Title: Oral Fixation.
Pairing: House/Chase of course.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Can't afford them.
Summary: I can't summarise this without making it sound ten times dirtier than it is. Um... a series of House/Chase moments with a theme that will emerge...
Spoilers: Possibly irrelevant, but spoilers for Lost episode 1x13 "All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues"
Chase worries a pencil hard between his teeth, the crossword from the newspaper that day spread over the table. There are tooth marks up and down the implement, almost more wood than paint covering it. Occasionally he lowers it to the paper, writes down a word, puts a line through the clue, and then brings it back up to his mouth again. There’s a little crunching sound every time he bites down too hard, and occasionally his nose wrinkles as he gets paint in his mouth. His fingers are smothered in newsprint and House sits in his chair and watches, tapping his cane against his hand and waiting for Chase to notice him.
Eventually, the Australian looks up, and there’s surprise in his eyes as he sees House sitting there.
“What do you want House?” he asks, laying the pencil on the table. House looks at it.
“You should probably bin that.” He remarks. “Someone could catch something.”
Chase picks up the pencil protectively and tucks it into the pocket of his labcoat.
“How’s the patient?” he asks.
“Probably dead by now.” House lies. “She started fitting about half an hour ago, and I came to tell you, but you looked so *busy*…”
Chase is running out of the door before House can even finish speaking. While he waits for Chase to come back and shout at him when he discovers the patient has, in fact, been discharged, House reaches across the table and pulls the newspaper towards him. Chase has got number five down wrong.
It’s Christmas Eve, and practically everyone has gone home, and House is tramping around the hospital, stealing the decorations that threaten to come within six feet of his office, and binning them, because right now he can’t quite face going home.
Chase hasn’t gone home either. He’s sitting in the office, eating candy canes stolen from the big tree in the reception area. The whole room smells strongly of mint, and Chase’s lips are sticky and shiny and sort of distracting.
“Stealing candy from the children.” House mock-tuts. “Bad Chase.”
Chase defiantly slides the last part of the cane into his mouth and sucks it, causing House to be almost distracted again. Then Chase starts to chew it, the crunching sounds this elicits setting House’s teeth on edge.
“Aren’t you going home Chase?” he asks. “It is *Christmas*, after all.”
Silently, Chase unwraps another candy cane, the plastic wrapping rustling painfully loudly in the hush of the room.
“Don’t you need to get home?” he asks, sounding unusually bitter. “The ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future have got their work cut out for them; maybe you should let them have an early start.”
“I doubt they’ll bother to turn up after what I said to them last year.” Shrugs House. “And please, no more Scrooge jokes. I thought you were more imaginative than that.”
Chase slides the new candy cane into his mouth and sucks almost vicously on it.
“You’re going to get tooth decay.” House tells him firmly. “Although I suppose it’s traditional for British people to have bad teeth…”
House *thinks* that Chase grinds out “I’m *Australian*, you dick” around the cane, but it’s so muffled that he can’t be sure.
One morning, when clinic duty and its many long hours of boredom and
By pretty late that evening, House receives a white cardboard box. He opens it, grins, and limps off to find Wilson. And then corners Chase as the young man is coming out from examining the patient, who has started spitting up blood or something else unsavoury.
“Wilson and I have a bet on.” House says quietly, effectively blocking Chase’s escape route. “We want to see how much of this-” he opens the box. “-You can eat before you’re violently sick.”
Chase looks at the large jar of Vegemite and raises an eyebrow. He reaches out and unscrews the lid, and dips in a finger, the black, goopy substance coating the tip. He brings it to his mouth and sucks it off slowly, sensuously, without taking his eyes off House.
Then he walks swiftly away from him, but House can hear Chase retching even as he goes around the corner.
“All this masochism isn’t healthy!” he shouts after him.
Chase is watching Lost one day instead of working, or maybe because it’s kinda late at night and House won’t let him go home, so he’s sitting in the oncology lounge (maybe Wilson let him in) with a heap of paperwork on his lap watching the improbably pretty actors run about on the screen. House leans against the wall and watches for a minute. Chase has never struck him as the sort of person who’d be interested in this; he seems more like a documentary kind of guy. Not that House has spent any time at all speculating what kind of television shows Chase likes. Except maybe in the advert breaks of The O.C. Or during One Tree Hill (it really should be more interesting than it actually is).
