rivers_bend

Title: Forgiveness
Authors: rivers_bend & karaokegal
Rating: R (language and sexual situations)
Main Characters: H/W, Chase, Vogler
Word Count: 10,115 (but we promise it’s a quick read)
Summary: What if Chase had another reason for ratting House out to Vogler?
Spoilers for “Sports Medicine” “Cursed” “Control” “Babies & Bathwater” “Hunting” “The Mistake.”

Thanks to Beta Goddess Carol, who had the joy of dealing with two egos and helped smooth our two styles into a seamless whole.



House was used to Wilson forgiving everybody. He forgave his wives for their contributions to the demise of marriages one and two. He allowed Cuddy to redeem herself for being blinded by Vogler’s money. House himself was forgiven more trespasses in the average day than most private property suffered in the owner’s lifetime, so he had taken it for granted that Wilson had let go of his resentment toward Chase.

Yet here they were discussing the pending board hearing and Wilson clearly saw Chase as the enemy, still willing to sell House out to save his own ass. Vogler was more than six months gone, but to House’s surprise, Wilson hadn’t forgiven Chase’s betrayal. House had made his Australian fellow suffer, then gone back to treating him as though nothing had changed. That might be even more painful for Chase, but it was the best he could do. House had to forgive Chase, because he knew what had happened was partially his own fault.

He listened to Wilson’s truly atrocious attempt at an imitation of Chase theoretically telling the disciplinary committee that the patient’s death was all House’s fault. “Chase loves me, and isn’t Turkish,” he retorted. Wilson sighed more deeply than usual. That had been the problem all along, really: Chase loving him.

House had never seen it coming. He’d hired Robert Chase based on his CV and a phone call from his father, and proceeded to put him through the same wringer as every other fellow who came to work for him. Chase had the makings of a great doctor. He also provided House with countless opportunities for verbal harassment about everything from his nationality to his looks. Another young doctor in love was the last thing he needed or expected. He had enough trouble dealing with the pretty brunette who was half his age and had decided she wanted him.

With Cameron, he tried to maintain a delicate balance between teasing her and breaking her. House was a bastard, but he didn’t need to lose a fellow over something as stupid as a crush. While he was diagnosing the emotional neediness of Dr. Girl Scout and occasionally saving lives, he failed to notice that Chase had gone all gooey on him.

“Chase likes you,” Wilson had announced one evening, in the days that PPTH history would later record as “B.V.”, when House’s biggest concern had been evading Cuddy and her Clinic Duty of Death. They were killing time in House’s office waiting for the Rat Patrol to come back with a round of test results.

“I think you’re confused. Chase is waiting for the chance to bean me with a boomerang when I’m not looking. Cameron likes me. Cameron--brunette. Chase--blond. Cameron--tits…”

“You call those tits?” asked Wilson with casual crudeness that would have shocked his colleagues and patients alike, but was one of his more endearing traits away from the world of propriety he inhabited like a straitjacket.

“Just because I’m irresistible to you…” Wilson looked down, suddenly evading House’s gaze. House found himself curious. “Why do you think Chase… did Lisa pass you a note in fifth period abnormal psych?”

“I see how he looks at you.”

House grabbed the ball from his desk, needing to do anything but deal with what Wilson was saying. He didn’t believe it anyway. Wilson was Wilson. Their relationship had always defied explanation. Cameron had a savior complex and probably father problems to boot, and was at the very least a girl. But Chase?

He tossed the ball at Wilson, who held it and just looked at him. They were still engaged in eye contact when the Rats trooped back in with their test results and theories, and two pairs of longing gazes. Maybe it was true. He tried not to feel flattered. It would just be one more thing for House to torment Chase with. The boy was tougher than Cameron. He could take it.


Wilson knocked, though he didn’t expect House to be back yet. When he got no reply, he used his key to go in. It had been good to see Stacy again, but he’d spent the evening feeling guiltier than he usually did when seeing her, because this time he’d gotten caught. The look of disappointment that had appeared on House’s face when he declined the offer to go to Monster Trucks had been hard enough for Wilson to deal with, and that was before House even knew about Stacy. The guilt had cast a pall over Wilson’s conversation with Stacy, and she hadn’t looked all that disappointed when he’d begged off early, using his wife as an excuse. He hadn’t mentioned that Julie was out of town. She might have said something about a business trip with her boss, but James and Julie had long since stopped listening to each other’s excuses.

He didn’t bother turning on the light, walking to the kitchen by the glow of the microwave to get a beer out of the fridge. Enjoying the quiet, Wilson sat on the sofa to wait. It wasn’t the first time he’d been alone in House’s apartment, but generally when it happened, House was actually expecting him to be there. Wilson felt vaguely sneaky sitting in the dark, but he felt more than vaguely desperate to make sure things were right between himself and House. House, of all people, would appreciate a little sneakiness for a good cause.

Wilson knew better than to trust House on the subject of how he felt about anything. ‘I have no right to be upset’ is different from ‘I’m not upset’. House had managed to be busy with Hank Wiggen’s case at lunchtime the last two days and Wilson had been busy all morning and afternoon with patients. They hadn’t said two words to each other since House stalked off smelling of urine and indignation. It could have been a coincidence of their busy schedules, but House had never before had trouble finding time to see him if he wanted to.

The first beer was gone before he knew it and Wilson got another. He sipped this one slowly, watching the minutes tick past on the VCR’s display. He hoped the lateness of the hour meant House was having fun with Cameron --not too much fun -- and would be in a good mood when he got home. A forgiving mood.

He’d finished half of the second beer when he heard the sound of a key in the lock. Abandoning the bottle on the table he went to the door, calling softly through it, “House? I’m here. Didn’t want to scare you.” He turned on the light and reached to let House in.

The door opened, nearly knocking him over. House was smiling. “James. And I thought this year I wasn’t gonna get laid after Monster Trucks.” House reached out and grabbed Wilson’s arm. The kiss was sudden and hungry, tasting of cotton candy and popcorn and a glibness House didn’t mean.

