Fic - Someone Else's Pain
For the GHL round three! The world of House!slash needs more H/Ch!!!
Title: Someone Else's Pain
Author: LadyMurha
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Um, major spoilerage for 1X13. Oh, and male-on-male. Wait, you already knew that last one.
Summary: get_house_laid prompt 108. House/Chase -- hurt/comfort after Chase's father leaves in S1.
Disclaimer: I will own when the existence of Hell is a scientifically proven fact.
A/N: I took this as a last minute challenge. Therefore all beta'ing is mine. A second therefore constitutes that leftover mistakes are mine and you are free to slap me for them or point them out. Also, this is sort of a companion fic that follows Better This Way.
When House comes in next morning, he takes a peek at Chase, who’s sitting in the conference room with one or another of his crossword books, chewing furiously on a thoroughly-gnawed pencil.
Despite yesterday’s somewhat ambiguous departure (meaning House didn’t get any juicy details about the last encounter of an estranged father and a lost son) Chase seems okay. He’s not smiling (but when does he ever, when House comes in?) but nor are his eyes red with tell-tale signs of muffled crying into the pillow late into the night (House can so imagine that happening).
In fact, House thinks as he sets down his bag, it looks like Chase just doesn’t care. He’s heard how not caring is easier, and yet - and House can’t believe he’s even considering that - it’s just not likely that after a father comes to see his only son and leaves, that same son would not show any indication that his father going away again is upsetting him. At least a little.
House taps the marker against the whiteboard, and the team settles around the table to begin the new differential.
He keeps his eyes open for the rest of the day, but Chase doesn’t look like he’ll break down; perhaps he’s stronger than they’ve all given him credit for.
A week goes by; life seems more or less content to drive by without dumping any more family-related drama on their heads.
And then comes the day that House asks Chase to stay for a little bit of overtime. According to Cuddy they’re getting a new sponsor, and House’s patient records better be in order. Naturally, since Cameron is too busy in the last clinic shift of the day and Foreman is nowhere to be found, Chase gets the burden of sorting out papers and filling in details from old folders. Not much fun.
House makes it even less fun by commenting on various, apparently non-related things, as he swivels on his chair in his office. Chase is sitting on the floor (because it’s easier than shouting through the glass partition every time he has a question) nearly covered in papers.
And he’s working. He’s actually doing his job, House notices as he talks incessantly. And it seems he does it well, because he isn’t responding to anything House is saying.
“... so of course, I told the guy it’s all his dad’s fault for sticking him out in the back yard for the whole night with no torches or anything, and that maybe a psychiatrist is the better option here - after all, I’m not qualified to psychoanalyse people. Right?” House doesn’t expect an answer, but as the chair rotates again he sees a snapshot of Chase: head raised, blond locks in slight disarray, eyes open wide like - like disbelief.
House stops the chair on the next turn.
“Did I say something?” he enquires. He knows he had.
“No, no. Nothing.”
House is absolutely sure that Chase is lying. He’s adept at telling when people lie, and Chase - although a master at the art of deception - is an open book. He can read the words that tell him that he’s upset about something; the words that tell him that he’s sick and tired of it; the words that tell him about what Chase is feeling right now. And House, who is not easily intimidated, is suddenly afraid that Chase’s breaking point had come.
It takes exactly a minute and thirty-seven seconds for House to get up, limp the few steps to where Chase is sitting, and join him on the floor. He’s not one for phrases of consolation, not one for soothing words. He sits by Chase, watching him work quietly, watching him rub the back of his hand over his eyes and choking back breaths. He knows - or thinks he knows - what the problem is. Chase’s locks hang heavily in front of his face, obscuring his eyesight. House gently brushes them out of his face; Chase glances at him out of the corner of his eye. And although House knows what it’s like to have a dysfunctional family - after all, his father was no better than Chase’s own - he doesn’t know, has no idea at all, how to deal with someone else’s pain. So without worrying about anything else - that the walls of this office are transparent, that anyone can come in, that Chase is, well, Chase - he sends hesitating fingers to rest on Chase’s cheek, and kisses him.
