fic: Cold Comforts
May. 10th, 2007 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubberbuttonTitle: Cold Comforts
Pairing: Wilson/Chase
Rating: soft R for some sexuality, themes
Words: 12,000ish
Summary: Wilson and Chase find a new way to cope.
Pairing: Wilson/Chase
Rating: soft R for some sexuality, themes
Words: 12,000ish
Summary: Wilson and Chase find a new way to cope.
Wilson slipped the last few papers into his briefcase and closed it with a snap. Sighing, he let his hands rest against the dark leather for a moment, House’s parting shot still ringing in his ears. He recovered, squared his shoulders and slipped on his trench coat. Braced to ignore House, he strode past the diagnostic conference room, but he needn’t have bothered; House was no where to be seen. Only Chase sat at the long table, bent over what might have been a report but looked suspiciously like a crossword puzzle.
Wilson hesitated and then pushed the glass door open. “Hey.”
Chase looked up, startled by Wilson’s greeting. His arm slid across the page he was working on—definitely a crossword, then.
“Do you want to get a drink?” That sounded a little weird, so Wilson amended, “I’m going to go drink copious amounts of alcohol and it’ll look slightly less pathetic if I’m not doing it alone.” Maybe he should have stopped while he was ahead.
Chase hesitated a moment, calculating the weirdness of getting a drink with his boss’s best friend. “Long day, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
Wilson watched as Chase considered the offer, sure he would decline. Wilson prepared his answer—something along the lines of just as well, I’m a maudlin drunk. Anything to laugh it off. But Chase’s expression resolved and he said, “Sure, maybe not ‘copious amounts’ but I’d be up for a drink or two.”
Wilson smiled, felling first relieved and then immediately apprehensive. Drinking with Chase might stave off the loneliness, but it meant his drunken actions could have repercussions at work. And House had never been happy when the bodies orbiting him collided. Too late now, though, Wilson supposed. Chase had already agreed and the only thing more awkward than Wilson’s invitation would be rescinding the same.
They went to a bar around the corner from Wilson’s apartment; it was short on charm but convenient, and that was their only real requirement. Chase insisted that Wilson drop his car off at home and Chase drive them both, forestalling Wilson’s protest by reminding him that it was his express intent to get drunk and this way Chase could just drop him off and save him from retrieving his car in the morning. Wilson guiltily agreed that he had a point. If Chase passed judgment on Wilson’s intended debauchery, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he had just assumed that anyone who kept close counsel with House would have an alcohol problem.
This theory was substantiated as they took seats at the bar and Chase said, “Let me guess the reason for the alcohol...”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” Wilson replied and ordered bourbon.
Chase opted for a beer and waited until their drinks had been served to say, “Yeah, he’s been in a fine fettle all afternoon. He made an intern cry.” He pulled a dish of bar nuts closer to him, stocking his napkin with peanuts and pretzels. Wilson refrained from pointing out how many unwashed hands had sifted through the bowl before his.
“Still don’t want to talk about him,” Wilson reminded Chase, taking a throat-burning swallow. The intern wasn’t House’s only victim today. He’d interrupted an appointment with a patient’s daughter. One to whom Wilson had been trying to gently break the news that the most he could do now was make her mother as comfortable as possible. House had stalked in, taken in the tumor-ridden films and the daughter’s attractiveness and informed her in the bleakest possible terms that it was time to dump Mommy off at Hospice and start fighting siblings for the good china. Wilson wasn’t sure who he was really angry at—House for his cruelty or himself for failing to protect his patient from it.
“Sorry,” Chase muttered, munching a pretzel stick meditatively. “It’s just hard not to talk about him, sometimes. It’s embarrassing how much I talk about my boss to anyone who’ll stand still long enough. My girlfriend is sick of hearing about—”
“Chase,” Wilson warned and Chase winced.
“Right. I’ll stop now, promise.” He took a long swallow, possibly to prevent him from again speaking of House.
“So...you have a girlfriend?” Wilson asked for a lack of better conversational direction.
Chase considered the question with a rueful expression. “No, actually, now that I think about it, I probably don’t. I haven’t spoken to her in, uh, threeish weeks. We hadn’t been dating that long.” He shrugged dismissively. “I just got busy with the patient and sort of forgot. Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops,” Wilson repeated. “That’s kind of how all three of my marriages went.”
“Do you think it’s possible? To balance work and romance, I mean,” Chase wondered, popping a pretzel in his mouth.
“Theoretically, yes, but I’ve never seen it done.” Wilson studied the bottom of his glass.
“Is it worth it?” Chase scraped idly at the label on his beer with a thumbnail.
“I don’t know. Too late now. For me, anyways.” Wilson couldn’t stop the note of self-pity from creeping into his voice.
“Aw,” Chase sighed, laying a friendly hand on Wilson’s forearm, “don’t say that—it’s too late for me, too.” He grinned slyly and Wilson rolled his eyes and smiled back.
“I must be great company,” Wilson remarked, flagging the barkeep down for a refill. “Don’t you have better places to be than hanging out with your boss’s pathetic friend?”
Chase shook his head negatively. “Not really. It’s not like I broke a date with Keira Knightly to be here. It was this or “Wheel of Fortune” and a bowl of Spaghetti-O’s.”
Wilson made a face at Chase’s culinary selection and finished his drink, quickly ordering another. Chase was watching him guardedly when he finished that and he decided to make it his last. It wasn’t as much alcohol as he’d wanted to consume, but it was more than enough to take the edge off while still being able to walk in a straight line. More or less. He cautiously made his way to Chase’s car, pretending not to notice how close Chase kept on his heels, ready to keep him from face-planting into the asphalt.
Chase’s fingers tapped on the steering wheel as they waited out a long light. “He drives me crazy, you know. It’s not that I hope for anything resembling approval—I gave that up a long time ago. Now all I work for is to avoid his deep and abiding scorn. And even that’s too much...” his voice trailed off wistfully and he shook his head, dismissing his own foolishness. “And I’m talking about him. Again.”
“It’s okay,” Wilson told him. “I’ve consumed enough alcohol that I can do that now.” He cracked the window, the cold breeze welcome on his flushed face. “Expecting something other than contempt from House? How ambitious of you.” He considered that a moment and then continued, voice wry and bitter. “At least you’ve only been doing it a few years. Me? More like a decade.”
“He respects you,” Chase was quick to protest. “You’re his best friend. His only friend. He doesn’t have to associate with you. I’m his employee.”
“Friend implies some kind of mutuality,” Wilson countered bitterly, tracing out an angry line in the fog on the window. “I’m not his friend—I’m convenient. I clean up messes, smooth things over, pick things up.”
There was silence as Chase tried to think of a rebuttal, but Wilson knew there wasn’t one. He recognized his neighborhood and turned back to Chase. “This is my stop, but if you want to come in, we could continue the conversation.” He seemed to be chockfull of awkward invitations tonight. “There aren’t too many people who...understand. About House.”
Chase nodded but looked a little dubious. Wilson realized that he’d never had any of the fellows in his apartment and this would be breaking some kind of unspoken rule. “Okay,” Chase said finally with a decisive nod.
“Great,” Wilson managed. He was acutely aware of Chase’s footsteps echoing his as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. They didn’t say anything as he fished his keys out of his pocket and managed to fit them into the lock. Fumbling for a moment, he turned on the lamp, illuminating the spare apartment. Decorating had been too daunting, especially since it seemed that he spent more time packing and unpacking than not. “Here, let me give you the tour. Living area, dining area, bedroom through there and bathroom through there, kitchen.” He gestured at each room in turn. “Tada.”
“Nice.” Chase uncertainly draped his coat over the arm of Wilson’s couch, taking in the mismatched furniture Wilson had salvaged from his divorces.
“Yeah, if you’re a co-ed. I just got sick of looking and took the first thing available,” Wilson explained and wished he’d bothered to at least decorate a little. Gotten a few throw pillows or something.
“No, really,” Chase tried again. “I wasn’t being an asshole.”
Wilson smiled reassuringly. “I didn’t think you were. Do you want something to drink? I realize we just got done with drinks, but maybe water?”
“Water’s great,” Chase confirmed and followed Wilson into the narrow kitchen. The quarters were cramped as space was at premium. Wilson nearly whacked Chase in the head with the cupboard door as he got out the glasses.