There are two men fighting in what appears to be a mud puddle, for reasons House can’t be bothered to work out. Chase seems to be pretty fixated though, especially as one of the guy’s t-shirts seems to be riding up the more he gets hit (House files this away for future reference).
Eventually, the man Chase *probably* finds attractive (House is going to amuse himself next time he gets bored by printing out hundreds of pictures of this guy and plastering them all over the office and then watching Chase blush a hundred shades of magenta) and a rather pretty-yet-bedraggled woman find another man dangling from a tree. Good-looking-and-muddy guy eventually gets noose-guy down and then try to bring him back to life.
“He’s a doctor, and yet he’s going completely the wrong way about it.” House remarks, watching the guy whack the supposedly dead guy in the chest many, *many* times. Chase almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of House’s voice, and the hand lying next to the paperwork slides along the forms. He winces as he gets about a dozen papercuts on his hand, and one of them starts to bleed.
As Chase starts to suck his finger hard to stop the bleeding, House gestures at the TV as the dead-guy turns out not to be dead (huh. How about that).
“So, am I prettier than that doctor guy on there?” he asks.
If it’s possible for a person to choke on their own finger, Chase does.
House isn’t stalking Chase [probably] but he is slightly curious as to where he goes after work. He follows him one day to a bar and waits for a minute outside, glad he managed to coerce Wilson into lending him his car for the purposes of this exercise, before following Chase inside.
Chase sits up at the bar, drinking brightly coloured drinks that practically match his shirt (and that is disturbing on so, so many levels) and chatting to a couple of guys. House can’t work out the relationship between them, so just resorts to drinking something involving a lot of ice and not a lot of alcohol, because he has to drive home after this and Wilson will rip him limb from limb if he hurts his car, friendship be damned (even if it isn’t as nice as the Corvette, which Wilson is baby-sitting tonight).
House is about to give up and go home because in spite of himself he’s starting to feel a little like a stalker, when he sees Chase accept a cigarette from one of the men. He never thought of Chase as a smoker, but then he supposes that that oral fixation leads to a lot of problems. And then he sees him choking on a lungful of smoke and almost laughs. Trying so hard to be cool and yet not quite making it.
That is *so* like Chase.
They’re naming all sorts of diseases that the patient could-or couldn’t-have. It’s got to the desperate stage where Cameron is leafing helplessly through the medical dictionary and Foreman is being snarky and Chase is chewing so hard on his biro that it’s clear he has no idea and is panicking a little. None of them do-
“And yet she’s still dying.” House tells them. “So c’mon. Hit me.”
“Parvo B19.” shrugs Chase.
“Are we just suggesting random illnesses now?” asks House. “I’m sorry, I should have realised. How about smallpox? She *definitely* doesn’t have that. We can cross that off. Any other *pointless* suggestions anyone? Foreman, your turn.”
Chase smiles and lets House do this as Foreman spits out a dozen diseases and House shoots them all down in flames. The biro splits spectacularly between his perfect white teeth and black ink spills into his mouth. He makes a muffled squeaky wombat noise, and runs out of the room to wash his mouth.
House turns to the whiteboard and begins to write very industriously in the hope Cameron and Foreman can’t see him laughing.
It’s either very late at night or really early in the morning, and House is sitting in his office wishing that he’d gone home instead of staying here in the hospital where there’s nothing to *do* and then he wouldn’t be doing the right thing and staying to try and work out what the patient has. Foreman has gone home and Cameron is running gels because she’s a glutton for punishment, and Chase is sitting at the table eating his way through a bag of something or other and going through the patient’s medical records, highlighting bits that might be relevant. There’s a couple slashes of fluorescent yellow on one cheek from where he’s been reaching up to brush his hair off his face, and House watches him through the glass partition between the office and the conference room, listening to David Bowie and trying to work out that missing link.
Chase comes in maybe half an hour later with new slashes of highlighter, these ones orange, on his other cheek. House raises his eyebrows at him.
“Do we have a diagnosis?” he asks.
“No.” Chase sits down, uninvited, on the edge of House’s desk, and looks helpless and dejected.
“Run out of ideas Chase?” he asks.
“Never had any to begin with.” The Australian shrugs, rubbing a hand over his face and smudging the orange highlighter further.
“Nice warpaint.” House smirks, and Chase looks at him with incomprehension. “You’ve got highlighter all over you.”
Chase blushes a little, which does nothing for the citrusy orange and yellow streaks, and bites his lip.
