Fandom: House MD
Pairings: *deep breath* Chase/Wilson, House/Cameron, Stacy/House, Wilson/Cameron, House/Chase, Cameron/Foreman, House/Cuddy UST.
Challenge/prompt: fanfic100, 090. Home
Copyright: Song is “Home” by Sheryl Crowe
Summary: The interpersonal relationships (both sexual and otherwise) of our lot at PPTH. Kinda AU, although follows canon events of “Deception” and “Need to Know.” Very angsty and soap opera like, for those of you who like that kinda thing.
Author’s Notes: For all the members of wirdnsscrusade for being such fucking brilliant friends, and for reading through for me and telling me that it wasn’t as OOC as I thought. And karaokegal, because I know how you feel about angsty stuff.
I woke up this morning
James Wilson and Robert Chase
“Promise me,” Chase says, out of the blue, and Wilson opens his eyes slowly. He’s always had a slight difficulty in waking up, always wanting to sleep in, and his brain and body haven’t quite caught up yet. The room is full of sunlight and Chase’s hair is wet from the shower, dripping down his chest, and he’s dressed in slacks and a shirt in a fascinating shade of green is draped across a chair on the other side of the room. Wilson rolls onto his back, stretches a little, can hear the shower running in the background, ready for him (Chase always does this as an incentive to help him get up in the morning).
“Promise you what?” asks Wilson vaguely, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. Chase bites his lower lip, pulls a towel over his hair one more time, and sighs.
“Promise me we won’t end up like House and Cameron,” he says quietly. “Promise me we’ll never be like them.”
Wilson can’t, because it’s a trap that they could so easily fall into. So he doesn’t promise and Chase doesn’t ask again because they both know better than to hope for the impossible.
And now I understand
Eric Foreman and Allison Cameron
Foreman would have left months ago if he’d thought he could get away with it. As it is, he lingers here still for Friday mornings with Cameron, when they go out for breakfast and bitch about House and then gossip over what Chase and Wilson are doing (rumour has it they’re living together, but surely that isn’t true) and lean over, eating each other’s breakfast in a way that’s far too familiar, and these mornings are the only times he smiles now.
Life is hard, too hard, but he puts up with it anyway, takes the abuse even though he knows he shouldn’t, goes home and smashes things in frustration, insists to the outside world that he’s fine, that he’s arrogant, that it’s all alright, that he knows how to cope with House.
Except that no one fucking knows, do they?
And he doesn’t tell Allison she’s the only thing worth staying for, because really, he can see her going oh Eric, I’m sorry, I can’t, so he grits his teeth and says nothing.
What it means to give your life to just one man
Stacy’s office is full of medical files and law files and about sixty percent of them have Greg’s name on them. She blows cigarette smoke into the vents, doesn’t go home to see Mark, drinks coffee until it practically sweats out of her pores, dims the lights and lets exhaustion and desperation take her over for a few minutes, tears gathering behind her eyelids. Her cell phone vibrates noisily on the desk and she watches it jump about with the movement, try to attract her attention so she’ll pick it up and answer (come to think of it, the cell phone is a little like Greg; but no, that’s just cruel). But she doesn’t. She leaves it alone until it stops and lies dormant for a while longer. The phone in her office rings a minute later and she doesn’t answer it, just sits and watches it, and knows then that she’s so in love she’ll never be able to think straight, she’ll never be able to cope with it, and a tear drips down her face.
Afraid of feeling nothing
Eric Foreman and Lisa Cuddy
“Why did you pick me?” Foreman asks suddenly. He’s sitting in Cuddy’s office with the snow pouring down outside and he’s tired. Tired of House and his endless attempts to wind him up, to make him fall to his knees and beg for it all to stop. And he won’t. He just- just won’t, all right?
“Hmm… well, I couldn’t pick Chase, since it’s all his fault that this happened, and can you imagine what would have happened if I’d picked Cameron?” Cuddy smirks slightly, still working, calmly signing a million forms. Foreman sighs.
“So what, lesser of two evils?” he asks. Cuddy looks up from the paper for a minute.
“Not entirely,” she replies. “You’ll be good at this job in about five years or so.”
“Really?” Foreman doesn’t allow himself to hope for anything, as much as he wants to, and the needy little question pours out before he can stop it. Cuddy turns her attention back to her desk and doesn’t reply. Foreman smirks as he gets another page from Cameron begging him to come and stop House trying to set fire to the herbal tea bags she bought, and he leaves hastily, trying not to sigh with too much frustration.