“Sorry,” he grimaced. “Ice?”
“Okay,” Chase leaned against the counter, watching as Wilson rummaged around in the freezer for an ice tray. “Was he always like this?”
“Um.” Wilson twisted the tray so the ice cracked and popped. “No. I mean, yes, he was always an arrogant jerk who loved pissing people off, but he wasn’t quite so, I don’t know. Quite so.” He left the sentence there, unsure just what had changed. “Or maybe it’s me. He’s worn me down. I just don’t know...” He felt his chest tighten at the remembered closeness. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. When Chase put a hand on his shoulder, he nearly flinched, realizing how pathetic he must look. But Chase’s expression wasn’t mocking, instead his eyes were soft, warm. After years of derision, compassion was almost alarming.
“It’s not you,” Chase said, fingers squeezing to emphasize his words.
Wilson wasn’t sure what the proper response to the hand on his shoulder was, so he ignored it, but felt sorry when Chase moved it a moment later. “Yeah. I’m just a victim.”
“You’re the one who said it.” They shared a small smile. A few strands of blond hair fell across Chase’s forehead. Wilson took a sudden step back, moving to the sink. His shoulder brushed Chase’s as he passed him, and he caught the spice of Chase’s cologne and the warm scent of Chase himself.
“What about you? When are you going to leave your abuser?”
Chase shrugged. “Sometimes working for him really sucks, but the idea of working somewhere else sucks worse. So I guess I’m stuck.” Wilson handed him a glass.
“And here we are.” Wilson raised his water in a mock toast and they clinked glasses. He took a long swallow and set his water down on the counter.
“Yeah,” Chase breathed, and Wilson realized they were standing far too close, even given the confined space. He could see in perfect detail the eyelashes framing blue-green eyes. “Here we are.”
Before consciously knowing what he was doing, Wilson leaned in and kissed Chase, lightly on the mouth. He pulled back, realizing with sudden horror exactly what he’d done. He held his breath, keeping his gaze on the collar of Chase’s shirt, noticing Chase’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Chase hesitated and then kissed him, stepping in so that Wilson was pressed into the counter.
Wilson refused to think about it, relying on instinct and habit as Chase’s lips worked over his. His hands automatically came up to cup Chase’s face. He could feel the hard tile of the counter digging into the small of his back. Their belt buckles caught on each other with a dull clank of metal and Wilson felt white-hot fire run under his skin as he flushed deeply.
Wilson yelped, breaking the kiss, as he felt something cold sear down his side. Chase stepped back and they both looked down. A large, icy patch of water soaked Wilson’s front and down his leg. Chase righted the glass he still held sheepishly.
“I am so sorry,” he said aghast, biting his lip and assessing the damage. “I’ve just killed the mood, haven’t I?” He set the glass down firmly on the counter to prevent further damage.
“It’s fine,” Wilson quickly assured him. “Refreshing.” He pulled at the fabric of his sodden trouser leg, trying to keep it from sticking to his skin.
“Here, let me get a towel,” Chase grabbed a dish rag and set about mopping Wilson’s soaked front, but Wilson caught his wrist.
“No, really, it’s fine. It’s just water.”
Chase straightened, letting Wilson take the cloth from him. “I really am terribly sorry. You’re the one who’s supposed to be smashed, but I’m up-ending my drink on people.”
“You were distracted,” Wilson pointed out.
“A little,” Chase agreed. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze downcast. “Look—I should go.”
“Sure,” Wilson said quickly. “Thanks for going out with me. To get a drink, I mean.”
Chase collected his jacket and Wilson accompanied him to the door.
“See you tomorrow,” Chase said uncertainly.
“Yeah, tomorrow.” Wilson shut the door behind Chase.
He sighed and watched the door for a moment, as if his mother or House would suddenly burst through it and demand to know when he’d started kissing boys. When they didn’t, he found himself asking the same question. But the wet fabric clinging to his chilled skin proved too much of a distraction to come to a satisfactory answer.
He changed, peeling out of his work clothes, which now stank of stale cigarettes and alcohol. He found a pair of pajama bottoms and slipped gratefully into them. Drawstring waistbands were possibly the best thing ever. He was still looking for a clean t-shirt when there was a knock at the door. Answering it, he found Chase standing there, his expression enigmatic.
Wilson’s heart fell. Chase was going to make a big deal out of this, demand answers, and possibly apologies. Why couldn’t they both just pretend it hadn’t happened? And why hadn’t he found a t-shirt before answering the door—it seemed unfair that he was going to have to apologize for his inappropriate behavior while the draft was giving him goose pimples.
“Did you forget—” Wilson started, but was interrupted as Chase tackled him, pulling him in for a fierce, wet, and highly inappropriate kiss.
Wilson woke up before his alarm went off, dry-mouthed and achy. He fumbled check the LCD display and turn it off before the obnoxious buzzer sounded. Tender muscles protested as he shifted, reminding him of the previous evening’s athletics and he groaned at the full realization.
He’d slept with Chase.
Of all the spectacularly bad things he could have done, this was the worst. His mistake, however, was no where to be found. On the way to the bathroom Wilson saw that Chase’s keys were gone.
A hot shower beat some life back into him and he turned the water up as hot as he could stand. He washed thoroughly, inventorying the bruises and sore muscles, each twinge accompanied by a memory—Chase’s mouth on his neck, Chase’s hands on his hips. He futilely pushed them away and let the water run over him until it turned cold.
Dressing hurriedly and ignoring the mussed sheets and scattered clothing, he wondered just what the proper etiquette was. A thank you note? A please, let’s never speak of this again note? He wondered if Miss Manners had ever addressed the question. Best to just take his cue from Chase, he decided.
It was a plan which might have worked if Chase had been around to take a cue from. When Wilson was called in for a consult, Chase was running labs. When Wilson picked up lab reports, Chase was in the clinic working House’s hours. When Wilson reported for his own hours, Chase had elected to go scout the patient’s house. Wilson was beginning to get suspicious.
Fine, if Chase needed space, that was fine. He was busy with patients anyway.
When Chase did finally deign to talk to him, it was on House’s orders. He skulked into Wilson’s office, clutching an arm-load of folders protectively. “House wants you to look at these,” Chase said stiffly, handing Wilson a thick manila envelope.
“Oh,” Wilson said, accepting them. “Is that it?”
Chase nodded and turned, ready to escape.
“Chase,” Wilson called, knowing it’d be awhile before he got another chance, as Chase was becoming increasingly elusive. Chase’s shoulders tensed visibly and he turned. “You don’t have to avoid me,” Wilson tried.
“I’m not,” Chase protested woodenly, eyes fixed on a glass paperweight.
“Yeah,” Wilson sighed, “sure you’re not. But in case you were—I’m not going to...do anything. If you were worried.”
Chase met his eyes briefly and looked away again. “I’m not worried, either. Not really.”
“Okay,” Wilson agreed readily, “but if you could quit running the opposite direction when you see me coming, I’d appreciate it.”
Chase opened his mouth to argue but Wilson looked at him and he closed it again, ruefully. “It’s just,” he said finally, “I figured you probably weren’t too keen on seeing me. That it’d be best if I stayed out of your way.”
“What? Why?” Wilson was puzzled, replaying his version of the night, trying to figure out where Chase had come up with that conclusion.
Chase shifted his weight from foot to foot. “It’s just that I...pressed my advantage. I was afraid you’d be angry. And wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
Wilson considered this a long moment, mulling over the implications of Chase’s statement. Then he rose from his seat and came to stand in front of Chase. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Okay,” muttered Chase, eyes resolutely on the knot of Wilson’s tie.
Wilson brought his hands up to grip Chase’s elbows. “Look at me. You didn’t do anything wrong. Sleeping with me,” he hissed this bit through gritted teeth, praying that Cuddy or House’s uncanny hearing wouldn’t catch this conversation, “was probably not the wisest decision. But it’s also not worth feeling guilty about.”
Chase nodded. “All right.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Yeah, I do. Can I, uh, go now?”
Wilson released him, taking a step back and sighed. “Sure.”
Chase turned to leave but hesitated at the door. “Hey, Wilson?” He smiled a little. “I’ll quit avoiding you.”
