Fandom: House MD
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 004. Insides
Genre: Slash (ish)
Summary: Kinda like a prequel to outsides, but basically Chase sitting around being his bitchy self.
Author’s Notes: I am going to stop writing fics like this now. They are fun but they are also slightly weird and OOC.
Maturity is overrated and Chase never rates anything much, so he doesn’t really bother with it. Years ago, back in those days when his father mattered to him and he tried to get him to look at him once in a while, and his mother was calmly committing suicide in a manner that smelt of gin and old vomit but meant she could still make up her face and claim to the world that she was fine and beautiful, he gave it a go. He tried to act like he was older than he was, was so mature that it frightened his teachers and his friends and maybe it ought to have frightened his parents too, but they weren’t paying attention any more and it had stopped being about him years ago.
Now, he’s old enough not to care what people think of him. Leans against the glass and acts like a spoilt teenager or a child and doesn’t give a damn about any of it. Funny, really. The way he hates everyone and no one and grinds his teeth and digs his fingernails into his skin and God, he’s so lost. Helpless. Cameron’s applying eyeliner with more care than necessary because House isn’t around and she has a “date”, and Chase frowns at that. Does she? Is this some strange ploy, and if so, who is she trying to make jealous?
Chase has no idea and probably wouldn’t care if he heard the way that House and Wilson discuss him when he’s not around. Crude language, physically impossible sexual positions (“on his knees under my desk, wrists tied behind his back, the marks of my teeth on his back; oh yes, with all that pretty glass everywhere”), speculating on the size of certain… assets. House reckons he’s hung like a horse. Wilson has more modest estimations. Then again, he’s the one who’s more likely to find out. (Whisper it: whore of the hospital and all that.)
Cameron finishes her mascara, blinking appealingly, and Chase suddenly realises just why it was that he chose to sleep with her- maybe it’s a few months too late, but at least he reached the right conclusion in the end.
“You look pretty,” he says, and she frowns like she doesn’t quite believe him. It’s entirely possible she doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t even mean it. Immature and a terrible liar; fuck it, he’s doomed. (Then again, tell him something he doesn’t know.)
“Thank you,” she says, looking more than a little confused. Chase offers her a smile and pretends not to watch her changing her shoes to heels that look physically painful, tapping a biro against his teeth. No crossword though. A guy’s got to have something in his life other than paper puzzles. Chase doesn’t even like them.
It’s too hot in here and the water he’s gulping like… well, water, is making no difference. Foreman could be anywhere; Chase suspects that he’s gone home. House is still tapping around the hospital though, tormenting the nurses and stealing most of Wilson’s belongings. House is so unprofessional that it’s becoming a cliché, becoming boring, and Chase doesn’t even bother looking for lines that he won’t cross any longer, knowing now that there aren’t any. Yawn.
Cameron gets up, twisting her hair easily into a bun, swiping lipstick across her mouth without looking and yet still managing perfectly.
“Who’s the date with?” Chase enquires, nearly knocking his mug over. Cameron shrugs and smiles and doesn’t tell him, walking out in a click of heels.
Chase has no idea and probably wouldn’t care if he knew the way that Wilson thinks about him when he’s alone, under the spray of water in the shower and thinking impure thoughts, as House would call them, his own hands running over his damp skin. It’s all very well to share frankly sick fantasies with House over a beer or six, but that’s soft-core pornography compared to the way he thinks now. Every touch, every whisper, every gasp, is mapped out in perfect and almost obsessive order, while the universal question: is Chase a screamer? floats thoughtfully about in the air.
After Cameron has gone, Chase gets to his feet with a sigh, and goes to wash out their mugs because someone ought to. He knows that he should go home. He doesn’t. Evenings like this, where all is quiet and House has fucked off somewhere that isn’t here, are all he has left sometimes. Dead parents. Days when he’s only ever either bored or confused. Ink on his fingertips. Sometimes silence is golden. Whistling between his teeth, Chase makes his way into House’s office. The blinds cast shadows across the floor and it’s blissfully quiet in here. Chase still imagines that he can hear Cameron’s heels clicking across the floor but then hallucinations are perhaps the best part of this omnipresent exhaustion.
There’s a light on in Wilson’s office, and Chase presumes that House is in there; if he isn’t then it means that Wilson’s wife has thrown him out again and House will be there shortly with an I told you so and three different kinds of alcohol. They’ll be in there all evening doing that House and Wilson thing that they do, that no one understands and quite frankly Chase doesn’t want to. His world is disturbing enough already without trying to untangle just why House and Wilson like each other and what they do when there’s no one else around.
He plays idly with House’s tennis ball, feet on the desk and head tilted back. Cameron has a life outside work now (is she over House? Is she even allowed to do that? Maybe he should check the weather forecast and see if hell has frozen over yet), Foreman has always had a life outside the hospital anyway, and House and Wilson don’t need and can’t have lives outside of dying patients and differential diagnoses. Chase considers this quietly and thoughtfully. He hasn’t had a life in a long time; his parents stole it from him in a tiresome and selfish fashion years ago, and since then it’s been medical school and cold, clinical hospitals in their droves.
The silence is getting more than a little oppressive. Chase actually laughs aloud, wondering vaguely if his very soul smells like antiseptic now, if the labcoat is fused to his skin. Or if he’s just made up of pure insanity now. Insanity and too much hair and shirts in colours picked to make House’s eyes bleed. Maybe he is immature and incapable and far too vague. He isn’t fired yet and there has to be a reason for that. Or maybe there isn’t. He doesn’t give a shit either way, not really, not any more.
Chase doesn’t know and definitely wouldn’t care even if he did that Wilson has sent House home with a final shout of and will you stop fucking stealing my desk ornaments, I know you have no patience for them and you like hiding them in various places around the hospital and sending me to hunt for them, but I am no longer even slightly amused about this, and is now making his way towards where Chase is sitting half-asleep and half-crazy in his boss’ chair.