she's your cocaine. (kohlrimmedeye) wrote in fanfic100,
she's your cocaine.

House MD. Chase/Wilson. 056. Breakfast 045. Moon

Title: The Morning After
Fandom: House M.D
Characters: Uh, who's not in it? Chase, Foreman, House, Vogler, Cuddy, Cameron, Kalvin (remember, the dude from "Hunting"?), OFC, Wilson
Prompt: 056. Breakfast
Word Count: 1412
Rating: PG-15.
Summary: A series of Morning Afters as Chase tries to work out what he wants.
Warnings: Contains mild rape. And Chase/Vogler. Consider yourselves warned.
Author's Notes: Uh... because I had to. I love writing Chase/everyone things. Enjoy.


Foreman made him breakfast the Morning After, bacon and eggs fried just right, not too much fat, just the okay side of crispy. Chase ate them obediently, a little awkward in the shirt and boxers he wore the day before, his tie wrapped around his left wrist. He drank expensive coffee (made by Foreman’s shiny, shiny new-looking cappuccino maker) from a white mug with arty monochrome shots of New York printed on it, and they said very little because if they’ve learned nothing else at work, it’s that they have almost nothing in common, and even ill-advised sex couldn’t change that. Foreman sent him out the door with a clean shirt, a kiss on the cheek, and a whisper of “I can’t save you, man.”



There wasn’t supposed to be a Morning After with House, but he’d drunk too much and he was feeling woozy, and House was lying half on top of him, heavy with exhaustion and too many pills, and Chase couldn’t say no. He stared at the ceiling and wondered whether House had drugged his drink (rohypnol maybe?), and wanted to murmur something like ‘hey, did you just rape me?’, but ended up falling asleep. The next morning House took a long, long shower because his leg was apparently in ‘agony’, and Chase wandered about in one of House’s t-shirts, eating apple-flavoured liquorice and going through the CD collection. In the end, he raided the cupboards, discovered House had decided to substitute food with beer and sugar, and eventually they sat on the kitchen floor and ate cold raspberries and warm champagne for breakfast, listening to an old David Bowie album with a scratch on Life on Mars.



He didn’t have a Morning After with Vogler. He didn’t even have the option of saying ‘no’ with Vogler, and he doesn’t remember how he got home exactly. Chase shivers every time he thinks about it, so he doesn’t, ever. But he slept badly on the sofa, and at about two a.m the next day he showered for nearly four hours, scrubbing at the blood on his thighs and his carpet-burned knees and aching back like that would suddenly cure everything. It didn’t, and he didn’t so much eat breakfast as stick his fingers down his throat over and over and over, like he hadn’t done since high school and watching his mother kill herself got a little too painful. At work, he drank cup after cup of coffee which swished around messily in his empty stomach, and House gazed at him and the way he wouldn’t sit down with narrowed eyes, but he already hated Chase by then, so he didn’t mention it, and Chase was too scared and too trapped to ask for help. Besides, he got the feeling he didn’t deserve it.



Cuddy let him sleep in, and left a note on the table telling him to help himself to whatever he fancied. He poked around in her house and carefully made himself an omelette without burning the pan, and flipped it over with such expertise he actually regretted that there was no one there to see him. He folded it over and ate it a little too quickly, washed everything up with a little too much washing up liquid, and drove into work a little too late. Chase was confused that House never worked it out, but then he realised that not mentioning it didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t worked it out, and the relationship between his boss and Cuddy was just too hard to try and decipher. She was a one-night stand that hit a spot that he hadn’t realised needed hitting, and although sleeping with the woman who signed his paychecks was probably an unspeakably unintelligent idea, it was only about the seventh of many he’d made recently.



