Yvi

I'm on a roll with these shorter fics. Weird. Also, I'm besieged with Foreman ideas. Weirder. Maybe it's the full moon or something.


Title: Stolen Things
Rating: R
Pairing: Chase/Foreman, implied Chase/Cameron
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 737

Summary: Chase can be a little bit of a bastard, in his own understated way.

Notes: Takes place during S4, but no real spoilers apart from the fates of House's old team.



He’d walked by the conference room on a whim. Told himself it was to see if he could steal a cup of coffee, since after over three years of drinking House’s concoctions, he’s gotten attached to it.

They’re not in the same department anymore and that makes all the difference. Nothing to prove, no need to show me up now that we’ve gone our separate ways. He doesn’t actually say this to Foreman, of course.

“You’re still here,” he says to him instead. He’s in scrubs and Foreman in a foul mood; sitting at the conference-room table with him now feels slightly surreal.

Foreman doesn’t even deign to glare at him. "You're still perceptive."

Chase doesn’t have much room for passing judgment. He knows very well he’s been put in charge of a department he’s not ready to handle, but at least he’s on his own, not shirking in a corner and delivering deadpan bon mots every now and then. Foreman has to be bitter about being the only one left, really left.

"It's not like I don't know how much fun it is working for House." He claps a hand on Foreman's shoulder in some manly-man gesture of solidarity--he'd done it a couple times before, when they still worked together, and Foreman never seemed to think anything of it.

This time, though, Foreman's eyebrows slowly climb higher and higher on his forehead. Chase smiles blandly. "Not like there’s anything left to lose, right?" They've both lost it all and clawed their way back already.

Foreman snorts. "Nope," and glances from Chase's face to his hand. It's possibly the only time they've ever agreed on anything so quickly.

Nothing personal, Chase wants to tell him. No reason to be so uptight, never did you any good. Cameron and I got caught having sex on the clock and he didn’t even blink—you could’ve gotten away with so much more than you did, since House doesn’t really care about how dignified you are. But Foreman isn’t one for sitting appreciatively on the receiving end of lectures, so instead he just says, “Guess everyone else must be busy.” Leaving Foreman alone with his importance, another blow to all that pride.

Cameron has issues of her own with shrugging off the influence of all her time in Diagnostics, and hell, Foreman isn’t his colleague anymore, and deep down Chase has always wondered what it might be like to make him come apart, wedge his way in between Foreman’s self-isolating shields and be the one in charge for once. Maybe slip a hand down those nice pressed pants while he’s sitting serenely beside him and just watch him lose it. Make all those latent things come to light, shine and shimmer and shatter, while any of the eager new fellows could barge into the room at any moment.

He moves. Foreman doesn’t.

"Yeah?" he asks, and Foreman does glare at him.

"Just stop talking." His belt is sleek and cool under Chase’s fingers

His thumb smoothes down the gritted teeth of Foreman’s fly. He’s deliberately clumsy with it, making sure to let the heel of his hand press a little harder, a little lower. "D'you really think you can afford to be demanding--?"

"Chase. Shut. Up."

So Chase doesn’t say another word as he eases fingers between that parted zipper. Talking means acknowledging, and if there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to keep his head down at the right time. He still can’t help thinking how fantastic it would be for one of the new team members to wander by and see their high and mighty mentor like this. But Foreman doesn’t need to know that. Foreman’s eyes are squeezed shut, his hands fisted on the tabletop, and his hips shoving into Chase’s hand roughly but somehow reluctantly, as if each motion is being forced from him.

In the end, it's better. House, in his office on the other side of the glass, watching with brows arched and mouth ajar. All that’s missing is the popcorn. And maybe a scorecard.

Chase looks him in the eye and grins. Tightens his fist, lifts his chin, and lets him watch. Foreman’s head falls forward and he shudders, not making a sound.

House rolls his eyes and walks away, but not before Chase catches him smiling the tiniest bit.

He leaves without speaking, without coffee, and without looking at Foreman again.