rounding the horn
Apr. 1st, 2000 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
levendis"Heart of Oak"
House/Chase, House/Wilson
PG-13 or so
In which there are bad jokes, sexual tension, and general unpleasantness. Chase has a problem with neediness.
Chase made the mistake of telling House that his father owned a yacht. He'd almost winced in anticipation before House started talking about rum and pirate wenches, and then smiled in spite of himself, like he always does. Like now: some poor kid whose body is rebelling against him, and Chase knows it's something interesting because House has that glint in his eye, that same sharp insult on the tip of his tongue. Lively, now.
"Do you know what you're doing, or are you just making stuff up again? If you're wrong, the kid could - "
"Oh, don't wimp out on me now. Whatever happened to 'heart of oak', sailor boy?" House grins with more energy than is strictly needed.
Chase thinks about saying I haven't been at sea since I was twelve or maybe just it isn't funny anymore, but he shrugs, smiles, looks away: House has already moved on, awkwardly rushing ahead of him.
*
Wilson is not a master of emotional subtlety: eyebrows pressed down in an almost comical expression of concern, shoulders drooping in supplication: his tone of voice when he says the least you could do is look at me when you insult me.
It makes him obscurely angry, like it's the world itself that's at fault. Wilson's a steady supply of the kind of open-armed helplessness and clumsy manipulation that reminds him of the phone calls he used to get at school: Robbie darling please come home, just for the weekend, I've been so lonely, and he'd crush the phone cord in his hand, trying to ignore the weight in his chest. Like now.
Chase looks up at Wilson again, then over at House, whose face is already starting to fall into capitulation: if it were anyone else, he'd refuse the case, but oh, Wilson -
He needs everything, and he gets everything.
The bottom hem of Wilson's sweater vest is beginning to unravel, and Chase imagines leaning over and wrapping that bit of yarn around his finger, tugging and tugging til it all comes apart.
"I'm staying late," Wilson says.
"Don't you have a wife to go home to?" Chase asks impulsively, with less humor than he intended.
Wilson stiffens immediately, then pretends that his pager's gone off. "I'll talk to you later, House," he says with ineffective cheer, then walks off with his clipboard pressed tightly to his chest.
"That was uncalled for." House swivels around, most of his weight held up by the cane, his back crooked.
"And what was called for?"
"Nothing, Chase. You should say nothing. Little boys should be seen and not heard." He smirks, and he tries too hard again, like maybe if he uses as many muscles as he can with each facial expression, no one will expect him to say anything. Chase swallows, hard.
"What's your deal, Chase? Honestly, now." House takes a step towards him, planting his cane in front of Chase's shoes. "I've been trying to figure you out, and I gotta admit, I'm stumped. Is there trouble at home? Daddy took away your Porsche?"
Fuck you, Chase thinks, but realizes he's said it aloud when House's face scrunches up in suprise, his mouth already openening for a response. "Sorry," he chokes out, sounding strangled and castrated. "I have clinic duty, I have to go," and he squints to keep out the glare from the glass walls as he fumbles his way out of the office.
*
Nights in his apartment - on the nights before early mornings, the nights when he leaves with a few minutes to spare - he slumps down in front of the TV with one hand on the remote and the other absentmindedly thumbing through his address book.
Janie, 555-6278. He had told her he was a doctor and she'd asked him if any of his patients had ever died. Yeah, he'd said. Yeah people have died. It's hard, you know? It's tough to deal with sometimes.
Sympathy card, and she'd taken it. She had a mole on her lower back and she'd laughed when he kissed her anywhere that wasn't her mouth; she'd walked off with one of his t-shirts. He hadn't told her that most days he just sat in an office playing Minesweeper, waiting for House to tell him what to do.
He sat there tapping the open address book on his thigh, thinking about Janie, and House, and wondering how many people get paid to think up reality shows for VH1, and if it was worth it to get up and go to bed, or if he should let himself fall asleep on the couch.
*
He dreams, now, of things he half-wishes he'd never even thought of. Sometimes they're in the hospital, sometimes at his apartment, but House always pushes Chase's hair out of his eyes, and always leans the cane between his legs, and always grins so hard it almost looks like it hurts.
Chase dreams of bowing his head over House's shoulder and saying people's lives are in my hands all the time.
He wakes up in the morning feeling sick. Maybe it's inherited, maybe it was taught, maybe it's just fate punching him in the face but oh, oh, there: that creeping scratching feeling in his chest, that thickness in his throat that means he's involved whether he wants to be or not. He knows he'd never cry but House makes his eyes hurt, and he feels like calling him just to say it: Dr. House, you give me headaches, and I don't know how I feel about that.
*
After lunch, Chase waits for House to leave before turning to Wilson with his arms folded and his chin stuck out. He's had this planned.
"He doesn't need you."