Wilson considered stopping him - having the conversation he’d come here to have – but as always, it felt too good. House leaned back against the door, pulling Wilson forward, fingers twined in his hair. Sharp teeth nipped at Wilson’s lips, his neck, his ear, driving all thoughts of apologies out of his head. Eventually, weak-kneed and weaker of will, Wilson pulled House to the bedroom, promising himself that they would talk in the morning.

* * * * * *

Though the air outside was winter-cold, the air in the car was warm and close. Sweat glued Chase’s shirt to his back and to the leather of the seat. He had been parked for an hour, running the heater every time the chill threatened, waiting for House to get home. He was beginning to wonder if the man was ever coming back at all. Maybe, all evidence and rational thought to the contrary, taking Cameron to Monster Trucks really had been an excuse to get in her pants. Just when Chase was edging from worry into despair -- how long do Monster Truck rallies last, anyway? -- House’s car pulled up.

He got out alone. No Cameron in sight. No ‘I got me some’ smirk on his face. He looked… like House. It was hard to tell in the harsh shadows cast by the streetlight, but it didn’t look like he’d be clamoring for another “not really a date” with his female fellow any time soon. Yeah Robert, ‘cause you’d be able to tell from over here. Stop deluding yourself, go home.

Chase watched the front door of House’s building shut behind him. He fully intended to take his own advice until he saw light bleeding around the edges of the curtains in House’s front room. He was hit with the image of how House’s night could have ended if only he’d asked Robert to go wander around amongst roaring engines and bloody great tires.

Chase considered excuses he could make, reasons that could lead him to House’s door. There had to be a way he could get inside the apartment, where he could strip off his sweat-wet clothes, and the leather he stuck to could be House’s sofa. Where House would hold him down, bite his neck, make him beg to be kissed as friction burns marked his shoulders.

His hand made its way into his pants and the hard-on Chase found there made him realize that no matter how good an excuse he came up with -- and how could he think with these images of a naked House rubbing up against him? -- he’d still look desperate. He’d seen enough desperation to know it wasn’t attractive. He would wait. There would be a right time.

Staying where he was, sliding further down in the seat, Chase let his mind go back inside, where House pulled him through the door, slamming it shut with one hand and grabbing Chase’s shirt with the other. His body burned as House stripped him with his eyes as surely as he did with his hands. House groaned into his neck as he pressed against him, hands and tongue hot on salty slick skin.

Chase’s own hand was hot as he pressed into it, breathing becoming heavy with need. Back on the sofa of his imagination, naked, writhing, wanton -- waiting for a touch from House, who looked down at him, lust and admiration in his eyes… okay, admiration might be taking it too far, even for my imagination. Chase glanced over at the light behind the curtains, hand squeezing, moving faster in his trousers as he resumed the fantasy.

House pulling his shirt off over his head, revealing skin Chase longed to touch, to taste, pushing jeans down over his hips, freeing an erection that was all for the blond lying on his couch. Chase, reaching out to pull the older man closer, sat up to lick at skin stretched over hipbones, to grab at the curve of House’s ass. He folded fingers around the cock arching towards his lips, kissed it, mapped its sleek satin with his tongue.

The windows of the car were opaque with exhaled lust when Chase finally bucked into his fist, the imagined taste of House’s pleasure at the back of his throat. He couldn’t see that the shadow that crossed House’s window was too large to be just one man. It was a solid shape with no room between its halves for a crack of light, much less another person.

________________________________________________________________________

Wilson was halfway home from work when it hit him. He’d actually meant it when he’d said, “Even I don’t like you.” House had been distant since the night after Monster Trucks. He’d been cleverly avoiding him, in the sense that they still spoke about work, even had lunch a couple of times, but things were not right between them. Wilson’s guilt over having lied about seeing Stacy had turned to resentment towards House for not letting them talk about it. This couldn’t continue. His identity was too tied up in being House’s friend to not like him. Besides, he missed him.

Making a U-turn at the next intersection, Wilson headed back towards House’s apartment. They would talk tonight. He was not going to be distracted by sarcasm or kisses or anything else House threw at him to escape the emotional minefield of real conversation.

He had to park around the corner due to an ambulance blocking House’s street. His heart pounded in his ears until he saw the paramedics wheeling an elderly woman out of the building next door. He needed a moment to catch his breath before knocking on House’s door.

House answered without saying anything and walked off towards the kitchen. Wilson wasn’t sure if he was meant to follow or not, but his scare in the street had only intensified his determination to sort things out.

He walked past House, who was reaching into the refrigerator, and leaned against the counter, trying to get House to look at him. House pulled out a beer, making a great show of not offering one to Wilson. When he started to walk back to the living room, Wilson grabbed his arm. “House, I can’t do this any more. We need to talk.”

* * * * * *

House had been sitting in the dark playing Schoenberg. Angry, atonal chords echoed feelings he didn’t usually admit to himself. Today, however, they’d been shouted out loud when his “experiment” with Chase and his dad had taken a turn for the Frankenstein.

“How would you like it if I interfered in your personal life?” Chase had asked, deliberately using the stairs to avoid House’s interrogation about his father.

“I’d hate it. Which is why I cleverly have no personal life.” An off-the-cuff response, not meant to be taken seriously. Now it haunted him.

Wilson was his personal life. Wilson, who also had Mrs. Wilson and Debbie in accounting and dinners with Stacy that he’d been lying about for five years. House’s thigh throbbed, but he held off taking the Vicodin that would bring some relief. The pain in his leg helped him focus his anger. The bitter sounds of destruction played out under his fingertips until he heard a familiar knock on the door. Mr. Jimmy himself, wrapped in the self-righteous cloak of victimhood over how House had been treating him.

“House, I can’t do this anymore. We need to talk.”

Academy Award caliber performance, down to the adolescent crack in his voice. Wilson’s talent for manipulation was usually an object of House’s admiration, as long as he wasn’t the target of the con job.