The first time with Cameron, there wasn’t a Morning After, which he was obscenely glad about, since she was all high on meth and he was too busy trying to work out what the hell he’d just done, so waking up in his own apartment and making himself pancakes with half a packet of sugar on them seemed like a good idea (he also used up two lemons on them, and sucked the sharp citrusy taste off shaking fingers, the closest substitute to drinking bleach he could manage at such short notice, since he didn’t actually have any bleach, and fuck off, he likes his apartment this messy). The Second Time That Was Never Supposed To Happen, Chase slept over in Cameron’s washing-powder scented bed, and the next morning they both drank herbal tea, and Cameron had some kind of boring muesli thing with soy milk. He ate five bananas, two apples, a bunch of grapes, and an out-of-season peach that didn’t taste too bad. He deliberately ignored the cherries, and Cameron took the hint, and they never [hardly ever] did it again.



Kalvin was a supremely stupid idea, but Chase was confused by then, unsure what the hell his sexuality was, and they used a condom to prevent that lovely HIV/AIDS thing spreading. Neither of them slept, and Chase tried meth for the third time (the blonde angel hair thing is only a façade, and not a very good one), and they smoked cigarettes all night and talked about very little. Chase found himself defending House and his methods, confessing to what he’d done with Cameron, and admitting that he’d fucked most of the hospital, except the one person he actually wanted to sleep with. Kalvin, his eyes far too wide with drugs, shrugged and smirked and told him to seize the day or something, and they ate chocolate ice cream out of his freezer for breakfast and Kalvin kissed him goodbye, whispering that he couldn’t save him either.



Evie, who worked in radiology, took him out to breakfast on their own particular Morning After. Chase was consciously playing Rebound Guy for her, and she was just, you know, there, and Chase has always found filling that particular lonely gap with people he doesn’t care about much easier to handle than just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, although he’s never sure who he wants to call. Anyway, it’s easier than alcohol and generally cheaper (he’s not like House and the whole hooker thing). He and Evie sat in the corner of a small café and ate sticky maple-syrup coated waffles off each other’s plates in a far-too-intimate manner, considering they’d only slept together twice and weren’t dating and he didn’t know her surname and she didn’t know his first one. She had a hint of a Southern twang to her accent, and red curly hair, and she told him to go and find whoever it was that he needed as they walked into work later, lips sticky, sipping take-away coffee cups. Chase smiled and thanked her for the advice, and then forgot about her even as he made his way to diagnostics.



“That isn’t breakfast.” Wilson told him, sitting down opposite him at four a.m on a day when Chase just didn’t need this. Chase regarded the three cups of coffee in front of him in a line, and he took alternate sips from them- one was black, one had milk, and one had sugar. There were four empty Kitkat wrappers and three further Kitkats waiting to be eaten lying on top of a medical history he’d tired of reading, looking for the clues, looking for the lies, but his eyes were too weary and as far as he was concerned, the patient was a write-off.

“It’s chewable.” Replied Chase vaguely. “And contains nutrients.”

“What kind of nutrients?” asked Wilson, raising his eyebrows.

“Vegetable fat.” Chase told him calmly. “I checked the ingredients.”

“And there was me thinking you were a doctor.” Wilson teased.

“I’m not a nutritionist.” Chase responded. Wilson smiled obscurely, taking a sip of his own coffee.



Wilson makes porridge and tips about a third of a packet of dark brown Demerara sugar over it, sprinkles it with raisins, and tells Chase that this is what a breakfast really entails. Chase takes a mouthful and burns his tongue, and then smiles, because this is perhaps the least confusing of all his Morning Afters, since he does at least know why he’s doing this, and he knows he should feel guilty, but he doesn’t.


Title: Moonlight
Fandom: House M.D
Characters: Chase, Wilson, House
Prompt: 045. Moon
Word Count: 841 words
Rating: PG
Summary: A fluffy, drunk conversation on a rooftop. And a proposal...
Author's Notes: Well, I can write angst until my ears fall off (I don't know why they would, but it's not like they're any more attached than any other part of my body, and I rather like having kneecaps), so here is some fluffy stuff :D Also, an experiment with brackets!!!!

Tact consists in knowing how to go too far.
Jean Cocteau


Chase is looking particularly fetching, although that could be because it’s two a.m and Wilson is a little bit drunk and anyone could look fetching right now, even Vogler.

“My foot’s gone to sleep.” Complains Wilson, and Chase turns to look at him.

“We’re drunk on the roof and *that’s* all you can think about?”