Chase lagged behind the others as they were leaving, offering to finish the case notes. Foreman shot him a look as if he were crazy and Cameron was wracked with guilt, until House asked him which nurse he was hoping to bang.
He waited until they’d cleared out, scribbling half-distracted notes on the file. It didn’t actually matter what he wrote—Cameron would doubtless go over and do things again to her liking anyway. After he was sure that no one was going to return, he packed his things up and left the paperwork for tomorrow. Messenger bag slung over his shoulder, he stopped next door, with a surreptitious glance around. He rapped lightly on Wilson’s door and took a breath to settle his nerves.
Wilson looked up from the article he was reviewing as Chase entered and smiled.
“House?” he asked.
“Left already,” Chase confirmed, sinking into the chair across from Wilson’s desk. “So did the others.” Wilson relaxed visibly. “You busy tonight?” Chase inquired as casually as he could manage. If this thing between them continued, they’d have to work up some sort of code.
“Uh, yeah, sort of,” Wilson replied looking over the stacks of files and papers on his desk.
“I won’t distract you then.” Chase fidgeted with the strap of his bag.
“Wait,” Wilson stopped him before he could move for the door and gave his paperwork an unhappy look. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Sure,” Chase agreed, stretching his legs before him. “However long you need.”
Wilson nodded and bent over the file before him. Chase sat quietly and watched him work, studying the flex of Wilson’s forearms and the curve of clavicle just barely visible at the loosened collar of his shirt. Occasionally Wilson would steal glances his direction and Chase would look hurriedly away. Yeah, he was smooth.
Finally Wilson set his pen down and sat back, looking over at Chase. “Screw it. I’m done here. Dinner?”
Chase was only too happy to agree. “What do you feel like?”
“Oh, I get to pick?” Wilson asked with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“It’s not much of a sacrifice on my part,” Chase confessed. “I’m not picky; I’ll eat just about anything.”
Wilson straightened his desk quickly and grabbed his coat. “How about the diner on Roe? Everyone can use a little more 50’s kitsch in their diet.”
“The grease isn’t bad either. I’ll met you there.”
Chase left first, neither of them willing to take the small risk that someone would notice them leaving more or less together. It took very little to feed the flourishing hospital grapevine. It felt a little like a bad spy movie but he was willing to go to far more extreme measures if it kept House from learning of their affair.
Chase arrived at the diner in question and took a corner booth, considering the contrived ambiance of the restaurant. The management had gone with a half-hearted sock hop theme, at least, he thought that was the impression the worn red leather booths and poodle skirt-clad waitresses were trying to achieve. The Platters do-wopped over decrepit loud speakers.
Wilson entered a few minutes later and slid into the seat across from Chase, the leather of the seat creaking its objection. The waitress stopped by with a swish of pink felt and collected their drink orders. As the restaurant was mostly empty of customers, it didn’t take her long to return with Wilson’s Diet Coke and Chase’s Sprite.
“So...” Chase said when she’d left again, orders for dinner scrawled across her notepad.
Wilson used the straw to push the ice around his glass. “So?”
“That’s all I’ve got. I was hoping something witty would come to me, but no luck,” Chase replied ruefully. “The only thing I ever have to talk about is work, since I don’t actually have a life. And we came here to get away from work.”
Wilson took a sip of his drink and considered. “Let’s see. I’ll go through all my standard questions. Seen any good movies lately? No,” he answered before Chase got a chance, “you just said you don’t have a life. What kind of music do you like—you do like music, right?”
Chase rolled his eyes. “I like rock, all the classic stuff.” He shrugged. “Nothing too wild.”
Wilson made a face. “Lame. Favorite color?”
“Blue. Yellow’s good, too.”
“Well, isn’t this scintillating?” Wilson observed, rolling his straw wrapper into a crumpled ball.
“Hey, you ask stupid questions, you get stupid answers,” Chase replied amiably.
“Let’s see you do better,” Wilson challenged. “And don’t tell me the shark story.”
“It’s a good story!” Chase protested, feigning offence. “Fine. Tell me about yourself. How about your family?”
Wilson took a deep breath and released it slowly, settling back into his seat with a slight shrug. “Mom. Dad. Younger brother. The usual.”
“And you call my answers lame,” Chase muttered sulkily. “If that’s the best you can do, I don’t think you have any room to criticize my conversation skills.”
“All right, I was born March 12th, 1969 at Norwalk Hospital to Ben and Leah Wilson. I spent an uneventful youth attending Meadow Hills Elementary before matriculating Southland Junior and High Schools. I enjoyed baseball and joined the chess team.”
“Okay, okay,” Chase interrupted. “My question wasn’t any better.”
Wilson grinned. “No really, there’s not much to know. I come from a staggeringly boring family. My parents thought Canada was wild and exciting when I left for McGill.” The waitress interrupted with their food. They were quiet as they applied condiments. “Why’d you decide to study in the States?” Wilson asked, dragging a fry through a puddle of ketchup.
“Mostly to get away from my dad.” Chase discarded his tomato, relegating it to the edge of his plate. “Although that’s not what I put on my applications.”
“Did it work?” Wilson asked.
“Sort of.” Chase considered the question, brow furrowed. “His calls were easier to ignore when I knew he couldn’t actually show up on my front step. I always thought being on the other side of the planet would be enough. It wasn’t.” Chase chewed on his straw for a moment and then finished with, “Now he’s dead and it’s still not quite enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said quietly.
Chase shrugged. “S’okay. I’ve gotten used to it.” He studied his plate, trying to read the auspices in the scatter of his fries.
When the silence got uncomfortable, Chase said, “Sorry to be a buzz-kill.” Bringing up you dead dad was never a turn on. “Maybe I should try this conversation again. I, uh, wanted to study in the States because I love the climate and the people...?”
Wilson laughed incredulously. “You came the Northeast for the weather?”
“I was hoping to get into UC-San Francisco.”
“Oh,” Wilson grinned, “that’s unfortunate.”
“Nah. I like it here. Snow has its good points.”
“When you’re not scraping it off your car, maybe.” Wilson didn’t look convinced.
They finished their burgers and Chase worried momentarily about the bill—this wasn’t exactly a date, but it wasn’t exactly not, either. But the waitress preempted the question by splitting the bill before he could ask her to.
Outside the restaurant they stopped. The sun had long since set and stars would have been visible except for the light pollution that smothered them.
“Do you want to come back to my place?” Chase asked. He’d cleaned his bathroom and changed his sheets in anticipation of this very question.
“Sure,” Wilson said, eyes dropping from Chase to the pavement. “I’ll follow you over.”
Behind the wheel of his car, Chase wondered what the hell he was doing. He was sleeping with a co-worker—which he supposed he’d already done when he’d banged Cameron—but this was a department head, his boss’s best friend and a guy. He pushed the thought from his mind with some effort, focusing instead on the road ahead and on not losing Wilson through red lights.
Sometimes things happen. Eventually this thing would un-happen and everything would go back to normal. At least, he hoped so. He parked on the street in front of his apartment and Wilson’s Volvo pulled up behind him. Wilson followed him up the stairs as he keyed the door open.
Wilson had joked about his apartment looking like a college kid lived there, but Chase’s actually did. Posters for crappy sci-fi flicks hung on the walls and an entire shelf was devoted to action figures.
“Wow.” Wilson surveyed the room. “I’ve died and gone to a fantasy convention.”
“Yeah,” Chase said a little sheepishly. “I have to pretend to be a mature adult at work, but actually I’m twelve years old.”
“No, I like it,” Wilson assured him, examining a limited edition Nightcrawler figurine. “I might have to adopt a similar decorating scheme.” He turned back to Chase and removed his over-coast, draping it over the futon arm. Chase did the same, taking a step toward Wilson, who closed the rest of the space between them. Wilson brought his hands up to curl around the back of Chase’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Chase sighed lightly and let his arms twine around Wilson’s waist.
“Bedroom?” Wilson suggested and Chase was only too happy to agree.
Later, as Wilson was scrambling to collect his clothing, Chase smoothed the tangled sheets out over his legs and pulled them up to his waist. He felt strangely modest in light of what they’d just done.
“You don’t have to go. If you don’t want to...” Chase shrugged as casually as he could manage propped up on one elbow.
