Beginnings: The Threesome Prequel 1.1/?
Beginnings: The Threesome Prequel
Pairing: House/Wilson/Chase
Rating: NC-17 overall; NC-17 this chapter
Summary: Chase develops a relationship with House and Wilson, while adjusting to a new job in PPTH's Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Takes place some indefinite amount of time in the future.
In this chapter: Chase hangs out with House and Wilson at home.
Chase stares into the depths of his locker, looking for the answer to the most important question on his mind right now-what to do now that he was finally done for the day. It had been the shift from hell. There were three new patients in the NICU-- one a 26-week preemie they’d been standing by for since her mother had been admitted with premature labor earlier in the week, one a completely unexpected 28-weeker, and the last a shaken baby who also appeared to have aspiration pneumonia-and between those three and the six neonates already there, the day had been one crisis after another. Two babies had almost died, one had almost died twice, and a third had died. The latter wasn’t very surprising-she’d been born at 23 weeks, which was about as early as a baby could come and have any chance at all-but they’d kept her alive for almost ten days, and everyone had started feeling cautiously optimistic.
But he’s done now-done for the whole weekend-and free to seek the oblivion of his choice. The question is, what to do: go home and settle into the comforting embrace of his sofa and drink until he passes out? Or go to a club and get high enough to forget who he is, and then-if he’s lucky, and he usually is-fuck someone he’ll never see again.
He ought to do some laundry, pay some bills, take out the fucking trash-but he just can’t face any of those things. He’s been dealing with much harder, much more important chores all day, and he just can’t handle one more thing, one more moment of pretending to be a responsible adult.
But getting drunk doesn’t hold much appeal, and neither does getting high, to be honest. Either one would do, in a pinch, but they’re not what he really wants. There’s another option, but it’s not something he can just decide to do. And he’s not usually that kind of lucky.
But it is a Friday. Fridays are usually good for this sort of thing. He slinks out of the men’s locker room and makes his way toward what used to be his office.
He can barely stand to think about the place, much less talk or be nice to the new crop of fellows-Veronica Moore, Tim Wardle, and Angus Chen-who have replaced him, Cameron, and Foreman. He understands he ought to be proud that he’s finished his fellowship, and even prouder that he was the only one of the three to be offered-or recommended for-a position at PPTH afterwards, but when he can’t avoid the subject, all he really thinks about it is that he wishes it hadn’t had to end.
Still, he can’t avoid that entire corridor forever, and he especially can’t avoid it if he’s going to pretend to casually bump into someone who works there.
He pauses just outside the elevators to make sure he looks casual enough. He doesn’t care one way or the other what happens next. Might be fun, but he has plenty of other things he can do with his weekend. No worries, mate.
He passes Wilson’s office first, and he’s in luck-they’re both there, Wilson sitting at the desk with his sleeves rolled up, House perched on the edge of it, doing something with his yo-yo. Chase hesitates outside the door, and pretends to be surprised when Wilson gestures for him to come in.
“You look like hell, Chase,” House says.
“Thanks,” Chase says.
“I heard it was kind of a rough day in the NICU,” Wilson adds.
Chase nods. “Kind of.”
House and Wilson look at each other in that way that makes Chase more that halfway sure they’re telepathic or something.
“I could make pasta,” Wilson says, sounding like he’s responding to something House said.
“With those little tomatoes?”
“Sure, if we stop and buy some.”
“Get some beer, while you’re there.” He turns to Chase. “Want to come over? Wilson’s cooking.”
Chase pretends to think about it, then nods. “Sure. I don’t have plans.”
“I have a couple of things to finish up here,” Wilson says. “Come by around seven.”
“Okay. Want me to bring anything?”
“No, we’ve got it covered.” House thumps him on the shoulder, and he leaves.
Chase is careful not to get to House and Wilson’s place too early. He’s sure that if they even begin to guess how much he needs this, they’ll drop him like a hot rock.
He’s not particularly nervous, now. The first time House and Wilson had invited him over for drinks, after his fellowship ended, he hadn’t known quite what to expect. He hadn’t even been completely sure that House and Wilson were a couple-they certainly acted like it, but they always had, even when Wilson was still married. When they’d started making out on the couch, in front of him, he’d figured they’d been counting on the amusement value of shocking and embarrassing him. When House had invited him to join in, he’d been even surer that no matter what he did, how he reacted, they were going to laugh at him.
It was a damn good thing he’d taken the chance. They’d taken him to bed and fucked him thoroughly enough that he forgot to be afraid, forgot to be embarrassed, forgot to worry about what they were going to think of him in the morning.
That had come later. He’d dozed for a little while at the foot of their bed. When he’d woken up, he sat up and looked at the two of them, asleep in each other’s arms, and wondered what he was doing there. What they could possibly want from him, except a conveniently pliable extra body. He’d gotten up and gathered his clothes as quietly as he could, hoping to sneak out without waking either of them, determined to pretend nothing had ever happened.
House had woken up, though. He’d looked at him and said, “Where are you going? Stay. Wilson’ll make breakfast in a few hours, you don’t want to miss that.”
He’d stayed, and they hadn’t made fun of him (much), and a couple of weeks later they’d invited him over to do it all again. He was fairly sure, by now, that they liked him, at least a little bit. If they were just using him for sex, they’d spend the bare minimum of time on preliminaries before moving to the bedroom, and kick him out as soon as they decently could. Instead, it seemed like each visit lasted longer than the one before.
Now, he checks his watch. 6:58. He convinces himself it would be stupid to stand here for two minutes, and knocks on the door.
“It’s open!” House calls from inside.
He goes in. House and Wilson are sitting on the couch, Wilson with a sheepish look and a handkerchief wrapped around his hand.
“Wilson cut his hand and got blood all over the food,” House reports. “But it’s okay, I saved the beer.” He gestures to the coffee table, where six bottles are lined up like toy soldiers.
“The beer was in the refrigerator,” Wilson points out, with some asperity. “It was never in any danger.”