“Yes,” Cuddy replies to the empty office. “I think you will.”
No bees or butterflies
Greg House and Lisa Cuddy
House chews his lips together and carefully marker-pens a few more ideas onto the whiteboard. He’s sent Foreman and Chase and Cameron home; they protested, but they’re tired, and it’s getting late, and they can’t do any more today. But he’s still here, trying to cure his patient. Trying and failing.
He breaks open the Jack Daniel’s.
At nearly midnight, when he thinks he should go to bed because he’s tired and drunk and his leg hurts, Cuddy lets herself into his office. She looks tired too, but has the added edge of not being drunk or stoned.
“He’s got intestinal intussusceptions,” she says, taking the pen from his submissive fingers and writing on the board.
“How do you know?” asks House, exhausted and numb.
“I ran some tests,” she replies, rubbing a hand across her face. “Good night.”
“Why?” he asks, but she’s already leaving.
My head is full of voices
Allison Cameron and Stacy Warner
Stacy’s been gone from the hospital for three months, and Cameron’s phone rings fairly late at night. She leans over and picks it up, pressing the handset into the side of her head, and mumbles her name.
“Will you love him?” It’s Stacy, and how she even knows Cameron’s number is a mystery to her. Then again, the woman is a lawyer, so she could probably get hold of anything.
“What?” Cameron mumbles.
“Will you love him?” Stacy repeats, and she sounds helpless and tearful. “Will you love him like I could have done?”
“You hurt him,” replies Cameron with the backbone everyone’s convinced she doesn’t possess. “I don’t call that loving him.”
Stacy is silent for a long time, and Cameron wants to put the phone down on her but she doesn’t.
“I guess I have my answer then,” she says eventually. “Just be careful, Allison, because-”
Cameron cuts her off mid-sentence, slams the phone back into the cradle, because she’s heard enough warnings and not one of them will stick.
And my house is full of lies
Eric Foreman and James Wilson
“So, what do you think House is doing with her?” asks Foreman thoughtfully.
“You’re the one in the office with the two of them every day,” Wilson points out, sipping at his decaf coffee and rubbing the bridge of his nose to stave off a migraine. “You tell me.”
“Ok.” Foreman sighs, turning to the other man. “I think he’s torturing her.”
“You do?” Wilson starts to look faintly interested. “Why?”
“Because his leg hurts, because he’s in pain, because Stacy fucked off with her husband, because it’s Tuesday and The O.C is on hiatus,” Foreman snaps. “Pick one.”
Wilson narrows his eyes.
“You really have no respect for him, do you?” he asks. He sounds calm but Foreman can tell he isn’t.
“I have no respect for a man who uses a woman’s affection for him just to prevent himself from getting bored,” Foreman snarls back.
“Cameron’s a grown woman,” Wilson points out, even though he feels somewhat dubious. “She knows what she’s doing.” Foreman says nothing, bites his lower lip, and wonders how many women Wilson has used just because it seemed like it would be more fun than standing around waiting for the phone to ring.
This is home
Allison Cameron and Robert Chase
Chase holds her when she cries and doesn’t say ‘I told you so’ for twenty minutes, and Cameron gives him snaps for that because no one else managed that long. She’s let herself be hurt by House now, let him push her into something she shouldn’t have let him push her into (mouths connecting in vicious, bruising kisses, hands tracing warm and cold skin, and the scars- my God, the scars) and now he’s turned it right around on her. And she ignored the warnings because, for some unknown, ungodly reason, she thought maybe she could get away with it. She didn’t. Couldn’t. Never does.
But Chase can’t understand, because he’s got Wilson, a relationship that seems to be going from strength to strength, instead of crashing and smouldering into non-existence like hers. For a moment Cameron wonders whether, if she’d got to Wilson first, if she’d be the one holding Chase while he sobbed, whispering the old mantra (“You know what he’s like; he’s a fucking bastard, and hey, we all saw this coming- you can’t say you weren’t amply warned”). She only realises she’s said it aloud when she Chase pushes her away, disgust on his face.
“He’s mine,” he says loudly, carefully. “He’s mine, so stay the hell away.”
I found you standing there when I was seventeen
James Wilson and Greg House
James has known Greg longer than he cares to remember, maybe because it makes him uncomfortable to think that he’s donated so many years to a man who gives fuck all back. From time to time he tries to change him, tries to shout at him, make him understand who he is, but it doesn’t work, because House won’t-can’t- listen. And maybe it’s the pills and maybe it’s because he’s stubborn and maybe it’s because as far as he’s concerned watching Jimmy fight back is funny. Like stamping on an ant.