Wilson paused in his search for his other sock; his face clouded a moment. “I, uh. I really should go. I’ve got—”
“No, it’s fine,” Chase interrupted, not particularly interested in Wilson’s excuse. “I understand.” He flopped back onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t have anything to feed you for breakfast tomorrow anyway.”
“Maybe some other time,” Wilson said patronizingly, finding the missing sock and slipping it on.
“Sure,” Chase agreed, “some other time.”
“I can’t believe you eat this stuff.” House pulled a box of muesli out of Wilson’s cupboard. “It’s not even food.”
“Good,” Wilson shouted from the living room. “Then maybe you won’t eat it.”
House thrust the box back into the cupboard and opened the fridge instead, hunting until he came upon a Tupperware of left-over lasagna. He zapped it in the microwave and brought it out to the couch. “I knew you were holding out the good stuff.”
“Well. I do try.” Wilson’s phone rang, cutting off further commentary as Wilson dug it out. “Dr. Wilson,” he answered.
“Hey, it’s me,” Chase said.
Wilson cast a glance at House, who by all appearances was completely absorbed in shoveling lasagna into his mouth as fast as possible. “Hi...Mom,” Wilson replied carefully.
“Hmm. Either this is some kinky new game we’re playing or House is there,” Chase mused dryly.
“Oh, he’s fine, at least for him,” Wilson replied, keeping his tone slightly distracted and vaguely patronizing. House shot him a dirty look. “How are you?”
“Look, I’m at Blockbuster and I’m debating between Deep Blue Sea and Anacondas II. Do you have a preference?”
“Sorry, Mom, but I’m not really feeling up to that. You know I’ve been really busy with work and all.” Wilson could hear the track of a movie trailer in the background. He tried to shift away so House wouldn’t overhear.
“Come on, you love campy horror flicks,” Chase insisted. Wilson could practically see Chase’s grin as he took advantage of Wilson’s position.
“No, really I don’t.”
“Fine,” Chase sulked. “It Happened One Night? Is that classy enough for you?”
“Uh huh,” Wilson said trying to imitate the absent tone he usually used with his mother. “That sounds good.”
“Okay, but I’m getting Puppet Master VII, too,” Chase warned. “And maybe Lake Placid.”
Wilson sighed heavily. “Right. ...Okay. Whatever you think’s best,” he reluctantly agreed, knowing he’d regret it later when forced to sit through the flicks in question.
There was some shuffling on the other end and a woman’s voice asked if Chase had a membership card, Wilson waited until Chase said, “So you’ll be over later?”
“Yes, I’m going to try. No, I know—I mean it this time. Okay, I have to go now. Love you,” Wilson murmured; House’s attention was still focused on the TV.
“Hey now, no need to get sappy. They’re just movies.”
“Bye, Mom,” Wilson said more forcefully.
“You’re crazy,” Chase laughed.
Wilson hung up. House turned to him critically. “Shame on you, avoiding your mother.”
“Why? You avoid yours,” Wilson pointed out unruffled by the accusation.
“No, I don’t,” House retorted, licking the back of his fork. “I avoid Dad; it just so happens that Mom’s usually with him.”
“Convenient, that,” Wilson observed dryly. He propped his feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles.
“You up for the new Tarentino flick tonight?” House asked.
“Can’t,” Wilson said apologetically.
House gave him a disbelieving look. “Why not?”
“The board meeting’s this week.” Wilson kept his eyes on the TV show; it was easier to keep his expression unconcerned without looking at House.
“A meeting which isn’t until Thursday.”
“Yeah, but Ketterlinus is giving a presentation and he wants me to go over it with him.” Wilson propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles.
“Ketterlinus is the most boring human on the planet,” House complained.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t invited.”
“You could beg me to come and I wouldn’t. God, Ketterlinus.” House folded his arms across his chest sullenly. “You’re such a masochist.”
* * * * *
Chase woke slowly, wakefulness settling over him gradually. Stretching extensively, he realized he was alone in the bed. Again. This unpleasant thought brought him further into the world of the fully conscious and he sat up to confirm that Wilson had left. He pushed aside his disappointment and fumbled for a pair of clean boxers. He paused as a noise caught his attention and the stainless-steel clang of a pan in the sink, brought him out to the kitchen.
“Do you have a rolling pin?” Wilson asked, without turning from the dough he was kneading. He wore gray sweats and a white undershirt, his feet bare and pale against the aging linoleum of Chase’s kitchen.
“Good morning to you, too,” Chase managed around a yawn. He recognized the sound of brewing coffee. Excellent. He poured himself a generous cup, watching as Wilson worked the ball of sticky dough, which clung to his fingers. He had matching floury fingerprints on the legs of his sweatpants and another smudge under his left eye. “What are you making?”
“Did you know you have no breakfast food in this entire apartment save a box of stale frosted flakes?” Wilson returned and then gestured to the dough. “This is going to be cinnamon rolls.”
“Normally I skip breakfast or pick something up on the way to work,” Chase explained and took a long sip of coffee. “And no, I don’t think I have a rolling pin.”
“I guess I can make do,” Wilson grimaced, searching through Chase’s cupboard for a serviceable cup. He rolled the dough out, the lip of the cheap plastic thermos he’d appropriated leaving uneven track marks in the tough. Chase watched, fascinated as Wilson sprinkled more flour on the counter to keep dough rolling smoothly.
“You cook a lot,” Chase said and hoped the caffeine would start kicking in soon.
“I like to cook. Though technically this is baking.” Wilson worked on a spot where the dough had gotten too thin. “It’s a hobby both relaxing and tasty. Though with the way my waistline is going, I should probably focus less on pastries and more on the vegetable dishes.”
Chase shrugged unconcerned. “Nah, you look great.”
Wilson shot Chase a look that said he appreciated the effort but wasn’t buying it for a minute and turned back to the dough. He liberally applied melted butter, followed by sugar and cinnamon. He rolled it up, cut it into thick slices and arranged them in a pie tin that Chase had forgotten he owned.
“I’m definitely keeping you around,” Chase said as Wilson washed the flour from his hands. “I can’t cook anything that doesn’t come out of a box or isn’t some kind of sandwich variant. My BLTs are pretty good. But anything that requires cracking a cookbook is beyond me.” Chase licked a finger to collect some sugar that had scattered across the counter.
“You should learn; it’s not hard. It’s a hell of a lot easier than medicine. And people don’t die on account of my cooking.” Wilson double-checked the temperature of the oven and slid the rolls in. “Well, at least not usually.” He straightened and turned back to Chase. “I could teach you, if you like.”
“Sure. I had a rigorous day of Saturday morning cartoons and loafing planned, but I can reschedule.”
“I wouldn’t interrupt cartoons—”Wilson rolled his eyes, “—and since the rolls will take forty-five minutes or so, I suppose lessons can wait until after breakfast.”
Wilson was bemused to find that Chase was absolutely serious about the cartoon watching, but he sat patiently through the new Batman cartoon anyway. He could even hold an intelligent conversation on whether Gotham was supposed to represent Chicago or New York. The cinnamon rolls were done just in time to bring that argument to an amicable close.
Before he could pick the discussion up again, his pager went off, sending him scrambling to dig through the pockets of his jacket. He checked the screen of his pager and grimaced.
“It’s House. I’ve got to go.”
Wilson collected their plates to take out to the kitchen. “It’s all right, the cooking lessons can wait.”
Chase scrounged for clothes and dressed, wondering how long he could dawdle and still hope to escape a reprimand. He didn’t like his odds. Casting one last mournful look at a third cinnamon roll that was calling his name, he shouldered his bag.
“They’ll still be here when you get back,” Wilson smiled, seeing his expression.
“Will you?” Chase asked instantly and realized it sounded needier than he liked.
Wilson looked at his watch briefly. “Maybe. I’ve got to go in later myself.”
“All right,” Chase agreed, “I’ll see you around.”
He didn’t see Wilson at work, and the apartment was empty when he returned hours later. The cinnamon rolls had been put away and the dishes washed—not just the dishes used to make the rolls, but also the ones that had been moldering in the sink for the past week. And his sheets had been changed, the bed made up with hospital corners.
On to Part Two
Wilson hesitated and then pushed the glass door open. “Hey.”
