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

House MD Chase/Wilson 064. Fall

Title: Pre-Lapsarian
Fandom: House MD
Characters: Chase, Wilson, House
Prompt: 064. Fall
Word Count: 948
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Chase's fall from grace.  Vogler days.
Author's Notes: I rather like this one.  Heh.

Since then you’ve never come clean- I mean, you wish you only could

Train

 

   Robert Chase, face of an angel, golden hair, bright blue eyes, accent twisting all words into something sensual even when they’re not.  He’s the golden boy; he could go so far, he just needs to learn a few things.  At least that was what James always thought, what a lot of people thought.

  “He sold me out.” House says quietly, toying with his cane, chewing together his lips, face twisted with both anger and grief, emotions that no one else gets to see.  “Bastard sold me out.” He says again, and James thinks, God, how fast angels fall.

 

   Robert Chase, House’s unofficial whipping-boy, and heading straight for official if he keeps this up, gnaws his thumbnail and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

  “What made you think this could end well?” asks Foreman carefully.  He flushes, doesn’t say anything, fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, waits for the other man’s questioning gaze to shift off him.  It doesn’t.

  “I don’t think he was thinking at all.” House says, piercing gaze sweeping through Chase, and James can’t look at him, can’t look at that carefully projected veneer of calm, because underneath it he can almost taste the terror.

 

  Robert Chase, walking around like he owns the hospital, that little smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, looks like he’s loving this, adoring his role as Judas.  But when he thinks no one else is looking, his expression crumples and breaks, and James is astounded by the vulnerability and guilt spread across his face.   

 

   Robert Chase, clinging onto his pride and job with bleeding fingernails, watches Vogler walk past and closes those blue eyes like he’s in pain.  In fact, he’s just trapped, tied up with a million threads of his own fashioning, and James has little-to-no sympathy for him- House won’t forget this in a hurry, and Cameron and Foreman are more and more on edge, and nothing is quite right, and all of this can be traced back to Chase.  James says nothing, and acts as House’s confidant (or perhaps his priest, except that House has gone far beyond the forgive me father for I have sinned stage), listens to the hurt that House will never admit to anyone, doesn’t get involved because this has nothing to do with him.

 

   Robert Chase, once perfect, now fallen so far from grace that it isn’t funny anymore, averts his eyes from the sparkling white labcoat House found in the back of his wardrobe (not worn for almost ten years) and is now wearing in a last-ditch attempt to save his team. 

  “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” asks James quietly.  Chase ignores him, and James supposes that was rather unkind, but then the time has come for cruel and unusual punishment, since nothing else seems to work.

 

   Robert Chase, playing a game that he’s losing, and in fact never knew the rules for, pushes people further and further away, until Cameron quits and Foreman actually hates him, and House can barely bring himself to be in the same room as him.  James never had a relationship of any kind with Chase for the young man to ruin, and for that he is thankful.  And then James finds himself fired and House is inches away from being thrown out too, and the game’s suddenly got a little complicated.  As James walks out, he sees House turn to Chase, and say:

  “Match point.”

 

   Robert Chase, eyes like the devil, fingers cold and trembling, not quite the man he used to be, probably never will be again.  His breath comes in ragged gasps and his hair falls into his eyes, no longer blonde, black shirt, black jeans, the sinner he is practically painted across his skin like a tattoo.  James silently thanks God that Julie isn’t here tonight, and he bites his lips together to maintain silence, and Chase stays on his knees with that angelic mouth beginning to pay his penance.  He wants to tell him to get up, but he doesn’t, just keeps his gaze on the ceiling, and thinks, purely and simply, I’m going to hell for this.  And then he looks down at the boy kneeling in front of him, freezing hands not quite touching his hips, and realises that at least he won’t be alone.

 

   Robert Chase, perpetual fuck-up, who just can’t quite manage the art of being graceful when he’s stabbing people in the back, looks more lost than James has ever seen anyone look before.  Even more lost than cancer patients, even more lost than his wives in those divorce hearings, even more than House in those dark, dark infarction-and-Stacy days (the pain of the two has simply melted into one), even more lost than his own face in the mirror. 

 

   Robert Chase, drenched in sin, steeped in it, sips champagne and doesn’t let that façade down and James avoids his gaze because when someone’s fallen that far and that hard it’s painful to look at the consequences, even if they’re not quite a smashed corpse on the sidewalk (James never did get the hang of rubbernecking).

 

   Robert Chase, blue shirt, blue eyes, wings not so much clipped as ripped out feather by wicked feather, doesn’t try to apologise, doesn’t try to justify himself, doesn’t really change anything at all, and James wants to ask him whether it was worth it, except that he already knows the answer.  So he says nothing, tells House to fire his own fallen angel (and is comparing Chase to Lucifer a step too far?), smiles slightly, and tries not to look too hard at Chase realising he’ll never get clean and pure again.  Who knew prayers could stain?

Tags: house: robert chase/james wilson
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