And God, why does he stick with this friendship?
Force of habit?
House is laughing at something and Wilson makes the effort to smile, if only because he loves this man like he never loved any of his wives, the kind of love that is unconditional and never ending, but it isn’t the kind of love that keeps you warm at night, and he supposes that he has Chase for that except that the Australian is so damn cold all the time.
Now I’m thirty-two and I can’t remember what I’d seen in you
Cameron is really unsure whether she’s ever been in love. She tends to need, and be needed, and that’s a love of a sort, only it isn’t. She doesn’t need House and she’s starting to strongly doubt whether he needs her, and so quite why she’s in this sort of relationship she isn’t sure. She pulls herself through it as best she can, cries way, way too much, buries her face in her pillow at night and takes comfort from the cool, soft cotton that covers her face. Her world is sliding sideways away from her and the more she looks at it and tries to work out a solution, the more it seems to crumble. She’s beginning to realise that there’s nothing she can do, and that’s sort of ok, mostly not ok, what with the whole fucking hospital thinking she’s insane and even the psychiatrists on the third floor are circling around. Cameron is completely and utterly sick of trying to convince everyone that she isn’t insane for falling for House, especially since she’s fairly certain that she is.
And I made a promise
Cameron is never going to give up on him, and that thought frightens House a little, besides also amusing him. He’s too broken to care about anyone (“What I am is what you need; I’m damaged”), so he supposes that maybe he should have picked someone who wouldn’t actually care about him. That’s why he tends to use hookers. Hookers who can pity him all they like as long as they don’t say anything. Cameron is anything but a hooker, and she cares so much it’s physically painful to watch. He should end it with her properly, since she won’t stop crying and Chase keeps sending him angry looks (well, as angry as you can look with a face that pretty, which is admittedly not very angry at all), but there’s something very satisfying about twisting her around his little finger and she hits a spot that Vicodin doesn’t, and, ok, so no one will really speak to him because he’s being such a bastard about this. Hell, they should have learnt that he’s an asshole and unrepentant about it within three minutes of meeting him. Even Wilson is avoiding his gaze and chewing his fingernails, and teasing Jimmy about a certain blonde Aussie has got boring boring boring. Really, no one understands, and that sounds so petty and fifteen and like he should paint his room black and cry while listening to Metallica or something (ok, so Metallica didn’t exist when he was fifteen, but House is never going to let that get in the way of an analogy), but it’s true. No one fucking understands, so they should just stay the hell away.
Said it every day
Robert Chase and Greg House
House isn’t God but damned if he doesn’t try to be. Chase walks the line and tries to play the dutiful minion since now he’s the one with no choice. He used to be the one gleefully manipulating the world, but that didn’t last long, and now he’s back to square minus a hundred and eighty (one is far too good for the likes of him). House tries to hurt Chase with his words, using phrases so inappropriate that Foreman keeps telling Chase that he should sue for harassment, but Chase doesn’t need the money or the aggravation, so he doesn’t.
“Why are you still here?” asks House. Chase looks around the office and there’s no one else there.
“You want me to go?” he replies carefully. House looks shrewdly at him, cane tapping against his palm.
“This isn’t about me,” he replies. “It was never about me.”
“So why is it suddenly about me?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“What the hell are you going on about?” Chase snarls. He doesn’t have the patience for this. House smirks.
“What happened to the cheery little blonde guy who couldn’t fake an American accent and yet was willing to try it for me anyway?”
“Maybe he never existed,” mutters Chase, ignoring how it hurts to think about how he used to be.
“Do you miss him?” asks House blithely. Chase chooses not to reply, and House flicks Vicodin pills at him while the sun sets behind the blinds.
Now I’m reading romance novels
Stacy Warner and James Wilson
Wilson gets the phonecall at three a.m and thanks God for the small mercy that Chase is, at least, still at work (House put him on an all-night shift, possibly to punish Wilson for the fact that he won’t really look at him). Stacy sounds fairly miserable, and Wilson sighs and tries to talk her through the way that House clearly doesn’t want her any more, and that she at least still has a marriage, and calling him up in the middle of the night is perhaps not the best way to save said marriage.
“And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you James?” she snaps, and then gasps. “I’m so sorry, I-”
“Well, from one adulterer to another,” Wilson begins, trying not to flinch too hard as he says it, because those words burn in a way he didn’t expect them to, “It’s probably a good idea to try and get over House. He’ll never take you back. Never.”
