Yvi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
recrudescence) wrote2008-04-30 11:44 pm
recrudescence) wrote2008-04-30 11:44 pm
Entry tags:
Point of Value
Title: Point of Value
Pairing: House/Chase, Cameron/Chase
Rating: R
Spoilers: No More Mr. Nice Guy
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 1,141
Summary: Bowling and backstabbing. Here's looking at you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
karaokegal.
Notes: I scrawled this out on scraps of paper during free moments at work today. Just sayin'.
-i-
Chase bowls magnificently.
House is disgusted.
In the end, it all came down to process of elimination: Foreman would have scoffed and was probably too lofty for anything as plebian as bowling anyway, Cameron would just have read way too much into it, and the new kids on the block…they have a job to do. Mocking Thirteen’s sexual proclivities doesn’t make for more than momentary amusement once and again, Kutner would have been even more chatty and underfoot than Chase—though he’s having second thoughts now because Kutner probably can’t bowl to save his life—and Taub…Taub has been seeming more and more like all Wilson’s stodgiest qualities lumped into human form.
And he’s really not here to be reminded of Wilson. Really. Chase just happened to be free, and he’d figured maybe Chase would be a lousy bowler who would make him feel better by comparison.
But no. He’d shown up with all the trappings, eyes and hair shining disgustingly. So happy to be picked for a special time out with Uncle Greg.
It sucks.
And now all he can think of is when he and Stacy joined a bowling league along with Wilson and Julie. Just one of many routines that had petered out after the infarction. That sucks more.
If Wilson isn’t here to stop him, he’s free to throw himself off any ledge he wanders onto. If Wilson can snag himself a pretty blond, well, so can he, damn it.
“So. You’re…awfully good at handling balls.”
Chase rolls his eyes and grins, making yet another goddamn strike. "First time I've heard that from a colleague."
House's powers of deduction welcome that statement with open arms, then rip it to shreds and devour the good parts. “Thank God I’m not your boss anymore." A mock-shudder. "Maybe you haven't heard, but having inappropriate relations with someone you work for is just bad form.”
“Guess you’d know a lot about bad form,” Chase says sagely as House throws another gutter ball. On the point of sleeping with superiors, however, he keeps conspicuously mum. Maybe that cut a little too close to the bone. House devoutly hopes so.
Besides, he’ll show him bad form. “I’m bored.” And he picks up his cane and walks away without looking back. Chase, like the maxim “old habits die hard” in motion, follows him.
Forty-five minutes later, Chase is infinitely more tolerable.
“Don’t tell Cameron,” he says, zipping back up. His bare feet are pale against the dark rug in his bedroom and his cell phone is chirping forlornly nearby. A missed call and a new voicemail from Wilson, who no doubt must be wondering his pretty little head what House is up to. Serves him right.
“I’m not stupid,” Chase mutters, but his cheeks are stained with pinkness and his eyes are on the floor.
-ii-
Chase is terrified. Poor planning, worse timing; hadn’t been anticipated, hadn’t been planned. Period.
He’s disgusted. What does this say about him now? What did it say about him then, sleeping with Cameron for the first time when she was smacked up on meth, then ending up wanting to pursue an actual relationship with her?
Recall seeing the blood on his lip later on, knowing she might be HIV positive, knowing she was stoned, and going along with it anyway (because it was what she wanted and he’d wanted nothing more than to give it to her and that somehow had made it okay) because he hadn’t been able to leave her like that. Those neat white teeth nipping too roughly, and he’d assumed it was his fault for letting it happen, or just an accident brought on by the effects of the meth-and-sex cocktail the two of them had been stirring, because Cameron would never do anything so vicious on purpose. He’d gotten tested at another hospital right away, to be sure, and spent his own waiting period, silent and clammy-palmed, for the same battery of tests Cameron had been undergoing at the time. He’d told himself that, if given the chance, he wouldn’t do it again.
Deflecting: it’s what he’s good at, it’s what he knows. Biting down on the truth before it wriggles free, carrying on as if all the woes in the world simply slide right off him.
Cameron thinks he went out for drinks and bowling with a friend, which was true in part.
She’d been in bed when he came out of the shower (scrubbed clean under scalding water till it blotted out the blush on his face by coloring his entire body lobster-red, teeth brushed three times). Naked under the covers with a book facedown by her side and her eyes glinting wickedly through her glasses, and she had wanted. And he had given—needing to be lost, needing to remember, needing to deflect—no second thoughts.