“You never know. Blood is wily stuff.”
Chase hangs up his coat and comes around the sofa to sit down. “Is your hand okay?” he asks Wilson.
“It’s fine,” House says. “He’s just being a baby about it. We’re going to order Thai instead.”
“Great,” Chase says, because he has to say something. He doesn’t really care what they eat-when he’s not here, he hardly eats anything that could be considered a proper meal, just bits and pieces here and there when he thinks of it. It’s not that he’s not hungry, exactly, just that eating can be so complicated. There are too many steps-going to the grocery store, figuring out what to buy, getting the groceries home and putting them away, cooking, eating, doing the washing up-which you can’t do if you forgot to buy washing-up liquid when you were at the store. He tries to get a square meal at the cafeteria at work every day or two, and grazes out of the vending machines the rest of the time.
“We’ll get some spring rolls and dumplings,” Wilson says, looking at a menu. “And the lemongrass chicken is good. House, what do you want?”
“Shrimp with bean-thread noodles,” House answers, taking a beer from the end of the row and twisting off the cap.
“Chase?” Wilson offers him the menu.
“Whatever,” Chase says, sticking his hands in his pockets. He’s a little annoyed-he doesn’t come here to make decisions. On the contrary. “You pick.”
Wilson throws the menu into his lap. “You’re allowed to have an opinion, you know.” He sounds a little irritated.
Chase takes one hand out of his pocket to put the menu back on the coffee table. “I don’t know what’s good there,” he says defensively.
House looks at him evaluatively. “He’s allowed to have an opinion, but he isn’t obligated. I’ll pick something else, if he doesn’t want to.”
“Okay,” Chase says quickly.
House glances through the menu. “You like spicy things, don’t you, Chase? We’ll get some of the seafood curry with the pineapple,” he tells Wilson.
“Is that what you want, Chase?” Wilson asks pointedly.
“Sure,” Chase says. “It sounds good.” Actually, he’s not sure-pineapple curry doesn’t sound like it would go. But if House thinks he’d like it, he’ll give it a try.
Wilson goes into the kitchen, away from the noise of the TV, to phone in the order. When he comes back, he seems to be over his irritation. “What are we watching tonight?” he asks, settling down on the sofa next to House.
“Monsters Inc,” House answers.
“I thought we were over the cartoon phase,” Wilson complains.
“I love that movie,” House tells him. “And it was my turn to pick.”
“Funny how it’s always your turn.” Wilson pats the sofa next to him. “Come and sit with us, Chase.”
Chase doesn’t have to be told twice. It’s one of the things he likes about this, that they’re affectionate with him. It isn’t just three guys drinking beer and watching movies, and then, whoops! Sex happens.
Wilson drapes his arm around Chase’s shoulders and kisses his temple. “You do look like you had a rough day.”
“Kind of,” Chase admits.
“If you want to talk about it, hurry up,” House reminds him. It’s a rule, that if they absolutely have to talk about work, they have to finish before the food comes. Chase assumes there would be an exception if House wanted to talk about a case, but they’ve never invited him over when House was in the middle of anything interesting, so he isn’t sure.
“It was just a crazy day,” Chase says. “We had nine babies in the NICU for a while.” Nine is their absolute upper limit capacity-any more and there isn’t enough space in the room for the number of staff needed to care for them, even if enough extra nurses can be brought on. “We’re back down to eight-one died.”
Wilson tenses. “Which one?”
Chase remembers that the Trahn baby was delivered early, at 29 weeks, because her mother had to start radiation therapy. “Not her,” he answers. “Laura Collins, the 23-weeker.”
Wilson sighs. “Good. I mean….”
“We know what you mean,” House assures him.
“One of the new patients is a shaken baby, and that’s always a mess. The social worker hasn’t made a determination yet, so the parents are allowed in the unit, but somebody has to watch them every minute. And it looks to the other parents like they’re getting special treatment, but you can’t explain that it’s not a good thing. And of course the kid’s probably going to die because his father’s a moron.”
“What’s the parents’ story?” House wants to know.
“Supposedly, the father was feeding him and he started to choke. Dad didn’t know what to do, so he held the baby upside down and shook him. Injuries are consistent with that explanation, including traces of formula in the baby’s lungs. Mother shows appropriate affect-meaning she’s been crying all day and begging everyone who’ll listen to forgive her-but there’s something off about the dad.”
“What did he do?” Wilson asks.
“Stood around and told his wife he was bored and wanted to go home, mostly.”
“That is pretty weird.”
“The baby’s underweight, too. Tenth percentile for weight and fifty-ninth for length, something like that. Came in a little bit dehydrated, too. If the parents are telling the truth, it sounds like they just don’t know how to take care of a baby, which means they’ll get the kid back if he lives.” Chase hates child abuse cases. It seems like an inane thing to say-no one is actually in favor of child abuse-but there’s something awful about treating a baby and knowing that if you make him well, chances are he’ll be going home to the same people who put him in the hospital in the first place. It’s bizarre-every now and then there’s a story in the news about people having their kids taken away for trivial reasons, but the majority of parents seem to get chance after chance.
“They’re not telling the truth,” House says scornfully. “Who the hell shakes a choking baby? A screaming baby, those are the ones you want to shake.”
Chase shrugs. “I can almost see it, if the dad panicked when the baby started choking. Except he doesn’t seem panicky; he seems annoyed.”
The doorbell rings. House gets up to answer it. “Talk to the mother, on Monday,” he recommends, on his way to the door. “If she’s feeling guilty, she’ll spill her guts to the attractive and sympathetic young doctor.” He pays the delivery guy and brings the food back to the sofa.
For a while, the only conversation is things like, “This is good,” and “Here, try some of this.” The pineapple curry is, as predicted, good. Wilson urges him to eat more every time he pauses; House takes a more direct route and just pops bites of things into his mouth. Chase slides onto the floor under cover of reaching for a beer, and sits with his back to the coffee table, facing House and Wilson. He’s ready to explain that he likes to sit there so he can see them both, but no one asks.
