caf's normal white noise had drifted to a stop sometime in their conversation, or that-
"You're holding my hand," Chase said meekly, though without much feeling on the subject, his voice still a bit sheepish from shock and trying not to cry. The elevator 'dinged' shut as Foreman was brought back to reality.
"Huh?" and he realized he was. He let go instantly, and in the corner of his eye he saw Chase's face droop a bit. He shoved his hands in his pockets, "I was making sure you didn't go anywhere," they both knew this was nonsense
and wondered why he'd said such a lame excuse, and also why'd he feel the need to cover for it anyway, and-
Ding!
The elevator opened and they stepped out, not knowing quite what would happen next.
-
The drive to Chase's apartment (or 'flat' as Chase had insisted on calling it) was unexpectedly awkward and nerve wracking for both parties. Neither knew why. Or would admit why, anyway.
When they reached the semi-swanky apartment complex, they passed through the doors with ease, guards nodding at Chase and not blinking an eye at his male companion. When they reached the apartment (flat!) door, however, Chase fainted just as his keys touched his lock.
They fell to the ground with his body, a jingle accompanying the decidedly ungraceful 'thump' he made on the floor. Sighing, exasperated, Foreman bent down and picked up the keys- or at least tried to.
"Let go, you obviously aren't well enough to do it yourself,"
"No! It's my flat and I'm fine! Just move aside-"
"You just fainted Chase, Are you sure there isn't anything medically wrong with you? We should get you back to the hopsital-"
"No! I said I'm fine!"
"Doesn't look that way to me,"
"Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?"
During all this, they had, with the force of a thousand cliches, gotten closer and closer to each other, Foreman leaning over the prone Australian, face to face. They paused, and stared just looking at each other, when Chase's decrepit neighbor walked by.
"Oh, hello deary!" she said, smiling at the two of them, "how are you today, Dr. Chase? I see you've found yourself a new man! Well, have fun, and don't worry- I'll put my ear plugs in!" she winked and slipped inside her apartment. The door re-opened later after a minutes' pause.
"If you boys get hungry after all that hot gay sex, I've got some leftover lasagna in the fridge!"
-
They sat across from each other, again, this time in Chase's flat's overly fashionable kitchen, and silence rang through the air like a death toll.
"I should... go," Foreman said, without much conviction as he sat down at Chase's mini kitchen bar and swirled his coke around in what looked like a child's cup. He smiled lightly as he turned the glass around in his hand to find a cartoon koala depicted on one side, then took a final swig and set the glass down with a formal air.
"No!" Chase grabbed his wrist holding the glass, clumsily lurching across said bar to reach him- the glass fell, falling onto the plush ikea carpeting below and staining it's pristine white fur.
"Please?" he pleaded, and the look he gave him told him he wasn't just asking him to have another drink.
-
Back at the hospital, House and Wilson were laughing together in coma guy's room during a 'Guiding Light' commercial break.
"So- you really- put endorphins in their coffee cups?" Wilson roared, "copy-cat!".
"Well it worked didn't it?" House grinned in return, "they were being such girls about it anyway, I thought I'd-"
"You thought you'd what?" Wilson deadpanned, still smiling from ear to ear.
"-speed the process along. The sexual tension was driving me nuts," he said too casually, not even acknowledging his bad pun, and attempted to toss a piece of popcorn in his mouth. It bounced off his cheek and hit Wilson in the nose, who, he now realized, was suddenly incredibly close to him (though certainly not uncomfortably).
"That was nice of you," Wilson said cautiously, despite the expression on his face like a cat with a canary.
"Don't say the n-word, Wilson! that's politically incorrect!" as if perfectly timed (and Wilson wouldn't put it pass him) his new secretary, Lakesha, walked in and handed him a fat file, glaring at him. The oncologist passed this look onto House, who only mock mimicked Wilson's very expression before.
"Mr. Weimar will see you now," she said, and strutted off, the file landing with an audible 'slap' on the tile floor.
"I hate you right now, you know that?"
"Yea, just about as much as Foreman and Chase do," he smiled, and Wilson's anger melted a bit, just as it always did.
-
Foreman was learning more and more things about Chase by the second. Like that the white boy tended to drool after sex. On his chest.
He also found out something about himself:
that he didn't mind at all.
END