Chase looked up, startled by Wilson’s greeting. His arm slid across the page he was working on—definitely a crossword, then.
“Do you want to get a drink?” That sounded a little weird, so Wilson amended, “I’m going to go drink copious amounts of alcohol and it’ll look slightly less pathetic if I’m not doing it alone.” Maybe he should have stopped while he was ahead.
Chase hesitated a moment, calculating the weirdness of getting a drink with his boss’s best friend. “Long day, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
Wilson watched as Chase considered the offer, sure he would decline. Wilson prepared his answer—something along the lines of just as well, I’m a maudlin drunk. Anything to laugh it off. But Chase’s expression resolved and he said, “Sure, maybe not ‘copious amounts’ but I’d be up for a drink or two.”
Wilson smiled, felling first relieved and then immediately apprehensive. Drinking with Chase might stave off the loneliness, but it meant his drunken actions could have repercussions at work. And House had never been happy when the bodies orbiting him collided. Too late now, though, Wilson supposed. Chase had already agreed and the only thing more awkward than Wilson’s invitation would be rescinding the same.
They went to a bar around the corner from Wilson’s apartment; it was short on charm but convenient, and that was their only real requirement. Chase insisted that Wilson drop his car off at home and Chase drive them both, forestalling Wilson’s protest by reminding him that it was his express intent to get drunk and this way Chase could just drop him off and save him from retrieving his car in the morning. Wilson guiltily agreed that he had a point. If Chase passed judgment on Wilson’s intended debauchery, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he had just assumed that anyone who kept close counsel with House would have an alcohol problem.
This theory was substantiated as they took seats at the bar and Chase said, “Let me guess the reason for the alcohol...”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” Wilson replied and ordered bourbon.
Chase opted for a beer and waited until their drinks had been served to say, “Yeah, he’s been in a fine fettle all afternoon. He made an intern cry.” He pulled a dish of bar nuts closer to him, stocking his napkin with peanuts and pretzels. Wilson refrained from pointing out how many unwashed hands had sifted through the bowl before his.
“Still don’t want to talk about him,” Wilson reminded Chase, taking a throat-burning swallow. The intern wasn’t House’s only victim today. He’d interrupted an appointment with a patient’s daughter. One to whom Wilson had been trying to gently break the news that the most he could do now was make her mother as comfortable as possible. House had stalked in, taken in the tumor-ridden films and the daughter’s attractiveness and informed her in the bleakest possible terms that it was time to dump Mommy off at Hospice and start fighting siblings for the good china. Wilson wasn’t sure who he was really angry at—House for his cruelty or himself for failing to protect his patient from it.
“Sorry,” Chase muttered, munching a pretzel stick meditatively. “It’s just hard not to talk about him, sometimes. It’s embarrassing how much I talk about my boss to anyone who’ll stand still long enough. My girlfriend is sick of hearing about—”
“Chase,” Wilson warned and Chase winced.
“Right. I’ll stop now, promise.” He took a long swallow, possibly to prevent him from again speaking of House.
“So...you have a girlfriend?” Wilson asked for a lack of better conversational direction.
Chase considered the question with a rueful expression. “No, actually, now that I think about it, I probably don’t. I haven’t spoken to her in, uh, threeish weeks. We hadn’t been dating that long.” He shrugged dismissively. “I just got busy with the patient and sort of forgot. Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops,” Wilson repeated. “That’s kind of how all three of my marriages went.”
“Do you think it’s possible? To balance work and romance, I mean,” Chase wondered, popping a pretzel in his mouth.
“Theoretically, yes, but I’ve never seen it done.” Wilson studied the bottom of his glass.
“Is it worth it?” Chase scraped idly at the label on his beer with a thumbnail.
“I don’t know. Too late now. For me, anyways.” Wilson couldn’t stop the note of self-pity from creeping into his voice.
“Aw,” Chase sighed, laying a friendly hand on Wilson’s forearm, “don’t say that—it’s too late for me, too.” He grinned slyly and Wilson rolled his eyes and smiled back.
“I must be great company,” Wilson remarked, flagging the barkeep down for a refill. “Don’t you have better places to be than hanging out with your boss’s pathetic friend?”
Chase shook his head negatively. “Not really. It’s not like I broke a date with Keira Knightly to be here. It was this or “Wheel of Fortune” and a bowl of Spaghetti-O’s.”
Wilson made a face at Chase’s culinary selection and finished his drink, quickly ordering another. Chase was watching him guardedly when he finished that and he decided to make it his last. It wasn’t as much alcohol as he’d wanted to consume, but it was more than enough to take the edge off while still being able to walk in a straight line. More or less. He cautiously made his way to Chase’s car, pretending not to notice how close Chase kept on his heels, ready to keep him from face-planting into the asphalt.
Chase’s fingers tapped on the steering wheel as they waited out a long light. “He drives me crazy, you know. It’s not that I hope for anything resembling approval—I gave that up a long time ago. Now all I work for is to avoid his deep and abiding scorn. And even that’s too much...” his voice trailed off wistfully and he shook his head, dismissing his own foolishness. “And I’m talking about him. Again.”
“It’s okay,” Wilson told him. “I’ve consumed enough alcohol that I can do that now.” He cracked the window, the cold breeze welcome on his flushed face. “Expecting something other than contempt from House? How ambitious of you.” He considered that a moment and then continued, voice wry and bitter. “At least you’ve only been doing it a few years. Me? More like a decade.”
“He respects you,” Chase was quick to protest. “You’re his best friend. His only friend. He doesn’t have to associate with you. I’m his employee.”
“Friend implies some kind of mutuality,” Wilson countered bitterly, tracing out an angry line in the fog on the window. “I’m not his friend—I’m convenient. I clean up messes, smooth things over, pick things up.”
There was silence as Chase tried to think of a rebuttal, but Wilson knew there wasn’t one. He recognized his neighborhood and turned back to Chase. “This is my stop, but if you want to come in, we could continue the conversation.” He seemed to be chockfull of awkward invitations tonight. “There aren’t too many people who...understand. About House.”
Chase nodded but looked a little dubious. Wilson realized that he’d never had any of the fellows in his apartment and this would be breaking some kind of unspoken rule. “Okay,” Chase said finally with a decisive nod.
“Great,” Wilson managed. He was acutely aware of Chase’s footsteps echoing his as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. They didn’t say anything as he fished his keys out of his pocket and managed to fit them into the lock. Fumbling for a moment, he turned on the lamp, illuminating the spare apartment. Decorating had been too daunting, especially since it seemed that he spent more time packing and unpacking than not. “Here, let me give you the tour. Living area, dining area, bedroom through there and bathroom through there, kitchen.” He gestured at each room in turn. “Tada.”
“Nice.” Chase uncertainly draped his coat over the arm of Wilson’s couch, taking in the mismatched furniture Wilson had salvaged from his divorces.
“Yeah, if you’re a co-ed. I just got sick of looking and took the first thing available,” Wilson explained and wished he’d bothered to at least decorate a little. Gotten a few throw pillows or something.
“No, really,” Chase tried again. “I wasn’t being an asshole.”
Wilson smiled reassuringly. “I didn’t think you were. Do you want something to drink? I realize we just got done with drinks, but maybe water?”
“Water’s great,” Chase confirmed and followed Wilson into the narrow kitchen. The quarters were cramped as space was at premium. Wilson nearly whacked Chase in the head with the cupboard door as he got out the glasses.
“Sorry,” he grimaced. “Ice?”
“Okay,” Chase leaned against the counter, watching as Wilson rummaged around in the freezer for an ice tray. “Was he always like this?”
“Um.” Wilson twisted the tray so the ice cracked and popped. “No. I mean, yes, he was always an arrogant jerk who loved pissing people off, but he wasn’t quite so, I don’t know. Quite so.” He left the sentence there, unsure just what had changed. “Or maybe it’s me. He’s worn me down. I just don’t know...” He felt his chest tighten at the remembered closeness. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. When Chase put a hand on his shoulder, he nearly flinched, realizing how pathetic he must look. But Chase’s expression wasn’t mocking, instead his eyes were soft, warm. After years of derision, compassion was almost alarming.
“It’s not you,” Chase said, fingers squeezing to emphasize his words.