“Chase, open your mouth. I want to try something,” House says, picking up the nearly-empty rice container.
Warily, Chase opens his mouth.
House picks a single grain of rice out of the carton and flicks it toward Chase. He misjudges the necessary force badly, and the rice lands on his lap. House keeps trying, littering the coffee table and rug with rice. A few grains stick to Chase’s shirt; he picks them off and eats them.
“I don’t think that’s going to work, House,” Wilson finally says.
“Guess not. Make some popcorn.”
“We just finished dinner!”
“I want to play catch with Chase.”
Wilson sighs heavily and gathers up the cartons and silverware and takes them to the kitchen. Moments later, the microwave starts up and popcorn begins popping.
House starts up the DVD, and throws popcorn at him during the trailers. At first Chase ducks and weaves to catch the flying kernels; once House has figured out the physics of popcorn-tossing and is hitting his mouth almost every time, he starts trying to avoid them. House catches on quickly and starts anticipating his movements.
“You’re going to put his eye out,” Wilson points out. “And give me some of that.”
House offers him the bowl. “I am not.”
Wilson takes a handful of popcorn. “Don’t come crying to me.” He shrugs.
“The movie’s starting, anyway,” Chase points out. He knows they aren’t really fighting, but it worries him sometimes, anyway.
“True. And I bet you haven’t seen it,” House adds.
“I haven’t,” Chase admits, turning around to face the TV and settling back against House and Wilson’s shins. Another advantage of being on the floor is that he can be between House and Wilson without actually being between them. Up on the sofa, they’re shoulder to shoulder, but Chase has his head on Wilson’s thigh and his arm draped across House’s lap.
“Wilson’s the big blue guy, and I’m the round green guy,” House explains as the movie starts. “You can be the little Asian girl.”
“What little Asian girl?” Chase asks. So far, there aren’t any little girls in the movie.
“You’ll see.”
“This isn’t one of those pornographic cartoons, is it?” Chase is pretty sure it isn’t-what he’d caught of the previews had sounded like ordinary kids’ movies--but you never know with House.
“No. But I have some of those, if you want to watch one later.”
“Nothing with tentacles,” Wilson says. “Seriously. I’ll have nightmares.”
“I think I would, too,” Chase admits.
“Okay, shut up and watch,” House says. “This is a good part.”
By the time the movie ends, Chase is thoroughly absorbed in the story, as House knew he would be. Of course Chase would like kids’ movies. He’s practically a baby himself. An anxious little boy half-crushed under the weight of adult responsibilities.
But he’s relaxed now, a boneless heap between his and Wilson’s feet. House pokes around among the dead soldiers on the coffee table and finds one half-full beer-probably the one Chase had started back while they were eating dinner. He doesn’t refuse alcohol-probably because it would attract too much attention-but House has never seen him drunk, either.
House sucks down most of the beer, then holds the bottle up to Chase’s mouth. “You want?”
Chase nods, and House tips the rest into his mouth. Chase sucks absently at the lip of the bottle until House takes it away from him and gives Chase his fingers to suck, instead. It’s always fun to do that, and see how long it takes for Chase to remember to do something lewd with them.
While he’s waiting, he kisses Wilson. Wilson sucks on his lower lip, then House opens his mouth to let his tongue in. At about the same time, Chase does his best to deep-throat House’s fingers-which, although long, aren’t quite that long, but House gets the general idea. Shaking Wilson off, he asks, “Are you boys ready for bed?”
Wilson says, “Yes.” Chase just nods. Both watch him eagerly.
One of the things that makes this relationship work is a clear delineation of responsibilities. Wilson does the cooking. House stage-directs the sex. He’s been involved in three-ways where no one’s in charge, and someone always ends up being left out, or getting elbowed in the groin, or both.
“Chase, go in the bedroom, get undressed, and lay down on top of the covers. We’ll be in shortly.” While Wilson likes a long, slow buildup-he’s such a girl that way-Chase seems to respond well to a few minutes of isolation and frustration followed by sudden, almost overwhelming sensation. It’s almost like he forgets they’re there, or doesn’t really believe they’re coming back, during those few minutes alone, and their rejoining him is a delightful surprise.
After a few more moments of necking, House strokes Wilson’s chest, rubbing briskly along the sternum and then slipping between the buttons of his shirt to tease his nipples.
“Don’t forget Chase,” Wilson reminds him between kisses.
“I’m not.” After a few more minutes of kissing and teasing and stroking Wilson through his jeans, they stumble down the hall to the bedroom. Chase is curled up in the middle of the bed, naked, shivering slightly. He props himself up on his elbows when House and Wilson come in, watching them intently. “Good boy,” House says, unbuttoning Wilson’s shirt the rest of the way and throwing it in the general direction of the chair where Chase’s clothes are neatly folded. Motioning for Wilson to finish undressing himself, he nudges Chase out of the way with his cane and stretches out on the bed, sitting up against the headboard.
“Robbie, come up here,” he says, patting his chest. “Jimmy, get behind him.” A few minutes of kissing and groping will be nice, he thinks, before they move on to the main event.
Chase scrambles up against him, and in moments he’s pressed between them, House’s tongue in his mouth, and Wilson kissing his way down his spine. Chase is panting and making little moans and whimpers of enjoyment-he tends to go pre-verbal during sex, which can be very amusing to play with. House decides its time to get things going, and motions for Chase to get between his legs.
Chase tries, but one of his legs is tangled up in Wilson’s somehow, and he ends up sprawling across House’s lap instead. Struggling to right himself, he plants on hand squarely on what’s left of House’s right thigh.
When he realizes what he’s done, he draws away like he’s been burned and scampers to the other corner of the bed, apologizing shakily. “I’m sorry, House, I didn’t mean to, are you okay? Oh, God, I need to be more careful, are you mad at me? I didn’t--”
“Chase,” House interrupts. “It’s fine.”
