Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Wilson (also: one bit of House/Wilson)
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 060. Drink
Summary: Title says it all. In which drunken things happen.
Author’s Notes: I have absolutely no idea what this is like to read, but it was very fun to write ;)
Their first kiss starts out being supremely awkward. They’re drunk- really, really drunk, both of them- and it’s really early in the morning and neither of them can remember quite how they came to be here. On the floor of Wilson’s office with the blinds shut and a bottle of vodka spilt onto the carpet and sitting too close together and the whole world tips sideways but maybe he’s just completely out of it.
Wilson’s lips just about manage to make it to the corner of Chase’s mouth, because his spatial awareness is just… gone, and there’s a breathless pause when they could stop and blame it on alcohol. Instead, Chase turns his head and his eyes flutter closed and they’re not in a romantic movie or book or song and they’re not made for each other and somehow it’s ok.
It’s a kiss. It’s not the end of the world or anything.
Chase closes his eyes and tries to remember just when he became naked and wound up on his knees with Wilson’s cock in his mouth, but it’s hopeless. He’s just got a big, fuzzy blank, and he remembers nothing at all, useful or otherwise. This is also why he shouldn’t drink. He’s a fucking lightweight, and it takes very little to knock him out. However, it’s a little too late in the proceedings to look up and say sorry, how did we get here- should I know? Or were they giving out free rohypnol in the pharmacy? Should I know that too? So instead, he decides to let this happen, and then find out exactly how he got here and why. Besides, he suspects that he won’t like the answer.
“I don’t like you,” Chase says thoughtfully, petulantly, poking at his shot glass.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Wilson mutters back. “You’re childish and spoilt and a shit doctor.”
Wow, he thinks vaguely, I really have no inhibitions left.
“You can talk, Mr-Three-Failed-Marriages,” Chase snaps back, pushing the shot glass over and spilling strong drink over the polished table surface, “Is there a nurse left at the hospital that you haven’t fucked?”
“That isn’t fair!” Wilson snaps back at him, aware that he should stop before he winds up punching Chase’s face in, but then decides that neither of them will remember this tomorrow. “House should have fired you. I told him to.”
“Yes, well, House isn’t wrapped around your little finger,” Chase snaps. “Although it can’t be said vice-versa.”
Wilson wants to punch him. He can’t remember how they got here or why they’re doing this. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
“That woman’s death was entirely your fault,” he tells Chase, and impassively watches him crumple.
“I am not a member of the diagnostics department,” Wilson had said, “Therefore I should not be at your Christmas drinks.”
“Yes, but you’re at least as pretty as Cameron and Foreman,” House had said, “Although not as pretty as Chase. You need to work on your hair. Therefore, you should come along. And be pretty. With alcohol.”
“That makes no sense,” Wilson had sighed, but had obeyed.
Chase has mistletoe and they’re waiting for a cab in the snow. Chase has too much snow in his hair and Wilson tries to tell him this, only he can’t think straight, and their lips are icy and half-blue from the cold when they finally kiss, because Wilson is so drunk he can’t tell what’s a good idea and what isn’t.
“Merry Christmas,” Wilson mumbles against Chase’s mouth. There’s a moment of insanity, and then Chase pulls back with those unsettlingly pretty lips all swollen and says:
“But aren’t you Jewish?”
Chase is crying into a glass of gin and tonic and Wilson reflects that he really ought to have picked up on the connotations and not let him order the drink that his mother drank herself to death with, but then he’s just as fallible as the next man. Wilson can’t be expected to babysit everyone all the time. It’s tiring enough keeping an eye on Cameron and running her away from the oncology wards (House claims she’ll try to marry them all, and then the hospital will be caught up in a bigamy scandal, and Cuddy will implode and drag them all down to hell) (Sometimes Wilson thinks that maybe he should just stop listening to House). He can’t be expected to know just what it is that makes Chase tick or stop ticking and start weeping instead.
“My father’s dead,” Chase says.
He was dead yesterday too, Wilson thinks tiredly, and the day before that, and wishes and wishes that he didn’t have this misplaced guilt making him stay.
Chase looks very adorable asleep, blonde hair fluttering slightly every time he breathes out. He’s otherwise completely crumpled, curled up on House’s couch looking forgotten and unironed. Wilson is tired and House is far too close for comfort as they neck against the piano (anywhere else would require things like co-ordination or movement) fingers bunched in the back of Wilson’s shirt, giving him horrendous stubble burn into the bargain (and he’ll get all those knowing looks come the morning).
“Happy divorce number three,” House says quietly, and Wilson thinks is that a Vicodin bottle in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me? and suppresses the urge to laugh because he feels utterly insane and God, did Julie look bitter in court today. Which is stupid really, given the amount of money she ripped out of him.
But he can’t stop looking over House’s shoulder at Chase, childlike and angelic, just begging to be debauched.
Chase reflects that someone is probably going to see them, but that is entirely Wilson’s problem and not his at all, and he can taste tequila on Wilson’s tongue and feel, from the way he’s shaking slightly and incapable of undoing buttons and things, that the other man is completely out of it.
“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” he says. He’s had one glass of tequila and is feeling a little light-headed. Wilson drank the bottle and is now on the point of complete and utter collapse.
“Mmmm,” Wilson agrees, because he isn’t listening. Chase sighs and allows himself to be pressed harder against the glass, because there really is no way to escape. Chase isn’t even sure that he wants to.
Poker night. Chase is going to go home in a minute, and Wilson is going to stay and play a few hands with House, once the diagnostician has finished doing whatever he’s doing in order to let go of Esther and her no-longer-mysterious disease. They’re still serving drinks at the moment, which is sort of a relief, because they all need it. Cuddy is gulping spritzers like water; fuck having to work in the morning.
“Vodka martini,” Wilson says, “Shaken, not stirred.”
Chase, sipping at a glass of something-or-other, bursts out laughing.
“While I’ll admit the tux does give you a certain air of…” he waves a hand vaguely, “Was the Bond thing really necessary?”
Wilson smirks back.
“Definitely,” he replies. Chase rolls his eyes, and tries to stop sniggering.
“You could have told me,” Chase says, when they’re drinking from House’s private stash of alcohol, because even though they don’t like each other, not even the littlest, slightest bit, Cameron and Foreman have gone home and House is conspicuously absent and company is infinitely better than being alone. Rowan Chase has been dead for eight months and maybe Robert will never be over it. Wilson wonders if he really, truly cares. Normally, he deals quite well with the families of cancer patients. But Chase has this edge and he really gets Wilson’s back up.
“Yes,” he agrees callously, reaching over to pluck the bottle from Chase’s hand, “I could have done.”
Chase’s hangover is killing him.
“I’m dying,” he informs the ceiling.
“Lightweight,” Wilson mutters from beside him. He looks fairly hungover too, normally neat hair sticking up at all angles. Chase wound up with the wet spot and he can’t think straight because his head hurts so bad. He has no idea what happened last night, but he assumes that it’s what happens every time Wilson suggests that they have a drink and he wakes up with bruised hips and mild amnesia. Chase realises that although what he has with Wilson could never be construed as a relationship, whatever it is, he has next to no memory of any of it. He reflects vaguely that it’s probably best that way.
“What happened last night?” he asks.
Wilson laughs, a short, brittle sound that most people wouldn’t imagine could come out of his mouth, not good, kind, butter-wouldn’t-melt Dr Wilson.
“Why do you think I know?”