Best. Title. Ever. (in my humble - and not very modest - opinion)
Title: I Am Not Meredith Grey And I Refuse To Let You Be My McDreamy
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Wilson
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 094. Independence
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Slash
Summary: This whole thing is completely inappropriate.
Author’s Notes: Even if you don’t watch Grey’s (and you have my eternal admiration if you don’t, I can’t seem to be able to stop myself), I think the title is fairly clear. Because revising Chaucer is made of boring. And I’m not seeing Merry Little Christmas tonight, because I’m off to see Pirates 3. Woo eyeliner. So. Just faint spoilers for bits of FJ.
#
The first word Chase would use to describe the thing that really isn’t a relationship with Wilson would be: inappropriate. And it’s a mad word, considering that he’s done all sorts of inappropriate things in recent years and none of them have bothered him, not even Cameron’s drug hazed eyes slipping closed or Vogler doing that mad smile thing at him, and Chase knows in a disinterested way that everyone at Princeton/Plainsboro hates him.
Well, Wilson might not hate him. Chase honestly doesn’t know. And he can’t even be assed to ask, which probably means something.
But still, it’s inappropriate, stumbling out of exam room one with the certainty that at least one of the buttons on his shirt has disappeared, potentially forever, that Wilson’s hair is looking implausibly messed-up (and will remain so for the rest of the day), and if House were here he would comment on it. As it is, he isn’t, so they’ll probably get away with it for at least another week.
#
Chase has no illusions about himself. He knows that he is filling a void left by Julie, and a void left by House, and a void left by whoever else it was that decided to take a chunk out of Wilson and leave him emotionally damaged. Because he is, you know, emotionally damaged. Chase, incapable of human emotion as he is, can read that in James Wilson so well it might as well have been tattooed onto his forehead.
Not that it would have been a warning sign of any sort. Chase has no idea how this started, and, more importantly, no inclination to make it stop. Wilson isn’t the only one who gets lonely on these pointlessly hot summer evenings, and since Cameron is growing up a little and Foreman is just plain disinterested, Chase has no options.
Well, he tells himself that. The fact is that this started even before House crashed through the whiteboard with two bullets lodged in him and an almost ludicrous amount of blood spilled out and all Chase could think was: huh.
(And now it all seems to be working out all right for him, Chase can finally admit to himself that he’s glad House got shot, he fucking deserved it.)
#
It’s sort of indefinably filthy, doing this here, doing this now, House’s paperwork on the floor and the blinds closed but trembling, Wilson’s hair carded between his fingers (and damn, Chase wishes that it was longer, so he could tug it and make Wilson really goddamn feel it, and fuck, but that thought doesn’t help anything), and when Chase tilts his head back it goes thunk against the wall.
If he’s honest with himself, but he rarely is, Chase never saw this one coming. Would’ve thought that screwing Wilson would probably have entailed getting bent over the oncologist’s desk and rubbing at bruised hips for the next few days for his troubles. But then he never was very good at foreseeing consequences to his actions and he never foresaw this, Wilson on his knees and Chase feels a laugh tremble through his whole body, and only realises this when Wilson’s oh-so-measured breathing hitches.
“Fuck,” Chase murmurs, wondering if this is what it’s like to be drunk on your own power, even though he knows, he knows, that technically he has no power at all, and for a split second of white prays that House fucking never comes back.
#
Chase decides, halfway down his third gin and tonic and wondering in an abstract fashion if this is what following in your parents’ footsteps really means, another word to describe what he does with Wilson would be: incomprehensible. There’s no possible reason for Wilson to want to even go near him, and there’s no reason for Chase to want to spend most of his free time with his hands fisted in Wilson’s truly disgusting shirts, but in spite of the lack of reasoning and the fact that House will kill them both if he ever finds out, neither of them have said anything about stopping.
Chase wonders vaguely and faintly drunkly if that’s what love is, just wanting to be with someone in spite of the fact that there are a million caveats, and then chokes on his drink. Wilson bangs him on the back for a while and Chase refuses to tell him why he’s laughing so hard. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
#
Wilson made him breakfast the first time, because Julie was staying with her cousin in… somewhere that wasn’t Princeton, anyway, Chase wasn’t really listening, and House was too busy lying around at home being miserable/tortured about Stacy to bother coming to pester Wilson, so they both had a little time on their hands. Wilson makes excellent breakfast and even though most of Chase’s brain was filled with a shade or two of panic, he still managed to eat an obscene amount, wearing one of Wilson’s t-shirts and not a whole lot else.