He continued to act as if Wilson’s presence and apologies were of no concern to him, despite Wilson grabbing his arm roughly. House felt the slightest tremor in Wilson’s fingers. Even during a ‘more than friends, less than lovers’ quarrel, their physical attraction was an entity unto itself.

Wilson wanted forgiveness for lying about Stacy. House had barely registered the lying. Everybody lies. It was seeing Stacy, keeping in touch with her, sharing dinners and jokes and memories from before…Suddenly House felt a violent urge to punch Wilson in the face and make him bleed, or to grab him and crush his lips in a kiss bruising enough to break through the congealed layers of denial. Either action would be satisfying. Neither would solve anything.

“For once will you just have a conversation with me about how you feel?”

Did Wilson have any idea what he was asking for?

“Why did you want to see Stacy?” It hurt to ask, but not as much as asking why Stacy wanted to see Wilson and not him. “Are you screwing her?” Now House was shouting. “Why wouldn’t you be? You screw everyone else. Maybe you guys were having a thing on the side before. A little sympathy shtup while the cripple was treating her like shit and she was getting ready to leave?”

“That’s enough!” Wilson shouted back, pushing House’s arm away violently, although he’d been the one holding it in a death grip.

House felt an almost obscene warmth flooding through him at the sight of Wilson looking flustered and disheveled with anger. He pulled the pin and launched the big one.

“Are you leaving your wife?”

“What? Why? No. I love my…” he started reciting, stopping only when he realized what he was saying and caught the look of bitter satisfaction on House’s face.

“Greg. I’m sorry. I just…I can’t.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t come over here wanting to talk about feelings. Maybe you shouldn’t come over here at all. Period. But you will keep coming over because you love your wife, but you love fucking me. While you’re throwing around your meaningless apologies, you might want to give one to Julie and Debbie and all the others you’ve been two- or three-timing.”

House watched Wilson gripping the counter. They’d been here before. Wilson would soon grab him, offering to give up everything, agree to anything House asked, just to clear his own conscience -- to erase his words. He thought of Wilson joking rather cruelly about the prospect of Chase crying when he found out his father had cancer. Now it was Wilson who looked devastated.

House was mentally re-loading when the doorbell rang. Normally he’d ignore it, but he wanted to let Wilson stew a bit. The adrenaline of the fight kept the pain at bay as he strode to the door. Dr. Chase appeared through the distortion of the peephole. Maybe there was a problem with leprosy boy at the hospital.

* * * * * *

Chase looked across at House’s building, took a deep breath, and reached for the door handle. When he saw his hand shaking, he changed his mind. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to go knock on House’s door. He’d stay in the car just a little while longer.

Chase had admired Greg House long before he’d gained enough experience to risk sending his CV to PPTH. Having heard gossip about House and his unusual methods at a conference, he’d dug around, finding write-ups of some of his more astonishing cases submitted to journals by House’s team of fellows. As a resident, he’d had a fantasy that one day he might write up such a case, though he’d never expected to actually be given a fellowship with the diagnostician himself. After working for House only a short time, Chase had been surprised to realize that his feelings towards his boss pushed the boundaries of admiration.

In awe of the man’s brain, envious of his ability to shut himself off from any concern over what people thought of him, Chase started to think of House as heroic. His willingness to flout the rules made Chase nervous in the beginning, but watching House take risks to save his patients became thrilling as he saw how often the man was right. He found himself jealous of patients sometimes, wishing House would take risks like that for him. It took several months for Chase to realize that hero worship didn’t explain the drifting off in the middle of a differential, when he would imagine House pulling him out of his chair by his tie and kissing him until his legs went numb.

Watching House go a week without his pills had only inflamed Chase’s desire. It had been nearly unbearable to watch him go through the agony from his leg and the withdrawal. It was all Chase could do to not offer drugs, or distraction, or whatever House would accept from him. He’d spent the week torn between wishing House would turn to him and praying that he wouldn’t.

Chase had been stunned when House asked Cameron to go to the monster truck rally. He’d never had reason to doubt that the scorn with which House treated Allison’s affection was genuine. Chase questioned Cameron herself, and she too seemed doubtful that it was anything other than being in the right place at the right time, which made Chase feel better. Seeing House come home alone that night had made him feel better still.

There were occasions, not often, but enough to give him hope, when Chase felt House treated him with more respect than he did the other fellows. Possibly with a bit more kindness. A word of praise or a smile from House went a long way.

Then his father had shown up and House had insisted on dragging Rowan into Gabe’s case. When it was all over, House sat Chase down in his office and asked about his father. Like he cared. Like he wanted somehow to make up for something Chase had lost. Part of him wanted to sink to his knees there and then to offer up thanks and himself, but he was angry as well. Angry that House presumed to know what Chase had gone through without bothering to ask. Angry that he’d answered House’s unspoken question and opened himself up for ridicule. He hadn’t known what to think when House didn’t mock him, just said ‘OK’ as if none of it mattered. So he’d walked away, torn between feeling cared for and fearing that ridicule would follow later.

The boy inside Chase, who felt lovesick -- and damnit, there was no other word for it -- was outvoted by the man who believed that House just wanted some good gossip. Something to lure Wilson down to the cafeteria to buy House another lunch. Something to use against him later.

Now Chase found himself sitting in his car outside House’s apartment again. He worried that this might be turning into a bad habit, but at least this time he had a valid reason. He’d taken his own advice to Gabe and tried to patch things up with Rowan. He’d been too late with his father, catching him just as he left for the airport. As Rowan Chase rode off in his taxi, Robert had been struck by a need to see House. In the hours since leaving his mentor’s office, he’d analyzed every word, replayed every look House had given him.

This time, the lovesick boy had talked the cynic into a glimmer of optimism. He needed to tell House that he’d tried with his father. So here he was, parked in the shadow between two streetlights. Getting up the nerve to knock on the door.