He sniffs. “You sure?”
“It’s chronic nerve pain, Chase. It’s not going to make it hurt any worse if you touch it, or bump it, or jostle it, or lean on it.” What he’s saying is mostly true-if his leg is hurting him a lot, he doesn’t like having it touched, but that’s psychological.
Chase looks at him warily. “What about that time you hit it against the desk and yelled?”
“I hit my kneecap on the desk. It’d hurt if you did that, too.” He glances at Wilson for backup.
“It’s true,” Wilson affirms. “You didn’t hurt him. You’re not going to hurt him.”
House almost hears a whooshing sound as his plans for the evening go down the drain. He’d had something fun planned, but this is, unfortunately, more important. He unbuttons his jeans and wriggles out of them. “C’mere,” he tells Chase.
Chase crawls up to him, on his belly, like a beaten dog.
He takes one of Chase’s hands and puts it on the furrow in his thigh. “Look.” He usually keeps most of his clothes on during sex-it’s hot, being the only one of the three of them with anything on-so Chase has probably not so much as glimpsed his injury, much less had a good look at it. He understands the medical principles involved, of course-he is a doctor--but on a simple physical level, it’s probably a bit mysterious to him.
Chase turns his head to the side, avoiding looking at his leg, although he doesn’t quite dare take his hand off of it. House shares an exasperated glance with Wilson.
Wilson gets up beside Chase. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s just his leg. It’s not going to hurt him, and it’s not going to hurt you, either.” He puts his hand on top of Chase’s and traces the scar with their joined hands. Chase wriggles like he’s trying to escape for a second or two, then relaxes. After a few more seconds, he turns his head back to look at House’s leg, and a moment later, Wilson releases his hand and leaves him to explore on his own.
House isn’t sure why Chase was so freaked out by his leg in the first place, but the longer he explores it, the more comfortable he seems.
He must be doing something right, then. Chase keeps looking and touching for a while, then-with an anxious glance up at House to make sure it’s okay-kisses his scar. House lets him carry on, making the occasional encouraging noise. Wilson settles next to him, resting his head on House’s shoulder.
After a while, Chase drifts from the damaged area of House’s leg to his inner thigh and on up to the crotch. “You want to suck me off, Robbie?” he asks.
“Uh-huh,” Chase says into the fabric of his boxers.
“Okay. Go on, then.” It’s not what he had planned, but it’s late, and he’s suddenly tired. Logistically it’s easier-they don’t need lube, or even condoms-Chase hates the taste of latex as much as he loves come, and oral sex is low-risk for just about everything-and there’s virtually no cleanup.
Chase takes him out of his boxers and licks sloppily at the head of his cock before taking it all in. House tangles his hand in Chase’s hair and tries not to buck his hips, letting Chase work at his own pace. With his other hand he finds Wilson’s cock and strokes briskly.
Wilson comes in his hand, and he comes down Chase’s throat. Chase settles down with his head on House’s stomach.
“Here, lick this off, before you get too comfy,” House tells him, offering his hand. “Oh, good,” Chase says sleepily, “Wilson’s come.” He sucks it off of House’s fingers.
“There’s some on my stomach, too,” Wilson points out.
“Slob,” House says.
Chase contorts himself to lick Wilson’s belly clean while still staying pressed up against House.
House frowns a little, looking at him. Chase likes both of them, but he’s always been more drawn to House than to Wilson, and, as much as he likes being the center of attention, House isn’t going to put up with Chase favoring him too much.
“D’you want to cuddle the puppy tonight, Jimmy?” House asks him, while Chase is still licking him.
“Hm?” Wilson looks up at him. “Sure, okay.”
“Good, you take him then.” House prods Chase until he shifts closer to Wilson. “You finishing there, Robbie? Good,” he says at Chase’s nod, “Lay down over there. Wilson makes a good pillow. He’s fatter, anyway.”
Wilson thwaps him across the shoulder.
With an anxious glance up at him, Chase lays down with his head on Wilson’s stomach.
Wilson rubs his shoulder. “Good boy. You comfy?”
“Uh-huh.”
Wilson prods House and mouths, “He didn’t come.”
House shrugs. “I don’t think he cares. Shut up and go to sleep.”
Chase wakes up snuggled between House and Wilson, his head pillowed on Wilson’s stomach, Wilson’s morning hard-on bobbing enticingly in front of his face.
It’s his considered opinion that you can never have a bad day that starts out like that. Even if it all goes downhill from there, you’re still doing better than average.
He amuses himself for a while by opening and closing each eye in turn, creating the illusion that Wilson’s cock is bouncing. He’s a little bored, but he has to wait until one of the others wakes up and tells him he can suck Wilson’s cock. He figures they’ll let him, since all Wilson got last night was a handjob.
He’s hard, too, but he knows better than to touch himself. Wilson had told him, the first time they slept together, that House was in charge when they were in bed. “You can stop any time, but if you want to play, you have to do what you’re told.” He’d been a little bit afraid at first, that they’d turn out to be into something too hardcore for him, but they weren’t. House just likes calling the shots. He doesn’t know exactly what House will do if he touches himself without permission, and he doesn’t want to find out.
He picks up his head and looks at House and Wilson. Both of them are still asleep.
He puts his head back down and shuts his eyes. It might be a while. But eventually, they’ll wake up, and then there will be sex, and then there will be breakfast. He’s not sure when he’s last had a cooked breakfast, apart from here. Mum used to make a big breakfast on Sunday mornings, after church, when he was very little, before she started drinking so much. When his father still went to church with them. But that was a long time ago. He’d tried, after, to make his own Sunday breakfast, but the eggs had stuck to the pan, and he’d burned the toast, and mum had to get up to turn off the smoke detector. The pan had soaked in the sink for three days, until Mum threw it in the bin and told him not to try to cook anymore.
In a little while, Wilson will make breakfast. It might be those pancakes that are so good, or maybe eggs and sausages. Like Mum used to do.