He didn’t ask what the tipping point had been, didn’t ask why he was there, didn’t ask if this was a one-time thing or the start of something new and exciting, just shrugged and poured too much maple syrup over another pile of blueberry pancakes, watching through his fringe as Wilson whistled something unidentifiable through his teeth in a way that was surprisingly irritating.
That morning, Wilson’s kiss tasted like coffee, and no matter how much tea Chase drank over the rest of the day, he couldn’t get rid of the taste.
#
“I don’t trust you,” Chase says steadily. He hears Wilson laugh, somewhere too far away, somewhere Chase isn’t. “I don’t trust you nearly enough to let you do this.”
“Good.” Wilson still sounds impossibly amused and Chase sighs in a way that he hopes sounds frustrated, rather than apprehensive.
There’s silence for a moment, and Chase hates it. It unnerves him.
“You own too many ties,” he mumbles accusingly. Wilson makes a small, amused sound but refuses to be baited. Chase tugs at first his left wrist, then his right. The silk doesn’t chafe, which is nice, but neither does it give way. And he can’t even see whatever it is that Wilson’s doing, because there’s another tie firmly across his eyes.
Chase begins to realise he can’t get out of this, and a large part of him doesn’t even want to.
“You bastard,” he whispers; Wilson’s mouth meets his and crushes the word entirely.
#
Wilson swears, right in Chase’s ear, an impossibly long sound that seems to have absolutely no consonants and more than its fair share of vowels, and the sound sends a spark of something flaming through every inch of Chase. His left hand jerks, tries to pull Wilson closer and he feels the other man’s shirt collar tear in his fist. The sound of splitting fabric is momentary, is something almost funny in this moment of completely inappropriate lust, reminding Chase of who they are and where they are and the fact that House is back at the hospital now and any moment now is probably going to walk in and know everything.
They’ve got complacent, careless, because Cameron can’t see and Foreman doesn’t care enough to see and Cuddy won’t see, but House, oh House will.
Wilson’s mouth is open when it covers Chase’s, it’s nothing but heat, Chase shifts his shoulders against the wall and shoves his right hand ever yet further into Wilson’s slacks. The groan Wilson makes reverberates around his teeth, at least it feels like it does, and for a whole second Chase just can’t breathe, and it’s perfect.
The little beeping sound of his pager going off drags him back to reality.
“No,” Wilson whispers in his ear, suddenly unprofessional now he’s getting laid on a regular basis, “Ignore it.”
But Chase can’t.
#
“Remind me why you’re living in a hotel again,” Chase says, sprawled out naked on the bed and trying to persuade Wilson to call down for room service so that he doesn’t have to go home and pretend to cook things.
Wilson shrugs. He looks impossibly tired, and Chase wonders if in this situation he should perhaps be sympathetic. He’s Wilson’s boyfriend - shudder and run from the word, run - in everything but name, of course. So what if he doesn’t really care what happens to Wilson? He seems to have been neatly trapped into this shoebox, he might as well get comfortable.
He starts wondering exactly what happened to his shirt.
“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” he asks vaguely, although he’s beginning to piece it together. Not quite as unobservant as everyone else seems to think he is.
But Wilson just turns a scowl on him.
“No one’s fucking asking you to stay,” he says.
Chase considers this for a long moment, then dresses and leaves without looking back.
#
But whatever this highly unethical and completely inappropriate thing is, it doesn’t stop just because there’s an open acknowledgement that they don’t exactly like each other. Hell, Chase isn’t even sure he remembers how to go about liking people any more. He can lust, and he can hate, and he can tolerate. That seems to just about cover everyone in his own personal hell. Sorry, should that be world?
And they may work in what basically amounts to a goldfish bowl with elevators, but it’s still possible to keep things just about hidden, if you want them to be. Which is why exam room two, although not the most sensible of places, is filled with the sound of both of them trying to keep silent, Wilson has an appointment in ten minutes and his assets got cut off two days ago and Chase so far hasn’t offered to lend him money. He’s not even that good at sympathising.
But this, he can do, easily. He presses his hips a little harder into Wilson’s, bites his neck just below the shirt collar, deep purple and all that.