When House answered, he looked flushed and had a beer in his hand. He smiled when he saw it was Chase. Chase realized that he didn’t have enough experience with House’s smiles to read this one. House stepped back and invited him in. He didn’t make any move towards the sofa or any other part of the apartment however, so Chase stayed next to the door, which House had shut behind him.

“What can I do for you?” House leaned heavily on his cane and took a swig of his beer.

Chase was suddenly nervous. “I talked to my father.”

“And did he tell you why he was here?”

“He was late. Leaving for the airport. I… He… I mean we hugged. I thought about what you said.”

“What did I say?” House looked genuinely confused.

“About hating him. I thought about how sometimes we pretend to be indifferent to someone because we love them.” Chase’s eyes were locked on House’s face. He felt impaled on the spikes of House’s gaze. All at once he realized that he had put his hand on House’s where it rested on his cane and that he’d stopped breathing. He was paralyzed.

* * * * * *

It must be a full moon or something, causing an epidemic of feelings and the desire to talk about them.

Chase’s daddy issues had been entertaining enough for a workday distraction, but now House had Wilson seeing red in his kitchen. Chases père et fils were a second-rate soap that no longer interested him. The kid had talked to his father. Blah, blah, blah. House was tuning out and planning Chase’s exit strategy when something caught his ear.

“I thought about how sometimes we pretend to be indifferent to someone because we love them.”

Uh oh.

Chase even had the audacity to clutch at House’s hand where it rested on his cane.

House had forgotten about Chase “liking him” and here he was in his leather jacket, looking for love, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, from his replacement daddy figure/crush. Boy, had he come to the wrong place at the wrong time. House could sense Wilson moving toward them from the kitchen. Without looking, he knew exactly when Wilson would be in grabbing distance. It wasn’t every day he could kill two birds with one kiss.

* * * * * *

Wilson materialized next to House. Without breaking Chase’s stare, House snaked his free hand around Wilson’s neck and pulled him into the most passionate kiss Chase had ever witnessed. The cold bottle snugged against Wilson’s collarbone might have been what made him shiver, but Chase doubted it was what made him press his groin forward into House’s hip. When Chase tried to pull his hand away, he found that House had gripped Chase’s knuckle with his thumb, holding Chase captive inches away from where he was plundering Wilson’s mouth with his tongue. What seemed hours but was probably only seconds later, Wilson put a hand on House’s chest and tried to push him away. House let him go with an obvious show of reluctance, sucking Wilson’s lip into his mouth as he pulled free.

Chase jerked his hand from House’s grip. He knew his mouth was open in a caricature of shock but he couldn’t seem to figure out how to close it. He had no trouble reading House’s smile now. It was cruel.

“What were you expecting when you came here tonight? I’d hug you just like daddy? That I’d hold you? Make it all better? That I’d fuck you?” Wilson had stumbled away and was leaning against the back of the sofa. House gestured towards him. “I have a man, Robbie. I don’t need a little boy.”

Chase bit his tongue when his jaw snapped shut. The pain broke his paralysis. His legs felt wobbly as he found the door, got through it and was back out in the street. He was fortunate no cars were coming as he stumbled blindly across the road, ending up palms down on the hood of the car, retching violently, emptily, over the gutter. He was shaking so hard he moved the car on its axles.

Somehow he got behind the wheel, drove home and propelled himself as far as the row of liquor bottles he kept for when he had people over. The gin was closest.

* * * * * *

House and Wilson stared at the spot where Chase had been. House recovered first and turned to Wilson, who was still leaning against the back of the couch. He lifted his hand and Wilson returned to the exact posture of their previous embrace. Again, Wilson’s crotch slotted perfectly against House’s hip, hardness already evident. Even the beer bottle ended up back against Wilson’s neck.

This time their lips met without rancor. The passion was still there, would always be there, but the anger had left the room with Chase. At least House’s had. Now he wanted to be gentle. Wilson needed to know they were OK. That they’d been at each other’s throats meant nothing. They were in each other’s arms now. In the face of a threat, Wilson would always have his back.

When the kiss broke for oxygen, Wilson smoothly transferred the beer bottle into his own hand and took a swig.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Wilson’s voice carried a hint of reproach. House thought he meant the level of cruelty toward Chase, but maybe he meant the intensity of the kiss and what it brought out in Wilson.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Actions have consequences.”

If Wilson was issuing a warning about Chase, House didn’t want to hear it. If he meant, ‘one more kiss like that and I’ll be banging you like an oven door,’ House was willing to listen.

He took the bottle back and placed it deliberately on the coffee table, while dropping his cane onto the couch. Now he had two free hands to pull Wilson close again. Wilson’s body stiffened, resisting his touch.

“Oh come on. What is it now?”

“I still need you to accept my apology.”

“I already did. I can’t believe you didn’t notice. Chase certainly figured it out.”

Wilson searched House’s eyes for a moment. He must have found what he needed there because his body melted against House’s, nearly knocking him off balance. House planted his good leg and let Wilson moan relief into his mouth, against his neck and into his ear.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” House lobbed into the next available space.

“You think I’m jealous?” Wilson took a step back, allowing House to pick up his cane and readjust his stance.

“You were ready to scratch Chase’s eyes out.” House could hear the internal blender as Wilson whipped himself into another froth of denial. He gripped Wilson tightly by the shoulders, ready to shake some sense into him if necessary. “Stop lying to yourself. Imagine if you hadn’t been here when our lost boy flew in from Neverland with his long lashes and needy lips. I could have had him on the floor inside five minutes, and I bet he’d know what to do down there.”

“OK Greg, that’s enough.” House couldn’t resist a smug grin. “Besides, I’m better.”

Wilson’s quiet self-assurance got House’s immediate attention.

“Prove it.”

+++++

House always woke up sore. This morning’s ache was a vast improvement over the pain that usually blasted ‘Reveille’ through his body. The sight of Wilson, naked, curled around one of House’s pillows, was as good as Vicodin, although its effects were equally temporary.