He drifts back into sleep, thinking about sex and breakfast.
Pairing: House/Wilson/Chase
Rating: NC-17 overall; NC-17 this chapter
Summary: Chase develops a relationship with House and Wilson, while adjusting to a new job in PPTH's Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Takes place some indefinite amount of time in the future.
In this chapter: Chase hangs out with House and Wilson at home.
Chase stares into the depths of his locker, looking for the answer to the most important question on his mind right now-what to do now that he was finally done for the day. It had been the shift from hell. There were three new patients in the NICU-- one a 26-week preemie they’d been standing by for since her mother had been admitted with premature labor earlier in the week, one a completely unexpected 28-weeker, and the last a shaken baby who also appeared to have aspiration pneumonia-and between those three and the six neonates already there, the day had been one crisis after another. Two babies had almost died, one had almost died twice, and a third had died. The latter wasn’t very surprising-she’d been born at 23 weeks, which was about as early as a baby could come and have any chance at all-but they’d kept her alive for almost ten days, and everyone had started feeling cautiously optimistic.
But he’s done now-done for the whole weekend-and free to seek the oblivion of his choice. The question is, what to do: go home and settle into the comforting embrace of his sofa and drink until he passes out? Or go to a club and get high enough to forget who he is, and then-if he’s lucky, and he usually is-fuck someone he’ll never see again.
He ought to do some laundry, pay some bills, take out the fucking trash-but he just can’t face any of those things. He’s been dealing with much harder, much more important chores all day, and he just can’t handle one more thing, one more moment of pretending to be a responsible adult.
But getting drunk doesn’t hold much appeal, and neither does getting high, to be honest. Either one would do, in a pinch, but they’re not what he really wants. There’s another option, but it’s not something he can just decide to do. And he’s not usually that kind of lucky.
But it is a Friday. Fridays are usually good for this sort of thing. He slinks out of the men’s locker room and makes his way toward what used to be his office.
He can barely stand to think about the place, much less talk or be nice to the new crop of fellows-Veronica Moore, Tim Wardle, and Angus Chen-who have replaced him, Cameron, and Foreman. He understands he ought to be proud that he’s finished his fellowship, and even prouder that he was the only one of the three to be offered-or recommended for-a position at PPTH afterwards, but when he can’t avoid the subject, all he really thinks about it is that he wishes it hadn’t had to end.
Still, he can’t avoid that entire corridor forever, and he especially can’t avoid it if he’s going to pretend to casually bump into someone who works there.
He pauses just outside the elevators to make sure he looks casual enough. He doesn’t care one way or the other what happens next. Might be fun, but he has plenty of other things he can do with his weekend. No worries, mate.
He passes Wilson’s office first, and he’s in luck-they’re both there, Wilson sitting at the desk with his sleeves rolled up, House perched on the edge of it, doing something with his yo-yo. Chase hesitates outside the door, and pretends to be surprised when Wilson gestures for him to come in.
“You look like hell, Chase,” House says.
“Thanks,” Chase says.
“I heard it was kind of a rough day in the NICU,” Wilson adds.
Chase nods. “Kind of.”
House and Wilson look at each other in that way that makes Chase more that halfway sure they’re telepathic or something.
“I could make pasta,” Wilson says, sounding like he’s responding to something House said.
“With those little tomatoes?”
“Sure, if we stop and buy some.”
“Get some beer, while you’re there.” He turns to Chase. “Want to come over? Wilson’s cooking.”
Chase pretends to think about it, then nods. “Sure. I don’t have plans.”
“I have a couple of things to finish up here,” Wilson says. “Come by around seven.”
“Okay. Want me to bring anything?”
“No, we’ve got it covered.” House thumps him on the shoulder, and he leaves.
Chase is careful not to get to House and Wilson’s place too early. He’s sure that if they even begin to guess how much he needs this, they’ll drop him like a hot rock.
He’s not particularly nervous, now. The first time House and Wilson had invited him over for drinks, after his fellowship ended, he hadn’t known quite what to expect. He hadn’t even been completely sure that House and Wilson were a couple-they certainly acted like it, but they always had, even when Wilson was still married. When they’d started making out on the couch, in front of him, he’d figured they’d been counting on the amusement value of shocking and embarrassing him. When House had invited him to join in, he’d been even surer that no matter what he did, how he reacted, they were going to laugh at him.
It was a damn good thing he’d taken the chance. They’d taken him to bed and fucked him thoroughly enough that he forgot to be afraid, forgot to be embarrassed, forgot to worry about what they were going to think of him in the morning.
That had come later. He’d dozed for a little while at the foot of their bed. When he’d woken up, he sat up and looked at the two of them, asleep in each other’s arms, and wondered what he was doing there. What they could possibly want from him, except a conveniently pliable extra body. He’d gotten up and gathered his clothes as quietly as he could, hoping to sneak out without waking either of them, determined to pretend nothing had ever happened.
House had woken up, though. He’d looked at him and said, “Where are you going? Stay. Wilson’ll make breakfast in a few hours, you don’t want to miss that.”
He’d stayed, and they hadn’t made fun of him (much), and a couple of weeks later they’d invited him over to do it all again. He was fairly sure, by now, that they liked him, at least a little bit. If they were just using him for sex, they’d spend the bare minimum of time on preliminaries before moving to the bedroom, and kick him out as soon as they decently could. Instead, it seemed like each visit lasted longer than the one before.
Now, he checks his watch. 6:58. He convinces himself it would be stupid to stand here for two minutes, and knocks on the door.
“It’s open!” House calls from inside.
He goes in. House and Wilson are sitting on the couch, Wilson with a sheepish look and a handkerchief wrapped around his hand.
“Wilson cut his hand and got blood all over the food,” House reports. “But it’s okay, I saved the beer.” He gestures to the coffee table, where six bottles are lined up like toy soldiers.
“The beer was in the refrigerator,” Wilson points out, with some asperity. “It was never in any danger.”
“You never know. Blood is wily stuff.”
