angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2005-08-29 05:45 am
angelgazing) wrote2005-08-29 05:45 am
Entry tags:
fic: truth begins in lies - house - house/chase
title: Truth Begins in Lies
fandom: House
rating: R
summary: Chase doesn't know, except he does, he's being punished, except he's not, and everyone really is a liar.
words: 1,500
notes: So![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
carylic says to me, "House/Chase cane bed restraints molesting!" Well, maybe she didn't say it exactly like that, but that's how I heard it. And so there is this, by way of 15 drabbles. (100 words according to Word, which is, admittedly, screwed, but I'm going with it anyway.) So I request that you, you know, blame her. She also gets credit for the title.
"You," House says, with his mouth twisting into an impossible shape, like he's got more muscles pulling it around than anyone else, "are a liar."
His fingers are wrapped around the head of his cane. Loosely, of course, because a tight grip might give something away. Or maybe just because he doesn't care. It's probably that one, it's got the most hard fact behind it.
"Maybe," Chase answers, and shrugs. He smiles just to see if it will make him a little crazier. "But at least I'm in good company."
The craziest thing is that he thinks it's probably true.
---
The hospital has that after-hours quiet in the middle of the day. He works his way through a word search puzzle book that he found abandoned in a waiting room on the second floor. It's something mindless, but he pretty much welcomes the break.
Except it's noon and Cameron is out to lunch, Foreman's doing something somewhere that isn't here, because here is where Chase is, and it's quiet enough that he can hear the tap…tap…tap… of House making his way down the hall.
He scratches the back of his neck and tries to pretend he doesn't know what's coming.
---
House is a thief, when it comes right down to it. He's not the break-into-your-apartment-to-steal-your-DVD-player-for-drug-money kind of thief, though he's probably got a lot of practice in the taking-your-wallet-with-his-left-hand-while-you're-looking-at-his-right sort of stealing. He's just a vacuum cleaner, suck-you-dry kind of thief.
Chase thinks, vaguely, that he used to be Robert, and he used to be Bobby. Now he's just Chase, just as much of a fuck up as ever, maybe, and he smiles vaguely when House hits the leg of his chair with his cane just because it's what's expected of him.
He doesn't have anything of his own left.
---
His fingers curl around a cup of extremely bad coffee from a vending machine on the fourth floor. He doesn't know why he's drinking it, when it's lukewarm and his fingers are cold just because they weren't before and he's sitting on the ninth-floor landing in the stairwell. He puts his forehead against the brick where it's cool like that will fix everything and closes his eyes, there's a pounding in his temple like tap…tap…tap only hard. It's three in the afternoon, by the watch ticking away seconds on his wrist, and he honestly doesn't know what he's hiding from.
---
House stops him from leaving with his cane against his shins. The rubber tip isn't soft. It's not a hit, but it's not soft and it's sudden enough that Chase has to catch himself with a palm on the doorway. He doesn't bother glaring, he's smart enough to know that it wouldn't do any good. Would only give House some kind of sick joy, probably.
It's disgustingly clear that House isn't even angry anymore, he's just having fun now. He's just playing with Chase like he plays with his Game Boy, with the volume turned up to piss someone off.
---
He looks over his shoulder with his eyebrow raised and his mouth opening even though he hasn't got a clue what he means to say. (If he were any kind of a man it'd be "fuck you" or "I quit" or "what is it you want from me?" or maybe "I don't know how to make you happy, and I don't know why I care to try, so why don't you give me a reason, please, just give me a reason." But he's not, so it isn't, and he doesn't know what to say.)
Chase smiles, ruefully, and means it.
---
It's four in the afternoon, and he thinks that if he has to spend one more minute watching the way Cameron looks at House that he'll be sick. His lunch is sour in his stomach, churning and Cameron is watching House like a lovesick little girl.
"He's an ass," Chase says, suddenly, "he'll crush you under his heel just because he's bored." He takes a deep breath, his fingers curling around his ink pen and the newspaper spread open on the table in front of him. "And," he adds, "he doesn't even like you."
Cameron goes crimson, and turns away.
---
Chase's got smudges of black on his fingers, smeared words backwards in newspaper-print across his fingertips. House catches him at the door of an exam room with his fingers wrapped around his wrist tightly, like maybe he's remembered that he's pissed off for a semi-good reason. Chase follows him like a good little boy, like a fucking puppy, like he's just begging for the attention, and he hopes that maybe this'll just be it, finally, and it'll be over and done. He's has his resume updated for a month now, and New Jersey isn't all it was supposed to be.
---
House kisses him, and it isn't soft. It isn't rough. It's just a kiss, House's fingers still wrapped tightly around his wrist and Chase is shocked still, spine straight against the closed door. House can surprise him, he always could. Chase blinks, baffled, before giving in like he always does, his mouth dropping open and his eyes dropping closed.
House's cane is against the wall so it's his stupid grace and his hand on the door and Chase holding him up. And he's grinning against Chase's mouth like he's just won something again.