And those words drop heavily into the silence. Stacy almost gasps, and Wilson bites his lip, unsure whether he’s gone too far.
“Why?” Stacy asks.
“Because he loves you, and you hurt him, and now he wants to hurt you,” Wilson replies. “And it doesn’t matter how much he loves you, because he would rather hurt himself to hurt you than-”
“I get the picture.” Stacy sighs, and Wilson wishes that he could lie, tell her House will get over this, but they both know he won’t.
“I’m sorry,” he says eventually.
“I know,” Stacy murmurs. “Wish I’d picked you instead James.”
She puts the phone down and Wilson listens to the dialling tone for a while, unsure quite what to make of that.
And dreaming of yesterday
So House finally pulls the door shut behind him and tells Cameron in no uncertain terms that it’s over over over. He doesn’t bother to return her heart before he leaves, however, and now she aches permanently, too exhausted to continue, too afraid to stop. She’s waiting for the thin ice she walks on to shatter. She wants him back- but she wants him *gone* from her mind, her body, her soul. She’s sick of holding onto her desperate memories and emotions that she can’t control. She wants it to end; she wants it to just stop hurting now. And the problem is that Cameron simply doesn’t know how to make it do that.
But God how she wants to.
This is home
Lisa Cuddy and Robert Chase
Chase looks lost a lot of the time, a little boy trying to play in the adults’ world, and Cuddy briefly wonders if that has something to do with what endears him to Wilson. Not that she’s ever thought about it. Not really. As long as they don’t have messy break-ups in the corridors or try to murder each other with her terribly expensive medical equipment (Jesus, and she let a hundred million dollars slip through her hands like water for a mad bastard), it doesn’t affect her at all.
But she still keeps an eye on them, watches Chase and his oral fixation ruin pencil after pencil after pencil (and always adds a couple of boxes to the hospital stationary order forms, because otherwise Chase just chews through all the diagnostics pencils, and then goes and steals them from other departments, covert operations to amuse himself on afternoons when House is passed out stoned on the office floor. Those afternoons are becoming more common but that is a completely different point, and she doesn’t want to talk about it).
Chase is often the one who stays though, the one who won’t go home when patients are dying or when House is falling apart or when push really comes to shove, and they exchange smiles whenever it’s late and dark and she’s leaving and the long road to redemption Chase is on is only just beginning.
I’d like to see the Riviera
Eric Foreman and Allison Cameron
Cameron is damaged in a way that Foreman can barely understand. It’s not just her need to fix everything; it’s everything about her. She practically trails blood with every step she takes, bleeding out misery and helplessness and the fact the world is so fucked that she can’t do anything about it, although God she wants to mend everything. She shouldn’t appeal to him, because it’s tiresome, that constant caring and staring and trailing around House begging him to kick her again, but she does. The moments when the damaged Cameron takes a back seat and she manages to smile and laugh just like everyone else. But those moments are getting fewer and far between, something to do with House and the way he’s tormenting Cameron. They may not be sleeping together any more, but he’s still there, all the time, shooting glances at Cameron that make her crumple. Foreman wants to protect her, save her from herself and from House. Chase is there sometimes, making her coffee, and listening to her sobbing, but there’s something angry and awkward between the two of them going on that Foreman doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. So he bites his lips together and offers Cameron the only comfort he can give her and wishes that House had never ever done this to her. Wishes that he still had a chance. Knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that he doesn’t. No one is smiling any more in the office and they spend too much time with the blinds drawn, scowling and working overtime like that’ll somehow make a difference.
And slowdance underneath the stars
Robert Chase and James Wilson
The universe has been conspiring to keep them apart (or at least, work has) but it’s a Sunday morning and no one is around and Robert has his back pressed into the wet shower tiles, James’ leg between his thighs and mouth against his neck, water crashing down around them and their moans echoing off the glass walls.
“God,” James whispers, “You’re so beautiful.”
Robert runs a hand down his side, nails scraping just enough, pulling James’ hips even closer to his and James kisses him again, hungrily, fingers tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt. They grind against each other, skin slick and wet and soft, moaning helplessly.
“Oh God, oh God,” James is panting, as Robert’s mouth kisses up and down his neck. Funny, everyone thinks that Robert would be the vocal one, and it’s not, it’s James. James who moans and whispers and practically howls if you move your fingers just right. Robert likes that aspect, because he’s so very needy, and some little part of him needs to hear James losing control even if he’s not so good at losing control himself.
