Fandom: House MD
Pairings: Chase/Wilson, Chase/Cameron, Chase/Stacy, Cameron/Foreman, House/Cameron, UST between practically everyone else.
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 005. Outsides.
Rating: PG-15 (nothing too graphic)
Copyright: I mangle a lot of songs. Name all the songs and you can request a fic ;)
Summary: Pretty much AU. PPTH really is messed-up.
Author’s Notes: Ok. This is strange and excessive and OOC, and contains far too much swearing and unlikely/impossible situations. It was also very enjoyable to write. And I wrote a Chase/Wilson fic without having a single moment between the two of them. Basically, I enjoyed this. I don’t know if you will. Not sure I care either. *shrugs*
One. I don’t think I’ll ever get around to being Mr Brightside.
With a patient’s blood on his gloves and a look of dismissal from House that borders on genuine cruelty, Chase leaves the hospital room. He knows, in the way that he knows lots of things, that he will be punished for this, that walking out on the diagnosis of a crashing teenager and leaving to have his own sulk somewhere will result in House tormenting him even more than usual, but he can’t stop and he just keeps walking, ignoring Cameron’s shout after him.
The bloody latex gloves find their way into a biowaste bin, and Chase himself makes his way up to the roof, where everything is still and quiet and maybe, if he’s lucky, no one will find him for a good ten minutes. He breathes, deeply and endlessly, like he’s about to be sick, like suddenly he’s squeamish after all these years of not being, hands braced on his knees, squeezing too tight and maybe he’ll give himself bruises.
When he can finally catch a breath and stand upright, he notices that Stacy is looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face.
“I’ll just go and get-” she begins, and he watches her mind go through the obvious candidates (House- no, not a good idea; Cameron- no, she’s probably working; Cuddy- will probably get the boy fired), but he’s not expecting it when Stacy’s lips curve triumphantly and she finishes, “Wilson.”
Two. If everyday is a winding road then shouldn’t I have motion sickness by now?
Round and round and round they go with three different diseases that it has to be and sadly none of them fit quite right, like shoes that will give blisters. Of doom. Chase bites down a laugh because that’s almost funny and he’s clearly in a very strange headspace right now, and he doesn’t need to make it worse. Cameron glares at him with her kicked puppy look, but that’s getting old now and one of these days Chase wonders if he might actually kick her after all. Just to watch her bleed.
They bicker over lupus for a while and Cameron suggests fetching Wilson, to which House snaps back for what? So he can stand around looking pretty? Chase smirks, and thinks: you already have me to do that.
Three. I don’t know about you, but I certainly think teenage wasteland is something to cry about.
The kid dies and in the autopsy it’s established that he was being poisoned by arsenic in the tiniest of doses. His father is arrested and all is finished. The case is shut. And it’s now that House starts shouting. He resents having to admit that he couldn’t work something out in time and this time he’s blaming Chase. Sometimes he blames Foreman or Cuddy, or even Wilson. He never blames Cameron. It’s a thing he has.
House shouts and shouts and shouts, hard-hitting words making Chase lose his breath like each one is a stab wound or a gunshot, House’s hands wrapped around his throat, only not.
Telling House to go fuck himself is not on the agenda, but it slips out anyway, raw and sudden. House’s lips press together in a tight line, just for a moment, so fast that Chase only sees it because he’s hoping so hard for it to be there. The blinds are shut and it’s too hot in here.
“Could tell you the same thing,” House says softly. Chase thinks I have Wilson to do that for me, but this time he’s intelligent enough not to say it out loud. House shakes his head dismissively, and Chase takes this as his cue to escape. He does try to leave with some dignity, but he thinks that he fails, because he’s running for his life almost before he reaches the door.
Four. Non, je n’aimerais pas coucher avec toi ce soir.
“Everyone hates you,” Cameron says, strung out on Vicodin, bare arms around his neck and her hideous fake-blonde hair in his eyes. It’s dark and late and Chase honestly can’t remember why he’s doing this except that it might not technically matter. Drug-fuelled sex is kind of a perk, and Cameron is so very pretty when she’s out of her head.