"I know that." Wilson doesn't look at him; his head's down, maybe he's looking at his brand-new Italian leather shoes. Chase hated them when he first saw them, then hated them even more when House made a joke about Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Wilson's eyes lit up, like he'd bought them just to get a rise out of House.
"No, I don't think you do. You think - cane. Emotionally distant. Psychological issues. Show him a little friendliness, hey, he should be all over you, right? But it doesn't work like that, and so you push. You take him off drugs - which, let me tell you, is a dumb fucking idea and you should've known better - you take him off drugs so he'll use you as a crutch. That's sick, Wilson, that's a fucking sick thing to do."
"I don't think I've ever heard you say so much at once."
Chase just glares at him, hands trembling in his lap.
"That's a bad diagnosis, Chase."
"It's the best one I have," he says flatly, then stands up, the scrape of his chair against the concrete ringing in his ears. "Those are really ugly shoes, by the way. Wife pick them out?"
*
Midnight, one of those nights where he can't make himself drink with other people and he's sprawled out on his sofa, the TV turned to QVC and the blinds drawn. His address book's in his hand again - brown leather, a gift from his father, and he's turning it over and over and watching the glint of the faded embossed gold monogram. He's thinking about Erin from Bookkeeping, or the red shirt House wore today, or maybe nothing at all.
He pours himself another drink, and wonders if this will be the one that makes him finally pick up the phone.
*
He watches them walk down the hall, Wilson with his pressed khakis and nervous hands, House with his angry limp and Vicodin, and he imagines he can hear the soft pop of the cap coming off the bottle. Chase wants to run up to them, to stop House with a hand on his rumpled jacket and ask him what happens after forty years of brushing everything off, after seven years of choking on your own self-defences. He wants to ask, maybe, What will keep me from turning into you? or What the fuck am I doing here?
But he just stands there, rubbing his thumb against the manila folder in his hand, not really noticing Cameron walking up to him.
"Something wrong?" she asks, with less subtlety than she intended.
Chase blinks, then lets his expression calmly fall into neutral. "No, just trying to figure out this case. You said he's developing respiratory problems?"
Cameron gives him a look, then moves on with this frown that probably means she thinks she'll get the truth later. "His heart rate's steady, but - "
Chase holds a hand up to stop her and says "Do you think we could wait until we get to the lounge? I've been running around all day, and I'd like to catch my breath for once." He smiles easily at her, and she smiles back.
"Yeah, it's been a long day for all of us," she says, but he's already stopped listening.
-------
A/N: "Heart of Oak" is an old sailor's song. House misquotes it, but there you are.
House/Chase, House/Wilson
PG-13 or so
In which there are bad jokes, sexual tension, and general unpleasantness. Chase has a problem with neediness.
Chase made the mistake of telling House that his father owned a yacht. He'd almost winced in anticipation before House started talking about rum and pirate wenches, and then smiled in spite of himself, like he always does. Like now: some poor kid whose body is rebelling against him, and Chase knows it's something interesting because House has that glint in his eye, that same sharp insult on the tip of his tongue. Lively, now.
"Do you know what you're doing, or are you just making stuff up again? If you're wrong, the kid could - "
"Oh, don't wimp out on me now. Whatever happened to 'heart of oak', sailor boy?" House grins with more energy than is strictly needed.
Chase thinks about saying I haven't been at sea since I was twelve or maybe just it isn't funny anymore, but he shrugs, smiles, looks away: House has already moved on, awkwardly rushing ahead of him.
Wilson is not a master of emotional subtlety: eyebrows pressed down in an almost comical expression of concern, shoulders drooping in supplication: his tone of voice when he says the least you could do is look at me when you insult me.
It makes him obscurely angry, like it's the world itself that's at fault. Wilson's a steady supply of the kind of open-armed helplessness and clumsy manipulation that reminds him of the phone calls he used to get at school: Robbie darling please come home, just for the weekend, I've been so lonely, and he'd crush the phone cord in his hand, trying to ignore the weight in his chest. Like now.
Chase looks up at Wilson again, then over at House, whose face is already starting to fall into capitulation: if it were anyone else, he'd refuse the case, but oh, Wilson -
He needs everything, and he gets everything.
The bottom hem of Wilson's sweater vest is beginning to unravel, and Chase imagines leaning over and wrapping that bit of yarn around his finger, tugging and tugging til it all comes apart.
"I'm staying late," Wilson says.
"Don't you have a wife to go home to?" Chase asks impulsively, with less humor than he intended.
Wilson stiffens immediately, then pretends that his pager's gone off. "I'll talk to you later, House," he says with ineffective cheer, then walks off with his clipboard pressed tightly to his chest.
"That was uncalled for." House swivels around, most of his weight held up by the cane, his back crooked.
"And what was called for?"
"Nothing, Chase. You should say nothing. Little boys should be seen and not heard." He smirks, and he tries too hard again, like maybe if he uses as many muscles as he can with each facial expression, no one will expect him to say anything. Chase swallows, hard.
