First Ever House Fic - Rewritten
Title: Night is Given, Pt. 1/?
Author: faelinn
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mention of possible alcohol abuse, some silliness, and a microscopic smidgeon of angst. Really, it's practically invisible.
Pairing: House/Chase
Disclaimer: They’re not mine.
Summary/Author’s Note: House realizes something is bothering Chase, and he begins to suspect that he is drinking ALCOHOL! Oh, evil of evils, indeed! Okay, I and my ridiculously prudish young self shall shut up, so people can read and be annoyed with me for writing such strange stuff. *is silent*
Disclaimer: They’re not mine.
A/N: The title was taken from an e.e. cummings’ poem called “Now i lay(with everywhere around).” Also, this is my first ever House fic, so there is a great chance that it sucks more than a vacuum cleaner. My apologies, of course. :) I’ll try to improve characterization, style, storyline, etc. as go through more chapters of this fic....Writing in new fandoms makes me cry in my sleep. *is a very nervous sort of person* Yep....And I’ll attempt to stop the random wandering off onto strange tangents during the ficcie. So, umm, don’t kill me for the suckiness, mmkay? I enjoy life too much!
There were reddened veins curling around the edges of Chase’s eyes, sneaking around in the corners, near the delicate tear ducts, and the veins’ red, stringy presence stole the clearness from the younger man’s eyes, creating a hazy fuzz around the usual bright shine. Under his soft eyelashes, dark circles lurked like bruises as they told their tale of lost sleep and bad dreams.
And, even though Chase’s hair still had its same shine and gleam, and his teeth were still impeccably sparkly, House was worried.
“Something’s up,” House muttered.
He glanced over at Wilson, who was carefully filling in a patient’s chart with his neat, clean hand-writing, the dark pen strokes leaving neat little patterns of words on the almost-white paper. The other man didn’t seem to be listening to him, so he rapped his cane against the side of his leg, jerking his attention away from his work.
“Yes?” Wilson asked, irritated.
House decided that irritation was a good look for Wilson, but he ignored it for the moment and, without raising his hand too much from where it hung lazily at his side, he pointed to Chase. The intensivist had been caught in his walk by a nurse, and, as she spoke, he was quickly going over the notes she had written. Yet, even from this distance, House could still see the dark tiredness that marked the younger man’s movements.
“I think Chase is drinking,” he told Wilson softly, carefully following the young doctor’s movements as he broke away from the nurse and headed toward them.
“What?!”
“Look at him! His eyes are bloodshot, and he won’t even look at me!”
“Last time I checked, avoiding you wasn’t a symptom of alcoholism. To tell the truth, not avoiding you usually leads to alcoholism,” Wilson muttered thoughtfully.
House really hoped that his answering expression was as unpleasant on his face as it was in his mind. In his thoughts, his angry face was enough to kill small puppies and traumatize smaller kittens, and, as for Wilsons...Well, in his mind, all the little Wilson people just collapsed in little twitching balls of seizures.
House thought it would make a great cartoon show, and he made a mental note to call Disney sometime.
“Cute,” he answered, glaring balefully at the other doctor.
It was rather pleasant to see Wilson blink, his lower eyelid twitching slightly, and, after a few more seconds of prolonged staring, the oncologist turned to glance surreptitiously at the young intensivist. House could see his eyes darkening, going all thoughtful, and, soft, like cookies in milk, and, though the analogy was strange, House thought it was sort of fitting. Everyone liked cookies, everyone like Wilson...and somehow he had gotten completely off subject and ruined the whole comparison. Again.
Now, why was he thinking about cookies? Sure, they were a diabetic’s nightmare, worse than killer toads and goldfish following after you with pitchforks until you fell off a cliff, naked, into a room full of your old classmates, who pointed and giggled at your bit and tackle, but House was pretty sure there was more of a point than that. He was also pretty sure that he had indulged in a bit more coffee than he needed. Like, say, two pots more than he needed.
And Wilson was talking. About Chase. Ah, yes, the boy was off the wagon, drinking, getting a bit tipsy with the other girls, having a little late night fun, and...probably killing himself in the process.
House could feel the caffeine high leaving his system in a quick rush.