Robert slides his hand between James’ thighs and strokes as the other man keens into his shoulder, grinding themselves harder together, whispering words that no one else could ever understand and that they could never say in any other situation other than this one, when they can blame it on the lust and the water although they never need to.
I’d like to watch the sun come up in a stranger’s arms
Lisa Cuddy and Greg House
Rain patters down outside, and the corridors downstairs are awash with water and soggy walk-in patients, all looking particularly bad-tempered and tired. Cuddy has a migraine. It’s probably to do with the frustrating electricity building up outside, and the fact House hasn’t turned up for clinic duty yet again. She pages him four times and then sends Wilson after him. Meanwhile, she sifts through charts and snaps at nurses and resolutely ignores the fact she could self-prescribe plenty of medicine that would take away both the headache and the stress. It’s too tempting and she isn’t House. Although anyone who spends more than about three minutes in the same room as House immediately wants to reach for the Vicodin.
He turns up, smiling insolently.
“You should have mentioned I had clinic duty. I had no idea.” He smiles slightly and she grits her teeth because they both know damn well she left him a note on his whiteboard, told him specifically, told Cameron and Chase to remind him, and paged him several times. He’s carrying his gameboy and is obviously not going to do any work.
“I could fire you,” she tells him. House smirks.
“Yeah,” he drawls, “You could, couldn’t you?”
This is home
Greg House and Eric Foreman
House hasn’t played with a Rubix cube in years- no point, he cracked the method years ago (not to mention the fact that, come on, you can just peel off the stickers and put them back in order). He gives up on detective novels a third of the way in and predicts the endings of M. Night Shyamalan films in the line before they go in (and then wonders why Jimmy won’t take him to the movies any more). It’s his job to crack puzzles and mysteries, and, in some ways, his life too.
He notices that Foreman reads the ends of books before he starts them and reads internet plotlines of movies before he watches them.
“I don’t like mysteries like you do,” he says simply when House comments on this. “I’ve had to put up with too many of them.”
House isn’t sure what he means but Foreman has blood that isn’t his on his labcoat and there’s a strange edge to his voice, so he lets it slide. At least until next week.
I’m going crazy
Lisa Cuddy and Stacy Warner
“I think Mark wants a divorce.” Stacy says with a sigh. Cuddy bites her lips together and carries on typing yet another letter on why she won’t fire Greg House, and runs out of ideas because she has to write far too many of these and it’s a little worrying that she’s on first-name terms with all the lawyers in the surrounding area (“Hey, Lisa, it’s Marty, I’ve got someone else suing House again. Yeah, I know. Oh, yeah, the kids are fine, thanks. No, he apparently told this one that- yep, how did you know?”).
“Does he still resent you for-” She begins. Stacy was her friend before House even became part of the picture and they still keep in touch.
“Maybe. I think he knows that I still care about House,” Stacy admits. Cuddy sighs. House and Stacy. The most destructive relationship in the history of everything since Scarlet O’Hara and Rhett Butler.
“Has he actually asked for a divorce?” she asks, wondering how exactly to explain to someone who doesn’t know House exactly why she keeps him on. Still doesn’t know herself, come to think of it.
“No.” Stacy sighs heavily.
“Then for God’s sake try and save your marriage,” Cuddy snaps. She’s fast losing sympathy for House and Stacy. She really is.
A little every day
James Wilson and Robert Chase
Thursday afternoon, exam room three, and Chase is sitting on Wilson’s lap and kissing him with an edge of desperation. House has been manic and annoying and cruel all afternoon and Chase is apparently finding solace in his lover’s arms, but really, he’s just panicking, shivering, and Wilson does everything he can to hold Robert together. It’s strange, because it’s normally the other way around. James is a wreck, and it’s strange that no one has noticed this. He’s the needy one. He’s the one who needs validation from other people, who made the first move on Robert, who makes it all about Robert in the hope that he’ll never lose him. He’s not like this with women. With women he’s the one in control, the one who knows where they’re going and why. But with men he’s always lost, craving more than he could ever take.
And Chase doesn’t help. Chase is cold and hard and doesn’t let him in. Chase fucks him in dark rooms and heats up the shower for him in the morning and smiles at him in a predatory fashion in the corridors and eats the pancakes James makes him with almost indecent pleasure, but he doesn’t touch him if they’re watching TV together and he doesn’t scream his name when he climaxes and he doesn’t always meet his eyes. Funny, everyone thinks they’re so very in love and yet the word ‘love’ has never even crossed their lips.