Chase presses his fingers against his neck.
---
"You," he whispers, because the door is locked but they're in the hospital and his voice is rough for wanting to scream and not, "are a complete and utter bastard." And he's not, no matter how it may seem, breathless from anything other than disbelief.
House laughs, like a mad man, perched on the end of bed like a king, the thin sheet bunched up in his fist, his shirt half undone and looking insufferably smug.
Chase could kill him, or die, or do both at the same time, except he can't. He tugs half-heartedly, but the restraints hold tight.
---
He's got Chase's fingerprints in newspaper ink on his throat, just beneath his stubble so it looks like a shadow or a bruise and Chase watches it because it's better than the alternative. He swallows and Chase's mouth goes dry.
"You said I could trust you," House says, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of Chase's hips. "Guess that was a lie, huh?"
"Jesus Christ," Chase groans, and doesn't close his eyes because that's giving up and shifts his hips because at least he can. "This is my punishment? I'll never do it again, I swear."
"So says the liar."
---
His fingers splay across Chase's ribs, under the mostly-buttoned blue shirt he's still wearing, and Chase can't breathe. His chest is tight, under the spread of House's long fingers, his tie is still tight, and he can't move because he's fucking tied down. He inhales on a gasp, and House scrapes his thumbnail across Chase's skin without ever lessening the press of his fingertips. House is smirking; more smug than Chase ever could've imagined it was possible for a person to be. Chase as no idea how any of this happened, and he can't breathe and he doesn't even care.
---
Chase watches his hands as he straightens his shirt and rebuttons the few that came undone. He's not new to fucking with his clothes on. He's not new to fucking with the wrong guy for the wrong reason. Or for no reason. This wouldn't be the first time sex was a game, not by a long shot, because he was sixteen in an all boys Catholic school. He watches, but his hands aren't shaking and Chase learned his first week working for House to take his victories where he can.
House, if he looks close enough to notice, is shaking.
---
Chase sits in the conference room, feet on the edge of the table, his hands in his lap and bored beyond all reason. Their patient is two hours from being released, Cameron is off Not Talking To Him, Foreman's been hiding for as long as Cameron's been Not Looking At House, but about three hours short of House Shoving Chase Into Random Rooms. House is in his office with Wilson, the blinds open so Chase can see his arms swing wide as they fight. Chase rubs his wrists and tries to think of a way he could be more bored.
---
House comes out of his office three minutes and twenty-four seconds after Wilson storms off to the saner pastures of Oncology. His face is creased, so he doesn't have lines so much as trenches of worry and anger pulling at his features. He looks at Chase as says, "That was a trust exercise."
He smiles into his coffee cup, because he knows it'll drive House crazy more than anything else, and looks down at the table. "You," he says, "are a liar." The most shocking thing of all, he realizes, is that it's the truest thing he's said in months.
---
fandom: House
rating: R
summary: Chase doesn't know, except he does, he's being punished, except he's not, and everyone really is a liar.
words: 1,500
notes: So
carylic says to me, "House/Chase cane bed restraints molesting!" Well, maybe she didn't say it exactly like that, but that's how I heard it. And so there is this, by way of 15 drabbles. (100 words according to Word, which is, admittedly, screwed, but I'm going with it anyway.) So I request that you, you know, blame her. She also gets credit for the title."You," House says, with his mouth twisting into an impossible shape, like he's got more muscles pulling it around than anyone else, "are a liar."
His fingers are wrapped around the head of his cane. Loosely, of course, because a tight grip might give something away. Or maybe just because he doesn't care. It's probably that one, it's got the most hard fact behind it.
"Maybe," Chase answers, and shrugs. He smiles just to see if it will make him a little crazier. "But at least I'm in good company."
The craziest thing is that he thinks it's probably true.
---
The hospital has that after-hours quiet in the middle of the day. He works his way through a word search puzzle book that he found abandoned in a waiting room on the second floor. It's something mindless, but he pretty much welcomes the break.
Except it's noon and Cameron is out to lunch, Foreman's doing something somewhere that isn't here, because here is where Chase is, and it's quiet enough that he can hear the tap…tap…tap… of House making his way down the hall.
He scratches the back of his neck and tries to pretend he doesn't know what's coming.
---
House is a thief, when it comes right down to it. He's not the break-into-your-apartment-to-steal-your-DVD-player-for-drug-money kind of thief, though he's probably got a lot of practice in the taking-your-wallet-with-his-left-hand-while-you're-looking-at-his-right sort of stealing. He's just a vacuum cleaner, suck-you-dry kind of thief.
Chase thinks, vaguely, that he used to be Robert, and he used to be Bobby. Now he's just Chase, just as much of a fuck up as ever, maybe, and he smiles vaguely when House hits the leg of his chair with his cane just because it's what's expected of him.
He doesn't have anything of his own left.