“I see what you mean,” Wilson was murmuring quietly, but he swiftly silenced himself as Chase moved into earshot.
For once, House really hated being right, but, as he watched Chase, he tried to silence the worry in his own mind, stamping on the insurgent thoughts as they came forth and tried to latch onto his consciousness. The worry reminded him of ants, painful, biting red ants that, once disturbed, poured forth in great waves from the depths of their mounds of dirty earth, unstoppable. A few weren’t dangerous, but once they got going, the little devils could make you a mass of itching, stinging sores. Not a pleasant experience, House reminded himself, and these worried thoughts were definitely headed in the itchy, stinging direction.
Get off the ant-pile, he ordered his mind. If you stop thinking about Chase, then all this ridiculous...worry will go poof! and disappear, just like in the movies.
And, though he wasn’t sure in what genre of movie things happened in such a manner, he was certain that somewhere in the world, middle-aged women were happily crying their drooping, crow’s-feet lined eyes out over them and saying things like ‘that’s how life should be’ and ‘what a pretty butt he has.’
* * *
Chase stepped away from the nurse, his mind still partially occupied with thoughts of medicine and treatments, but he quickly stopped in his tracks as he turned and caught sight of House and Wilson standing together.
“What?” Chase asked, blinking in confusion as he noticed how fixedly the other two doctors were staring at him.
He knew he still wasn’t thinking too clearly, his mind still half-lost in thoughts of misery, but he forced a smile to play across his lips. As sad as it was, he was desperate to trick House, desperate to keep the other man in the dark where he couldn’t see Chase’s inadequacies.
Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong. See? That’s a smile on my face. A SMILE. I’m happy...always have been. And, I’m not changing. Just the same as always, just perfectly, wonderfully happy. No problems here, just us doctors, so go search somewhere else.
And stop looking at me, House. I can’t stand the way your eyes watch me.
His thoughts were rambling, scared,...childish, but they were his own, and he couldn’t make them leave. As he thought, the hospital buzzed with noise, and House answered in a suitably snarky manner, but Chase could barely hear him over the sounds in his own mind.
He blinked, nodding hesitantly and hoping that was the appropriate response. When House and Wilson looked at him strangely, he took a step backwards, hastily beating a quick retreat. His shoes clicked against the tile, and it was a cold, formal sound of running away.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” he managed to stammer as he made his escape.
* * *
“I asked him if he had a late night orgy with the other wombats, and he nods?!” House asked in stunned amazement.
Wilson’s eyes followed the straight line of Chase’s back as he disappeared around the corner, quickly noting the tension that ran through the younger man’s spine and frowning in concern as he remembered the hopeless confusion in the intensivist’s eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” Wilson admitted.
* * *
Cameron sat down beside him, curiously looking at the crossword Chase was blankly staring at. Chase could feel her staring at him, watching him and cataloguing his behavior, his symptoms, and it made his spine twitch with nerves, nasty, spidery tendrils of dread.
“Long weekend?” she asked curiously as she picked up a pencil and filled in one of problems on the crossword.
He shrugged, feeling the nerves curling around his spine again, and glared down at the pencilled-in answer, hating it for its very presence. It was just like Cameron, trying to force herself into situations where she didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted. Even when he just wanted to be alone, she was always there, screwing with his head and trying to understand things that were only meant to be comprehended in the dark of his own mind.
“Chase...are you okay?” Cameron asked quietly.
He blinked slowly, tiredly, and glanced up at her. Though he knew he should try to act more awake, more alive, he couldn’t find the energy anymore, so he just gazed at her from behind a shield of unhappy lethargy, desperately wishing she would just go away.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
Her mouth parted slightly as if she were about to speak and he couldn’t bear to hear the words that he knew were forming in invisible patterns on her lips. He raised one slim, shaking hand, cutting her off with the sharpness of his movement.
“I’m fine,” he repeated, “So, stop trying to fix things that aren’t broken.”
His words had hurt her. Chase could see it in her eyes, but he didn’t let his mind linger on it. There was already too much built-up guilt locked away in his mind; anymore would send him spiraling into a wider expanse of dementia.
“Now, Chase, what have I told you about playing nice with the other children?” House scolded as he stepped into the room.
Chase couldn’t even find the words to answer.