"What's your deal, Chase? Honestly, now." House takes a step towards him, planting his cane in front of Chase's shoes. "I've been trying to figure you out, and I gotta admit, I'm stumped. Is there trouble at home? Daddy took away your Porsche?"
Fuck you, Chase thinks, but realizes he's said it aloud when House's face scrunches up in suprise, his mouth already openening for a response. "Sorry," he chokes out, sounding strangled and castrated. "I have clinic duty, I have to go," and he squints to keep out the glare from the glass walls as he fumbles his way out of the office.
Nights in his apartment - on the nights before early mornings, the nights when he leaves with a few minutes to spare - he slumps down in front of the TV with one hand on the remote and the other absentmindedly thumbing through his address book.
Janie, 555-6278. He had told her he was a doctor and she'd asked him if any of his patients had ever died. Yeah, he'd said. Yeah people have died. It's hard, you know? It's tough to deal with sometimes.
Sympathy card, and she'd taken it. She had a mole on her lower back and she'd laughed when he kissed her anywhere that wasn't her mouth; she'd walked off with one of his t-shirts. He hadn't told her that most days he just sat in an office playing Minesweeper, waiting for House to tell him what to do.
He sat there tapping the open address book on his thigh, thinking about Janie, and House, and wondering how many people get paid to think up reality shows for VH1, and if it was worth it to get up and go to bed, or if he should let himself fall asleep on the couch.
He dreams, now, of things he half-wishes he'd never even thought of. Sometimes they're in the hospital, sometimes at his apartment, but House always pushes Chase's hair out of his eyes, and always leans the cane between his legs, and always grins so hard it almost looks like it hurts.
Chase dreams of bowing his head over House's shoulder and saying people's lives are in my hands all the time.
He wakes up in the morning feeling sick. Maybe it's inherited, maybe it was taught, maybe it's just fate punching him in the face but oh, oh, there: that creeping scratching feeling in his chest, that thickness in his throat that means he's involved whether he wants to be or not. He knows he'd never cry but House makes his eyes hurt, and he feels like calling him just to say it: Dr. House, you give me headaches, and I don't know how I feel about that.
After lunch, Chase waits for House to leave before turning to Wilson with his arms folded and his chin stuck out. He's had this planned.
"He doesn't need you."
"I know that." Wilson doesn't look at him; his head's down, maybe he's looking at his brand-new Italian leather shoes. Chase hated them when he first saw them, then hated them even more when House made a joke about Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Wilson's eyes lit up, like he'd bought them just to get a rise out of House.
"No, I don't think you do. You think - cane. Emotionally distant. Psychological issues. Show him a little friendliness, hey, he should be all over you, right? But it doesn't work like that, and so you push. You take him off drugs - which, let me tell you, is a dumb fucking idea and you should've known better - you take him off drugs so he'll use you as a crutch. That's sick, Wilson, that's a fucking sick thing to do."
"I don't think I've ever heard you say so much at once."
Chase just glares at him, hands trembling in his lap.
"That's a bad diagnosis, Chase."
"It's the best one I have," he says flatly, then stands up, the scrape of his chair against the concrete ringing in his ears. "Those are really ugly shoes, by the way. Wife pick them out?"
Midnight, one of those nights where he can't make himself drink with other people and he's sprawled out on his sofa, the TV turned to QVC and the blinds drawn. His address book's in his hand again - brown leather, a gift from his father, and he's turning it over and over and watching the glint of the faded embossed gold monogram. He's thinking about Erin from Bookkeeping, or the red shirt House wore today, or maybe nothing at all.
He pours himself another drink, and wonders if this will be the one that makes him finally pick up the phone.
He watches them walk down the hall, Wilson with his pressed khakis and nervous hands, House with his angry limp and Vicodin, and he imagines he can hear the soft pop of the cap coming off the bottle. Chase wants to run up to them, to stop House with a hand on his rumpled jacket and ask him what happens after forty years of brushing everything off, after seven years of choking on your own self-defences. He wants to ask, maybe, What will keep me from turning into you? or What the fuck am I doing here?
But he just stands there, rubbing his thumb against the manila folder in his hand, not really noticing Cameron walking up to him.
"Something wrong?" she asks, with less subtlety than she intended.
Chase blinks, then lets his expression calmly fall into neutral. "No, just trying to figure out this case. You said he's developing respiratory problems?"
Cameron gives him a look, then moves on with this frown that probably means she thinks she'll get the truth later. "His heart rate's steady, but - "
Chase holds a hand up to stop her and says "Do you think we could wait until we get to the lounge? I've been running around all day, and I'd like to catch my breath for once." He smiles easily at her, and she smiles back.
"Yeah, it's been a long day for all of us," she says, but he's already stopped listening.
-------
A/N: "Heart of Oak" is an old sailor's song. House misquotes it, but there you are.