He’d have to get Wilson jealous more often. Chase would have been hard-pressed to compete with Wilson’s mouth or his cock, and didn’t have Wilson’s intimate knowledge of House’s needs. Spurred by the image of Chase on his knees, Wilson had outdone himself, proving his superiority over and over, leaving House glad he had a weekend to recover.

House wondered idly if he could provoke a similar display with a few nice words to Cameron. Chase was probably a lost cause, at least for a while. He’d get over it eventually.

Even if Wilson’s Cassandra-like warnings were true, it didn’t matter. What could Chase possibly do to him?

* * * * * *

When Chase woke up, the puke on the tiles next to his face had already dried. Not that desiccation made the smell any less pungent. He tried to lift his head, but the pain was cataclysmic. Keeping his cheek to the floor, he inched backwards, trying to escape the smell, until his spine hit the pedestal of the sink. The resulting jarring of his brain triggered another round of vomiting. Giving up, he shut his eyes and hoped for everything to disappear.

His wish was granted, but consciousness eventually dragged him back. This time, a spear of sunlight was glinting off the empty bottle that had landed next to the toilet. It felt like there was something significant about this but he couldn’t wrap his brain around what. Fighting gravity and vertigo every inch of the way, Chase managed to drag himself into a semi-upright position against the side of the bathtub. To his mild surprise, he discovered that he had removed his shoes and trousers at some point during the night. Since he would only be giving his boxers and t-shirt a much-needed soaking if he got in the shower as he was, he gave up on the idea of trying to undress.

After a hazy interlude lying in the tub under the tepid spray, he realized the significance of the sunlight on the floor. West-facing windows. This room only got direct light in the afternoon. Was he supposed to be at work? He let his mind reach back to yesterday, where it got a flash of House, arm wrapped around Wilson’s neck. He swiftly shut the lid on the memory.

When the shower went cold, Chase made the Herculean effort needed to pull himself up. Held his mouth under the spray and swallowed several times. Peeled off his wet clothes, finally finding some strength in his arms. When he dried himself, Chase found that even his skin hurt.

Luckily, Chase had experience in doing triage on hangovers . He drank several glasses of water, two of juice, took two Tylenol and a handful of vitamins for good measure. He started to feel a little bit more human, at least physically.

The clock on his desk told him it was Saturday; a glance at his day planner reminded him that he was off for a long weekend and didn’t have to be back at work until Tuesday.

His refrigerator was conspicuously empty, but the Italian on the corner delivered, allowing him to gorge on pasta and chicken without leaving his living room. He thought about Gabe and wondered how the boy was getting on with his father. He tried to think about his own father and the awkward hug they’d shared, but thoughts of his father were tied up in thoughts of House. Their conversation, the drive to his apartment, ringing his doorbell… Chase refused to entertain the memories, pushing them away.

Indulging in a rare spate of sloth, he watched television, ignored the phone, and slept, finding a certain comfort in mindlessness.

By Monday afternoon, Chase could imagine himself walking back into the diagnostics office without breaking out in a cold sweat. He could even remember the things he liked about working for House. He’d had lots of practice denying his feelings before he ever met House, and plenty more since.

Tuesday started out on a strange note, with Cameron suddenly calling them by their first names and wandering around the room looking everyone in the eye. House acted as if Friday night hadn’t happened, which was no less than Chase expected and was certainly a relief, focusing instead on “Allison’s” behavior and her “soft positional bargaining”. It was easy to join in with Foreman’s teasing and use Cameron as his excuse to ignore any tension as well.

By afternoon, he’d done such a good job of blocking out what had happened when he went to see House that he dared to sit in the man’s chair, even hold House’s tennis ball. Things he’d done before to feel closer to him. The whole event seemed like a bad dream, a result of the drinking binge rather than its cause. Then House looked at Carly’s angiogram. With House shouting at him, making him feel an inch tall again, the sensation of being frozen shot him back to House’s living room. Only this time Cameron and Foreman were there to witness his humiliation. He was actually grateful for Foreman’s look of contempt. It was possibly the only thing that kept tears at bay. House’s expression was naked with anger and disappointment.

Shocked and desperate, Chase still couldn’t believe he’d made the mistake. Yes, he’d been flirting with the resident, as if getting a girl into bed would banish the shame of what had happened, but he was sure he’d scanned the correct leg. Eyes searching the films, he sought any solution but his own stupidity. The same stupidity that had sent him to House’s door and started all this.

Chase felt himself locked into that moment again, staring at House and Wilson. He was unable to keep his mind from torturing him with the details. Wilson with House’s beer bottle against his throat, groin pressed against House’s hip, being kissed hungrily as though it wasn’t the first time, or even the hundredth, but with long-standing familiarity, Chase so close he could smell their mingled breath.

Foreman looked disgusted with him as he went off to do a second angiogram. Cameron, unable to bear the tension in the room, left shortly after Foreman, and House followed her. Chase was left alone with the evidence of his error until his pager went off, alerting him to Carly’s respiratory arrest. He dove headfirst into running tests. When Cameron tried to offer sympathy, he told her to shut up. For a change, she actually listened. Once the humiliation had faded a little, fear started creeping in. He could not bear to lose his job. As painful as it was to see House, especially with Wilson, to not see him would be agony.

Desperate to salvage what was left of his pride and hold on to his position at PPTH, Chase racked his brain. He remembered the new Chairman of the Board. The nurses were already talking about his disapproval of House – his refusal to wear his coat, his general flaunting of the rules. If Chase could get this Vogler on his side, perhaps the man could protect him.

Patient privacy had long ago become irrelevant, given House’s frequent home invasion missions. There was something wrong with the timeline of House putting Carly on the transplant list and Chase was determined to find out what it was. When he found the ipecac syrup in Carly’s bag, he reached the obvious conclusion. House had lied to the transplant board. Here was the evidence. Chase’s arms shook with relief.

House had stacked the deck and thought he had the winning hand, but Chase wasn’t folding yet. This was his ace in the hole.