A/N: So, how bad was it? *hides under the computer in shame*
Author: faelinn
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mention of possible alcohol abuse, some silliness, and a microscopic smidgeon of angst. Really, it's practically invisible.
Pairing: House/Chase
Disclaimer: They’re not mine.
Summary/Author’s Note: House realizes something is bothering Chase, and he begins to suspect that he is drinking ALCOHOL! Oh, evil of evils, indeed! Okay, I and my ridiculously prudish young self shall shut up, so people can read and be annoyed with me for writing such strange stuff. *is silent*
Disclaimer: They’re not mine.
A/N: The title was taken from an e.e. cummings’ poem called “Now i lay(with everywhere around).” Also, this is my first ever House fic, so there is a great chance that it sucks more than a vacuum cleaner. My apologies, of course. :) I’ll try to improve characterization, style, storyline, etc. as go through more chapters of this fic....Writing in new fandoms makes me cry in my sleep. *is a very nervous sort of person* Yep....And I’ll attempt to stop the random wandering off onto strange tangents during the ficcie. So, umm, don’t kill me for the suckiness, mmkay? I enjoy life too much!
There were reddened veins curling around the edges of Chase’s eyes, sneaking around in the corners, near the delicate tear ducts, and the veins’ red, stringy presence stole the clearness from the younger man’s eyes, creating a hazy fuzz around the usual bright shine. Under his soft eyelashes, dark circles lurked like bruises as they told their tale of lost sleep and bad dreams.
And, even though Chase’s hair still had its same shine and gleam, and his teeth were still impeccably sparkly, House was worried.
“Something’s up,” House muttered.
He glanced over at Wilson, who was carefully filling in a patient’s chart with his neat, clean hand-writing, the dark pen strokes leaving neat little patterns of words on the almost-white paper. The other man didn’t seem to be listening to him, so he rapped his cane against the side of his leg, jerking his attention away from his work.
“Yes?” Wilson asked, irritated.
House decided that irritation was a good look for Wilson, but he ignored it for the moment and, without raising his hand too much from where it hung lazily at his side, he pointed to Chase. The intensivist had been caught in his walk by a nurse, and, as she spoke, he was quickly going over the notes she had written. Yet, even from this distance, House could still see the dark tiredness that marked the younger man’s movements.
“I think Chase is drinking,” he told Wilson softly, carefully following the young doctor’s movements as he broke away from the nurse and headed toward them.
“What?!”
“Look at him! His eyes are bloodshot, and he won’t even look at me!”
“Last time I checked, avoiding you wasn’t a symptom of alcoholism. To tell the truth, not avoiding you usually leads to alcoholism,” Wilson muttered thoughtfully.
House really hoped that his answering expression was as unpleasant on his face as it was in his mind. In his thoughts, his angry face was enough to kill small puppies and traumatize smaller kittens, and, as for Wilsons...Well, in his mind, all the little Wilson people just collapsed in little twitching balls of seizures.
House thought it would make a great cartoon show, and he made a mental note to call Disney sometime.
“Cute,” he answered, glaring balefully at the other doctor.
It was rather pleasant to see Wilson blink, his lower eyelid twitching slightly, and, after a few more seconds of prolonged staring, the oncologist turned to glance surreptitiously at the young intensivist. House could see his eyes darkening, going all thoughtful, and, soft, like cookies in milk, and, though the analogy was strange, House thought it was sort of fitting. Everyone liked cookies, everyone like Wilson...and somehow he had gotten completely off subject and ruined the whole comparison. Again.
Now, why was he thinking about cookies? Sure, they were a diabetic’s nightmare, worse than killer toads and goldfish following after you with pitchforks until you fell off a cliff, naked, into a room full of your old classmates, who pointed and giggled at your bit and tackle, but House was pretty sure there was more of a point than that. He was also pretty sure that he had indulged in a bit more coffee than he needed. Like, say, two pots more than he needed.
And Wilson was talking. About Chase. Ah, yes, the boy was off the wagon, drinking, getting a bit tipsy with the other girls, having a little late night fun, and...probably killing himself in the process.
House could feel the caffeine high leaving his system in a quick rush.
“I see what you mean,” Wilson was murmuring quietly, but he swiftly silenced himself as Chase moved into earshot.
