House fic
“I don’t want to be miserable.” It was the first time he said it out loud. The words floated awkward and painful in the dim light of the bedroom.
“Then don’t be,” said Chase with a shrug.
House scoffed in annoyance. “I forgot my magic wand in my other pajama pants.”
“I’m serious. Stop telling yourself you’re miserable and you’ll stop being miserable.”
“Right, think positive and all that jazz.”
“Exactly,” the blond declared brightly.
House felt himself getting angry. “Are you happy, Dr. Chase?”
The intensivist snorted. “I’m not miserable.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Chase sighed. “No.”
“Then you’re unhappy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re not happy, so, by definition, you’re unhappy. Isn’t misery a synonym of unhappiness?”
“I’m not miserable,” Chase repeated.
“No, you’re numb. That’s so much better.” House pulled his arm from under Chase’s neck and rolled away. He tensed as the younger man wrapped an arm around his waist and pressed himself against his back.
“I’ll tell you what,” began Chase, words spilling into House’s ear. “Each day you’ll think of something that would make you happy, and I’ll see that you get it. What do you say?”
The diagnostician shrugged.
The blond smiled “Just don’t ask for something like ‘let’s go bungee jumping in Rio.’”
“So, I can be happy as long as it fits your budget and schedule?”
“I just think we should start with smaller things.” He dropped a kiss on House’s neck. “What would make you happy today?”
“A pony,” the man spat, shoving Chase’s arm from where it rested around his chest and moving further away.
“House-”
“Just stop talking.”
Chase’s alarm clock rang in the cold morning air. He felt the younger man stretching and yawning. He opened his eyes; the intensivist was closing the bathroom door. He heard the shower running.
House must have fallen asleep again, for when he noticed, Chase was back in the bedroom, he was standing in front of the closet, fishing out his underwear. He moved with the same nonchalance naked as when he was fully clothed.
An annoying tightness shot from his navel to his chest. House ignored it.
When they finally had sex, it was a dance of awkward movements and murmured half words; wait- let me- no- just-. They’d panted into each other’s ears and left angry marks to attest for desperate kisses. House thought they were both dying. And yet, six week later, his shirts where haphazardly hung in the intensivist’s closet and Chase’s sneakers sat on House’s bedroom floor, next to his banjo.
He wondered how he’d ended up in a marriage of twenty years, with Chase of all people.
The blond sat on the edge of the bed and bend down to tie his shoelaces.
“I want Thai for dinner,” said House. Of course he wouldn’t mention last night’s argument; if it had, indeed, been an argument.
“Sorry,” Chase smiled. “Got a long shift.” He leaned down and kissed him. “See you tomorrow.”
He walked into his office, closely followed by the four members of his team. They had a new patient.
“Fever, headache, chills, sweating, weakness, swollen lymph nodes, drowsiness and joint pain.”
“He has a cold,” House said, dismissive.
“It’s not a cold,” replied Foreman. “He’s been unconscious for two days.”
“He’s practically in a coma,” supplied Taub.
House stopped in front of his desk. “What’s that?”
“What, a coma?” asked Kutner.
“That,” he pointed to a gift box sitting on the surface of the desk.
Thirteen shrugged. “It was there when we got in.”
House sat down and examined the item; it was about ten inches, wrapped in bright green paper with an electric-blue bow, there was a small card under the ribbon. Open me was scrawled in an all too familiar handwriting. He took the box in his hands and shook it tentatively.
“A bomb, maybe?” said Kutner in a tone that could only be described as hopeful.
“Probably,” quipped the diagnostician. “I don’t want you guys to get hurt. Go test his blood. Just call the fire department if you hear an explosion.”
Once he was left alone he ripped the bow off. He was about to tear the paper and open the box when he remembered the conversation he’d had with Chase the previous night. The sour mood crept back into his throat. He tossed the box on the floor.
Even more tests, a lumbar puncture and almost six hours later the team strode back into the office.