“No one likes you either,” he promises, teeth closing on her neck, and she moans softly into his ear. House’s office chair was made for this. Seriously.
“They like me more,” she tells him, fingers tangling in the back of his hair. “House likes me lots more, and Foreman, and Cuddy, and-”
“Wilson likes me more,” Chase assures her, gripping her hips for a good thrust, and her head tips back. “Likes me a lot more than you.”
“ But he-”
“Pities you,” Chase assures her, sucking her neck until she howls in a thoroughly satisfying manner. “Fucks me.”
Cameron’s eyes are wide (and blue) but it doesn’t matter, because Chase knows that she won’t remember this tomorrow. Maybe he won’t either.
Five. Did you never think that maybe Roxanne liked putting on her red light?
Chase knows that he is acting like a spoilt child, reaching for affection with two sticky, grasping hands- but then his father taught him well and it’s all he really knows how to do. To stalk, not to stalk, to stand in doorways screaming just what the fuck do you want from me? and what the fuck do you expect from me? It’s not fair on anyone, least of all himself, but this is the way he runs (and consequently ruins) his life.
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, it won’t work,” Foreman informs him gravely, along with his cup of morning coffee, and Chase wonders if he’s spat in it, only Foreman isn’t- can’t be- as childish as that. And Chase doesn’t need the advice because he knows that confronting Wilson will have no form of happy ending. Not that Chase actually wants a happy ending; one where he isn’t dead or cursed forever will suffice.
So he leaves the unwanted warning on the table, but drinks up the coffee anyway.
Six. This unchained melody is feeling lost and would like its chains back now please.
Clinic duty, breathless nudity. Chase does his best to bind up a broken wrist and to ignore the sounds of Cameron seducing Foreman next door. But if he’s learned nothing else working here, it’s that Cameron is a screamer and that is endlessly awkward, what with Chase’s patient wondering incredulously if what she thinks is happening is really happening, and Chase is counting the seconds to Cameron’s climax in a surprisingly detached fashion. God, he thinks, this hospital. And he almost pities Cuddy for the integrity Princeton/Plainsboro is losing in spades (sleeping with your co-workers is so the new black).
His patient scampers out so fast she leaves her painkiller prescription behind, and Chase sighs. Leaving exam room two, and ignoring Nurse Brenda’s evil look, he walks into exam room one. They haven’t locked the door (figures) and he stands for a moment, watching Foreman’s dark skin slide over Cameron’s pale skin. It’s almost artistic, in a porn movie type way.
Foreman looks shocked and uncomfortable. Cameron doesn’t. Before she can say something like would you like to join in? (and he’s so very bad at saying ‘no’), Chase interrupts.
“Keep it down, ok?” he says, suddenly feeling old and sulky, “Some of us are trying to get some work done.”
“That’s a first,” Foreman mutters, as Chase slams the door behind him.
Seven. But Californication is not actually a word.
House and Wilson are eating Chinese with chopsticks in the former’s office, laughing like children in on some kind of joke. Chase keeps half an eye on them through the glass, half-expecting to turn around and see them kissing or something. And maybe he doesn’t understand friendship at all, but why should he; it’s not something he’s ever had a surplus of (and just for the record; no, he doesn’t want your pity).
Cameron is wearing her glasses and looking earnest behind a pile of mail, forging House’s signature with ease as she sends all sorts of letters across the country informing people that Doctor House can’t see them, and he’s terribly sorry.
“Do you ever think,” Chase asks suddenly, “That it might be more amusing to tell all these people that House would be delighted to treat them, and could they come to New Jersey next week?”
“That would be suicide,” Foreman replies, but his eyes are lighting up. Cameron bites her lip, but she’s starting to look interested.
“House would kill us,” she mumbles, but Chase is watching and she decisively stops saying ‘no’.
Eight. Fuck off and take your shake, rattle & roll with you.