Syph happens. That’s the first thing Chase thinks when he hears the news. Struggling to make light of the situation, give it a name that turns it into a corny high-school health class video instead of a holy shit, time to panic moment.
He calls Cameron out for what he’s done because he can’t think of what else to do and maybe, just maybe, she had bitten down on his lip too hard on purpose, a couple years and a thousand doubts ago. Eye makeup smudged, dissipated inhibitions mingling with smoke and shadows, hair hanging over bare shoulders—he’d sworn not to do it again. Hadn’t been sure if he was supposed to feel manipulated or if she was. Some things between them haven’t changed.
He sees the hurt and indignation in her face and wants to take it all back, mentally flinching at each word as it shrieks unspoken through the air. You’re calling me a slut in front of everyone and implying I have an STD? What the hell?
It’ll be okay. His mother used to fling that phrase around on every occasion, and it rings meaninglessly but comfortingly in his mind. He’ll get tested as soon as he’s off work (because if it’s done in the hospital someone will find out, and gossip flows far more freely than the concept of medical confidentiality). He’ll get tested and it’ll be negative and everything. will. be. fine.
What-ifs only ride the coattails of rational thought, jumping off and dancing for attention in the interim between asking sensible questions and waiting for sensible answers…there’s nothing he can do about this until he knows for sure.
The rumor mill works its magic. Word travels fast: it was all a ruse, brain cancer all over again, House being himself, no less than anyone should expect.
Cameron coldly says that he’s been jumpy lately, but Chase doesn’t answer.
House looks at him and says nothing, gives nothing away. He should be used to bad form by now.
Pairing: House/Chase, Cameron/Chase
Rating: R
Spoilers: No More Mr. Nice Guy
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 1,141
Summary: Bowling and backstabbing. Here's looking at you,
karaokegal.Notes: I scrawled this out on scraps of paper during free moments at work today. Just sayin'.
Chase bowls magnificently.
House is disgusted.
In the end, it all came down to process of elimination: Foreman would have scoffed and was probably too lofty for anything as plebian as bowling anyway, Cameron would just have read way too much into it, and the new kids on the block…they have a job to do. Mocking Thirteen’s sexual proclivities doesn’t make for more than momentary amusement once and again, Kutner would have been even more chatty and underfoot than Chase—though he’s having second thoughts now because Kutner probably can’t bowl to save his life—and Taub…Taub has been seeming more and more like all Wilson’s stodgiest qualities lumped into human form.
And he’s really not here to be reminded of Wilson. Really. Chase just happened to be free, and he’d figured maybe Chase would be a lousy bowler who would make him feel better by comparison.
But no. He’d shown up with all the trappings, eyes and hair shining disgustingly. So happy to be picked for a special time out with Uncle Greg.
It sucks.
And now all he can think of is when he and Stacy joined a bowling league along with Wilson and Julie. Just one of many routines that had petered out after the infarction. That sucks more.
If Wilson isn’t here to stop him, he’s free to throw himself off any ledge he wanders onto. If Wilson can snag himself a pretty blond, well, so can he, damn it.
“So. You’re…awfully good at handling balls.”
Chase rolls his eyes and grins, making yet another goddamn strike. "First time I've heard that from a colleague."
House's powers of deduction welcome that statement with open arms, then rip it to shreds and devour the good parts. “Thank God I’m not your boss anymore." A mock-shudder. "Maybe you haven't heard, but having inappropriate relations with someone you work for is just bad form.”
“Guess you’d know a lot about bad form,” Chase says sagely as House throws another gutter ball. On the point of sleeping with superiors, however, he keeps conspicuously mum. Maybe that cut a little too close to the bone. House devoutly hopes so.
Besides, he’ll show him bad form. “I’m bored.” And he picks up his cane and walks away without looking back. Chase, like the maxim “old habits die hard” in motion, follows him.
Forty-five minutes later, Chase is infinitely more tolerable.
“Don’t tell Cameron,” he says, zipping back up. His bare feet are pale against the dark rug in his bedroom and his cell phone is chirping forlornly nearby. A missed call and a new voicemail from Wilson, who no doubt must be wondering his pretty little head what House is up to. Serves him right.
