He sat in his office chair, rubbing his right hand with his left.
It isn't working; the pain in his palm was sharp and precise, like stigmata. It reminds him of the first few weeks after one takes up the guitar. Except, of course, this is in his right.
He rubs harder, but it isn't working. House adds this to his long list of proof there is no God, or at least no loving and compassionate God. A fuzzy wuzzy New Testament type creator would not have designed humans so that it takes two hands to rub the cramps out of one. That's just mean.
Chase sighs.
Chase has been trying to explain something to him for the last ten minutes. House hasn't been paying attention and because he hasn't been paying attention, he assumes whatever Chase has been saying isn't important. He often lets his brain self-regulate like this and it will no doubt get him into a shitload of trouble someday.
He rubs his hand.
Chase throws down the file he'd been holding and drops sharply into the chair across the desk.
"Give me," Chase says.
He has one palm upward as though he is asking to borrow a pencil and House, for the life of him, can't figure out what is being asked
Chase grabs his right hand roughly and drives his thumbs into House's palm.
It hurts, but in a really good way.
House's eyes fall closed
"I can pay someone to do that, you know," he says.
"Sure," Chase says, but doesn't stop. House raises an eyelid and sees Chase's face, looking intently down, as though House's palm was his own personal human game boy.
House stifles a groan.
"Does that feel good?" Chase asks.
Further proof God doesn't exist. If he did Australian accents wouldn't have this immediate effect on his libido. Unless of course there is a God and God hates him. Which is possible.
"What?" House asks.
"Does that feel good?"
He's doing this on purpose, House decides, he's doing this on goddamn purpose.
"Yes," he grits between his teeth. "Yes, that feels good."
"So…can I?"
House nearly says yes automatically, before he realizes he has no idea what Chase is asking. Not that it matters too much, if Chase keeps rubbing his hand like that he can have his wallet, his car, his fucking soul if there's any of that left.
"Can you what?" House asked.
Chase wraps his hand around House's first finger and pulls slowly, twisting slightly. House feels his knuckle crack. Chase repeats this on his middle finger. "Have Friday off if I get someone else to cover my clinic hours?" Chase continues to pull his fingers one after the other until each knuckle cracked.
"Do I care?"
"No. But, you're my boss. I have to ask someone."
Chase has stopped rubbing and is simply holding House's hand between his own.
"Yeah," House says. "Whatever."
Chase flashes one of those thousand watt smiles.
"Thanks boss," he says, returning House's hand. He picks up his case file and leaves.
House watches the door swing shut, slowly flexing his hand.
Now he has an entirely different problem.