Wilson buries his face in Chase’s neck and bites at the skin until Chase is hissing and moaning and writhing on his lap, Wilson’s hair carded between his fingers.
“Don’t stop,” Chase whispers, breath catching in his chest. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
And everything I wanted is now driving me away
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to be here at all. She never wanted to be doctor but she did like saving people and it turns out she didn’t look good enough in lycra to be a superhero. She’s too nice, too broken, not whole enough to be arrogant. Foreman has the arrogance pinned down and it suits him, and sometimes she has to squint when sunlight glances off the walls and it’s like voyeurism, the way everyone can see what everyone else is doing. She likes her privacy and she doesn’t have any anymore. And she’d like to be able to get away from House and she can’t do that either. He follows her around like a ghost, and even when he isn’t there his name, his reputation, his misdeeds, stalk her every step. People mutter about her and Chase and Foreman, and it hurts when the two of them seem to be able to cope with House and she can’t. Well, Chase didn’t so much cope as take a shot or seven in the dark and burn all his bridges, but he had Wilson to save him. She bites her lips together. She has no one to save her.
Cameron doesn’t have a nasty side but she pretends she does, if only because she’s got to have some kind of self-preservation. And it looks like she might have to use it, if only because sometimes she doesn’t feel ok and now sabotage feels like the last thing left to her.
I woke this morning to sound of breaking hearts
Robert Chase and Allison Cameron
Cameron comes in with eyeliner on and her eyelashes and hair curled, wearing a blouse that allows everyone to see her funbags (and House tells her she should be *honoured* that he’s using that word, it used to be exclusively for Cuddy), a skirt, and a look in her eyes that Chase doesn’t like. But he says nothing, because he knows that what will happen is going to happen and there’s nothing he can do.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks her when they’re in the lab together.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not doing anything.”
But she is, and Chase is only not surprised when he walks into Wilson’s office to find Cameron pressed against the desk with her skirt around her waist and Wilson’s mouth shoved against hers, because he has been waiting for this. They don’t notice him.
He looks at the two of them for a moment, a little smile around his mouth, and then sighs and shuts the door, leaving Cameron to ruining everyone else’s lives because hers is shit, and Wilson to the fact he’s got the attention span of a teenage boy and the sex drive of one too.
Mine is full of questions and it’s tearing yours apart
Cuddy is used to House doing stupid things. So she insured pretty much everything in the hospital he could take it into his mind to tamper with, break or poke because he’s BORED. She has a crack team of lawyers waiting to try and help him keep his medical license every time he insults patients. And she got herself over her crush on him back in med school, when he had the bluest eyes in the world and the world at his feet, at the ends of perfectly working legs. Really, she is tornado-fucking-proof, and can easily withstand whatever House chooses to do to her or her hospital.
However, this has to be one of the stupidest things House has ever done, and she tells him so, as House looks disinterested and Chase twists his tie around his fingers, wet and swollen lips clearly imprinted with the ‘I-was-making-out-with-House’ seal of approval.
“Do you really think that doing this is a good idea?” she asks them. Chase just scowls and House shrugs, and Cuddy reflects that the man really is completely insane.
Tearing yours apart
Wilson comes home to find every trace of Chase eradicated from his apartment, and the place oddly silent. On his kitchen sideboard is a note that says, simply:
You did this to Laura. You did this to Rose. You did this to Julie. But you don’t have to be married to do it to someone. Because you also did it to Karen, to Marina, to Lucy, to Paul and to David. And those are only the ones I can piece together. So I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I don’t blame you, that I saw this coming, that I was actually waiting for this, and the time bomb had a longer fuse than I expected it to. So, um, yeah. I’ll see you next time House needs a consult, and I bear you absolutely no resentment.
He sits down, slowly, wondering how it is that Chase has somehow managed to list several of the people he betrayed, and he bites his lips together because he always does this, and at first it was small errors of judgement with people that made him feel funny, but then it became even bigger with stupid mistakes with people who didn’t.
And it’s tearing us apart
Greg House and Robert Chase
“So, you’re using me to get back at Wilson, and at Cameron, and obscurely at your father, and all those priests, and something else that I may or may not discover as time goes on,” House says carefully.
“Yep, that’s pretty much it.” Chase shrugs.
“Ok.” He should say something different, but he won’t, because at least he knows Chase won’t dream of caring about him, will probably be a pretty damn good fuck, and fine, Wilson won’t talk to him for a while, but he’ll get over it, the way he always gets over it. That’s a huge aspect of being friends with House. The getting over it part. “Fine.”