Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip
paperclipbitch

"I see the laws made in Washington DC, I think of the ones I consider my favourites..."

Title: Sugar
Fandom: House MD
Characters: Chase, Wilson
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 058. Dinner
Rating: PG? Less than that? Can't remember.
Genre: Gen
Summary: A parallel of the similarities between Chase and Wilson.
Author’s Notes: Mwa ha ha. I think it was raining and I was sad when I wrote this. And yes, I used ctrl + c while doing it, but it's artistic license or something. For z_oexspoons. I AM OFF TO SCOTLAND ON MONDAY, SEE YOU ALL THE WEEK AFTER WHEN I GET BACK



I won the war but it cost me, I won the war and I feel proud; but God only knows why it’s hard to get to sleep in my house.
The Sundays

James Wilson drives home with rain lashing the windscreen of his car and the radio turned off. He makes his way to his front door with the rain dripping unpleasantly down the collar of his coat, struggling with the lock which sticks a little in the damp, and finally pushing it open to a depressing but clean corridor. Barely registering the blandly-painted walls he makes his way to his own apartment and pushes open the door.

There are letters on his mat- bills, mainly, a couple of letters from his lawyer, a postcard from his brother (but never the brother he wants to hear from)- but he ignores them, sweeps them to one side with his foot, getting mud on the postcard and not really caring. That argument was a long time ago and it’s still a little bitter. Wilson also ignores the seven different messages blinking on his answer phone. He’s not in the mood. Instead, he walks straight into the bathroom, stripping while the shower warms up and leaving his work clothes in a neatly folded pile on top of the washing basket.

He washes his hair with the shampoo Julie left behind, which smells a little like liquorice, and it’s probably too girly, but he doesn’t care much what House says to him any more. He uses too much shower gel and too much shampoo and there’s thick white foam all over the shower cubicle, but he doesn’t care much, tilting his head back and getting conditioner into his eyes, which stings like a bitch. He probably deserves it though. Karmic payback for all those wives.

Letting his hair dry naturally, Wilson makes his way to his bedroom, changes into the sweatpants he sleeps in and pulls an old university t-shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of his neatly-made bed and breathing out slowly. It’s been a long day. Too many patients dying and nothing to really compensate. The weather doesn’t help.

Even though what he really wants to do right now is call out for takeout and sit with his feet up watching crappy old movies or something, Wilson forces himself to cook proper dinner, if only because jumping back on the takeout train is never good for his health and it’s too easy to get hooked into the pizza or Chinese equation. So he quickly and carefully cooks himself the stuffed pepper thing again because it’s simple and requires almost no mental input, pours himself a glass of wine to go with it, and sits in his living room with his feet on the coffee table. There’s nothing on TV and it’s crushingly lonely at times like these, but he channel-surfs anyway, eating without registering the food and listening to his answering machine collect a couple more messages.

Because Wilson is that kind of guy, he washes the plates and stuff up before picking up one bottle of beer from the fridge (one only, because he doesn’t want to drink too much on work nights) and going back to his couch. Tired, bored, miserable, he wonders for a while what it would be like to be House, to not have to pretend to be the conscientious one, to be allowed to hate everyone and be blindingly obvious about it. But he’s learnt that lesson a hundred times over that he isn’t House, and he can’t be. So instead he bites his lips and indulges in a vague fantasy involving Cameron that he just isn’t interested in, and then Chase comes into his head for no reason at all. Smirking slightly, shredding the label of his beer bottle, Wilson wonders what it would be like to be Chase; to have been so let down by everyone that nothing hurts any more.

*

Robert Chase walks home with rain lashing down and soaking his hair, but his apartment isn’t too far from the hospital. He makes his way to his front door with the rain dripping unpleasantly down the collar of his coat, struggling with the lock which sticks a little in the damp, and finally pushing it open to a depressing but clean corridor. Barely registering the blandly-painted walls he makes his way to his own apartment and pushes open the door.

There are letters on his mat- bills, mainly, a couple of letters from friends in Australia, a postcard from his step-mother (but never the mother he wants to hear from)- but he ignores them, sweeps them to one side with his foot, getting mud on the postcard and not really caring. That argument was a long time ago and it’s still a little bitter. Chase also ignores the eight different messages blinking on his answer phone. He’s not in the mood. Instead, he walks straight into the bathroom, stripping while the shower warms up and leaving his work clothes in a messy pile on the floor.

He washes his hair with the shampoo his last girlfriend left behind, which smells a little like liquorice, and it’s probably too girly, but he doesn’t care much what House says to him any more. He uses too much shower gel and too much shampoo and there’s thick white foam all over the shower cubicle, but he doesn’t care much, tilting his head back and getting conditioner into his eyes, which stings like a bitch. He knows that he deserves it though. Karmic payback for all those sins.

Letting his hair dry naturally, Chase makes his way to his bedroom, changes into the sweatpants he sleeps in and pulls an old university t-shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed and breathing out slowly. It’s been a long day. Too many patients dying and nothing to really compensate. The weather doesn’t help.

What he really wants to do right now is call out for takeout and sit with his feet up watching crappy old movies or something, but instead Chase pokes around in his near-empty fridge and then pulls something out of the freezer and shoves it in the microwave to defrost. Jumping back on the takeout train is never good for his health and it’s too easy to get hooked into the pizza or Chinese equation, especially since he doesn’t actually like either of them. So he defrosts leftover pasta or something because it’s simple and requires almost no mental input, pours himself a glass of water to go with it, and sits in his living room with his feet on the coffee table. There’s nothing on TV and it’s crushingly lonely at times like these, but he channel-surfs anyway, eating without registering the food and listening to his answering machine collect a couple more messages.

Because Chase is that kind of guy, he leaves the plate in the sink before debating over the one bottle of beer in his fridge (unsure whether he could-or should- drink it, aware he probably has a problem), leaving it in there, and going back to his couch. Tired, bored, miserable, he wonders for a while what it would be like to be House, to not have to pretend to be the conscientious one, to be allowed to hate everyone and be blindingly obvious about it. But he’s learnt that lesson a hundred times over that he isn’t House, and he can’t be. So instead he bites his lips and indulges in a vague fantasy involving Cameron that he just isn’t interested in, and then Wilson comes into his head for no reason at all. Smirking slightly, stretching out more on the couch, Chase wonders what it would be like to be Wilson; to have been around House so long that nothing hurts any more.
Tags: challenge: fanfic100, character: james wilson, character: robert chase, tv show: house md, type: gen
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