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

House MD Chase/Wilson 048. Diamond, 034. Not Enough

Title: The Crash
Fandom: House MD
Characters: Chase/Wilson, House
Prompt: 048. Diamond
Word Count: 1944
Rating: PG-13 (because I can't write without a lot of bad language)
Summary: Babies and Bathwater from a one-sided Chase/Wilson angle.
Author's Notes: Am caffeine rushed so this seemed to the perfect time to post it. Dedicated to anyone who's ever got high on caffeine or who's had problems with Microsoft Word's spellcheck. Is an example of why you shouldn't revise chemistry while writing.



Diamond:

Is formed of strong covalent bonds.

Today, House is furious. Chase used to think it had something to do with Cameron, and the fact that she ‘quit’ yesterday (did House fire her? He doesn’t know, and to be honest, doesn’t much want to), but then he could never work out what Cameron meant to their employer. He watches and says nothing and House radiates ice at him.

Wilson’s not around today, so House can’t go and hide with him. Chase is sorry for this; Wilson’s been forced to be involved in their case (their patient has cancer) lately, and he loves it when the oncologist is around. He loves Wilson’s strong presence, the difference between him and House almost incredible. Like the difference between light and dark. Like love and hate. (He certainly loves Wilson, and he *wishes* he hated House) But the brown-haired, brown-eyed, heartbreakingly vulnerable (and isn’t it strange that House has never noticed that?) doctor is nowhere around, and Chase can’t help feeling that House is punishing him more than usual.

“What have I done now?” he asks when they are alone in the office.

“Wilson’s been fired.” House replies vaguely. “You happy yet? Have you done enough now?”

That was a suckerpunch that Chase simply didn’t see coming. He feels all the air rush out of him, like he’s drowning, like the sky is falling in on him only that’s a disturbing cliché.

“I had nothing to do with it.” Chase tells House. “It’s not my fault Wilson’s been fired.”

But it is, and they both know it. And Chase knows now that House is going to hurt him more badly than he’s done before, because if nothing else, House is unwaveringly faithful to Wilson, at least in his own way.

Has a high melting point.

It’s the crash that Chase hates most.

The caffeine crash is hard enough to deal with; he’s been light-headed for the last hour or so, the lights glaring too blindingly off the glass walls of the hospital, and there’s nowhere sacred here. He’s been kind of hyper too, trying to hide that from those that would abuse it (namely the presence drifting around the hospital with a tapping accompanying him, like a bogeyman’s fingers on a windowpane except Chase is more scared now than he was as a child. But it was never the devils he didn’t know that scared him. It was the devils that he did, and even now he wakes up drenched in cold sweat, tears running damply down his face, lips opening to beg his mother to stop it stop it stop it only she never would).

The caffeine has worn off by now. Chase looks at his hand and it’s trembling violently. His whole body feels weak and his thoughts are weak and paranoid, sliding away from him as he tries to grasp at them. He supposes that’s what the caffeine does to him, forcibly ripping the ground out from under his feet, making him land on his back, the world spinning around him and making him want to just press his face into the cool glass of the table and make loud whimpering noises. But he can’t, because he can’t bring himself to imagine what House would say to that.

The emotional crash is ten times worse than the caffeine one. The certain knowledge that it was this stupid, stupid game that got rid of Wilson has flooded his body, screwed with his senses, made him realise finally that what he’s been doing has been so, so, so ridiculous. He feels shot down, burning and burning, and no one can save him because really, there’s no one left to save him.

Chase used to wonder what it would take to get Wilson to break, and now he knows. Wilson can weather his way through any storm, ride any one of House’s moodswings and never fall off, tell patients that they’re dying and sleep that night, but apparently, being forced to leave the hospital is the last straw. Wilson, as he walked out of PPTH, probably for the last time, looked damaged and lost and helpless, and Chase has realised that although Wilson can apparently cope with anything, that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of falling apart.

Doesn’t conduct electricity.

Chase fell in love with Wilson after working at PPTH for three weeks. House wasn’t around much, communicating with him mainly through post-it notes (apparently how Wilson and Wife Number Two were managing their divorce at the time, but Chase isn’t supposed to know that). Chase tries very hard not to think about life B.C (Before Cameron, but that joke stopped being funny a long time ago), because that was a time that was very lonely, sort of confusing, and House was mainly a silhouette with headphones on in a glass-walled office, pretty much avoiding him, and sometimes when it’s late at night and Chase is very, very drunk, he thinks longingly it was better then.

Wilson actually talked to him. He paid him attention, used to send him smiles through the glass door with Gregory House M.D written on it, on days when Chase felt like throwing a medical dictionary at the walls to make them shatter. Wilson felt a little like his salvation, back in the days when Chase thought that working for the infamous Gregory House would be cool, rather than how he feels now, which is a little like apathy, but a lot stronger. (He’s stabbed House in the back and although he’s sorry for it, he’s not as sorry as he knows he should be. It took Wilson going to make him realise the severity of what he’d done).