Chase hangs up his coat and comes around the sofa to sit down. “Is your hand okay?” he asks Wilson.
“It’s fine,” House says. “He’s just being a baby about it. We’re going to order Thai instead.”
“Great,” Chase says, because he has to say something. He doesn’t really care what they eat-when he’s not here, he hardly eats anything that could be considered a proper meal, just bits and pieces here and there when he thinks of it. It’s not that he’s not hungry, exactly, just that eating can be so complicated. There are too many steps-going to the grocery store, figuring out what to buy, getting the groceries home and putting them away, cooking, eating, doing the washing up-which you can’t do if you forgot to buy washing-up liquid when you were at the store. He tries to get a square meal at the cafeteria at work every day or two, and grazes out of the vending machines the rest of the time.
“We’ll get some spring rolls and dumplings,” Wilson says, looking at a menu. “And the lemongrass chicken is good. House, what do you want?”
“Shrimp with bean-thread noodles,” House answers, taking a beer from the end of the row and twisting off the cap.
“Chase?” Wilson offers him the menu.
“Whatever,” Chase says, sticking his hands in his pockets. He’s a little annoyed-he doesn’t come here to make decisions. On the contrary. “You pick.”
Wilson throws the menu into his lap. “You’re allowed to have an opinion, you know.” He sounds a little irritated.
Chase takes one hand out of his pocket to put the menu back on the coffee table. “I don’t know what’s good there,” he says defensively.
House looks at him evaluatively. “He’s allowed to have an opinion, but he isn’t obligated. I’ll pick something else, if he doesn’t want to.”
“Okay,” Chase says quickly.
House glances through the menu. “You like spicy things, don’t you, Chase? We’ll get some of the seafood curry with the pineapple,” he tells Wilson.
“Is that what you want, Chase?” Wilson asks pointedly.
“Sure,” Chase says. “It sounds good.” Actually, he’s not sure-pineapple curry doesn’t sound like it would go. But if House thinks he’d like it, he’ll give it a try.
Wilson goes into the kitchen, away from the noise of the TV, to phone in the order. When he comes back, he seems to be over his irritation. “What are we watching tonight?” he asks, settling down on the sofa next to House.
“Monsters Inc,” House answers.
“I thought we were over the cartoon phase,” Wilson complains.
“I love that movie,” House tells him. “And it was my turn to pick.”
“Funny how it’s always your turn.” Wilson pats the sofa next to him. “Come and sit with us, Chase.”
Chase doesn’t have to be told twice. It’s one of the things he likes about this, that they’re affectionate with him. It isn’t just three guys drinking beer and watching movies, and then, whoops! Sex happens.
Wilson drapes his arm around Chase’s shoulders and kisses his temple. “You do look like you had a rough day.”
“Kind of,” Chase admits.
“If you want to talk about it, hurry up,” House reminds him. It’s a rule, that if they absolutely have to talk about work, they have to finish before the food comes. Chase assumes there would be an exception if House wanted to talk about a case, but they’ve never invited him over when House was in the middle of anything interesting, so he isn’t sure.
“It was just a crazy day,” Chase says. “We had nine babies in the NICU for a while.” Nine is their absolute upper limit capacity-any more and there isn’t enough space in the room for the number of staff needed to care for them, even if enough extra nurses can be brought on. “We’re back down to eight-one died.”
Wilson tenses. “Which one?”
Chase remembers that the Trahn baby was delivered early, at 29 weeks, because her mother had to start radiation therapy. “Not her,” he answers. “Laura Collins, the 23-weeker.”
Wilson sighs. “Good. I mean….”
“We know what you mean,” House assures him.
“One of the new patients is a shaken baby, and that’s always a mess. The social worker hasn’t made a determination yet, so the parents are allowed in the unit, but somebody has to watch them every minute. And it looks to the other parents like they’re getting special treatment, but you can’t explain that it’s not a good thing. And of course the kid’s probably going to die because his father’s a moron.”
“What’s the parents’ story?” House wants to know.
“Supposedly, the father was feeding him and he started to choke. Dad didn’t know what to do, so he held the baby upside down and shook him. Injuries are consistent with that explanation, including traces of formula in the baby’s lungs. Mother shows appropriate affect-meaning she’s been crying all day and begging everyone who’ll listen to forgive her-but there’s something off about the dad.”
“What did he do?” Wilson asks.
“Stood around and told his wife he was bored and wanted to go home, mostly.”
“That is pretty weird.”
“The baby’s underweight, too. Tenth percentile for weight and fifty-ninth for length, something like that. Came in a little bit dehydrated, too. If the parents are telling the truth, it sounds like they just don’t know how to take care of a baby, which means they’ll get the kid back if he lives.” Chase hates child abuse cases. It seems like an inane thing to say-no one is actually in favor of child abuse-but there’s something awful about treating a baby and knowing that if you make him well, chances are he’ll be going home to the same people who put him in the hospital in the first place. It’s bizarre-every now and then there’s a story in the news about people having their kids taken away for trivial reasons, but the majority of parents seem to get chance after chance.
“They’re not telling the truth,” House says scornfully. “Who the hell shakes a choking baby? A screaming baby, those are the ones you want to shake.”
Chase shrugs. “I can almost see it, if the dad panicked when the baby started choking. Except he doesn’t seem panicky; he seems annoyed.”
The doorbell rings. House gets up to answer it. “Talk to the mother, on Monday,” he recommends, on his way to the door. “If she’s feeling guilty, she’ll spill her guts to the attractive and sympathetic young doctor.” He pays the delivery guy and brings the food back to the sofa.
For a while, the only conversation is things like, “This is good,” and “Here, try some of this.” The pineapple curry is, as predicted, good. Wilson urges him to eat more every time he pauses; House takes a more direct route and just pops bites of things into his mouth. Chase slides onto the floor under cover of reaching for a beer, and sits with his back to the coffee table, facing House and Wilson. He’s ready to explain that he likes to sit there so he can see them both, but no one asks.