Taub handed him the file. “He has anterior myelitis.”
“What does that tell us?”
“West Nile ecephalitis,” muttered Foreman.
“That sucks,” declared Kutner.
There was nothing to do but to treat and hope it would work. They filed out of the office rather discouraged. House stretched on his chair; his foot bumped into the box. He picked it up and finally opened it.
He let out an amused scoff.
Next morning, the members of the Diagnostic Medicine Department walked into their boss’ office; Kutner had found a potential case in the clinic.
“30 year old female, a rash on her abdomen and numbness in-” he stopped mid sentence. “What’s that?”
There was a violet toy horse sitting beside House’s tennis ball on the desk.
The older doctor gave him a duh look. “A pony.”
“Did you steal it from a sick kid?” asked Taub getting a closer look, it was one of those My Little Pony figures; it even had a golden star on one of its plastic cheeks.”
“No, a gift from my girlfriend.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend.”
“No I don’t,” agreed the diagnostician brightly.
Kutner reached out to pick the toy up but House slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch him, I just brushed his mane.”
“Him?” inquired Hadley.
“He’s not pink, is he?”
“Does he have a name?” she continued, amused.
“Of course he does; Percy. Percy the Purple Pony. How cool is that?”
“Right,” Foreman cut in. “Can we get back to the case?”
It turned out to be brain cancer, inoperable. They passed her on to Wilson. That made two downers in two days. It was nine when House signed out; he drove straight to Chase’s place.
He found the younger man lying under the covers, fast asleep. He went to the kitchen, there was a package if Thai next to the microwave. He heated it up and dined in front of the TV. He went to bed around eleven.
Chase opened his eyes when he felt House sliding next to him. “Hey.”
“Alright,” said the diagnostician.
The intensivist frowned. “Alright what?”
“I’m in. I’m willing to try your pathetic attempt at being the Make a Wish Foundation.”
“I take it you liked your gift.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You asked for a pony.”
“you’re still an idiot.”
Chase gave him a long look before smiling. “Alright.”
“Then don’t be,” said Chase with a shrug.
House scoffed in annoyance. “I forgot my magic wand in my other pajama pants.”
“I’m serious. Stop telling yourself you’re miserable and you’ll stop being miserable.”
“Right, think positive and all that jazz.”
“Exactly,” the blond declared brightly.
House felt himself getting angry. “Are you happy, Dr. Chase?”
The intensivist snorted. “I’m not miserable.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Chase sighed. “No.”
“Then you’re unhappy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re not happy, so, by definition, you’re unhappy. Isn’t misery a synonym of unhappiness?”
“I’m not miserable,” Chase repeated.
“No, you’re numb. That’s so much better.” House pulled his arm from under Chase’s neck and rolled away. He tensed as the younger man wrapped an arm around his waist and pressed himself against his back.
“I’ll tell you what,” began Chase, words spilling into House’s ear. “Each day you’ll think of something that would make you happy, and I’ll see that you get it. What do you say?”
The diagnostician shrugged.
The blond smiled “Just don’t ask for something like ‘let’s go bungee jumping in Rio.’”
“So, I can be happy as long as it fits your budget and schedule?”
“I just think we should start with smaller things.” He dropped a kiss on House’s neck. “What would make you happy today?”
“A pony,” the man spat, shoving Chase’s arm from where it rested around his chest and moving further away.
“House-”
“Just stop talking.”
Chase’s alarm clock rang in the cold morning air. He felt the younger man stretching and yawning. He opened his eyes; the intensivist was closing the bathroom door. He heard the shower running.
House must have fallen asleep again, for when he noticed, Chase was back in the bedroom, he was standing in front of the closet, fishing out his underwear. He moved with the same nonchalance naked as when he was fully clothed.
An annoying tightness shot from his navel to his chest. House ignored it.