Wilson wasn’t sure what the proper response to the hand on his shoulder was, so he ignored it, but felt sorry when Chase moved it a moment later. “Yeah. I’m just a victim.”
“You’re the one who said it.” They shared a small smile. A few strands of blond hair fell across Chase’s forehead. Wilson took a sudden step back, moving to the sink. His shoulder brushed Chase’s as he passed him, and he caught the spice of Chase’s cologne and the warm scent of Chase himself.
“What about you? When are you going to leave your abuser?”
Chase shrugged. “Sometimes working for him really sucks, but the idea of working somewhere else sucks worse. So I guess I’m stuck.” Wilson handed him a glass.
“And here we are.” Wilson raised his water in a mock toast and they clinked glasses. He took a long swallow and set his water down on the counter.
“Yeah,” Chase breathed, and Wilson realized they were standing far too close, even given the confined space. He could see in perfect detail the eyelashes framing blue-green eyes. “Here we are.”
Before consciously knowing what he was doing, Wilson leaned in and kissed Chase, lightly on the mouth. He pulled back, realizing with sudden horror exactly what he’d done. He held his breath, keeping his gaze on the collar of Chase’s shirt, noticing Chase’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Chase hesitated and then kissed him, stepping in so that Wilson was pressed into the counter.
Wilson refused to think about it, relying on instinct and habit as Chase’s lips worked over his. His hands automatically came up to cup Chase’s face. He could feel the hard tile of the counter digging into the small of his back. Their belt buckles caught on each other with a dull clank of metal and Wilson felt white-hot fire run under his skin as he flushed deeply.
Wilson yelped, breaking the kiss, as he felt something cold sear down his side. Chase stepped back and they both looked down. A large, icy patch of water soaked Wilson’s front and down his leg. Chase righted the glass he still held sheepishly.
“I am so sorry,” he said aghast, biting his lip and assessing the damage. “I’ve just killed the mood, haven’t I?” He set the glass down firmly on the counter to prevent further damage.
“It’s fine,” Wilson quickly assured him. “Refreshing.” He pulled at the fabric of his sodden trouser leg, trying to keep it from sticking to his skin.
“Here, let me get a towel,” Chase grabbed a dish rag and set about mopping Wilson’s soaked front, but Wilson caught his wrist.
“No, really, it’s fine. It’s just water.”
Chase straightened, letting Wilson take the cloth from him. “I really am terribly sorry. You’re the one who’s supposed to be smashed, but I’m up-ending my drink on people.”
“You were distracted,” Wilson pointed out.
“A little,” Chase agreed. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze downcast. “Look—I should go.”
“Sure,” Wilson said quickly. “Thanks for going out with me. To get a drink, I mean.”
Chase collected his jacket and Wilson accompanied him to the door.
“See you tomorrow,” Chase said uncertainly.
“Yeah, tomorrow.” Wilson shut the door behind Chase.
He sighed and watched the door for a moment, as if his mother or House would suddenly burst through it and demand to know when he’d started kissing boys. When they didn’t, he found himself asking the same question. But the wet fabric clinging to his chilled skin proved too much of a distraction to come to a satisfactory answer.
He changed, peeling out of his work clothes, which now stank of stale cigarettes and alcohol. He found a pair of pajama bottoms and slipped gratefully into them. Drawstring waistbands were possibly the best thing ever. He was still looking for a clean t-shirt when there was a knock at the door. Answering it, he found Chase standing there, his expression enigmatic.
Wilson’s heart fell. Chase was going to make a big deal out of this, demand answers, and possibly apologies. Why couldn’t they both just pretend it hadn’t happened? And why hadn’t he found a t-shirt before answering the door—it seemed unfair that he was going to have to apologize for his inappropriate behavior while the draft was giving him goose pimples.
“Did you forget—” Wilson started, but was interrupted as Chase tackled him, pulling him in for a fierce, wet, and highly inappropriate kiss.
* * * * *
Wilson woke up before his alarm went off, dry-mouthed and achy. He fumbled check the LCD display and turn it off before the obnoxious buzzer sounded. Tender muscles protested as he shifted, reminding him of the previous evening’s athletics and he groaned at the full realization.
He’d slept with Chase.
Of all the spectacularly bad things he could have done, this was the worst. His mistake, however, was no where to be found. On the way to the bathroom Wilson saw that Chase’s keys were gone.
A hot shower beat some life back into him and he turned the water up as hot as he could stand. He washed thoroughly, inventorying the bruises and sore muscles, each twinge accompanied by a memory—Chase’s mouth on his neck, Chase’s hands on his hips. He futilely pushed them away and let the water run over him until it turned cold.
Dressing hurriedly and ignoring the mussed sheets and scattered clothing, he wondered just what the proper etiquette was. A thank you note? A please, let’s never speak of this again note? He wondered if Miss Manners had ever addressed the question. Best to just take his cue from Chase, he decided.
It was a plan which might have worked if Chase had been around to take a cue from. When Wilson was called in for a consult, Chase was running labs. When Wilson picked up lab reports, Chase was in the clinic working House’s hours. When Wilson reported for his own hours, Chase had elected to go scout the patient’s house. Wilson was beginning to get suspicious.
Fine, if Chase needed space, that was fine. He was busy with patients anyway.
When Chase did finally deign to talk to him, it was on House’s orders. He skulked into Wilson’s office, clutching an arm-load of folders protectively. “House wants you to look at these,” Chase said stiffly, handing Wilson a thick manila envelope.
“Oh,” Wilson said, accepting them. “Is that it?”
Chase nodded and turned, ready to escape.
“Chase,” Wilson called, knowing it’d be awhile before he got another chance, as Chase was becoming increasingly elusive. Chase’s shoulders tensed visibly and he turned. “You don’t have to avoid me,” Wilson tried.
“I’m not,” Chase protested woodenly, eyes fixed on a glass paperweight.
“Yeah,” Wilson sighed, “sure you’re not. But in case you were—I’m not going to...do anything. If you were worried.”
Chase met his eyes briefly and looked away again. “I’m not worried, either. Not really.”
“Okay,” Wilson agreed readily, “but if you could quit running the opposite direction when you see me coming, I’d appreciate it.”
Chase opened his mouth to argue but Wilson looked at him and he closed it again, ruefully. “It’s just,” he said finally, “I figured you probably weren’t too keen on seeing me. That it’d be best if I stayed out of your way.”
“What? Why?” Wilson was puzzled, replaying his version of the night, trying to figure out where Chase had come up with that conclusion.
Chase shifted his weight from foot to foot. “It’s just that I...pressed my advantage. I was afraid you’d be angry. And wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
Wilson considered this a long moment, mulling over the implications of Chase’s statement. Then he rose from his seat and came to stand in front of Chase. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Okay,” muttered Chase, eyes resolutely on the knot of Wilson’s tie.
Wilson brought his hands up to grip Chase’s elbows. “Look at me. You didn’t do anything wrong. Sleeping with me,” he hissed this bit through gritted teeth, praying that Cuddy or House’s uncanny hearing wouldn’t catch this conversation, “was probably not the wisest decision. But it’s also not worth feeling guilty about.”
Chase nodded. “All right.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Yeah, I do. Can I, uh, go now?”
Wilson released him, taking a step back and sighed. “Sure.”
Chase turned to leave but hesitated at the door. “Hey, Wilson?” He smiled a little. “I’ll quit avoiding you.”
* * * * *
Chase lagged behind the others as they were leaving, offering to finish the case notes. Foreman shot him a look as if he were crazy and Cameron was wracked with guilt, until House asked him which nurse he was hoping to bang.
He waited until they’d cleared out, scribbling half-distracted notes on the file. It didn’t actually matter what he wrote—Cameron would doubtless go over and do things again to her liking anyway. After he was sure that no one was going to return, he packed his things up and left the paperwork for tomorrow. Messenger bag slung over his shoulder, he stopped next door, with a surreptitious glance around. He rapped lightly on Wilson’s door and took a breath to settle his nerves.
Wilson looked up from the article he was reviewing as Chase entered and smiled.
“House?” he asked.
“Left already,” Chase confirmed, sinking into the chair across from Wilson’s desk. “So did the others.” Wilson relaxed visibly. “You busy tonight?” Chase inquired as casually as he could manage. If this thing between them continued, they’d have to work up some sort of code.
