Riders On The Storm

Wilson doesn’t won’t and can’t change for anyone and Chase would never ask him to anyway, the masochist in him sensing defeat and snatching for it with hands that have no fingernails because he chewed them into nothing weeks ago, watching Cameron cry from another game they lost and wondering how many times he’d have to slam the door to make it shatter before House noticed him and told him that his shirt is blinding (and might as well say “hey, fuck you Robert, you’ll never be good enough”), feet propped on the desk with the converse smirking at him (even House’s shoes are smug, and no, he’s not mad), and Chase’s hair in his eyes, biting his lips together so as not to disturb Jim Morrison and his constant insistence that there’s a killer on the road, and it’s the same thing every week, getting steadily more confusing, more frustrating, and House keeps smiling and acting like he owns him, and Wilson does actually own him (bruising Chase endlessly and he almost drops to his knees of his own accord the moment he sees the Oncologist coming), and it’s strange that that sort of thing no longer bothers him.





Lifeline

Somewhere in the back of his mind Chase wonders what people will think if they round the corner and find them. Wilson’s got him pressed into the vending machine, kissing him like he’s a lifeline, like Chase is the only thing that can save him. Maybe he is.

Wilson tastes of chocolate, and his shaking hands grasp handfuls of Chase’s blonde hair a little too hard, fingers trembling as they run through the pushed-back fringe. He’s been here all night with a dying patient that he couldn’t leave because she didn’t want to be alone. She had no one else and Wilson is a little like Cameron in that respect.

He hasn’t slept in a couple of days and is running on sugar and caffeine and desperation and very little else. Chase doesn’t say anything because there is nothing he *can* say, and he knows Wilson needs to feel in control of something right now. For a moment there’s nothing but uneven breathing and the slightly wet sounds that come from exhausted kisses.

Then the other doctor’s pager goes off and he has to run off to say goodbye his dying patient. Chase runs a finger across his lower lip and sucks off the remains of Wilson’s chocolate in contemplative silence.




Slow Motion

What’s up with that heart you’ve stolen? Don’t worry cos it’s not broken, it’s just swollen.
Nickelback

From time to time, Chase feels completely confused, lonely and lost. His fingers grasp biro pens and stethoscopes, but he can’t make sense of anything. Facts and ideas and inferences bounce around like words on a line- uneven, nonsensical, even disturbing.

Maybe Wilson is a twisted version of House, or maybe House started out like Wilson and got lost along the way. It’s like dark and light, night and day, only Chase isn’t sure who is which, because Wilson scares him more than House ever could.

Wilson, with his ties and his ex-wives and his puppy dog bedroom eyes. Wilson, who is more needy than House, who takes so much more than House does. Wilson, who makes you fall for him and breaks your heart into tiny little pieces.

Wilson is ten times the gentleman House is, and yet isn’t a gentleman at all. He’s a user, and so is House, but Chase still lets them take piece after piece of him. House takes a little more of his self-esteem with every insult and every night he makes Chase stay when all he wants to do is sleep. Wilson steals his soul with every kiss. With House, the breaks are clean and relatively painless, but Wilson tears into shreds and takes more of Chase than Chase wants to give, and then leaves him alone and confused and lovesick.

Chase always thought that House would be the one to take him over, rip him apart and spit on the remaining pieces. It turns out House is the one who could probably save him, and this realisation makes Chase feel cold and empty. It’s like something familiar has become twisted and warped somehow, like writing “I love you” with the wrong hand.





Confusion

“Maybe I should seduce Chase,” Wilson says quietly. “See what that angelic choir boy can really do under those horrible shirts.”

Greg looks at him, because of all the things not to say when you’re kneeling between someone’s thighs and wearing very little clothing, that’s got to go somewhere in the top ten, along with calling someone “mom” or maybe admitting that, actually, you’re straight, and you shouldn’t be here at all. Wilson looks up through his fringe and grins broadly. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, ask my opinion, why don’t you,” House mutters. “And I’ll just say ‘go on, go sleep with Chase, leave me here in my office permanently aroused’.”

“And hell will freeze over and I will be faithful to another wife,” Wilson adds, resting his elbows on House’s knees for a moment. “But you gotta admit, me and Chase; kids would be fucking beautiful.”

“If you want to get laid at some point tonight-”

“I was under the impression that I was going to-”

They look at each other and start laughing helplessly.

“Yeah, go fuck Chase,” House sighs. “Tell me if he’s a natural blonde or not.”