“First, there was Vogler,” House begins, “And then you started feeding my Vicodin to Cameron and fucking her- don’t think I haven’t noticed- and I know that you’re behind-”
“Wilson?” Chase suggests brightly, because he likes the way House almost flinches at the words.
“Oh gee, like I hadn’t worked that one out,” House mutters, rolling those baby blues, “And you’re breaking my flow. Shush. I also know that you’re behind the fact our department is overrun with patients.”
“Told me everything,” House cuts him off. “So you can stop looking quite so smug.”
Chase screws his nose up in annoyance, but Cameron has this mushy spot where House is concerned, so it isn’t totally a surprise.
“Want to fire me?” he suggests, “Beat me with your cane?”
“I could tell Wilson about you and Cameron,” House suggests.
“He already knows,” Chase replies (He has to. Everyone else does).
“No, he doesn’t.”
Chase bites his lip.
“Professional suicide is much less fun when it becomes personal, isn’t it?” House remarks with a nasty smirk.
Nine. Maybe this is my beautiful house; maybe this is my beautiful wife.
Chase sits on the roof with Stacy, breathing in second hand smoke and watching the sky. It’s easier to not be in diagnostics because the world is full of mad people right now and House can’t take a joke. Which is odd, considering how much stock he sets by his own sense of humour.
Stacy is like House but with curves; she’s difficult to be around, but she’s still better than no company at all, and in some ways they’re both outcasts from the rest of the hospital. And it’s quiet, if cold, up here. Well away from the boiling madness on the lower floors.
“So,” Stacy says thoughtfully, “Just who aren’t you sleeping with yet?”
Chase almost says I’m not sleeping with you, and then worries that she might want to rectify this, and so doesn’t say anything.
Ten. Are you sure that everybody hurts? Have you, I don’t know, conducted a survey?
Foreman and Cameron are at it in exam room three, and Chase sits on the exam bed in exam room two with a book and listens to Cameron hissing and Foreman fucking her into the wall. The words dance dizzily before his eyes and his hips ache because Wilson’s fingermarks are still bruised into them.
“For fuck’s sake, you two,” he mutters, but doesn’t go and interrupt them, because whenever he does, Cameron gives him these looks and he keeps thinking one day that she might actually invite him over and he’ll say yes, and besides, Foreman looks all grumpy and things get even more awkward in the diagnostics department than they already are.
Later that evening, Cameron has her legs wrapped around his bruised hips, long, perfect legs, eyes all wide and stoned and perhaps he should stop getting her high on narcotics and perhaps he shouldn’t, and who really gives a shit either way, and she screams his name and he wonders, irrationally, and suddenly, how she manages never to get confused in the throes of passion. He almost asks her, except that they’re not supposed to acknowledge that there is anyone else.
The bruises sting more after he’s left her behind.
Eleven. You say that you’re “bringing sexy back”, but I get the feeling that your heart’s not really in it.
“I feel insane,” Chase says, picking at his salad thoughtfully and not really putting any of it near his mouth.
“Me too,” Cameron mumbles. She looks hungover, hair looking wild, face smushed into her hand. She’s drinking coffee incessantly.
Foreman says nothing but he gives them both significant looks, as if he’s any better than they are. (By the way; he isn’t.)
“Isn’t there free employee counselling?” Chase asks.
“And what exactly are you going to tell them?” Foreman asks, suddenly sounding amused, “That you’re happy to openly sleep with Wilson, but you’re also sleeping with Cameron, and everyone but him seems to know this, and that you and Stacy seem to be spending inhuman amounts of time on the roof, and don’t think we haven’t noticed the looks you keep giving House.”
“Oh,” Chase says in a small voice, frowning. “I don’t think I’ve thought that far ahead.”
Cameron snickers into her hand. Foreman looks like he’s won something.
“Get a fucking life, both of you,” Chase mutters, leaving them and his uneaten salad behind him.
Twelve. I can’t come as I am, as I was and as you want me to be; it’s a physical impossibility.