“Chase, open your mouth. I want to try something,” House says, picking up the nearly-empty rice container.
Warily, Chase opens his mouth.
House picks a single grain of rice out of the carton and flicks it toward Chase. He misjudges the necessary force badly, and the rice lands on his lap. House keeps trying, littering the coffee table and rug with rice. A few grains stick to Chase’s shirt; he picks them off and eats them.
“I don’t think that’s going to work, House,” Wilson finally says.
“Guess not. Make some popcorn.”
“We just finished dinner!”
“I want to play catch with Chase.”
Wilson sighs heavily and gathers up the cartons and silverware and takes them to the kitchen. Moments later, the microwave starts up and popcorn begins popping.
House starts up the DVD, and throws popcorn at him during the trailers. At first Chase ducks and weaves to catch the flying kernels; once House has figured out the physics of popcorn-tossing and is hitting his mouth almost every time, he starts trying to avoid them. House catches on quickly and starts anticipating his movements.
“You’re going to put his eye out,” Wilson points out. “And give me some of that.”
House offers him the bowl. “I am not.”
Wilson takes a handful of popcorn. “Don’t come crying to me.” He shrugs.
“The movie’s starting, anyway,” Chase points out. He knows they aren’t really fighting, but it worries him sometimes, anyway.
“True. And I bet you haven’t seen it,” House adds.
“I haven’t,” Chase admits, turning around to face the TV and settling back against House and Wilson’s shins. Another advantage of being on the floor is that he can be between House and Wilson without actually being between them. Up on the sofa, they’re shoulder to shoulder, but Chase has his head on Wilson’s thigh and his arm draped across House’s lap.
“Wilson’s the big blue guy, and I’m the round green guy,” House explains as the movie starts. “You can be the little Asian girl.”
“What little Asian girl?” Chase asks. So far, there aren’t any little girls in the movie.
“You’ll see.”
“This isn’t one of those pornographic cartoons, is it?” Chase is pretty sure it isn’t-what he’d caught of the previews had sounded like ordinary kids’ movies--but you never know with House.
“No. But I have some of those, if you want to watch one later.”
“Nothing with tentacles,” Wilson says. “Seriously. I’ll have nightmares.”
“I think I would, too,” Chase admits.
“Okay, shut up and watch,” House says. “This is a good part.”
By the time the movie ends, Chase is thoroughly absorbed in the story, as House knew he would be. Of course Chase would like kids’ movies. He’s practically a baby himself. An anxious little boy half-crushed under the weight of adult responsibilities.
But he’s relaxed now, a boneless heap between his and Wilson’s feet. House pokes around among the dead soldiers on the coffee table and finds one half-full beer-probably the one Chase had started back while they were eating dinner. He doesn’t refuse alcohol-probably because it would attract too much attention-but House has never seen him drunk, either.
House sucks down most of the beer, then holds the bottle up to Chase’s mouth. “You want?”
Chase nods, and House tips the rest into his mouth. Chase sucks absently at the lip of the bottle until House takes it away from him and gives Chase his fingers to suck, instead. It’s always fun to do that, and see how long it takes for Chase to remember to do something lewd with them.
While he’s waiting, he kisses Wilson. Wilson sucks on his lower lip, then House opens his mouth to let his tongue in. At about the same time, Chase does his best to deep-throat House’s fingers-which, although long, aren’t quite that long, but House gets the general idea. Shaking Wilson off, he asks, “Are you boys ready for bed?”
Wilson says, “Yes.” Chase just nods. Both watch him eagerly.
One of the things that makes this relationship work is a clear delineation of responsibilities. Wilson does the cooking. House stage-directs the sex. He’s been involved in three-ways where no one’s in charge, and someone always ends up being left out, or getting elbowed in the groin, or both.
“Chase, go in the bedroom, get undressed, and lay down on top of the covers. We’ll be in shortly.” While Wilson likes a long, slow buildup-he’s such a girl that way-Chase seems to respond well to a few minutes of isolation and frustration followed by sudden, almost overwhelming sensation. It’s almost like he forgets they’re there, or doesn’t really believe they’re coming back, during those few minutes alone, and their rejoining him is a delightful surprise.
After a few more moments of necking, House strokes Wilson’s chest, rubbing briskly along the sternum and then slipping between the buttons of his shirt to tease his nipples.
“Don’t forget Chase,” Wilson reminds him between kisses.
“I’m not.” After a few more minutes of kissing and teasing and stroking Wilson through his jeans, they stumble down the hall to the bedroom. Chase is curled up in the middle of the bed, naked, shivering slightly. He props himself up on his elbows when House and Wilson come in, watching them intently. “Good boy,” House says, unbuttoning Wilson’s shirt the rest of the way and throwing it in the general direction of the chair where Chase’s clothes are neatly folded. Motioning for Wilson to finish undressing himself, he nudges Chase out of the way with his cane and stretches out on the bed, sitting up against the headboard.
“Robbie, come up here,” he says, patting his chest. “Jimmy, get behind him.” A few minutes of kissing and groping will be nice, he thinks, before they move on to the main event.
Chase scrambles up against him, and in moments he’s pressed between them, House’s tongue in his mouth, and Wilson kissing his way down his spine. Chase is panting and making little moans and whimpers of enjoyment-he tends to go pre-verbal during sex, which can be very amusing to play with. House decides its time to get things going, and motions for Chase to get between his legs.
Chase tries, but one of his legs is tangled up in Wilson’s somehow, and he ends up sprawling across House’s lap instead. Struggling to right himself, he plants on hand squarely on what’s left of House’s right thigh.
When he realizes what he’s done, he draws away like he’s been burned and scampers to the other corner of the bed, apologizing shakily. “I’m sorry, House, I didn’t mean to, are you okay? Oh, God, I need to be more careful, are you mad at me? I didn’t--”
“Chase,” House interrupts. “It’s fine.”
He sniffs. “You sure?”
