The Unfolding of Knowledge
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: I'm trying to get all my old stories uploaded onto , so I thought this one would be a good place to start. Please see my livejournal (also faelinn) for more recent fanfics.
Chase has bondage equipment in his room, and, though they're not really chains, not the metal, cold, rusty kind, they're still something like chains or bindings or rope or something to hold people down, to restrain people, to keep someone helpless and still, and House just doesn't have the words to say what they are. It's discomforting to see them lying next to the bed, but right now they're not there, and it's even more disquieting to see them resting in Chase's outstretched hands, the soft rope, the ties, whatever they are just waiting to be taken and used.
House doesn't move his hands or attempt to take them. This makes Chase pout, and Chase pouting with that sweet, sulky look on his face isn't something that belongs in real life. Looks like that fit only the realm of pornography and hookers, and Chase, unfortunately as House realizes, is not a hooker. Not yet, at least. With the way things seem now, he wonders what will be the next step for the younger doctor in his downward spiral.
It's vaguely disturbing to realize that he likes the idea of picking Chase up on some dirty street corner.
The ropes are still more disturbing.
"This isn't normal," House bluntly points out, and the faint hum of the fan is a faint background to his voice's gravelly tones.
Chase nods, fingering the ropes like they're some familiar lover, known and comfortable, and it's just not normal for House. It makes him want to walk away, really fast, maybe run if his bad leg wasn't bad, maybe grab his bike if he hadn't lost the keys. But House hasn't really lost the keys, there's really no reason for him to be staying at Chase's home, and they both know it, just like they've known it the last few times House's motorcycle has died a sudden and unexpected death, always conveniently close to Chase's house.
Sometimes, House wonders why he keeps lying.
"Why should it be normal?" Chase says the word 'normal' like it's a disease, like it might kill him.
House thinks the question's stupid, stupid like Chase sometimes is, but he still considers answering. He thinks, considers, ponders,wonders, then eventually decides to speak. Maybe conversation will convince Chase to opt for something simpler, something less foreign and strange to House, and House won't admit that the ropes are starting to look eerily beautiful where they lie in Chase's slender, skilled hands.
"People usually crave the familiar, you know, things that aren't dangerous, strange, or just plain creepy," he snaps with theatrically forced anger.
This must be what it's like to be an actor, he thinks, and his hands twitch at his sides, curious to touch Chase's hands and the binding ties or whatever the hell they are that he keeps holding out like something precious.
"It's different for me. It should be, don't you think?" Chase retorts.
It's a question that's not as simple as it seems, and House doesn't even think it seems simple. Around him, with the room getting colder as the air conditioner works madly, trying to freeze the warmth out of the air, House feels like school's back in session, returning after decades of freedom.
Cross examination isn't a good seduction technique.
"You mean because of me?" he finally asks bitterly.
There's a certain look that sometimes comes across Chase's face, when House knows he wants to lash out and stop being so goddamn dispassionate, but most of the times Chase hides stuff like that better than a pirate hides his treasure or an addict hides his stash. Now's one of those times when there's just no emotion to see.
House imagines that death by frustration might feel like this.
"Stop thinking everything's about you, House," Chase says quietly, and his face looks like something from a museum with really bad paintings, the ones where the faces look like dolls, immobile and uncaring.
"But everything about you is about me now, isn't it?" House snaps, and the
words feels like an accusation as they escape from between his lips.
Chase is staring with his eyes, which makes sense since that's what people always stare with, but his eyes make it different somehow, leaving House feeling strange and off-balance. The sort of feeling it leaves him with makes him feel curiously angry, like hitting someone might actually be a good thing.
"Your ego's getting bigger," Chase states simply, and it only makes House feel angrier.
This is definitely what dying of frustration feels like.
"Or maybe my powers of observation are just getting sharper," he snaps, glaring.
"Unlikely."
House has to stare at Chase, has to really look at him, and what he sees almost makes him feel bad, almost, not quite, close, but never exactly there. If he was someone else, House would have felt guilty, but he's not someone else, so he just feels strange. Just a little off, not quite normal, and it's not comforting at all.
"Maybe I see too much of myself in you," he replies softly.
It's easy to see that Chase doesn't like that, not at all, and it shows in the way his eyes narrow to small slivers, in the way his lips thin into tightly pressed-together lines. This time, Chase is showing something on his face, and House likes that too much.
"Is that supposed to be some sort of sexual innuendo?" Chase bites out angrily.
"No."
Chase moves the ties to one hand, using the free one to run his fingers through soft, silky hair, and it all falls around with its usual floppy ease. Tension clings to the air around him, nearly palpable, thick like molasses and sticky like that, too.
"It would have been better if it was. House, I'm nothing like you," Chase says the last sentence like it's a curse, as if the very idea is an insult to some fundamental part of his psyche.
House looks at him and knows that Chase will be him in a few years if something doesn't change, if something doesn't come in the way of his intense misery, his passive-aggressive bullshit, and it's hard to decide if he hates the idea or loves it.
"That's what I would say if someone said I was anything like you," House replies, feeling inexplicably weary.
Chase is shaking his head, and it's vaguely interesting to watch the way his hands clench in the ties, the ropes, whatever the things are that he's still holding. House wonders if he'll clench at them like that when they're wrapped around his wrist, holding him in a sort of still vulnerability.
It might be really beautiful to see it, but House isn't admitting that. No way.
"No, you wouldn't ever say that," Chase disagrees.
House wonders if the bitter, tired smile that he feels on his lips looks like what he sees it as in his mind. He wonders if it looks like misery bottled in a form that's supposed to be friendly, cheerful, his lips perverting the happy expression into something of his own, something broken and hateful.
"And why's that?" he asks with the smile still clinging to his lips like something impossible to remove.
"You're not that nice. If I was like you, I would have made sure it hurt you," Chase answers.
It's interesting to see those words coming from Chase's lips.
House has always known these things, known how Chase thinks, how Chase feels, how Chase sometimes fears him, and it's strange that they're talking now, actually talking. It's a liberating feeling.
"Maybe you did hurt me," he says.
Chase's smile is sharp, too sharp, kind of dangerously sharp, and his hands are clenching on the ties that he holds, strangling them between his fingers with a passionate intensity.
"I didn't, but maybe I wish I had," he answers.
"You did, and maybe you're wishing you hadn't."
"Stop lying."
"Stop thinking that I'm lying."
The sudden silence is awkward and strange, coming without any warning, and it leaves the two of them locked in some sort of strange staring contest, eyes caught within the other's eyes. It's going on too long, not stopping or showing any sign of ceasing within the century, and House doesn't know how to change things, how to return the situation to something that makes sense.
Yet, even in this silence, he feels like maybe he understands Chase, though not for the reasons he'd like. He understands because he might be Chase, an older Chase, the role model the younger doctor aspires to become now. It's not pleasant to imagine this, it doesn't make sense, but it's understandable. House knows Chase doesn't want to be hurt, doesn't want to be vulnerable to emotions, and maybe he's seeing House as the perfect example of that.
And House can't change that, won't change that, and there's no way he's even going to try. It's pointless, and he doesn't think he cares.
Chase holds out the ties like a peace offering, and everything about him is screaming out the vulnerability that he can't quash.
"Tie me up, House."
He nods.