Three

"Why did you let me stay?" asked Chase, sitting on the edge of the sofe (House took up the biggest part) and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

"Well, I needed someone to clean the apartment." Said House lazily, twirling his can in his hand.

"Oh."

"I'm just kidding. I like your hair. And FYI, I still need those divorce papers."

"Oh." Why couldn't House just shut up the first time.

"I think it's time for bed. We have to go to work tomorrow." Said House, ignoring chase's glare.

"Yes." He paused. "How many people know about us?" Chase asked, anxious. He didn't want everyone to babble about their nonexistent relationship.

"Well, Wilson and Cuddy know. They were best man and bridesmaid. Both were too drunk to comprehend what the heck they were doing. As usual."

"What about-?"

"Cameron and Foreman?" Chase nodded. "If Cuddy and Wilson haven't babbled, we're okay."

"Good. 'Cause Cameron will murder me."

"Or me."

"Or both."

House couldn't help but grin. Even if he hated Chase, this was too sweet. Yuck.

***

"No! Please! No!"

House woke up to quiet screams coming from the living room. He glanced at his alarm clock. Two bloody in the morning.

He took his cane and limped towards the living room, ready to kill Chase.

He found his husband (eh…) tossing and turning in his sleep on the small couch. He was about to prod him with his cane, when –

"House! No! Not Greg!"

House gaped silently. Chase was dreaming about him? And calling him by first name? The SHORTENED first name? He decided against prodding Chase. Instead, he gently shook Chase.

"Mhmmm?" a pair of sleepy eyes looked at him.

"I… You were yelling in your sleep." Said House, suddenly inarticulate. Damn Chase and that pretty face of his.

"Oh, sorry. It's just the couch. I get weird nightmares if I'm uncomfortable." Shrugged Chase.

"Alraight then. Up ya gau, maite!" said House in a terrible imitation of Chase.

"What?" chase stared, confused.

"I'm not getting myself woken up every half hour. Come to bed." House said edgily, though inside he was squirming.

"What about you?" asked Chase, trying to refrain from biting his lip nervously.

"I'm not giving up my bed!" House scoffed. The damn couch really was uncomfortable.

Chase took his pillow with him, dragged his tired 30-year-old body after House and into the bedroom and sneaked under the soft covers.

"Oh, and no cuddling!"

"You wish." Humphed Chase.

He woke up in House's arms the following morning.