When they finally had sex, it was a dance of awkward movements and murmured half words; wait- let me- no- just-. They’d panted into each other’s ears and left angry marks to attest for desperate kisses. House thought they were both dying. And yet, six week later, his shirts where haphazardly hung in the intensivist’s closet and Chase’s sneakers sat on House’s bedroom floor, next to his banjo.
He wondered how he’d ended up in a marriage of twenty years, with Chase of all people.
The blond sat on the edge of the bed and bend down to tie his shoelaces.
“I want Thai for dinner,” said House. Of course he wouldn’t mention last night’s argument; if it had, indeed, been an argument.
“Sorry,” Chase smiled. “Got a long shift.” He leaned down and kissed him. “See you tomorrow.”
He walked into his office, closely followed by the four members of his team. They had a new patient.
“Fever, headache, chills, sweating, weakness, swollen lymph nodes, drowsiness and joint pain.”
“He has a cold,” House said, dismissive.
“It’s not a cold,” replied Foreman. “He’s been unconscious for two days.”
“He’s practically in a coma,” supplied Taub.
House stopped in front of his desk. “What’s that?”
“What, a coma?” asked Kutner.
“That,” he pointed to a gift box sitting on the surface of the desk.
Thirteen shrugged. “It was there when we got in.”
House sat down and examined the item; it was about ten inches, wrapped in bright green paper with an electric-blue bow, there was a small card under the ribbon. Open me was scrawled in an all too familiar handwriting. He took the box in his hands and shook it tentatively.
“A bomb, maybe?” said Kutner in a tone that could only be described as hopeful.
“Probably,” quipped the diagnostician. “I don’t want you guys to get hurt. Go test his blood. Just call the fire department if you hear an explosion.”
Once he was left alone he ripped the bow off. He was about to tear the paper and open the box when he remembered the conversation he’d had with Chase the previous night. The sour mood crept back into his throat. He tossed the box on the floor.
Even more tests, a lumbar puncture and almost six hours later the team strode back into the office.
Taub handed him the file. “He has anterior myelitis.”
“What does that tell us?”
“West Nile ecephalitis,” muttered Foreman.
“That sucks,” declared Kutner.
There was nothing to do but to treat and hope it would work. They filed out of the office rather discouraged. House stretched on his chair; his foot bumped into the box. He picked it up and finally opened it.
He let out an amused scoff.
Next morning, the members of the Diagnostic Medicine Department walked into their boss’ office; Kutner had found a potential case in the clinic.
“30 year old female, a rash on her abdomen and numbness in-” he stopped mid sentence. “What’s that?”
There was a violet toy horse sitting beside House’s tennis ball on the desk.
The older doctor gave him a duh look. “A pony.”
“Did you steal it from a sick kid?” asked Taub getting a closer look, it was one of those My Little Pony figures; it even had a golden star on one of its plastic cheeks.”
“No, a gift from my girlfriend.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend.”
“No I don’t,” agreed the diagnostician brightly.
Kutner reached out to pick the toy up but House slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch him, I just brushed his mane.”
“Him?” inquired Hadley.
“He’s not pink, is he?”
“Does he have a name?” she continued, amused.
“Of course he does; Percy. Percy the Purple Pony. How cool is that?”
“Right,” Foreman cut in. “Can we get back to the case?”
It turned out to be brain cancer, inoperable. They passed her on to Wilson. That made two downers in two days. It was nine when House signed out; he drove straight to Chase’s place.
He found the younger man lying under the covers, fast asleep. He went to the kitchen, there was a package if Thai next to the microwave. He heated it up and dined in front of the TV. He went to bed around eleven.
Chase opened his eyes when he felt House sliding next to him. “Hey.”
“Alright,” said the diagnostician.
The intensivist frowned. “Alright what?”
“I’m in. I’m willing to try your pathetic attempt at being the Make a Wish Foundation.”
“I take it you liked your gift.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You asked for a pony.”
“you’re still an idiot.”
Chase gave him a long look before smiling. “Alright.”