Chase was lonely and angry and a foreigner in a country that all too easily chews people up and indelicately spits them out, and he wanted something, anything to hold onto. So he flirted with the nurses and flirted with the doctors and tried to find his edge, all the while digging his nails into his palms and refusing to quit, because that was what House wanted and Chase learned quickly to win his battles where he could. After a while he discovered working for House was like surfing (and he would never, ever admit to anyone that he used to surf back home in Oz- he has no doubt House could abuse this knowledge for weeks)- you just had to watch, and wait, and then jump at the right moment, and ride it out, and then try not to fall off. Except that House always kept pushing and pushing and pushing, trying to make Chase fall off and break something, and Chase discovered that Wilson wouldn’t flirt back. Chase could, if he really wanted, create enough sexual tension in a room to singe the hairs on the back of a person’s neck (except for that time Cameron turned it around on him- sex can kill, honestly, what is *wrong* with the woman?), but Wilson wouldn’t play, wouldn’t let the electric crackles come from Chase and encompass him. And Chase could never work out if that was because Wilson didn’t want it, or because he did.


Is almost unbreakable

Chase waits for House to behead him over the course of the day. Or maybe bash his head in with that cane gripped in his fist, that could cause untold damage, couldn’t it? Vogler’s protection means shit of course; it just means he’s stuck here in this place where everyone resents him (Foreman’s glares are practically melting his skin- he didn’t like him to start with and it’s only getting worse now) and the one person he actually wants to be around is gone, all because of his stupid little game that didn’t come with an instruction manual, although Chase can’t help feeling he wouldn’t have read it even if there had been one. House doesn’t come with helpful packaging, doesn’t come with a label saying Don’t try to win with this man- because you can’t, and for a moment Chase considers writing a few useful tips on the whiteboard in permanent marker for the next sorry employee and running far, far away. But House would still find him and Wilson is still gone, so Chase clings to his sinking ship because he ran out of options.

A couple of days later, and Vogler is gone. Apparently House is indestructible, like the puppet in that TV show Chase used to watch as a child (he doesn’t remember the name, but the theme tune was catchy), and when Wilson is rehired the next day, things return to normal, like Wilson hasn’t spent three days at home, like the whole situation didn’t happen. He’s back, looking the same as ever, except that he won’t look at Chase, and the Australian realises that Wilson is back on form again, not a single crack, able to bounce back from anything (just don’t mention his wife).

Is brilliant

Chase tries to ignore the light shining brightly off the walls of the office and just concentrate on typing up his report on whoever is sick this time. He also tries to ignore House, and the way he’s leaning over his shoulder, reading every word.

“You know,” The older doctor says casually, “You seem to be incapable of spelling anything right. Why do you think I invented spellcheck?”

Chase wants to say something like you’re not God, or perhaps, you’re not Bill Gates, but there’s no point, because House would have a reply to that too.

“Is there something affecting your spelling, Dr Chase?” he asks. “Could it be… *guilt*?”

“Fuck you.” Mutters Chase, hitting F7 and watching Microsoft Word tell him he can’t spell ‘colour’, because it’s set on American spelling, and they leave out the u.

“Ooh, defensive.” House mutters. “And if you’re talking about the patient having aluminum poisoning, we don’t have that extra i. ‘Aluminium’. What is all *that* about? Can’t you Brits even speak properly?”

So, now we’re back to House just plain tormenting him. Chase sighs because he brought this whole thing on himself, and keeps clicking ‘correct’ on the spellcheck dialogue box while House mercilessly teases him about his nationality, and his inability to focus, and although the word ‘Vogler’ never comes up (and oddly enough spellcheck won’t accept that either), it might as well, the way it seems to be scrawled across all the walls and painted into the air.

Chase looks up eventually and sees Wilson come in.

“Ooh,” House says, Chase apparently forgotten for a moment, “You can buy me lunch.”

“Why am I buying you lunch today?” asks Wilson, smiling slightly.

“Because I’m crippled.” House responds, limping towards him. Wilson snorts.

“You’ve been using that as an excuse for the last five years. It’s not even a good excuse.”

“Fine, then because Chase is giving me a headache.”

“Why is Chase giving you a headache?”

“Do I need a reason as to why?” House asks. “He just is. With his sheer Chaseness. Maybe I’m allergic to him.” He turns back and smiles. “Hey, I can fire you now. No fat millionaires with bumpy heads to protect you.”

Saying ‘fuck you’ didn’t help before, so Chase doubts it will now. Instead, he watches Wilson walk out without looking at him, all cold angles and medical brilliance and Chase feels small and young and frightened and knows that trying to touch Wilson will just result in him cutting his fingers.

“I’m sorry Wilson.” He says softly, as the glass door bangs shut behind the oncologist, and he would lament the fact that he’s lost him, except that he never had him to begin with.

Finis

Incidentally, my spellcheck accepts 'Vogler', because the red wiggly lines everywhere annoyed me, so I added it two days ago



Title: Not Enough
Fandom: House MD
Characters: Chase/Wilson
Prompt: 034. Not Enough
Word Count: 505
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Poem. Chase is never enough for anyone.
Author's Notes: Written when I was high on caffeine on a different day.

Link is to my poetry-writing journal, not my regular one.

And all my other Chase/Wilson ones can be found here.
Tags: house: robert chase/james wilson
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