It's been a while since I wrote something with a tinge of both happiness and humour. I figured it was due time. :)
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Nearly a minute after the frantic buzzing had started, Robert Chase rolled over in his bed and grasped blindly in the direction of his nightstand. Following the fatalities of both the alarm clock and a stack of CDs, and the near evisceration of the bedside lamp, Chase managed to grab onto his phone and stare blearily at it, as if asking what are you doing, waking me up at this ungodly hour? I put nearly 200 dollars into you a month, and you pay me back by buzzing at 3 in the morning?
The phone continued to chirp merrily at him. After a struggle to sit up – during which Chase became convinced that his entire apartment was trying to kill him, be it by sleep deprivation or asphyxiation – Chase managed to press the right buttons to unlock the phone's secrets, and made it show him the reason behind all the commotion.
It's been one week.
Oh yeah. The phone hit the wall with a loud crack as Chase pulled the blankets up over his head and willed his mind to slow down. It'd been a week now, and he still wasn't any closer to…whatever it was he was trying for.
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It was 3 am, and Chase was nearly falling asleep over the centrifuge. Their latest patient had taken a turn for the worse, and the intensivist had drawn the short straw when it came to running tests.
He'd had a nice date with a glass of champagne, a warm fire, and the season one box set of Battlestar Galactica planned, but Mrs. Collins' liver had decided that wasn't going to happen. House was convinced that it was a rare form of cancer – and seeing as Wilson was off at some fancy oncology benefit (vacation) – it was up to the diagnostics department (Chase) to run tests and basically be at the patient's beck and call.
He'd make it up to himself later.
After what seemed like an hour – but was only probably about ten minutes – the printer whirred to life and provided Chase with no further answers. Resisting the urge to bunch the paper up and bin it, he gathered his pager along with the patient's file, and made ready to return to the lounge to finish his observation notes. At least then he could go home.
But this was Robert Chase, and if he's learned anything in life – it's that he never gets the easy way out. Blocking his exit was a rather grumpy Greg House, who looked like he'd passed out on the floor of his office, and had only just gotten around to waking up. Which, Chase thought, was probably the case.
'Her liver's clean,' Chase stated as he waved the paper around briefly, hoping beyond hope that House would say something to aid him in the quest to solve the patient. After all, the man couldn't be as sarcastic and bitter as normal when he was half-asleep, surely?
'Because 'nearly dead' is the definition of 'clean' in the Oxford Medical Dictionary now?'
Maybe I'd know if I was British. 'I – uh – No. But whatever's wrong with her isn't originating in her liver. I've ran all the tests, and if you don't mind, I'm about to go fill out my reports so that I can go home and get some actual sleep.'
'You do look rather tired. Go home, you can finish work tomorrow afternoon.' Whatever thoughts of sleep Chase had been entertaining were dashed when House managed to say something not only very much non-sarcastic, but almost caring. He must've stopped blinking, because when he managed to re-focus his eyes, House was about a foot away from his face, giving him a look resembling confusion.
'Okay.' Cursing himself for not being more coherent or thankful, Chase tried to move around House and escape from what was quickly turning into the Twilight Zone.
But Chase had learned another thing in his life – and that was that evening television was a lie. Escaping the Twilight Zone was never as easy as it looked on TV. As he took a step to the left, so did House. When he took a step forwards, House grabbed him and threw him back against the wall. As he opened his mouth to protest, House kissed him.
It didn't last long enough for Chase to determine the motivation behind it. For all he knew it could be anything from I hate you so much that I'm going to kiss you just to make you question your sexuality to I love you, but for once in my life I have found myself without words, and who knows, maybe blond Australians are good at interpreting emotions through quick chaste kisses.
For the second time that night, Chase had to stop and re-focus his vision. And again, when he managed to see in a straight line again, House had moved. This time, he had disappeared altogether. Sighing, Chase straightened out the papers from where they had crumpled against his chest and made his way through the hospital and into his car.
The next day, House hadn't said anything. Not about the fact that Chase came in five hours late, and certainly not about the kiss. Life continued as normal – at least for Cameron and Foreman.
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Resigning himself to another few hours of consciousness, Chase sat up and pulled his slippers on before dragging himself out to the kitchen table. Pouring himself a glass of orange juice, he sat there and thought some more about everything that had transpired.
When he was in the middle of a fantasy involving himself, House, and the ropes he had tucked under his bed – the phone went off again. This time, it wasn't his own words that smacked him in the face, it was Wilson's.
Make him shut up. He won't stop talking about you. I'm sick of it.
While he was staring at the words, the phone beeped again. Chase obediently pressed 'next'.
If he tells me one more time about how pretty you look when you're half-asleep –Next.