“Uh, yeah, sort of,” Wilson replied looking over the stacks of files and papers on his desk.
“I won’t distract you then.” Chase fidgeted with the strap of his bag.
“Wait,” Wilson stopped him before he could move for the door and gave his paperwork an unhappy look. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Sure,” Chase agreed, stretching his legs before him. “However long you need.”
Wilson nodded and bent over the file before him. Chase sat quietly and watched him work, studying the flex of Wilson’s forearms and the curve of clavicle just barely visible at the loosened collar of his shirt. Occasionally Wilson would steal glances his direction and Chase would look hurriedly away. Yeah, he was smooth.
Finally Wilson set his pen down and sat back, looking over at Chase. “Screw it. I’m done here. Dinner?”
Chase was only too happy to agree. “What do you feel like?”
“Oh, I get to pick?” Wilson asked with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“It’s not much of a sacrifice on my part,” Chase confessed. “I’m not picky; I’ll eat just about anything.”
Wilson straightened his desk quickly and grabbed his coat. “How about the diner on Roe? Everyone can use a little more 50’s kitsch in their diet.”
“The grease isn’t bad either. I’ll met you there.”
Chase left first, neither of them willing to take the small risk that someone would notice them leaving more or less together. It took very little to feed the flourishing hospital grapevine. It felt a little like a bad spy movie but he was willing to go to far more extreme measures if it kept House from learning of their affair.
Chase arrived at the diner in question and took a corner booth, considering the contrived ambiance of the restaurant. The management had gone with a half-hearted sock hop theme, at least, he thought that was the impression the worn red leather booths and poodle skirt-clad waitresses were trying to achieve. The Platters do-wopped over decrepit loud speakers.
Wilson entered a few minutes later and slid into the seat across from Chase, the leather of the seat creaking its objection. The waitress stopped by with a swish of pink felt and collected their drink orders. As the restaurant was mostly empty of customers, it didn’t take her long to return with Wilson’s Diet Coke and Chase’s Sprite.
“So...” Chase said when she’d left again, orders for dinner scrawled across her notepad.
Wilson used the straw to push the ice around his glass. “So?”
“That’s all I’ve got. I was hoping something witty would come to me, but no luck,” Chase replied ruefully. “The only thing I ever have to talk about is work, since I don’t actually have a life. And we came here to get away from work.”
Wilson took a sip of his drink and considered. “Let’s see. I’ll go through all my standard questions. Seen any good movies lately? No,” he answered before Chase got a chance, “you just said you don’t have a life. What kind of music do you like—you do like music, right?”
Chase rolled his eyes. “I like rock, all the classic stuff.” He shrugged. “Nothing too wild.”
Wilson made a face. “Lame. Favorite color?”
“Blue. Yellow’s good, too.”
“Well, isn’t this scintillating?” Wilson observed, rolling his straw wrapper into a crumpled ball.
“Hey, you ask stupid questions, you get stupid answers,” Chase replied amiably.
“Let’s see you do better,” Wilson challenged. “And don’t tell me the shark story.”
“It’s a good story!” Chase protested, feigning offence. “Fine. Tell me about yourself. How about your family?”
Wilson took a deep breath and released it slowly, settling back into his seat with a slight shrug. “Mom. Dad. Younger brother. The usual.”
“And you call my answers lame,” Chase muttered sulkily. “If that’s the best you can do, I don’t think you have any room to criticize my conversation skills.”
“All right, I was born March 12th, 1969 at Norwalk Hospital to Ben and Leah Wilson. I spent an uneventful youth attending Meadow Hills Elementary before matriculating Southland Junior and High Schools. I enjoyed baseball and joined the chess team.”
“Okay, okay,” Chase interrupted. “My question wasn’t any better.”
Wilson grinned. “No really, there’s not much to know. I come from a staggeringly boring family. My parents thought Canada was wild and exciting when I left for McGill.” The waitress interrupted with their food. They were quiet as they applied condiments. “Why’d you decide to study in the States?” Wilson asked, dragging a fry through a puddle of ketchup.
“Mostly to get away from my dad.” Chase discarded his tomato, relegating it to the edge of his plate. “Although that’s not what I put on my applications.”
“Did it work?” Wilson asked.
“Sort of.” Chase considered the question, brow furrowed. “His calls were easier to ignore when I knew he couldn’t actually show up on my front step. I always thought being on the other side of the planet would be enough. It wasn’t.” Chase chewed on his straw for a moment and then finished with, “Now he’s dead and it’s still not quite enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said quietly.
Chase shrugged. “S’okay. I’ve gotten used to it.” He studied his plate, trying to read the auspices in the scatter of his fries.
When the silence got uncomfortable, Chase said, “Sorry to be a buzz-kill.” Bringing up you dead dad was never a turn on. “Maybe I should try this conversation again. I, uh, wanted to study in the States because I love the climate and the people...?”
Wilson laughed incredulously. “You came the Northeast for the weather?”
“I was hoping to get into UC-San Francisco.”
“Oh,” Wilson grinned, “that’s unfortunate.”
“Nah. I like it here. Snow has its good points.”
“When you’re not scraping it off your car, maybe.” Wilson didn’t look convinced.
They finished their burgers and Chase worried momentarily about the bill—this wasn’t exactly a date, but it wasn’t exactly not, either. But the waitress preempted the question by splitting the bill before he could ask her to.
Outside the restaurant they stopped. The sun had long since set and stars would have been visible except for the light pollution that smothered them.
“Do you want to come back to my place?” Chase asked. He’d cleaned his bathroom and changed his sheets in anticipation of this very question.
“Sure,” Wilson said, eyes dropping from Chase to the pavement. “I’ll follow you over.”
Behind the wheel of his car, Chase wondered what the hell he was doing. He was sleeping with a co-worker—which he supposed he’d already done when he’d banged Cameron—but this was a department head, his boss’s best friend and a guy. He pushed the thought from his mind with some effort, focusing instead on the road ahead and on not losing Wilson through red lights.
Sometimes things happen. Eventually this thing would un-happen and everything would go back to normal. At least, he hoped so. He parked on the street in front of his apartment and Wilson’s Volvo pulled up behind him. Wilson followed him up the stairs as he keyed the door open.
Wilson had joked about his apartment looking like a college kid lived there, but Chase’s actually did. Posters for crappy sci-fi flicks hung on the walls and an entire shelf was devoted to action figures.
“Wow.” Wilson surveyed the room. “I’ve died and gone to a fantasy convention.”
“Yeah,” Chase said a little sheepishly. “I have to pretend to be a mature adult at work, but actually I’m twelve years old.”
“No, I like it,” Wilson assured him, examining a limited edition Nightcrawler figurine. “I might have to adopt a similar decorating scheme.” He turned back to Chase and removed his over-coast, draping it over the futon arm. Chase did the same, taking a step toward Wilson, who closed the rest of the space between them. Wilson brought his hands up to curl around the back of Chase’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Chase sighed lightly and let his arms twine around Wilson’s waist.
“Bedroom?” Wilson suggested and Chase was only too happy to agree.
Later, as Wilson was scrambling to collect his clothing, Chase smoothed the tangled sheets out over his legs and pulled them up to his waist. He felt strangely modest in light of what they’d just done.
“You don’t have to go. If you don’t want to...” Chase shrugged as casually as he could manage propped up on one elbow.
Wilson paused in his search for his other sock; his face clouded a moment. “I, uh. I really should go. I’ve got—”
“No, it’s fine,” Chase interrupted, not particularly interested in Wilson’s excuse. “I understand.” He flopped back onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t have anything to feed you for breakfast tomorrow anyway.”
“Maybe some other time,” Wilson said patronizingly, finding the missing sock and slipping it on.
“Sure,” Chase agreed, “some other time.”
* * * * *
“I can’t believe you eat this stuff.” House pulled a box of muesli out of Wilson’s cupboard. “It’s not even food.”
“Good,” Wilson shouted from the living room. “Then maybe you won’t eat it.”
House thrust the box back into the cupboard and opened the fridge instead, hunting until he came upon a Tupperware of left-over lasagna. He zapped it in the microwave and brought it out to the couch. “I knew you were holding out the good stuff.”
“Well. I do try.” Wilson’s phone rang, cutting off further commentary as Wilson dug it out. “Dr. Wilson,” he answered.
