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

House MD. Chase/Wilson. 062. Spring and 079. When

Title: Let it Slide
Fandom: House MD
Characters: Chase/Wilson
Prompt: 062. Spring
Word Count: 963
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Chase finds out about his father's death.
Author's Notes: Dark!Wilson.  First person.  OOC!  Depressing!  I love it, needless to say.

   It’s more than just fear.  Fear I could work with, sidestep, taste, chew over, spit out, and move on from.  Hell yeah, it’s more than just fear.  In truth, I can’t say what this feeling is- I don’t even know if I like it.  I have the nasty suspicion I do.  Fuck this.


   There’s dirt under my fingernails, rainwater slick in my hair, darkening the colour, making me shiver meaninglessly.  And you, you’re just watching, dark eyes, complete lack of forgiveness there.  I won’t ask for it.  I may have no self-esteem left, but I’ve still got my dignity.  Well, some of it.  I sold most of it in atonement.  Didn’t work, but nothing new there then.


   I won’t say I’m sorry, I’ll just stand here and let you strip my skin off with that glare.  Afterwards, I’ll hand you some salt to rub into the wounds and yes; I am that desperate for any kind of touch.  Sick, huh?  It’s getting dark and I’m beyond saving.  Maybe it’s the weather but I can’t help thinking it’s probably you.


   There’s a bruise on my elbow, purple and swollen with hate from where I banged it on the doorframe getting the hell out of there.  It hurts like buggery and hey- you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?  Not that I’ll ever mention it to anyone.  Not like I could if I wanted to.  And you’re still watching, waiting, staring.


You’re not making this easy, you know?


  Sometimes I feel like I can’t make a difference and I’m not changing anything.  On days when I don’t feel like that, House is only happy to remind me.  Or Foreman will push past my shoulder and call me an asshole under his breath, like rich kids only cry champagne, and anyway, even if we do, he doesn’t get how the bubbles hurt, how it’s ten times worse because no one thinks you have a reason.  Or Cameron will stand there and remind us all that we’re going to hell, because she’s in the race to become a saint before she hits her mid-thirties, and I haven’t even tied my shoes yet.  There’s no point.  The halo would only clash with my hair and oh yeah- I’m fucking the devil aren’t I? 


   I shouldn’t have come here.  I’m not drunk, much, but it’s tipping it down out here and you look so peaceful, silhouetted in the doorway, hair kind of wet from the shower.  I look awful, I must do, knuckles all scraped and what feels like blood at the corner of my mouth.  I feel horrendously out of place here, and I should turn and go, far away to a place where they don’t have oncologists whose touch burns like acid and who are so very, very beautiful.


   You started this.  I sold House out not so I could stay with him, but with you.  You didn’t ask me to do it but I did it anyway, hid my face from everyone else, fell from grace, and it’s really not ok any more. And then, last week, I lost it.  Told you half of that, made up some other shit, told you that you’re a cruel bastard and that I hate you, and you responded with one of those ‘fine, oh well’ sort of replies.  That wasn’t what I needed and I’ve glared at you all week, missed the way you taste, pressed myself into the wall of the shower and screamed so the tiles would block the noise from neighbours that don’t care anyway.


   My dad died.  Of stage four lung cancer.  I got the call this morning.


So what, I was just a pity fuck?


   I accuse you, you say nothing, and the rain is still falling.  I think I killed a woman today.  She’s got kids.  She’s got people who care about her.  And her liver is failing.  That one is my fault, definitely, and House is never going to let me forget it.  I probably won’t let me forget it either.  And Foreman’s glares are getting harsher than yours.


   And everyone thinks House is the cruel, manipulative one.  House, with those blue eyes that slice holes in your soul, and I used to think I loved you except that I was never quite that naïve.  I learned my lessons in the grazed knees of my youth and I’m lonely, always lonely, and it’s funny that Cameron thinks you’re the one that needs fixing.


My dad died.


And you knew.