(It’s been a long day that turned into an even longer night. Chase was shaking in the ICU until intubation suddenly became impossible, and Wilson was sitting in his office trying to read patients’ folders, until reading suddenly stopped being second-nature, and all the words mushed together into long sentences without breaks or meaning. He eventually found Chase in the men’s bathroom, splashing water on his face with hands that could never be described as ‘steady’. Together, they stole alcohol from House’s temporarily empty office and headed up to the roof, where it’s a safe bet they won’t be found until they’re both too drunk to be expected to do anything medical.)

“It hurts.” Wilson points out, as he swipes the Jack Daniel’s from Chase’s hand and sips at it. “And *you’re* not technically very drunk at all. I don’t think you ever will be.”

The frosty silence almost solidifies the drink in its glass bottle. Wilson imagines he hears it crack. Of course, he’s just reminded Chase of his mother, and all the implications that come with it. Amazing what seven words can do. (Amazing how alcohol removes every single one of his inhibitions, like loosening his tie suddenly reveals a man with as little tact as House. Wilson mentally winces. Surely no one else could be that deliberately tactless.)

(They’re huddled together because it’s bloody cold, moonlight and streetlights illuminating each other only vaguely. Moonlight suits Chase. It highlights his pale skin and runs silver through his hair and makes his blue eyes haunting. Chase could have been a model. Maybe should have been. (House is wrong; Cameron’s not the beautiful one) If Wilson were drunker and it were warmer, and Chase were a little less insecure (and if Hell had frozen over), he would encourage Chase to remove that vile red and blue shirt and let the moonlight make him look like a Greek statue. As it is, he drinks the Jack Daniel’s and imagines instead.)

“Marry me.” Wilson says suddenly. Chase flushes a pleasing shade of pink.

“You’re drunk.” He replies, but he is at least smiling again.

“Only a little.” Wilson says, and can’t tell if he’s lying or not.

“I’m not going to marry you.” Chase replies, but he’s almost moving closer, not edging away. “There’s nothing keeping us together, except great sex.” He pauses. “And similar hair.”

“I’ve fallen for people for a lot less.” Wilson grins.

“So says the serial monogamist.” Chase smirks, and Wilson loves the way Chase says ‘monogamist’, slightly slurred and all Australian and with an edge of laughter and shit (maybe he is drunker than he originally thought). Chase kisses him, swiftly and teasingly, as he grabs the bottle out of Wilson’s hand, but Wilson kisses him properly before he can drink it.

(Last week he almost loved Chase for about five minutes. He caught sight of Chase scanning a kid or something, with all his humour, all of his natural charm, oozing out. It was Chase without his inhibitions, without his insecurities. It was Chase the good doctor he ought to be, he could be, maybe if House hadn’t got to him first and stamped on most of what made Robert Chase an ok person. Wilson put it down to sentimentality and the fact Chase is prettier than is healthy, but right now, drunk, he has to fight not to say “I love you”, because it *is* a lie, and he knows Chase really won’t appreciate it.)

The door opens, and yellow hallway light spills out, taking Chase out of his cold, silvery spotlight and making him normal again (Well, as normal as you can be with a face that looks like that). The two men break apart, flushing. Chase turns around.

“House.” The Australian says, looking surprised and more than a little perturbed. “What-”

“That is *my* whisky.” House says, shaking a finger at them like they’re naughty children. “What have I told you about stealing daddy’s alcohol stash? And taking it to the roof? Well, that’s just a recipe for painful, icky death. You will fall.”

Wilson giggles (ok, he’s really drunk) and Chase just shrugs, but there’s something a little off between them, like that “marry me” has repercussions that’ll hide inside like a disease and then surface at an uncomfortable moment, so neither of them really mind as House eases himself down beside them and takes the drink from Chase’s unresisting cold fingers.

(The next day, Chase tells Wilson loudly in front of House that he thought the proposal wasn’t nearly romantic enough, before skipping away to do an MRI, leaving Wilson with an evilly grinning House and a hangover. Wilson decides that he doesn’t love him at all.)

Little Damn Table
Tags: house: robert chase/james wilson
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