(It’s not that unexpected. House knows that Chase is one hell of a gorgeous human being. And Chase, who isn’t devoid of his share of experience, can admit that he wouldn’t mind a rough-and-tumble with House.)
It’s like words aren’t needed right now. They can’t label emotions accurately, they can’t explain and rationalise this decision to kiss.
House pulls Chase’s face closer to his own and deepens the kiss - a tongue slithering softly between somewhat parted lips, touching teeth and then feeling the other smooth curling tongue. It’s not supposed to continue, but House doesn’t know what other comfort to offer (or why he’s even trying to offer it in the first place) and Chase seems intent on channelling some misplaced anger, so their tongues dance around and around.
When they pull apart those few crucial millimetres, just to breathe, House can see Chase’s lips had swollen and reddened a little. For some reason that he cannot explain (or maybe he can but he doesn’t really want to) that turns him on. Badly. And before he can question himself whether further contact is really what they both need right now, he plunges into another kiss, more searing than the first, the passion of their mouths cranked up a notch; it’s a delicate and arduous play of lips and tongues.
Damn the pending sexual harassment suit, House decides. He slides his hand down from Chase’s face to his neck, to his shoulder, down his arm; somehow he finds the hem of his shirt and slips his fingers underneath it, feeling warm skin. He doesn’t move fast, but rather savours the slow exploration of Chase’s torso.
Chase decides, apparently, that House can’t have all the fun. He grasps the older man’s hair, drawing his mouth even nearer (if that were possible) and wraps his other arm around House’s back, holding him tight. It makes House feel like he’s holding on dearly, desperate not to lose something. It doesn’t really interest him now what it is.
He pushes Chase back onto the carpet and has a little difficulty in twisting around to lie atop him, but manages it. The two still kiss frenziedly; Chase delivers the occasional rough digging of his fingers into House’s shoulder blades, sometimes so hard that House swears he can feel the nail crescents struggling to burrow through the fabric of his shirt.
“Hang- hang on,” Chase mumbles between kisses. “What are- you doing?”
“Do you want this?” is all House can think of saying. He can’t elaborate.
“Yeah, but-”
“So why question it?”
“Why not?” Aquamarine and icy blue eyes lock together. Chase gives in first. “At least let me close the blinds.”
By the time House gets off him and onto the couch and Chase had successfully shut off the outer view into the glass office (and the lights), House is having second thoughts. What if this isn’t the right thing to do? Why is Chase going along with it? So many ‘whys’, and not enough ‘because’.
His train of thought is interrupted as Chase straddles him (carefully) and puts his hands either side of House’s head.
“I still want this,” he says. “Usually I’d ask why-” buttons on House’s shirt are opened “-and what the hell you think you’re doing-” the shirt is harshly taken off and thrown aside “-but right now, I don’t care.” And it’s back to clashing mouths and fighting tongues and digits in locks of hair, trailing from fabric to hot flesh. Chase even grinds down a little, and it startles House enough to elicit a short hum. When Chase expands the distance between their mouths and looks at him, there’s something a little devilish in his eyes and the hint of a smile.
He slides his hand to House’s belt-buckle. He glances at the buckle, and then at House.
“Well, go on.” House tugs lightly at the blond’s hair to hurry him up a little.
Fingers carefully undo the entwined metal and leather. House observes the motion of the zipper, achingly slow in its path downwards; he pretends not to notice Chase trying to catch his eye, and he thinks he can detect the hidden devil in his expression again. Once the trousers are open, Chase leaves them alone; House doesn’t have time to wonder why because a luscious mouth attaches to his clavicle and begins to suck, almost wantonly. Broad licks alternate with dainty touches of the tip of the tongue, tracing an unseen line. Chase’s hands return to maul House’s hair, gripping and tilting his head back and moving up along his neck to suckle at - oh, right there! - the sweet concealed spot right below his ear (nearly no woman ever gets that point and it’s weird to House that Chase knows how to find it almost instinctively). A muffled groan leaves House’s mouth as Chase sinks the barest hint of teeth into the yielding flesh and almost against his better judgement he feels himself grow hard. Damn that pretty boy, a small incoherent voice in his head mutters. Chase bites his earlobe when he decides that the fun has gone on long enough.