   There’s very little I can say; even less that I want to, words dripped away weeks ago and you aren’t looking too eloquent yourself.  Or perhaps you just don’t want to talk to me.  I don’t blame you.


   You weren’t a pity fuck, you say, and I find it hard to believe you.  There’s no tenderness in your voice and this grief, this shock, makes me feel sick.  I don’t know how I got here either.  It’s been raining for a long time but that means very little.  I want you to hurt me and I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual. 


   It’s the twenty-fourth of May and your lips are soft as ever, which is always undermined by the razorblades in the way you kiss, deeply and endlessly until my mouth bruises under yours and I keep meaning to ask you if you think I taste better when I’m crying, and I really ought to stop you.  Water pelts down around us and I’m sort of sobbing only I’m not, I’m not.


Are you coming in?


   Your whisper brushes past my ear and it would be so easy to say ‘no’, turn around, and walk away. 


It would be so damn fucking easy.


But I always learn these things the hard way.


Title: If Not Now...
Fandom: House MD
Characters: Chase, Wilson, House
Prompt: 079. When
Word Count: 545
Rating: PG
Summary: Wilson plays the waiting game.
Author's Notes: Heh.  Gen.  Ish.  Maybe slashy if you squint.

   Rowan Chase has a Czech accent with about thirty years of Aussie in it, a tightness to the edge of his jaw that belies how relaxed he pretends to look, and stage four lung cancer.  James Wilson guiltily looks at a file full of hopelessness.  Rowan is going to die.

  “How long?”

  “Two months.”

   The silence is long and unbearable and James imagines Chase crying for a moment, young and impossibly blonde, and asks Rowan whether he’s going to see his son while he’s here.

  “I might,” Rowan replies, taking the file away from James, straightening his collar.  He wonders if this man is in the least bit devastated.  He’s so quiet.

  “You should tell him,” James pushes.

  “Will that solve anything?” Rowan asks with a bitter smile.  “Stick to your job, Dr Wilson.  I’ll do what I have to do.”

   James bites his lips together and says nothing.




  “Did you tell him?” he asks House.  House shakes his head.


  “Why not?”

  “Chase doesn’t want to know.  He and his father are just too screwed up.”

  “So what, he’s going to find out from CNN?”

  “Does Chase watch CNN?  He strikes me as the sort of guy who’d watch-”


   There’s a pause.

  “It shouldn’t come from me.  It can’t come from you.  And I’m not telling Cameron, no matter how much she’d want to comfort him.  So.”

  “CNN it is then.”




   James mulls over the scotch in his glass in the almost-empty house.  Julie’s fast asleep in bed, having given up waiting for him.  Like she does every night.  But he doesn’t want to talk about it.  The phone crackles into life, ringing and ringing, and he doesn’t answer it.  Eventually, the answering machine picks up.

  “Dr Wilson?”  Czech, with about thirty years of Aussie.  “My flight leaves in a few minutes, and I know I won’t get another chance to say this.  I won’t see Robert again.”  There is an aching pause while James continues to look at the golden liquid in his glass, and the answer machine plays people wandering around in the background of the call.  “Look after him for me.”

   Rowan puts the phone down a second later, and James sits in agony in the silence, an agony of indecision because it’s an impossible position to be in, and he’s not like House.  He doesn’t have leg pain to keep him awake at night beside his miserable wife, so it has to be something else. 



  “Chase?” And the name leaves his mouth and he can’t do it now either.

  “What?” Chase looks up, chewing the end of his pen.

  “Nothing.” James turns away, because he can’t.  He *can’t*.




   James picks up the newspaper every day, reads the obituaries, plays Russian Roulette waiting for that one particular name.  All he learns is that a lot of people die, and a lot of people are sad about them.  And time ticks by quietly, messily, and James waits and waits and waits.  He watches Chase falling into the cracks of House’s games and he doesn’t do anything to help him and he realises that this wasn’t quite what Rowan meant when he asked him to look after his son.


And then the barrel stops clicking on empty chambers.

Tags: house: robert chase/james wilson
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