“I’m not going to apologise,” he says quietly, and certainly. He won’t. He likes this, but not enough to try and fix it if it gets broken.
“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Wilson replies, one of those tones that remind Chase that Wilson doesn’t respect him and never will. So he digs in a little harder, because the world as they know it is crumbling to pieces and he’s got a migraine, and- and- and fuck knows what else.
Wilson gasps. Chase catches it with his mouth.
#
The first time they kissed, it was in an elevator, eleven-thirty on a Wednesday night, House was driving everyone crazy, and Chase was running on so much coffee that the world had this lovely glossy sheen in front of it, and was tipping sideways alarmingly.
He doesn’t even care why Wilson was still at work. Dying patients, Stacy’s abject misery, House needing him at his beck and call so he could snap his fingers and Wilson would jump. All three options are plausible and he didn’t care enough to ask at the time, so he definitely doesn’t care with hindsight.
Wilson’s fingers curled into the back of his hair, his mouth was warm and soft, and Chase thought something between oh, this is new and House is going to kill me for this and why, Doctor Wilson!
He did also think that kissing in an empty elevator was ridiculously clichéd, but he was also tired enough not to even think about arguing.
#
With Wilson’s lips against the bruise House left, Chase thinks it should be poetic or at least symbolic, but it isn’t, it’s just mildly painful and a bit surreal. He has his hand on Wilson’s ribcage, and can feel him breathing and the way his ribcage shifts, and he can also feel the way Wilson is trembling.
They both know what Wilson has done and they also know that it’s going to fuck things up beyond belief, and that tomorrow everything will change, but there is tonight, the calm before the storm, and Chase thinks I’m not your atonement and he also feels distinctly strange, like he’s falling and no one’s catching him and he wonders just what the hell’s going on.
“God,” he says softly, burying his face in the curve of Wilson’s shoulder, and then he adds: “Fuck”, for good measure, and before he knows it, he’s laughing, they both are, laughing into each other’s skin, because this whole situation is both mad and stupid, and they’re not and never were equipped to cope with it.
Wilson tastes like peanut butter, and Chase flinches when he kisses that bruise again, kissing it better over and over and not making the slightest bit of difference.
Same old, same old.
#
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Wilson
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 094. Independence
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Slash
Summary: This whole thing is completely inappropriate.
Author’s Notes: Even if you don’t watch Grey’s (and you have my eternal admiration if you don’t, I can’t seem to be able to stop myself), I think the title is fairly clear. Because revising Chaucer is made of boring. And I’m not seeing Merry Little Christmas tonight, because I’m off to see Pirates 3. Woo eyeliner. So. Just faint spoilers for bits of FJ.
#
The first word Chase would use to describe the thing that really isn’t a relationship with Wilson would be: inappropriate. And it’s a mad word, considering that he’s done all sorts of inappropriate things in recent years and none of them have bothered him, not even Cameron’s drug hazed eyes slipping closed or Vogler doing that mad smile thing at him, and Chase knows in a disinterested way that everyone at Princeton/Plainsboro hates him.
Well, Wilson might not hate him. Chase honestly doesn’t know. And he can’t even be assed to ask, which probably means something.
But still, it’s inappropriate, stumbling out of exam room one with the certainty that at least one of the buttons on his shirt has disappeared, potentially forever, that Wilson’s hair is looking implausibly messed-up (and will remain so for the rest of the day), and if House were here he would comment on it. As it is, he isn’t, so they’ll probably get away with it for at least another week.
#
Chase has no illusions about himself. He knows that he is filling a void left by Julie, and a void left by House, and a void left by whoever else it was that decided to take a chunk out of Wilson and leave him emotionally damaged. Because he is, you know, emotionally damaged. Chase, incapable of human emotion as he is, can read that in James Wilson so well it might as well have been tattooed onto his forehead.
Not that it would have been a warning sign of any sort. Chase has no idea how this started, and, more importantly, no inclination to make it stop. Wilson isn’t the only one who gets lonely on these pointlessly hot summer evenings, and since Cameron is growing up a little and Foreman is just plain disinterested, Chase has no options.
Well, he tells himself that. The fact is that this started even before House crashed through the whiteboard with two bullets lodged in him and an almost ludicrous amount of blood spilled out and all Chase could think was: huh.