“Where?” he asks, and House, because he’s tired and sleep deprived and maybe even a little stoned on Vicodin, reaches out with one hand and traces the pen marks. Chase shivers under his hand and then leans forward a little. But there’s a familiar smell about him…
“What *have* you been eating?” asks House.
“Liquorice.” Chase responds. House moves away from him.
“Out.” He orders. Chase obeys, shoulders slumped a little, and House sighs. Liquorice. Of all the tastes he hates in the world, it had to be that one.
Chase turns back at the door and smirks slightly.
“You’d better finish what you start.” He says.
“Is that a threat?” asks House, still bitter about the liquorice.
Chase just laughs and walks back to his research.
Chase has a splitting headache. He doesn’t mention it because Chase has some kind of not-talking-about-pain trip going on, which frustrates House no end, but after watching the Australian flinch away from sunlight for about the seventeenth time in an hour, shielding his eyes and squinting in an unattractive way, and then wincing whenever anyone talks above a whisper, it’s kind of self-explanatory. House, just to amuse himself, repeatedly drops his cane as he shuffles around the room, with loud clattering sounds that make Chase press the heel of his hand against his forehead as though it will relieve the pressure.
“Are you all right Chase?” asks House with fake concern, speaking way too loud so that his words will bore holes in Chase’s skull. The Australian closes his eyes and spits out through gritted teeth:
House, who is beginning to get curious about what it will take to get Chase to admit that he’s in pain, walks across the room and picks up a big, heavy medical dictionary.
“Good. You can do some research for me then.” He says with a grin, and drops the book onto the table with a deafening bang. Chase looks like he’s going to be sick and a shudder runs through him. “I think all that time with dominatrixes damaged your brain.” House tells him. “People are generally supposed to dislike pain and complain about it.”
“What, like you?” hisses Chase through his teeth. House bites back a harsh reply and places two Vicodin in front of him.
“Take them.” He orders.
“These are way too strong.” Chase says weakly, picking up the white pills and looking at them.
“Well, this afternoon should be fun then.” House replies briskly. Chase gently puts one in his mouth, looking as though he’s waiting for his head to explode. He sucks gently on the pill rather than swallowing it immediately, and House starts thinking that if he kissed him now, it would be brilliant. Chase and Vicodin. Two of the best things in the world, maybe.
His pager goes off and the patient’s dying so House abandons that thought. Chase looks up at him with slightly-stoned eyes and House realises he was wrong. This afternoon is going to be hell.
House only has himself to blame, and Chase blames him too, from the way he’s glaring at him. Cameron is more focused on getting Chase to tilt his head back and stop looking murderously at House. Foreman is snickering quietly.
“You know, if you hadn’t got so close to the crazy flailing patient this wouldn’t have happened.” House says. Chase pushes Cameron off so that he can glower at House properly. His teeth are coated in blood from where he got hit in the face and his lips are all bitten.
“*You* were the one who paged me.” He replies accusingly. “You knew this was going to happen.”
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Chase looks like some kind of vampire right now, actually, his eyes blazing with fury and his mouth dribbling blood. Cameron forcibly tips his head back so she can continue her mother-hen act. She’s very violent actually; it’s a little scary. She dabs at the blood with cotton wool and House watches and wishes he had some popcorn. This is almost as good as General Hospital. And infinitely better than Nip/Tuck.
Lunchtime. Chase has gone out to grab himself lunch in polystyrene containers, and he’s eating banoffee pie when House comes back in after his own, way, way too long lunch break with Wilson.
Chase is resolutely not looking at House, but a little piece of pie slips down his chin, leaving a sticky, sticky trail of toffee banana-y stuff behind. Chase uses his finger to wipe up the pudding and then sucks cream off his fingers. Suggestively. Really suggestively. House tries not to look but he’s fighting a losing battle. Chase. Whipped cream. His tongue sweeping across his lower lip, leaving it shining and wet. This mental image is going to be in House’s head all afternoon. He’ll never be able to get any work done now.
Chase is going to pay for this. Boy is he going to pay.
House has his hand tangled in Chase’s hair, and his lips are all kiss-swollen, and Chase tastes of toffee and coffee and probably other things ending in ‘offee’ except that House can’t think of any right now, because he’s a little distracted.
Chase finds himself on his knees and wonders why the hell he didn’t see this coming.
Feedback makes me happy...