He made his way to the fourth floor, skirting House’s office, and found Vogler’s lair. He had a moment of hesitation as he lifted his hand to knock, but, with an image of House’s cruel smile seared into his brain, let his knuckles fall on the dark wood.

“Come in,” said a deep voice.

* * * * * *

Edward Vogler looked around his new office at PPTH, well satisfied with himself. The previous Chairman of the Board had been a venerable Princeton alum with deep pockets and a sentimental streak, who had rubber-stamped Cuddy’s decisions with no critical faculty whatsoever. He was so well liked that no one seemed at all concerned about the bottom line. The hospital was losing money and donations were down in the face of a troubled economy. Vogler had given Cuddy the job of telling Dr. Stevens to vacate the office. She’d nodded grimly and gone to do his bidding while he appreciated the rear view of her tight-fitting suit.


Cuddy had been easy to put away. All he’d needed was a one, a dollar sign, and eight zeroes. Jefferson would have cost him five times that. The board had swallowed the story about his dad with sad eyes and applause. They didn’t need to know that the start-up money for his first company came directly from Uncle Sam when he mustered out of the army in ‘82, or that his father still recognized him enough to call for a bailout when one of his scams went bad. It was easier to keep an account and pay the bastard to stay away from him than to have his name associated with any of Edward’s companies.

His new office was on the fourth floor and had an expansive view of the hospital grounds. He’d had one of his custom-made chairs shipped over from Eastbrook. He planned to spend the balance of his time here, making sure Princeton Plainsboro lived up to its potential for doing good. He was finally getting the chance to do something with his money besides making more of it. Somewhere in his head he heard his father mocking him, the same way he had when Edward enlisted. He’d show the old bastard.

He swung his chair around to look out the window and contemplated his next steps. The budget had to be streamlined. He was still troubled by the diagnostics department, which lost money, but according to Cuddy brought prestige. House was destined to be a thorn in his side unless he could be brought into line.

Edward considered himself a reasonable man. He encouraged creativity among all his employees. Thinking outside the box and letting others do the same had contributed to his fortune. However, he believed in unit cohesion above all. No spirit, no matter how free, could threaten the orderly running of what he’d already begun to consider his hospital.

The lab coat and Cuddy’s inability to get House to wear it were symptoms of a greater problem. His question about them sleeping together was designed to throw her off-balance and judge how bad the situation was, but at that point he was just messing with her. It was the tension in the transplant committee meeting that caused him the most concern. Even though he’d walked into the meeting in progress, the electricity was unmistakable as Cuddy pressed House to admit if there were any reasons that his patient wasn’t eligible for a heart. The quaver in her voice spoke of a hundred lies told and believed before. This could be a definite problem. He’d scheduled a meeting for the next day. He’d figure out exactly how far she’d go to protect House.

He was surprised to hear a knock on the heavy wood door. Most of the staff had been too intimidated to pay unsolicited visits. He was more surprised when one of House’s fellows walked in after he called “Come in” and made a mental note to have a receptionist assigned. He hadn’t had a chance to do more than look at the personnel files of the three doctors who worked under House, and categorize them as the brother, the girl and the Aussie.

Dr. Chase, whose father was a world-class specialist in something that Edward couldn’t remember offhand, was the Aussie, now looking somewhat out of it and a bit distraught. That was odd. As a result of House’s presentation to the transplant committee, the patient had gotten a heart and was recovering. Also on the plus side, she was a successful executive herself and might be willing to be a PPTH donor in the future.

“Dr. Chase. I’m glad you came to see me. I feel like I’m an ogre in his cave and the villagers are outside with torches.” Chase smiled weakly, sitting in the chair opposite Edward’s desk. “What can I do for you?”

“Um…I found this in Carly Forlano’s room.” Edward didn’t know who Carly Forlano was, but assumed Chase was talking about House’s patient. Chase was holding a small bottle.

“What is it?”

“Syrup of ipecac. It’s an emetic.”

“And I’m not a doctor.”

“Right. It’s used to induce vomiting. If someone takes poison or something like that.”

“Was it being prescribed in her treatment?”

“No. It was in her handbag. It’s also used by bulimics to make themselves throw up.”

Edward remembered House telling the transplant committee that the patient had no history of depression or mental illness. Anyone who would do something like that had to be crazy.

“Was there a specific reason you happened to be looking in a patient’s personal effects?”

Chase shrugged, looking embarrassed and running a hand through his hair. The white boy clearly had something on his mind.

“Do you think Dr. House is aware the patient might be…would be doing this to herself?”

Chase couldn’t meet his eyes.

“House is a…he’s sharp. He doesn’t miss much.”

And Dr. Chase was a sneaky bastard, wasn’t he? Edward nodded his head sympathetically. He thought he’d have to buy himself a spy. He couldn’t believe the luck of having one volunteer for the suicide mission. He rose from his chair, putting out a hand to take the bottle from Chase.

“Can you wait here just a minute?”

“Sure. Wait…you’re not going to…” The self-appointed traitor was already having second thoughts.

“Don’t worry. I hear nurses can be nosy. They might find all sorts of things.”

Edward made his way down to House’s office, oblivious to everything but his rising annoyance. He found House acting like an overgrown adolescent, playing air piano on this desk while blasting inappropriately loud music. Cuddy respected him, but all Edward could see was someone who’d gone through life without learning anything about maturity or responsibility. Clearly he’d never spent any time in the military.

Edward pulled the plug on House’s little party and put on his most serious face to show House the ipecac. House played dumb, but just dumb enough to let Edward know that he’d known all along. Then came the out and out defiance. “You don’t like me and I’m pretty sure I won’t like you. Don’t take it personally. I don’t like anybody.”

It didn’t matter to Edward if House liked him, but he needed House to be a team player. Prestige or no prestige, blatant insubordination was not acceptable. When he left House to his music and the embarrassment of Hava Nagilah, he knew nothing had been resolved, but something House said stuck in his mind. “You need full board approval to get rid of me. I’ve got Cuddy.” That was true. For the time being, it looked like Cuddy would stand by House. Then House made his slip. “And I’ve got Wilson.”