“Are you gonna let me do anything?” he asks. He’s fairly proud of himself that his voice stays unwavering as he speaks.
“Depends on what you’re gonna do.”
House doesn’t ask permission for anything; he pushes Chase backwards a bit and makes quick work of his shirt-buttons, shoving the wings off his shoulders in one long movement; the resulting bunch of fabric lands on the floor with a quiet flop. Then he grabs Chase’s bicep, and bending forward, sinks his teeth into his shoulder. House reflects on the fact that if he knew the kind of gasping moan that action caused Chase to make, he would do it more often, because there was no way to describe it other than extremely hot. And what’s more, House thinks as he finishes sucking on flesh, Chase looks it: the faint radiance of light from between the blinds on the blond’s hair, the arch of his throat gleaming, the hollow between the clavicles darkened and inviting. House turns his attention to the little crevice next, plays with his tongue inside it. The vibration of moans is much stronger, much more primal this close.
Time loses its cadence as abdomens grind and rut against each other; House’s hips move as rhythmically as possible, with a slight stutter, Chase’s more violently, brusquely. It’s a good feeling, this, and House doesn’t have to ask himself anything at all because he’s given over to sensations entirely. He knows, through the haze of sudden lust, that Chase’s trousers are not undone and there’s definitely something wrong with that. The belt is whipped out of its restraining loops; Chase takes the same moment to scrape his nails down House’s chest and lower his head to lave a trail around House’s nipple. He’s not shocked at anything now, and the taste of the puckered nub is delicious to his taste-buds, the taste of unsure desire.
House moans again and Chase latches onto the sound, driving his hips forward, and- House stops him, panting and trying to inhale deeply. Chase thinks that House may need a moment - his leg must be acting up - but is surprised when House’s hand thrusts into his boxers and captures his erection. He doesn’t even pause for a ‘is this okay?’, no - goes straight into it, rubbing tightly up and down and this pleasure - ohh, yes, this lovely pressure - is about to knock him out for the count. Chase can’t think about anything to do besides reciprocating the gesture, just as violently, just as raggedly. Huffs of sultry air grace both their faces before another attack of mouth on mouth ensues, tongues duelling, brushing against teeth and gums. Their hands quicken the pace almost simultaneously - harder, harder, harder, Chase’s moans reverberating within House’s mouth and the older man having to pull back just a little before the oxygen won’t be enough, just for a millisecond - that’s all it takes Chase to utter a choked “Ah, fuck!” and toss back his head as his orgasm grips him, spilling pearlescent white into his boxers and House’s hand. He gasps for air for a few moments, before grinning like a mischievous fool in love and kissing House’s neck delicately, right where he knows House becomes pliant as dough. The result is immediate: House starts swearing, much more loudly than Chase, and when the younger man squeezes his palm around House’s erection powerfully, House can’t hold- not anymore- and comes, writhing as shudders rake through his body.
It takes him a few seconds to calm down, at least partially, and wipe his hand of Chase’s semen; he manages to get a groggy Chase to do the same, although with much manipulation of his hands.
Chase wishes he could remember more of a post-coital House, but the combined sweltering heat of their bodies and the sticky perspiration that slowly dries off surrender him into slumber, head against House’s neck, nose buried at the junction of neck and shoulder.
The shadows of the night creep in through the slits between the plastic planks of the blinds, riding on the back of thin light shafts from the corridor. House peers down, following one thin ray in its path across tawny hair that turns burnished gold where the illumination strikes. Chase has been draped on him for the last fifteen minutes at least and while he doesn’t find that disgusting in the least (after all, he is quite the pretty blanket) he is starting to feel his leg cramping up. He has the slight suspicion that Chase has fallen asleep, and pokes his bare shoulder hard.