For once, House really hated being right, but, as he watched Chase, he tried to silence the worry in his own mind, stamping on the insurgent thoughts as they came forth and tried to latch onto his consciousness. The worry reminded him of ants, painful, biting red ants that, once disturbed, poured forth in great waves from the depths of their mounds of dirty earth, unstoppable. A few weren’t dangerous, but once they got going, the little devils could make you a mass of itching, stinging sores. Not a pleasant experience, House reminded himself, and these worried thoughts were definitely headed in the itchy, stinging direction.
Get off the ant-pile, he ordered his mind. If you stop thinking about Chase, then all this ridiculous...worry will go poof! and disappear, just like in the movies.
And, though he wasn’t sure in what genre of movie things happened in such a manner, he was certain that somewhere in the world, middle-aged women were happily crying their drooping, crow’s-feet lined eyes out over them and saying things like ‘that’s how life should be’ and ‘what a pretty butt he has.’
* * *
Chase stepped away from the nurse, his mind still partially occupied with thoughts of medicine and treatments, but he quickly stopped in his tracks as he turned and caught sight of House and Wilson standing together.
“What?” Chase asked, blinking in confusion as he noticed how fixedly the other two doctors were staring at him.
He knew he still wasn’t thinking too clearly, his mind still half-lost in thoughts of misery, but he forced a smile to play across his lips. As sad as it was, he was desperate to trick House, desperate to keep the other man in the dark where he couldn’t see Chase’s inadequacies.
Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong. See? That’s a smile on my face. A SMILE. I’m happy...always have been. And, I’m not changing. Just the same as always, just perfectly, wonderfully happy. No problems here, just us doctors, so go search somewhere else.
And stop looking at me, House. I can’t stand the way your eyes watch me.
His thoughts were rambling, scared,...childish, but they were his own, and he couldn’t make them leave. As he thought, the hospital buzzed with noise, and House answered in a suitably snarky manner, but Chase could barely hear him over the sounds in his own mind.
He blinked, nodding hesitantly and hoping that was the appropriate response. When House and Wilson looked at him strangely, he took a step backwards, hastily beating a quick retreat. His shoes clicked against the tile, and it was a cold, formal sound of running away.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” he managed to stammer as he made his escape.
* * *
“I asked him if he had a late night orgy with the other wombats, and he nods?!” House asked in stunned amazement.
Wilson’s eyes followed the straight line of Chase’s back as he disappeared around the corner, quickly noting the tension that ran through the younger man’s spine and frowning in concern as he remembered the hopeless confusion in the intensivist’s eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” Wilson admitted.
* * *
Cameron sat down beside him, curiously looking at the crossword Chase was blankly staring at. Chase could feel her staring at him, watching him and cataloguing his behavior, his symptoms, and it made his spine twitch with nerves, nasty, spidery tendrils of dread.
“Long weekend?” she asked curiously as she picked up a pencil and filled in one of problems on the crossword.
He shrugged, feeling the nerves curling around his spine again, and glared down at the pencilled-in answer, hating it for its very presence. It was just like Cameron, trying to force herself into situations where she didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted. Even when he just wanted to be alone, she was always there, screwing with his head and trying to understand things that were only meant to be comprehended in the dark of his own mind.
“Chase...are you okay?” Cameron asked quietly.
He blinked slowly, tiredly, and glanced up at her. Though he knew he should try to act more awake, more alive, he couldn’t find the energy anymore, so he just gazed at her from behind a shield of unhappy lethargy, desperately wishing she would just go away.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
Her mouth parted slightly as if she were about to speak and he couldn’t bear to hear the words that he knew were forming in invisible patterns on her lips. He raised one slim, shaking hand, cutting her off with the sharpness of his movement.
“I’m fine,” he repeated, “So, stop trying to fix things that aren’t broken.”
His words had hurt her. Chase could see it in her eyes, but he didn’t let his mind linger on it. There was already too much built-up guilt locked away in his mind; anymore would send him spiraling into a wider expanse of dementia.
“Now, Chase, what have I told you about playing nice with the other children?” House scolded as he stepped into the room.
Chase couldn’t even find the words to answer.
A/N: So, how bad was it? *hides under the computer in shame*