(And now it all seems to be working out all right for him, Chase can finally admit to himself that he’s glad House got shot, he fucking deserved it.)
#
It’s sort of indefinably filthy, doing this here, doing this now, House’s paperwork on the floor and the blinds closed but trembling, Wilson’s hair carded between his fingers (and damn, Chase wishes that it was longer, so he could tug it and make Wilson really goddamn feel it, and fuck, but that thought doesn’t help anything), and when Chase tilts his head back it goes thunk against the wall.
If he’s honest with himself, but he rarely is, Chase never saw this one coming. Would’ve thought that screwing Wilson would probably have entailed getting bent over the oncologist’s desk and rubbing at bruised hips for the next few days for his troubles. But then he never was very good at foreseeing consequences to his actions and he never foresaw this, Wilson on his knees and Chase feels a laugh tremble through his whole body, and only realises this when Wilson’s oh-so-measured breathing hitches.
“Fuck,” Chase murmurs, wondering if this is what it’s like to be drunk on your own power, even though he knows, he knows, that technically he has no power at all, and for a split second of white prays that House fucking never comes back.
#
Chase decides, halfway down his third gin and tonic and wondering in an abstract fashion if this is what following in your parents’ footsteps really means, another word to describe what he does with Wilson would be: incomprehensible. There’s no possible reason for Wilson to want to even go near him, and there’s no reason for Chase to want to spend most of his free time with his hands fisted in Wilson’s truly disgusting shirts, but in spite of the lack of reasoning and the fact that House will kill them both if he ever finds out, neither of them have said anything about stopping.
Chase wonders vaguely and faintly drunkly if that’s what love is, just wanting to be with someone in spite of the fact that there are a million caveats, and then chokes on his drink. Wilson bangs him on the back for a while and Chase refuses to tell him why he’s laughing so hard. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
#
Wilson made him breakfast the first time, because Julie was staying with her cousin in… somewhere that wasn’t Princeton, anyway, Chase wasn’t really listening, and House was too busy lying around at home being miserable/tortured about Stacy to bother coming to pester Wilson, so they both had a little time on their hands. Wilson makes excellent breakfast and even though most of Chase’s brain was filled with a shade or two of panic, he still managed to eat an obscene amount, wearing one of Wilson’s t-shirts and not a whole lot else.
He didn’t ask what the tipping point had been, didn’t ask why he was there, didn’t ask if this was a one-time thing or the start of something new and exciting, just shrugged and poured too much maple syrup over another pile of blueberry pancakes, watching through his fringe as Wilson whistled something unidentifiable through his teeth in a way that was surprisingly irritating.
That morning, Wilson’s kiss tasted like coffee, and no matter how much tea Chase drank over the rest of the day, he couldn’t get rid of the taste.
#
“I don’t trust you,” Chase says steadily. He hears Wilson laugh, somewhere too far away, somewhere Chase isn’t. “I don’t trust you nearly enough to let you do this.”
“Good.” Wilson still sounds impossibly amused and Chase sighs in a way that he hopes sounds frustrated, rather than apprehensive.
There’s silence for a moment, and Chase hates it. It unnerves him.
“You own too many ties,” he mumbles accusingly. Wilson makes a small, amused sound but refuses to be baited. Chase tugs at first his left wrist, then his right. The silk doesn’t chafe, which is nice, but neither does it give way. And he can’t even see whatever it is that Wilson’s doing, because there’s another tie firmly across his eyes.
Chase begins to realise he can’t get out of this, and a large part of him doesn’t even want to.
“You bastard,” he whispers; Wilson’s mouth meets his and crushes the word entirely.
#
Wilson swears, right in Chase’s ear, an impossibly long sound that seems to have absolutely no consonants and more than its fair share of vowels, and the sound sends a spark of something flaming through every inch of Chase. His left hand jerks, tries to pull Wilson closer and he feels the other man’s shirt collar tear in his fist. The sound of splitting fabric is momentary, is something almost funny in this moment of completely inappropriate lust, reminding Chase of who they are and where they are and the fact that House is back at the hospital now and any moment now is probably going to walk in and know everything.
They’ve got complacent, careless, because Cameron can’t see and Foreman doesn’t care enough to see and Cuddy won’t see, but House, oh House will.