“I’m not stupid,” Chase mutters, but his cheeks are stained with pinkness and his eyes are on the floor.
Chase is terrified. Poor planning, worse timing; hadn’t been anticipated, hadn’t been planned. Period.
He’s disgusted. What does this say about him now? What did it say about him then, sleeping with Cameron for the first time when she was smacked up on meth, then ending up wanting to pursue an actual relationship with her?
Recall seeing the blood on his lip later on, knowing she might be HIV positive, knowing she was stoned, and going along with it anyway (because it was what she wanted and he’d wanted nothing more than to give it to her and that somehow had made it okay) because he hadn’t been able to leave her like that. Those neat white teeth nipping too roughly, and he’d assumed it was his fault for letting it happen, or just an accident brought on by the effects of the meth-and-sex cocktail the two of them had been stirring, because Cameron would never do anything so vicious on purpose. He’d gotten tested at another hospital right away, to be sure, and spent his own waiting period, silent and clammy-palmed, for the same battery of tests Cameron had been undergoing at the time. He’d told himself that, if given the chance, he wouldn’t do it again.
Deflecting: it’s what he’s good at, it’s what he knows. Biting down on the truth before it wriggles free, carrying on as if all the woes in the world simply slide right off him.
Cameron thinks he went out for drinks and bowling with a friend, which was true in part.
She’d been in bed when he came out of the shower (scrubbed clean under scalding water till it blotted out the blush on his face by coloring his entire body lobster-red, teeth brushed three times). Naked under the covers with a book facedown by her side and her eyes glinting wickedly through her glasses, and she had wanted. And he had given—needing to be lost, needing to remember, needing to deflect—no second thoughts.
Syph happens. That’s the first thing Chase thinks when he hears the news. Struggling to make light of the situation, give it a name that turns it into a corny high-school health class video instead of a holy shit, time to panic moment.
He calls Cameron out for what he’s done because he can’t think of what else to do and maybe, just maybe, she had bitten down on his lip too hard on purpose, a couple years and a thousand doubts ago. Eye makeup smudged, dissipated inhibitions mingling with smoke and shadows, hair hanging over bare shoulders—he’d sworn not to do it again. Hadn’t been sure if he was supposed to feel manipulated or if she was. Some things between them haven’t changed.
He sees the hurt and indignation in her face and wants to take it all back, mentally flinching at each word as it shrieks unspoken through the air. You’re calling me a slut in front of everyone and implying I have an STD? What the hell?
It’ll be okay. His mother used to fling that phrase around on every occasion, and it rings meaninglessly but comfortingly in his mind. He’ll get tested as soon as he’s off work (because if it’s done in the hospital someone will find out, and gossip flows far more freely than the concept of medical confidentiality). He’ll get tested and it’ll be negative and everything. will. be. fine.
What-ifs only ride the coattails of rational thought, jumping off and dancing for attention in the interim between asking sensible questions and waiting for sensible answers…there’s nothing he can do about this until he knows for sure.
The rumor mill works its magic. Word travels fast: it was all a ruse, brain cancer all over again, House being himself, no less than anyone should expect.
Cameron coldly says that he’s been jumpy lately, but Chase doesn’t answer.
House looks at him and says nothing, gives nothing away. He should be used to bad form by now.
no subject
Onward: I love what-ifs only ride the coattails of rational thought and Taub has been seeming more and more like all Wilson’s stodgiest qualities lumped into human form and Chase, like the maxim “old habits die hard” in motion, follows him. I love about half of this, actually. <3
no subject
Also, I'm flattered that I could weasel my way into your subconscious. *leers creepily*
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Ive been waiting for another fic from you! Well done, its fab.
xxx
no subject
Pleased you enjoyed. =)
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
If Wilson isn’t here to stop him, he’s free to throw himself off any ledge he wanders onto. My favorite line. It rings totally true. The fact that such a heavy line is followed by a funny one keeps it from sounding over-the-top. I love it.
Syph happens. *snort* Clever.
I like Chase's section a lot. I like that there's so much going on in his head. I wish I had more to give you than that, but four hours of sleep isn't good when I'm trying to construct useful comments. Anyway, I enjoyed it.
no subject
no subject
It also gives Chase a reasonable backstory for his inappropriate comment to Cameron in front of everyone.
no subject
no subject
no subject