Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Chase (ish)
Challenge/Prompt: 100moods 095. Thoughtful, 40_mixed (their prompts are very long)
Summary: I like to think it becomes clear what’s going on as it progresses. So no summary. But if you get confused, drop me a comment.
Author’s Notes: This is either quite good, or crap. Haven’t decided yet ;)
You don’t get me and I don’t expect you to. You claim to understand everyone, to be able to read people, but I’ve fed you my stereotype until I hope you choke on it. You look at me and you see a rich, young, (spoilt?) pretty guy, fucked-up by his parents (and how did you find out about my mother anyway?), chewing on a pen, wearing a tasteless shirt, making insensitive comments. Maybe that is me. Maybe it isn’t.
I think that I’d like to be a carbon copy of you. To have the freedom that you have- but then that’s the bullshit you feed us all, isn’t it? You’re just as trapped as anyone. And you’re lonely as hell.
(Vicodin spilled across the desk. You muttered about child-proof caps again as you scooped them back into their pot. I looked at a white pill lost under the table and contemplated taking it, until my head buzzed. To tilt my head and see the world through your narcotic-laced eyes. Do you just see the world as puzzle pieces, spend your time looking for corners and edges to snap together, to fix everything (or break it apart a little more- you’re good at that)? I never was that good at geometry, I must admit, so I suppose I’ll have to settle for seeing everything like a mere mortal, monochrome to your Technicolor.)
You don’t like me. I don’t want you to. I’ve seen what you do to Wilson and how you destroy him and I’ve seen the way that Cuddy looks after another argument with you and I’ve seen the hollow shell that you reduced Stacy to. They (whoever they are) say “You always hurt the ones you love” (so do you actually like Cameron? Is that why you do what you do to her?) and you- lord, House, you don’t so much hurt as murder them and yet keep them breathing, because that’s what really makes it sting. I don’t like you either. And that’s ok.
(You took LSD that one time and you saw colours and music and Cameron was indignant and Foreman was mildly amused but I just wondered if, on some level, all the time you saw the world like that.)
(You’re not God. I almost want you to be.)
Unlike Cameron, I haven’t figured out how I feel about you. Maybe I won’t- I’m not like her with her crush and her date and her white corsage (yes, I’ve heard about that- I don’t know how it leaked out either, but there’s nowhere like a hospital for gossip) - I don’t want to date you. I probably wouldn’t say no to fucking you, but then that’s me all over and it’s not like I’m going to step up and proposition you. That’s not my style. (Maybe I’ll catch you when we’re working late and then no words need to be said. It’s something I’ve thought about occasionally- you know, once or twice, naked in the shower, hands slick on my skin, eyes shut, words pouring out of my mouth under the hum of the pipes. Don’t be flattered. I fantasize about Cameron, Wilson, Cuddy. Even thought about Foreman a couple of times. You’re nothing special but you do have those eyes.)
(When my dad died I wanted to tell you so much, wanted the words that could articulate how much I wanted help. You’re not my father and I didn’t want you to be. But I did want a word or two and because I wouldn’t ask- and even if I had- you wouldn’t give them to me. I’m not-and I wasn’t- surprised.)
You are an asshole. Arsehole. Whatever. I realised that within my first week of coming to work for you. Hell, I realised that during my interview. You and Wilson were eating Chinese takeout from white boxes (Wilson had the grace to look slightly ashamed, although whether he was embarrassed because he was openly trying to put me off, or because he’d caved when you asked him to do it, I’m still not sure), and you made so many comments about my appearance and nationality that I was grateful I’d stopped blushing years ago. I’m fucking amazed you gave me the job after all that.
(You told Cameron you gave me the job because my father made a phonecall. I don’t know why the hell you said that. You and I both know that isn’t true. Although I suppose it’s yet another reason why I hate you- only I don’t.)
Ok, I suppose the part you’re getting fixated with is the part where I said I fantasized about you while I’m in the shower. It’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t let go of. Um… I don’t know. It’s late and it’s almost always in your office (yes, with all those glass walls- I never know what’s good for me) or in my apartment (because even in a jack-off fantasy I can’t see you taking me back to yours). We don’t speak. You’re not gentle and you give me stubble burns on my neck that I won’t be able to hide. You pin me to the wall or couch or the floor and I let you control me. You taste like coffee and Vicodin. You don’t let me I’m pretty or that we’ll do it again. I ride you til my thighs ache. You leave toothmarks on my collarbones and insult my hair.
Just the average day at the office.
(And no, I won’t tell you any of the others. They’re private and this is getting sick.)
I’m not worried about you, just like you wouldn’t worry about me (you worried about Foreman though. I’d be jealous but you always liked him more than me, even before the possibility of him existed- I never was that easy to get on with. Hey, we have something in common). But I did feel sick when you were crumpled on the floor with that bullet in your stomach and he was raising the gun for another shot. I’m only human and I don’t hate you nearly as much as I should do. As much as you want me to.
And we did what you asked. We gave you ketamine and did the surgery to piece you back together and I did my bit and brought Wilson a cup of coffee in the middle of the night when he couldn’t stop shaking. We don’t know if you can hear us. Everyone else is all “oh, I hope he can”, like you’re suddenly going to wake up and answer them and tell them where the number five goes on the third column of their sudoku (I’ve seen Foreman in here with his book). But for the purposes of what I’m saying, I kind of hope you can’t. I’ve given you enough to torment me with for decades. I may have to quit working here.
It’s been three days.