Wilson. He remembered his list of the board members. James Wilson, head of oncology. Member of the board and the transplant committee. He didn’t know that Wilson was House’s friend. He tried to imagine how good a friend Dr. Wilson had to be for House to think that his presence was an effective shield against a Chairman of the Board who’d just given a hundred million dollars to the hospital.

He found Chase still in his office, making a paperclip chain and looking as though he’d like to hang himself with it. Edward put out his hand and Chase handed the clips back over. He decided to remain standing, knowing his physical size could prove intimidating, a trick which had come in handy back in his army days.

“Tell me about House and Dr. Wilson.”

Edward watched as the already pale Chase went at least a shade whiter and a look of sheer terror passed over his face, followed by the expression of a man who’d just swallowed something bitter and might need to spit it out at any moment.

“What…what do you mean?”

“They’re friends, right?”

Chase blinked and swallowed. He looked like a child trying not to cry. What the hell had House done to the kid?

“Yeah. Friends. Wilson is the only one…” Now it was the words themselves that Chase was choking on. “House trusts Wilson,” he whispered, almost mournfully, as if the words were being torn out of him by torture. Edward was getting a vague idea of where all this emotion was coming from.

“And he doesn’t trust you?”

“No. I made a mistake on Carly’s angiogram. It didn’t make any difference, but I screwed up. I think he’s going to fire me.”

That made sense. Fear was a powerful weapon. Chase was afraid and Edward could use his fear. There was no longer any need to loom. He sat down at his desk again, giving Chase the benefit of his most soothing smile.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Chase. You’re not going to get fired.” Chase’s sigh of relief could be felt across the desk. “As long as we keep having these little chats.” He watched carefully as Chase absorbed and accepted his fate. He let Chase go with a warm handshake and started a list of points for his meeting with Cuddy.

+++++

House had been right. He did have Cuddy. She spent an entire day running herself ragged, defending him and his department. Edward felt like Ali playing rope-a-dope with Frazier. When he had her completely exhausted, she’d make whatever concessions were necessary to keep her pet around.

He still couldn’t understand why she was doing it. House showed her no respect and continually countermanded her authority in front of others. It made him resent House on her behalf alone, never mind the man’s completely insolent attitude toward Edward himself.

Then there was Wilson. A little asking around produced the same answer, no matter where he went. House and Wilson. Wilson and House. Ate lunch together. Consulted on each other’s cases even when there was no obvious medical reason. He would have admired their esprit de corps if it didn’t look so much like conspiracy and collusion.

He finally got his answer when Chase showed up for a debriefing about the mobster that the government had foisted on the hospital. House had used the case to make him look bad, and Edward was already seething. He didn’t quite get the medical-ese that Chase was using and got even more confused when he started talking about cigarettes and gum and “male flame.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s an herbal aphrodisiac marketed to gay men.”

Edward felt the beginning of an old anger welling up inside. He tried to talk it down. It was irrational. He had no reason. He didn’t even know any… “The gangster is a…?” He trailed off, unsure what word to use.

“That’s why he was so hot to get into witness protection. According to House, it was the only way he could be safe to come out. It kind of makes sense. The brother hit me when I even suggested that the guy had hep C.”

He felt his hands balling into fists at his side. “And House was ok with this?”

“With the brother hitting me, yeah. He set me up for that.”

“With the guy being a…being gay.”

Chase looked amused and then saddened. There was even a flicker of the same pain he’d shown the day before.

“House isn’t…he’s not prejudiced against anyone. You should hear the stuff he says to Foreman, but it doesn’t mean anything. He just hates everybody. Except…”

This time Edward didn’t bother excusing himself. He got up and left the office. House was going to explain himself right now. He took the elevator down to the third floor and then he saw it. Them. House and Wilson. Walking together, Wilson just a half a step behind House. They touched at the shoulders. No one would see it unless they were looking for it, but now that Edward had seen it, it was obvious.

House and Wilson. Practically flaunting it. In his hospital. Disgusting. Especially as Wilson was a married man. Disgusting, dangerous and evil. If he were still in the army. If he had a gun. If he could get them in a dark alley.

He couldn’t do any of that. All he could do was remind himself that he was the Chairman Of The Board. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be done. House and Wilson both had to go. He’d go back to Cuddy and let her know that he’d been impressed with her impassioned defense. In fact, he wanted to keep Dr. House. There would be just one condition. House would have to fire one of his staff.

Edward felt himself starting to relax. He was going to enjoy this.

________________________________________________________________________

Wilson watched House walk out the door. He threw the woman’s file down, knowing he’d make the calls anyway and get her into some kind of trial. It made perfect sense that his last act as a doctor at PPTH would be a favor for House.

Vogler had won. He’d gotten rid of Wilson, and it was unlikely House would last until the weekend. Wilson wanted to blame House for fucking up, for not being able to give the damn speech, but it was Chase’s face he saw as he pulled things off his shelves and boxed up his life. Chase’s kicked puppy eyes when he’d seen House and Wilson kissing, Chase’s calculating looks in the past weeks as he’d sneaked around the hospital scheming to get his revenge.

Forgiving House was as effortless as breathing. Sure, sometimes it felt like breathing shards of glass, but it was never something he had to, or even could, consider. When he considered forgiving Chase however, he choked. Finding out your crush didn’t like you back might be an excuse to get sarcastic, to spread rumors -- hell, even to key someone’s paint job. Methodically ruining two careers was beyond a step too far.

Wilson picked up his globe and tried to imagine which of the boxes littering his desk it might fit into. His eyes fell on Australia. A hint of a smile played around his lips. One bright spot in his despair. He’d never have to watch Chase watching House again.