Chase’s lips feel dry and blistered, and he lies back in the bathtub, watching the ceiling and its completely uninteresting tiled pattern. Warm steam rises around him, and he closes his eyes. His whole body aches like crazy.
The phone starts ringing and he ignores it, sinking beneath the surface of the water and not hearing anything. There’s soft clanking from the pipes and soft, sloshing sounds from the water. He stays under until his lungs start burning, and then sits up, gasping for air. The phone is still ringing, and he could go and answer it, and he doesn’t.
“Chase-” One word on his answering machine, in a voice he isn’t expecting (because he doesn’t even know Wilson had his number), and his stomach twists. But he doesn’t get up to call back.
Thirteen. It’s no good yelling “oye como va” at me; I don’t speak Spanish.
Stacy tastes like nicotine as she kisses him goodbye, and she smears lipstick against his mouth in a way that doesn’t actually disturb him.
“You knew this wasn’t going to end well,” Chase points out. Stacy shrugs.
“Take what you can get when you can get it,” she replies, stroking a thumb up his cheekbone, and Chase smiles, because it’s good advice; perhaps he should pass it on to Wilson sometime. And maybe stop utilising it on Cameron.
Fourteen. FYI, five is, in fact, the loneliest number.
Chase sits at the table with a pencil in his mouth and a crossword spread on the table in front of him, simply because it’s expected of him. There’s a mug of coffee set at a careful angle to the newspaper, and in spite of the migraine thumping around his skull, he feels pretty good. Almost normal.
House walks in without saying “good morning”. Chase greets him cheerfully around the pen anyway, because these little pieces of futility are actually quite enjoyable.
“That oral fixation is not healthy,” is what he receives by way of a reply. “I mean, scarily not healthy.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” Chase asks. He receives an answer in the form of House stomping across the room towards him, pulling the pencil from his lips, snapping it in half, and dumping the pieces in Chase’s coffee mug.
“Feeling vicious this morning, House?” asks Cuddy, leaning around the door.
“Morning girls,” House replies, looking solely at her breasts. “Nice of you to come and greet me like this.”
“Ha,” Cuddy mutters. “You owe me four hours of clinic duty today, House.”
“Chase will do them,” House suggests, going back to making his cup of coffee.
“No, he won’t.”
“Oh, he will.” House smirks, “If what Wilson tells me is correct, Chase is very bad at saying no.”
Fifteen. Why does she have a ticket to ride and I don’t?
“This can’t happen again,” Chase suggests, when he’s got Cameron wrapped around him, with her back against the glass wall that separates House’s office from the rest of the department. Cameron pouts in an adorable way, but Chase has made his choice.
“I’ve still got Foreman,” she says happily, smiling, and Chase wonders why she isn’t like this all the time; she’s so much nicer when she’s not being all introverted and kicked-puppy-ish. “And House.”
“So,” Chase says, almost conversationally but for the breathlessness in his tone, “You and House are-”
“Oh, yes,” Cameron smiles at him. “Tuesdays and Sundays.”
“Why do you do this?” he asks, thrusting in at an angle that makes Cameron moan adorably. She fixes him with a look.
“Why do you?”
She has him there and they both know it; Chase goes back to licking beads of sweat from her shoulder, because that involves considerably less thought.
Sixteen. Since u been gone I lost the ability to use correct grammar, so maybe I don’t feel better after all.
Chase spends a while tidying up House’s office because he doesn’t quite want to go home. It’s quiet, now that everyone else (including House himself) has gone, and he likes having this time to himself. It’s easier to just tidy up than to actually think about things, because he’s complicated his life far beyond anything that could be considered necessary; drunk on power or perhaps he’ll always just be a teenager. Or both. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.
He turns. Wilson is leaning against the doorframe, suit still looking neatly pressed and smiling in that way that turns all men, women, children and household pets to mush. It’s been a long day, a long week, a long month, a long year. Chase considers this to be his reward. Perhaps.