“Hey, blondie.” He pokes again. Chase shuffles a little and raises his head a tiny bit.
“Oh. Hm. Sorry,” he mumbles, clearly exhausted, and stands up. “Where’s my shirt?”
“On the floor, where I threw it.”
“Oh.” He picks it up and slings it over his shoulders, unbothered by his post-coital appearance (somewhat tousled hair, undone jeans and a bite impression painted violet on his shoulder). He studies House for a second. “Where’s your shirt?” he asks bemusedly.
“Also on the floor, where you threw it.”
“Right.” He picks that up too and hands the creased material to House; when he doesn’t take it, Chase sighs and sits back down on the couch by House (not so close that he can feel the heat, but not so far that he would wish Chase would sit closer).
“Why’d you do it?” Chase finally breaks the silence.
“I don’t know. Why’d you go along with it?” House shoots back.
“I don’t know.” A faint chuckle. “No, I’m lying.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I guess I realised I’m just tired of not having to care.” For the second time that evening, two pairs of eyes engage; Chase knows that House remembers every word that he said to him about his father, knows House knows exactly what he means.
“This isn’t going to replace your dad and it isn’t going to change anything that happened in the past.” House hears Chase sigh; he slumps almost audibly.
“I know.” Chase gets up and puts on his shirt properly. He’s pulling buttons through the loops when he tells House, “it’s just nice to pretend for a little while that a good distraction can do that.”
Chase goes home after another half an hour of ruffling through forms on the floor; he leaves with a yawn and leaves the piles on the desk in the conference room, probably certain that Cameron will come along early the next morning to finish them off. House still swivels around in his chair when Chase bids him goodnight.
He knows exactly why he did it, but he’s never going to let Chase in on it: he doesn’t know how to deal with someone else’s pain, but this is the closest he can get.
Title: Someone Else's Pain
Author: LadyMurha
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Um, major spoilerage for 1X13. Oh, and male-on-male. Wait, you already knew that last one.
Summary: get_house_laid prompt 108. House/Chase -- hurt/comfort after Chase's father leaves in S1.
Disclaimer: I will own when the existence of Hell is a scientifically proven fact.
A/N: I took this as a last minute challenge. Therefore all beta'ing is mine. A second therefore constitutes that leftover mistakes are mine and you are free to slap me for them or point them out. Also, this is sort of a companion fic that follows Better This Way.
When House comes in next morning, he takes a peek at Chase, who’s sitting in the conference room with one or another of his crossword books, chewing furiously on a thoroughly-gnawed pencil.
Despite yesterday’s somewhat ambiguous departure (meaning House didn’t get any juicy details about the last encounter of an estranged father and a lost son) Chase seems okay. He’s not smiling (but when does he ever, when House comes in?) but nor are his eyes red with tell-tale signs of muffled crying into the pillow late into the night (House can so imagine that happening).
In fact, House thinks as he sets down his bag, it looks like Chase just doesn’t care. He’s heard how not caring is easier, and yet - and House can’t believe he’s even considering that - it’s just not likely that after a father comes to see his only son and leaves, that same son would not show any indication that his father going away again is upsetting him. At least a little.
House taps the marker against the whiteboard, and the team settles around the table to begin the new differential.
He keeps his eyes open for the rest of the day, but Chase doesn’t look like he’ll break down; perhaps he’s stronger than they’ve all given him credit for.
A week goes by; life seems more or less content to drive by without dumping any more family-related drama on their heads.
And then comes the day that House asks Chase to stay for a little bit of overtime. According to Cuddy they’re getting a new sponsor, and House’s patient records better be in order. Naturally, since Cameron is too busy in the last clinic shift of the day and Foreman is nowhere to be found, Chase gets the burden of sorting out papers and filling in details from old folders. Not much fun.