* * * * * *

The champagne burned the back of Chase’s throat. They were celebrating as though it was all over and everything would be all right, but to Chase it was clear that wasn’t the case. Cameron was gone, Wilson wasn’t meeting his eyes, and though House was acting like nothing had changed, that didn’t mean anything at all. The flutter he felt in his own gut looking at the man told him that some things hadn’t changed, much as he would have liked them to.

Cuddy, buzz kill and all, was a welcome distraction. Happy as he’d been to be there, Chase was relieved when the party broke up.

As he left the hospital that night, Chase’s eyes were drawn to House, sitting in his glass office, doing what he did best. In trying to keep his own job, he hadn’t considered what he would feel if House lost his. Chase had been running on righteous anger right up until he was faced with House’s potential dismissal. Then there was fear, and longing, and regret all tangled together until the news of Cuddy’s boardroom coup reached him. His sense of relief was muted only by his shame for what he’d done.

House was concentrating on the file in his hands, so Chase allowed himself one last lingering look at the man he’d fallen in love with. As he walked to the elevator he put those feelings away. From here on out House would be nothing but a genius doctor, a boss, a devious bastard, a man Chase had a grudging respect for.

A passage from First Corinthians came back to him from Seminary.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child. I understood as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things.

He was a grown man; this was his job; there had been enough foolishness.


For eight months Chase kept his head down, treating House like a boss. House’s preoccupation with Stacy Warner put extra pressure on the team, but made it easier to stay below the radar, aside from the usual comments about his “pretty mouth” or wearing “short shorts.” Things got dicey again when Chase faced a disciplinary hearing for Kayla McGinley’s death. He was suddenly plunged into the middle of whatever game House and Stacy were playing. During one of Stacy’s disappearances from the conference room where she was briefing him, he found himself idly wondering how Wilson felt about the whole thing, and the old feelings started to surface.

House wasn’t the only one who could put two and two together to make four. It just took Chase a little longer. It wasn’t until Chase was sitting at home on the first morning of his suspension that he made his own connection.

House had said he’d done the math. Rowan had two months to live; voila, just about two months later, Chase makes a mistake that nearly costs him his career. Not an ‘angio done on the wrong leg but the patient didn’t have any clots anyway’, no harm, no foul mistake, but a ‘mother of two dies’ super-sized one. If he hadn’t been so angry at House for keeping his father’s terminal status a secret – hadn’t been so scared about the peer review – he probably would have figured it out sooner.

Chase honestly thought he’d gotten over that horrible night in House’s apartment. That he’d moved right past the gut-wrenching humiliation of watching the man he wanted kissing someone else as though both their lives depended upon it. Sitting on his sofa, a week of freedom stretching before him, Chase was struck by the difference between resolution and repression.

His first mistake hadn’t been the angiogram. It was taking House’s little talk as a show of concern for him. Looking back, Chase could see that House might actually have been trying to tell him about Rowan. House’s motivations were always something of a mystery, although kindness seemed the least likely suspect.

The treachery, and everything that came of it, started with the look of sly triumph in House’s eyes as he held Chase captive and kissed Wilson. Chase might have been able to keep the memory buried if it weren’t for being assaulted by House’s rage while Carly’s left foot glowed accusingly on the light box behind him. In that moment, Chase had started hating House. That hate drove him into Carly’s room, into Vogler’s office, probably -- in some twisted way -- into Cameron’s hopped-up embrace. He’d thought because he hated House that he didn’t love him any more, never realizing that they were just flip sides of the same coin. Like the love, he’d hidden the hate, fearing its power to consume him if he let it out.

Out of range of the man’s physical presence, Chase was able to think about House rationally. He examined his schoolboy crush, his passion, and his fury in the face of rejection. He didn’t think the wound would ever completely heal, but after a week of examining the experience, he was able to let it go.

Even with everything that had happened, the reasons Chase had wanted to work with House in the first place were still valid. At the end of his sentence, Chase was genuinely happy to go back to work.

* * * * * *

House was facing the prospect of Foreman running his department for a month. He knew it could have been worse, but that didn’t make answering to an underling any less odious, especially in light of the smirks that he was convinced he could see passing between Cuddy and Stacy.

House and Wilson were currently sequestered in his office having an interdepartmental meeting with a fifth of Scotch. Wilson had been making the same “gotta get home” speech for the past half hour with no sign of progress toward the door. Unable to make himself leave, Wilson had focused his slightly tipsy ire at Chase.

“I knew you should have fired him,” Wilson announced, pacing the office in an unsteady line. “Sent his skinny ass back to Austria.”

“I did fire him, and it’s Australia.”

“Whatever. You just let Foreman overrule you without even an argument. And you forgave him for going to Vogler. Because you felt…what, responsible? Guilty?”

“I punished him.”

“Not enough to get him to quit.”

House poured himself another drink. “It’s hard to torture a guy who already has his own monogrammed hair shirt.”

“And now this. He screws up and you’ve got Foreman as your boss for a month.” House shrugged. He was already contemplating ways to screw with his new ‘supervisor’. “You’re going to forgive him again, aren’t you?” Wilson made an ungainly landing in the chair opposite House’s desk.

“Already have. You should, too.”

“Why? One good reason.”

“We should have told him about his dad.”

“House, we did the right thing. We both kept a promise to Rowan.”

“Distinctive, but not differential. We screwed up, Chase got blindsided and here we are.”

Wilson shook his head, which, given the fleeting look of nausea that passed over his features, may have been a mistake.

”Besides we’ve got bigger fries to fish.” That didn’t sound right, but Wilson managed to understand him anyway.

“Stacy.”

“And her magic bag of headgames.”

“You want me to forgive Chase for…everything, because you need a united front against your ex-girlfriend?”

“I forgave you, didn’t I?”

“But have you forgiven Stacy?”

Leave it to Wilson to ask the toughest question, Scotch or no Scotch.

House closed his eyes. He thought about Stacy before the infarction, Stacy saying “I’m sorry,” Stacy leaving and Stacy coming back. He opened his eyes to find Wilson still waiting for an answer.

“You’d be surprised what you can forgive.”