“It’s chronic nerve pain, Chase. It’s not going to make it hurt any worse if you touch it, or bump it, or jostle it, or lean on it.” What he’s saying is mostly true-if his leg is hurting him a lot, he doesn’t like having it touched, but that’s psychological.
Chase looks at him warily. “What about that time you hit it against the desk and yelled?”
“I hit my kneecap on the desk. It’d hurt if you did that, too.” He glances at Wilson for backup.
“It’s true,” Wilson affirms. “You didn’t hurt him. You’re not going to hurt him.”
House almost hears a whooshing sound as his plans for the evening go down the drain. He’d had something fun planned, but this is, unfortunately, more important. He unbuttons his jeans and wriggles out of them. “C’mere,” he tells Chase.
Chase crawls up to him, on his belly, like a beaten dog.
He takes one of Chase’s hands and puts it on the furrow in his thigh. “Look.” He usually keeps most of his clothes on during sex-it’s hot, being the only one of the three of them with anything on-so Chase has probably not so much as glimpsed his injury, much less had a good look at it. He understands the medical principles involved, of course-he is a doctor--but on a simple physical level, it’s probably a bit mysterious to him.
Chase turns his head to the side, avoiding looking at his leg, although he doesn’t quite dare take his hand off of it. House shares an exasperated glance with Wilson.
Wilson gets up beside Chase. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s just his leg. It’s not going to hurt him, and it’s not going to hurt you, either.” He puts his hand on top of Chase’s and traces the scar with their joined hands. Chase wriggles like he’s trying to escape for a second or two, then relaxes. After a few more seconds, he turns his head back to look at House’s leg, and a moment later, Wilson releases his hand and leaves him to explore on his own.
House isn’t sure why Chase was so freaked out by his leg in the first place, but the longer he explores it, the more comfortable he seems.
He must be doing something right, then. Chase keeps looking and touching for a while, then-with an anxious glance up at House to make sure it’s okay-kisses his scar. House lets him carry on, making the occasional encouraging noise. Wilson settles next to him, resting his head on House’s shoulder.
After a while, Chase drifts from the damaged area of House’s leg to his inner thigh and on up to the crotch. “You want to suck me off, Robbie?” he asks.
“Uh-huh,” Chase says into the fabric of his boxers.
“Okay. Go on, then.” It’s not what he had planned, but it’s late, and he’s suddenly tired. Logistically it’s easier-they don’t need lube, or even condoms-Chase hates the taste of latex as much as he loves come, and oral sex is low-risk for just about everything-and there’s virtually no cleanup.
Chase takes him out of his boxers and licks sloppily at the head of his cock before taking it all in. House tangles his hand in Chase’s hair and tries not to buck his hips, letting Chase work at his own pace. With his other hand he finds Wilson’s cock and strokes briskly.
Wilson comes in his hand, and he comes down Chase’s throat. Chase settles down with his head on House’s stomach.
“Here, lick this off, before you get too comfy,” House tells him, offering his hand. “Oh, good,” Chase says sleepily, “Wilson’s come.” He sucks it off of House’s fingers.
“There’s some on my stomach, too,” Wilson points out.
“Slob,” House says.
Chase contorts himself to lick Wilson’s belly clean while still staying pressed up against House.
House frowns a little, looking at him. Chase likes both of them, but he’s always been more drawn to House than to Wilson, and, as much as he likes being the center of attention, House isn’t going to put up with Chase favoring him too much.
“D’you want to cuddle the puppy tonight, Jimmy?” House asks him, while Chase is still licking him.
“Hm?” Wilson looks up at him. “Sure, okay.”
“Good, you take him then.” House prods Chase until he shifts closer to Wilson. “You finishing there, Robbie? Good,” he says at Chase’s nod, “Lay down over there. Wilson makes a good pillow. He’s fatter, anyway.”
Wilson thwaps him across the shoulder.
With an anxious glance up at him, Chase lays down with his head on Wilson’s stomach.
Wilson rubs his shoulder. “Good boy. You comfy?”
“Uh-huh.”
Wilson prods House and mouths, “He didn’t come.”
House shrugs. “I don’t think he cares. Shut up and go to sleep.”
Chase wakes up snuggled between House and Wilson, his head pillowed on Wilson’s stomach, Wilson’s morning hard-on bobbing enticingly in front of his face.
It’s his considered opinion that you can never have a bad day that starts out like that. Even if it all goes downhill from there, you’re still doing better than average.
He amuses himself for a while by opening and closing each eye in turn, creating the illusion that Wilson’s cock is bouncing. He’s a little bored, but he has to wait until one of the others wakes up and tells him he can suck Wilson’s cock. He figures they’ll let him, since all Wilson got last night was a handjob.
He’s hard, too, but he knows better than to touch himself. Wilson had told him, the first time they slept together, that House was in charge when they were in bed. “You can stop any time, but if you want to play, you have to do what you’re told.” He’d been a little bit afraid at first, that they’d turn out to be into something too hardcore for him, but they weren’t. House just likes calling the shots. He doesn’t know exactly what House will do if he touches himself without permission, and he doesn’t want to find out.
He picks up his head and looks at House and Wilson. Both of them are still asleep.
He puts his head back down and shuts his eyes. It might be a while. But eventually, they’ll wake up, and then there will be sex, and then there will be breakfast. He’s not sure when he’s last had a cooked breakfast, apart from here. Mum used to make a big breakfast on Sunday mornings, after church, when he was very little, before she started drinking so much. When his father still went to church with them. But that was a long time ago. He’d tried, after, to make his own Sunday breakfast, but the eggs had stuck to the pan, and he’d burned the toast, and mum had to get up to turn off the smoke detector. The pan had soaked in the sink for three days, until Mum threw it in the bin and told him not to try to cook anymore.
In a little while, Wilson will make breakfast. It might be those pancakes that are so good, or maybe eggs and sausages. Like Mum used to do.
He drifts back into sleep, thinking about sex and breakfast.