House makes it even less fun by commenting on various, apparently non-related things, as he swivels on his chair in his office. Chase is sitting on the floor (because it’s easier than shouting through the glass partition every time he has a question) nearly covered in papers.
And he’s working. He’s actually doing his job, House notices as he talks incessantly. And it seems he does it well, because he isn’t responding to anything House is saying.
“... so of course, I told the guy it’s all his dad’s fault for sticking him out in the back yard for the whole night with no torches or anything, and that maybe a psychiatrist is the better option here - after all, I’m not qualified to psychoanalyse people. Right?” House doesn’t expect an answer, but as the chair rotates again he sees a snapshot of Chase: head raised, blond locks in slight disarray, eyes open wide like - like disbelief.
House stops the chair on the next turn.
“Did I say something?” he enquires. He knows he had.
“No, no. Nothing.”
House is absolutely sure that Chase is lying. He’s adept at telling when people lie, and Chase - although a master at the art of deception - is an open book. He can read the words that tell him that he’s upset about something; the words that tell him that he’s sick and tired of it; the words that tell him about what Chase is feeling right now. And House, who is not easily intimidated, is suddenly afraid that Chase’s breaking point had come.
It takes exactly a minute and thirty-seven seconds for House to get up, limp the few steps to where Chase is sitting, and join him on the floor. He’s not one for phrases of consolation, not one for soothing words. He sits by Chase, watching him work quietly, watching him rub the back of his hand over his eyes and choking back breaths. He knows - or thinks he knows - what the problem is. Chase’s locks hang heavily in front of his face, obscuring his eyesight. House gently brushes them out of his face; Chase glances at him out of the corner of his eye. And although House knows what it’s like to have a dysfunctional family - after all, his father was no better than Chase’s own - he doesn’t know, has no idea at all, how to deal with someone else’s pain. So without worrying about anything else - that the walls of this office are transparent, that anyone can come in, that Chase is, well, Chase - he sends hesitating fingers to rest on Chase’s cheek, and kisses him.
(It’s not that unexpected. House knows that Chase is one hell of a gorgeous human being. And Chase, who isn’t devoid of his share of experience, can admit that he wouldn’t mind a rough-and-tumble with House.)
It’s like words aren’t needed right now. They can’t label emotions accurately, they can’t explain and rationalise this decision to kiss.
House pulls Chase’s face closer to his own and deepens the kiss - a tongue slithering softly between somewhat parted lips, touching teeth and then feeling the other smooth curling tongue. It’s not supposed to continue, but House doesn’t know what other comfort to offer (or why he’s even trying to offer it in the first place) and Chase seems intent on channelling some misplaced anger, so their tongues dance around and around.
When they pull apart those few crucial millimetres, just to breathe, House can see Chase’s lips had swollen and reddened a little. For some reason that he cannot explain (or maybe he can but he doesn’t really want to) that turns him on. Badly. And before he can question himself whether further contact is really what they both need right now, he plunges into another kiss, more searing than the first, the passion of their mouths cranked up a notch; it’s a delicate and arduous play of lips and tongues.
Damn the pending sexual harassment suit, House decides. He slides his hand down from Chase’s face to his neck, to his shoulder, down his arm; somehow he finds the hem of his shirt and slips his fingers underneath it, feeling warm skin. He doesn’t move fast, but rather savours the slow exploration of Chase’s torso.
Chase decides, apparently, that House can’t have all the fun. He grasps the older man’s hair, drawing his mouth even nearer (if that were possible) and wraps his other arm around House’s back, holding him tight. It makes House feel like he’s holding on dearly, desperate not to lose something. It doesn’t really interest him now what it is.
He pushes Chase back onto the carpet and has a little difficulty in twisting around to lie atop him, but manages it. The two still kiss frenziedly; Chase delivers the occasional rough digging of his fingers into House’s shoulder blades, sometimes so hard that House swears he can feel the nail crescents struggling to burrow through the fabric of his shirt.