Wilson’s mouth is open when it covers Chase’s, it’s nothing but heat, Chase shifts his shoulders against the wall and shoves his right hand ever yet further into Wilson’s slacks. The groan Wilson makes reverberates around his teeth, at least it feels like it does, and for a whole second Chase just can’t breathe, and it’s perfect.
The little beeping sound of his pager going off drags him back to reality.
“No,” Wilson whispers in his ear, suddenly unprofessional now he’s getting laid on a regular basis, “Ignore it.”
But Chase can’t.
#
“Remind me why you’re living in a hotel again,” Chase says, sprawled out naked on the bed and trying to persuade Wilson to call down for room service so that he doesn’t have to go home and pretend to cook things.
Wilson shrugs. He looks impossibly tired, and Chase wonders if in this situation he should perhaps be sympathetic. He’s Wilson’s boyfriend - shudder and run from the word, run - in everything but name, of course. So what if he doesn’t really care what happens to Wilson? He seems to have been neatly trapped into this shoebox, he might as well get comfortable.
He starts wondering exactly what happened to his shirt.
“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” he asks vaguely, although he’s beginning to piece it together. Not quite as unobservant as everyone else seems to think he is.
But Wilson just turns a scowl on him.
“No one’s fucking asking you to stay,” he says.
Chase considers this for a long moment, then dresses and leaves without looking back.
#
But whatever this highly unethical and completely inappropriate thing is, it doesn’t stop just because there’s an open acknowledgement that they don’t exactly like each other. Hell, Chase isn’t even sure he remembers how to go about liking people any more. He can lust, and he can hate, and he can tolerate. That seems to just about cover everyone in his own personal hell. Sorry, should that be world?
And they may work in what basically amounts to a goldfish bowl with elevators, but it’s still possible to keep things just about hidden, if you want them to be. Which is why exam room two, although not the most sensible of places, is filled with the sound of both of them trying to keep silent, Wilson has an appointment in ten minutes and his assets got cut off two days ago and Chase so far hasn’t offered to lend him money. He’s not even that good at sympathising.
But this, he can do, easily. He presses his hips a little harder into Wilson’s, bites his neck just below the shirt collar, deep purple and all that.
“I’m not going to apologise,” he says quietly, and certainly. He won’t. He likes this, but not enough to try and fix it if it gets broken.
“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Wilson replies, one of those tones that remind Chase that Wilson doesn’t respect him and never will. So he digs in a little harder, because the world as they know it is crumbling to pieces and he’s got a migraine, and- and- and fuck knows what else.
Wilson gasps. Chase catches it with his mouth.
#
The first time they kissed, it was in an elevator, eleven-thirty on a Wednesday night, House was driving everyone crazy, and Chase was running on so much coffee that the world had this lovely glossy sheen in front of it, and was tipping sideways alarmingly.
He doesn’t even care why Wilson was still at work. Dying patients, Stacy’s abject misery, House needing him at his beck and call so he could snap his fingers and Wilson would jump. All three options are plausible and he didn’t care enough to ask at the time, so he definitely doesn’t care with hindsight.
Wilson’s fingers curled into the back of his hair, his mouth was warm and soft, and Chase thought something between oh, this is new and House is going to kill me for this and why, Doctor Wilson!
He did also think that kissing in an empty elevator was ridiculously clichéd, but he was also tired enough not to even think about arguing.
#
With Wilson’s lips against the bruise House left, Chase thinks it should be poetic or at least symbolic, but it isn’t, it’s just mildly painful and a bit surreal. He has his hand on Wilson’s ribcage, and can feel him breathing and the way his ribcage shifts, and he can also feel the way Wilson is trembling.
They both know what Wilson has done and they also know that it’s going to fuck things up beyond belief, and that tomorrow everything will change, but there is tonight, the calm before the storm, and Chase thinks I’m not your atonement and he also feels distinctly strange, like he’s falling and no one’s catching him and he wonders just what the hell’s going on.
“God,” he says softly, burying his face in the curve of Wilson’s shoulder, and then he adds: “Fuck”, for good measure, and before he knows it, he’s laughing, they both are, laughing into each other’s skin, because this whole situation is both mad and stupid, and they’re not and never were equipped to cope with it.
Wilson tastes like peanut butter, and Chase flinches when he kisses that bruise again, kissing it better over and over and not making the slightest bit of difference.
Same old, same old.
#