I will kill someone. Probably him. Maybe you.
A hesitant 'next'.
Maybe both of you. God, he says I'm bad at relationships.
And there it was. That was the reason Chase hadn't been sleeping at night. That was the reason he'd spent so much of his free time thinking of all the different ways House could have sex without hurting his leg.
A relationship? Chase wasn't even sure if he knew how one worked. Sure, he'd been in a few before, but he considered them all childish things. And besides, with an alcoholic mum and a deadbeat dad, Chase was sure he had a defective this-is-how-a-stable-relationship-works gene. Even if he didn't quite know where that gene would be located in his DNA. And with House? At this rate, he'd never learn what 'normal' was.
The phone beeped.
I can't believe I'm saying this. Kiss him tomorrow.
Beep.
Or else.
They're drunk, Chase thought. He'd been around a drunk Wilson before and knew that the man had a twisted sense of humour under the influence.
But still? Kiss House. Could he do it? There was no question that he wanted to, his body told him everything he wanted to know about that issue. But his mind was throwing a tantrum. Did he really want to submit himself to House's particular brand of insanity for more than an average day? Did he want to run the risk of House seeing him naked for the first time – and throwing him out? (That'd happened once. Apparently, the dress he'd been wearing was convincing.) Shaking his head, Chase hit his head against the refrigerator door and turned to grab his keys.
Fuck tomorrow. The sooner he knew what sort of bridge he was crossing, the better. And Wilson deserved a show for putting up with House for so long.
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After a couple of hesitant – but loud – knocks, Wilson quietly opened the door and stared down at Chase. 'I know I said tomorrow.'
Chase shuffled his foot against the pavement, cursing himself for acting like a 15 year old schoolgirl in love for the first time. 'I didn't see that bit.'
Wilson rolled his eyes and smiled, opening the door wide enough to let Chase inside. 'He's in bed. Follow the pathway and hope you don't die.'
He glanced around at the stacks of random papers, books, and what appeared to be a small animal's cage. Right now he felt like he was standing on a 14th century bridge – and one that didn't have a caretaker at that. If he closed his eyes, he could feel each wooden plank pass under his feet and hear the way the ropes creaked, screaming at him to turn back.
When he opened his eyes, he realised that he hadn't moved at all, and Wilson was giving him a very strange look. 'Here, I'll show you the way.' Clearly, Wilson hadn't expected to be the tour guide for the evening, especially when House's bedroom was less than 20 foot away from where they were standing presently.
When they reached House's door, Wilson opened it quickly and shoved Chase in without any pretence – then quickly slammed it behind him. Chase froze as House sat up angrily, clearly ready to swear at Wilson for interrupting his beauty sleep.
'Well?'
Chase stared. 'Uh, sorry?'
'Chase? What the hell are you doing here?' House sounded just as confused as Chase looked.
'I'm not sure, really. Wilson texted me and –' he cut off and before he could stop himself, his body took on a mind of its own and launched itself towards House's bed.
'Actually, I do know why I'm here.'
'Oh, do tell me. Is it because Mr. Whatshisface finally kicked the bucket? Or has Wilson passed out from alcohol poisoning and his last conscious act was to text you? Or –' Chase's head was starting to hurt from House's rambling – somehow it was more potent at ungodly hours of the morning than it was during the day – so he did the only thing he could think of. Stepping onto the bed, Chase ignored House's complaint about shoes and dirt, and moved to straddle House's lap.
The effect was immediate. House fell silent and gave Chase the perfect opportunity to reach down and kiss him. This time, it lasted more than a few seconds. In fact, it lasted so long that Chase was convinced that his face had turned blue from lack of oxygen – and he couldn't really bring himself to care, not as long as he had House's complete attention.
He hadn't quite learned yet that it was impossible to have House's entire attention, and couldn't stop himself from pulling away and moaning as House's hand snaked itself in between them to rub at the front of Chase's slacks.
The groan from House and the groan from Wilson came at the exact same moment. Both came about when Chase decided to grind his hips down on House's lap. House groaned from pleasure, and Wilson groaned in exasperation.
'Oh thank god! Finally! And now – now I'm getting out of here. I'm all for the idea of you two being happy – or whatever it is you actually feel for people beyond resentment, House – but I really, really, don't need to bear witness to this.'
He received a moan from the bedroom in response. The bedroom received the sound of the front door slamming shut.
Wilson just hoped they remembered that they all had work in a little under two hours. It would prove interesting.
And by 'interesting' he meant a flustered Chase, a walking-sexual-harassment-case House, and the timeless act of laughing at the both of them when they managed to fall asleep over two cups of coffee and a television showing General Hospital re-runs.
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