“Hang- hang on,” Chase mumbles between kisses. “What are- you doing?”
“Do you want this?” is all House can think of saying. He can’t elaborate.
“Yeah, but-”
“So why question it?”
“Why not?” Aquamarine and icy blue eyes lock together. Chase gives in first. “At least let me close the blinds.”
By the time House gets off him and onto the couch and Chase had successfully shut off the outer view into the glass office (and the lights), House is having second thoughts. What if this isn’t the right thing to do? Why is Chase going along with it? So many ‘whys’, and not enough ‘because’.
His train of thought is interrupted as Chase straddles him (carefully) and puts his hands either side of House’s head.
“I still want this,” he says. “Usually I’d ask why-” buttons on House’s shirt are opened “-and what the hell you think you’re doing-” the shirt is harshly taken off and thrown aside “-but right now, I don’t care.” And it’s back to clashing mouths and fighting tongues and digits in locks of hair, trailing from fabric to hot flesh. Chase even grinds down a little, and it startles House enough to elicit a short hum. When Chase expands the distance between their mouths and looks at him, there’s something a little devilish in his eyes and the hint of a smile.
He slides his hand to House’s belt-buckle. He glances at the buckle, and then at House.
“Well, go on.” House tugs lightly at the blond’s hair to hurry him up a little.
Fingers carefully undo the entwined metal and leather. House observes the motion of the zipper, achingly slow in its path downwards; he pretends not to notice Chase trying to catch his eye, and he thinks he can detect the hidden devil in his expression again. Once the trousers are open, Chase leaves them alone; House doesn’t have time to wonder why because a luscious mouth attaches to his clavicle and begins to suck, almost wantonly. Broad licks alternate with dainty touches of the tip of the tongue, tracing an unseen line. Chase’s hands return to maul House’s hair, gripping and tilting his head back and moving up along his neck to suckle at - oh, right there! - the sweet concealed spot right below his ear (nearly no woman ever gets that point and it’s weird to House that Chase knows how to find it almost instinctively). A muffled groan leaves House’s mouth as Chase sinks the barest hint of teeth into the yielding flesh and almost against his better judgement he feels himself grow hard. Damn that pretty boy, a small incoherent voice in his head mutters. Chase bites his earlobe when he decides that the fun has gone on long enough.
“Are you gonna let me do anything?” he asks. He’s fairly proud of himself that his voice stays unwavering as he speaks.
“Depends on what you’re gonna do.”
House doesn’t ask permission for anything; he pushes Chase backwards a bit and makes quick work of his shirt-buttons, shoving the wings off his shoulders in one long movement; the resulting bunch of fabric lands on the floor with a quiet flop. Then he grabs Chase’s bicep, and bending forward, sinks his teeth into his shoulder. House reflects on the fact that if he knew the kind of gasping moan that action caused Chase to make, he would do it more often, because there was no way to describe it other than extremely hot. And what’s more, House thinks as he finishes sucking on flesh, Chase looks it: the faint radiance of light from between the blinds on the blond’s hair, the arch of his throat gleaming, the hollow between the clavicles darkened and inviting. House turns his attention to the little crevice next, plays with his tongue inside it. The vibration of moans is much stronger, much more primal this close.
Time loses its cadence as abdomens grind and rut against each other; House’s hips move as rhythmically as possible, with a slight stutter, Chase’s more violently, brusquely. It’s a good feeling, this, and House doesn’t have to ask himself anything at all because he’s given over to sensations entirely. He knows, through the haze of sudden lust, that Chase’s trousers are not undone and there’s definitely something wrong with that. The belt is whipped out of its restraining loops; Chase takes the same moment to scrape his nails down House’s chest and lower his head to lave a trail around House’s nipple. He’s not shocked at anything now, and the taste of the puckered nub is delicious to his taste-buds, the taste of unsure desire.