“Hey, it’s me,” Chase said.
Wilson cast a glance at House, who by all appearances was completely absorbed in shoveling lasagna into his mouth as fast as possible. “Hi...Mom,” Wilson replied carefully.
“Hmm. Either this is some kinky new game we’re playing or House is there,” Chase mused dryly.
“Oh, he’s fine, at least for him,” Wilson replied, keeping his tone slightly distracted and vaguely patronizing. House shot him a dirty look. “How are you?”
“Look, I’m at Blockbuster and I’m debating between Deep Blue Sea and Anacondas II. Do you have a preference?”
“Sorry, Mom, but I’m not really feeling up to that. You know I’ve been really busy with work and all.” Wilson could hear the track of a movie trailer in the background. He tried to shift away so House wouldn’t overhear.
“Come on, you love campy horror flicks,” Chase insisted. Wilson could practically see Chase’s grin as he took advantage of Wilson’s position.
“No, really I don’t.”
“Fine,” Chase sulked. “It Happened One Night? Is that classy enough for you?”
“Uh huh,” Wilson said trying to imitate the absent tone he usually used with his mother. “That sounds good.”
“Okay, but I’m getting Puppet Master VII, too,” Chase warned. “And maybe Lake Placid.”
Wilson sighed heavily. “Right. ...Okay. Whatever you think’s best,” he reluctantly agreed, knowing he’d regret it later when forced to sit through the flicks in question.
There was some shuffling on the other end and a woman’s voice asked if Chase had a membership card, Wilson waited until Chase said, “So you’ll be over later?”
“Yes, I’m going to try. No, I know—I mean it this time. Okay, I have to go now. Love you,” Wilson murmured; House’s attention was still focused on the TV.
“Hey now, no need to get sappy. They’re just movies.”
“Bye, Mom,” Wilson said more forcefully.
“You’re crazy,” Chase laughed.
Wilson hung up. House turned to him critically. “Shame on you, avoiding your mother.”
“Why? You avoid yours,” Wilson pointed out unruffled by the accusation.
“No, I don’t,” House retorted, licking the back of his fork. “I avoid Dad; it just so happens that Mom’s usually with him.”
“Convenient, that,” Wilson observed dryly. He propped his feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles.
“You up for the new Tarentino flick tonight?” House asked.
“Can’t,” Wilson said apologetically.
House gave him a disbelieving look. “Why not?”
“The board meeting’s this week.” Wilson kept his eyes on the TV show; it was easier to keep his expression unconcerned without looking at House.
“A meeting which isn’t until Thursday.”
“Yeah, but Ketterlinus is giving a presentation and he wants me to go over it with him.” Wilson propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles.
“Ketterlinus is the most boring human on the planet,” House complained.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t invited.”
“You could beg me to come and I wouldn’t. God, Ketterlinus.” House folded his arms across his chest sullenly. “You’re such a masochist.”
* * * * *
Chase woke slowly, wakefulness settling over him gradually. Stretching extensively, he realized he was alone in the bed. Again. This unpleasant thought brought him further into the world of the fully conscious and he sat up to confirm that Wilson had left. He pushed aside his disappointment and fumbled for a pair of clean boxers. He paused as a noise caught his attention and the stainless-steel clang of a pan in the sink, brought him out to the kitchen.
“Do you have a rolling pin?” Wilson asked, without turning from the dough he was kneading. He wore gray sweats and a white undershirt, his feet bare and pale against the aging linoleum of Chase’s kitchen.
“Good morning to you, too,” Chase managed around a yawn. He recognized the sound of brewing coffee. Excellent. He poured himself a generous cup, watching as Wilson worked the ball of sticky dough, which clung to his fingers. He had matching floury fingerprints on the legs of his sweatpants and another smudge under his left eye. “What are you making?”
“Did you know you have no breakfast food in this entire apartment save a box of stale frosted flakes?” Wilson returned and then gestured to the dough. “This is going to be cinnamon rolls.”
“Normally I skip breakfast or pick something up on the way to work,” Chase explained and took a long sip of coffee. “And no, I don’t think I have a rolling pin.”
“I guess I can make do,” Wilson grimaced, searching through Chase’s cupboard for a serviceable cup. He rolled the dough out, the lip of the cheap plastic thermos he’d appropriated leaving uneven track marks in the tough. Chase watched, fascinated as Wilson sprinkled more flour on the counter to keep dough rolling smoothly.
“You cook a lot,” Chase said and hoped the caffeine would start kicking in soon.
“I like to cook. Though technically this is baking.” Wilson worked on a spot where the dough had gotten too thin. “It’s a hobby both relaxing and tasty. Though with the way my waistline is going, I should probably focus less on pastries and more on the vegetable dishes.”
Chase shrugged unconcerned. “Nah, you look great.”
Wilson shot Chase a look that said he appreciated the effort but wasn’t buying it for a minute and turned back to the dough. He liberally applied melted butter, followed by sugar and cinnamon. He rolled it up, cut it into thick slices and arranged them in a pie tin that Chase had forgotten he owned.
“I’m definitely keeping you around,” Chase said as Wilson washed the flour from his hands. “I can’t cook anything that doesn’t come out of a box or isn’t some kind of sandwich variant. My BLTs are pretty good. But anything that requires cracking a cookbook is beyond me.” Chase licked a finger to collect some sugar that had scattered across the counter.
“You should learn; it’s not hard. It’s a hell of a lot easier than medicine. And people don’t die on account of my cooking.” Wilson double-checked the temperature of the oven and slid the rolls in. “Well, at least not usually.” He straightened and turned back to Chase. “I could teach you, if you like.”
“Sure. I had a rigorous day of Saturday morning cartoons and loafing planned, but I can reschedule.”
“I wouldn’t interrupt cartoons—”Wilson rolled his eyes, “—and since the rolls will take forty-five minutes or so, I suppose lessons can wait until after breakfast.”
Wilson was bemused to find that Chase was absolutely serious about the cartoon watching, but he sat patiently through the new Batman cartoon anyway. He could even hold an intelligent conversation on whether Gotham was supposed to represent Chicago or New York. The cinnamon rolls were done just in time to bring that argument to an amicable close.
Before he could pick the discussion up again, his pager went off, sending him scrambling to dig through the pockets of his jacket. He checked the screen of his pager and grimaced.
“It’s House. I’ve got to go.”
Wilson collected their plates to take out to the kitchen. “It’s all right, the cooking lessons can wait.”
Chase scrounged for clothes and dressed, wondering how long he could dawdle and still hope to escape a reprimand. He didn’t like his odds. Casting one last mournful look at a third cinnamon roll that was calling his name, he shouldered his bag.
“They’ll still be here when you get back,” Wilson smiled, seeing his expression.
“Will you?” Chase asked instantly and realized it sounded needier than he liked.
Wilson looked at his watch briefly. “Maybe. I’ve got to go in later myself.”
“All right,” Chase agreed, “I’ll see you around.”
He didn’t see Wilson at work, and the apartment was empty when he returned hours later. The cinnamon rolls had been put away and the dishes washed—not just the dishes used to make the rolls, but also the ones that had been moldering in the sink for the past week. And his sheets had been changed, the bed made up with hospital corners.
On to Part Two
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-15 05:54 am (UTC)Small concrit...cinnamon rolls need to rise for like 30 minutes before they are baked....at least mine do.
*runs off to read part 2*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-15 02:03 pm (UTC)Heh. Yeah, normally I'm House/Wilson all the way, but I couldn't resist the adorkability that is Chase/Wilson.
Small concrit...cinnamon rolls need to rise for like 30 minutes before they are baked....at least mine do.
Oops. Damn, and I even looked up a recipe. ...Shows how often I, bake....
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-15 02:21 pm (UTC)(Aside from Yay! FANTASTIC story, thus far!)
And House had never been happy when the bodies orbiting him collided.
That line is absolutely perfect.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-19 05:44 pm (UTC)One correction -- New Jersey is in the Northeast but it is not in New England (Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Vermont.)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-19 05:59 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you think so, though I confess I'm mostly in it for the pretty.
One correction -- New Jersey is in the Northeast but it is not in New England
Thanks! Shows how much I paid attention in Geography. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 05:51 pm (UTC)