House moans again and Chase latches onto the sound, driving his hips forward, and- House stops him, panting and trying to inhale deeply. Chase thinks that House may need a moment - his leg must be acting up - but is surprised when House’s hand thrusts into his boxers and captures his erection. He doesn’t even pause for a ‘is this okay?’, no - goes straight into it, rubbing tightly up and down and this pleasure - ohh, yes, this lovely pressure - is about to knock him out for the count. Chase can’t think about anything to do besides reciprocating the gesture, just as violently, just as raggedly. Huffs of sultry air grace both their faces before another attack of mouth on mouth ensues, tongues duelling, brushing against teeth and gums. Their hands quicken the pace almost simultaneously - harder, harder, harder, Chase’s moans reverberating within House’s mouth and the older man having to pull back just a little before the oxygen won’t be enough, just for a millisecond - that’s all it takes Chase to utter a choked “Ah, fuck!” and toss back his head as his orgasm grips him, spilling pearlescent white into his boxers and House’s hand. He gasps for air for a few moments, before grinning like a mischievous fool in love and kissing House’s neck delicately, right where he knows House becomes pliant as dough. The result is immediate: House starts swearing, much more loudly than Chase, and when the younger man squeezes his palm around House’s erection powerfully, House can’t hold- not anymore- and comes, writhing as shudders rake through his body.
It takes him a few seconds to calm down, at least partially, and wipe his hand of Chase’s semen; he manages to get a groggy Chase to do the same, although with much manipulation of his hands.
Chase wishes he could remember more of a post-coital House, but the combined sweltering heat of their bodies and the sticky perspiration that slowly dries off surrender him into slumber, head against House’s neck, nose buried at the junction of neck and shoulder.
The shadows of the night creep in through the slits between the plastic planks of the blinds, riding on the back of thin light shafts from the corridor. House peers down, following one thin ray in its path across tawny hair that turns burnished gold where the illumination strikes. Chase has been draped on him for the last fifteen minutes at least and while he doesn’t find that disgusting in the least (after all, he is quite the pretty blanket) he is starting to feel his leg cramping up. He has the slight suspicion that Chase has fallen asleep, and pokes his bare shoulder hard.
“Hey, blondie.” He pokes again. Chase shuffles a little and raises his head a tiny bit.
“Oh. Hm. Sorry,” he mumbles, clearly exhausted, and stands up. “Where’s my shirt?”
“On the floor, where I threw it.”
“Oh.” He picks it up and slings it over his shoulders, unbothered by his post-coital appearance (somewhat tousled hair, undone jeans and a bite impression painted violet on his shoulder). He studies House for a second. “Where’s your shirt?” he asks bemusedly.
“Also on the floor, where you threw it.”
“Right.” He picks that up too and hands the creased material to House; when he doesn’t take it, Chase sighs and sits back down on the couch by House (not so close that he can feel the heat, but not so far that he would wish Chase would sit closer).
“Why’d you do it?” Chase finally breaks the silence.
“I don’t know. Why’d you go along with it?” House shoots back.
“I don’t know.” A faint chuckle. “No, I’m lying.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I guess I realised I’m just tired of not having to care.” For the second time that evening, two pairs of eyes engage; Chase knows that House remembers every word that he said to him about his father, knows House knows exactly what he means.
“This isn’t going to replace your dad and it isn’t going to change anything that happened in the past.” House hears Chase sigh; he slumps almost audibly.
“I know.” Chase gets up and puts on his shirt properly. He’s pulling buttons through the loops when he tells House, “it’s just nice to pretend for a little while that a good distraction can do that.”
Chase goes home after another half an hour of ruffling through forms on the floor; he leaves with a yawn and leaves the piles on the desk in the conference room, probably certain that Cameron will come along early the next morning to finish them off. House still swivels around in his chair when Chase bids him goodnight.
He knows exactly why he did it, but he’s never going to let Chase in on it: he doesn’t know how to deal with someone else’s pain, but this is the closest he can get.