---
His fingers curl around a cup of extremely bad coffee from a vending machine on the fourth floor. He doesn't know why he's drinking it, when it's lukewarm and his fingers are cold just because they weren't before and he's sitting on the ninth-floor landing in the stairwell. He puts his forehead against the brick where it's cool like that will fix everything and closes his eyes, there's a pounding in his temple like tap…tap…tap only hard. It's three in the afternoon, by the watch ticking away seconds on his wrist, and he honestly doesn't know what he's hiding from.
---
House stops him from leaving with his cane against his shins. The rubber tip isn't soft. It's not a hit, but it's not soft and it's sudden enough that Chase has to catch himself with a palm on the doorway. He doesn't bother glaring, he's smart enough to know that it wouldn't do any good. Would only give House some kind of sick joy, probably.
It's disgustingly clear that House isn't even angry anymore, he's just having fun now. He's just playing with Chase like he plays with his Game Boy, with the volume turned up to piss someone off.
---
He looks over his shoulder with his eyebrow raised and his mouth opening even though he hasn't got a clue what he means to say. (If he were any kind of a man it'd be "fuck you" or "I quit" or "what is it you want from me?" or maybe "I don't know how to make you happy, and I don't know why I care to try, so why don't you give me a reason, please, just give me a reason." But he's not, so it isn't, and he doesn't know what to say.)
Chase smiles, ruefully, and means it.
---
It's four in the afternoon, and he thinks that if he has to spend one more minute watching the way Cameron looks at House that he'll be sick. His lunch is sour in his stomach, churning and Cameron is watching House like a lovesick little girl.
"He's an ass," Chase says, suddenly, "he'll crush you under his heel just because he's bored." He takes a deep breath, his fingers curling around his ink pen and the newspaper spread open on the table in front of him. "And," he adds, "he doesn't even like you."
Cameron goes crimson, and turns away.
---
Chase's got smudges of black on his fingers, smeared words backwards in newspaper-print across his fingertips. House catches him at the door of an exam room with his fingers wrapped around his wrist tightly, like maybe he's remembered that he's pissed off for a semi-good reason. Chase follows him like a good little boy, like a fucking puppy, like he's just begging for the attention, and he hopes that maybe this'll just be it, finally, and it'll be over and done. He's has his resume updated for a month now, and New Jersey isn't all it was supposed to be.
---
House kisses him, and it isn't soft. It isn't rough. It's just a kiss, House's fingers still wrapped tightly around his wrist and Chase is shocked still, spine straight against the closed door. House can surprise him, he always could. Chase blinks, baffled, before giving in like he always does, his mouth dropping open and his eyes dropping closed.
House's cane is against the wall so it's his stupid grace and his hand on the door and Chase holding him up. And he's grinning against Chase's mouth like he's just won something again.
Chase presses his fingers against his neck.
---
"You," he whispers, because the door is locked but they're in the hospital and his voice is rough for wanting to scream and not, "are a complete and utter bastard." And he's not, no matter how it may seem, breathless from anything other than disbelief.
House laughs, like a mad man, perched on the end of bed like a king, the thin sheet bunched up in his fist, his shirt half undone and looking insufferably smug.
Chase could kill him, or die, or do both at the same time, except he can't. He tugs half-heartedly, but the restraints hold tight.
---
He's got Chase's fingerprints in newspaper ink on his throat, just beneath his stubble so it looks like a shadow or a bruise and Chase watches it because it's better than the alternative. He swallows and Chase's mouth goes dry.
"You said I could trust you," House says, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of Chase's hips. "Guess that was a lie, huh?"
"Jesus Christ," Chase groans, and doesn't close his eyes because that's giving up and shifts his hips because at least he can. "This is my punishment? I'll never do it again, I swear."
"So says the liar."
---
His fingers splay across Chase's ribs, under the mostly-buttoned blue shirt he's still wearing, and Chase can't breathe. His chest is tight, under the spread of House's long fingers, his tie is still tight, and he can't move because he's fucking tied down. He inhales on a gasp, and House scrapes his thumbnail across Chase's skin without ever lessening the press of his fingertips. House is smirking; more smug than Chase ever could've imagined it was possible for a person to be. Chase as no idea how any of this happened, and he can't breathe and he doesn't even care.
---
Chase watches his hands as he straightens his shirt and rebuttons the few that came undone. He's not new to fucking with his clothes on. He's not new to fucking with the wrong guy for the wrong reason. Or for no reason. This wouldn't be the first time sex was a game, not by a long shot, because he was sixteen in an all boys Catholic school. He watches, but his hands aren't shaking and Chase learned his first week working for House to take his victories where he can.
House, if he looks close enough to notice, is shaking.
---
Chase sits in the conference room, feet on the edge of the table, his hands in his lap and bored beyond all reason. Their patient is two hours from being released, Cameron is off Not Talking To Him, Foreman's been hiding for as long as Cameron's been Not Looking At House, but about three hours short of House Shoving Chase Into Random Rooms. House is in his office with Wilson, the blinds open so Chase can see his arms swing wide as they fight. Chase rubs his wrists and tries to think of a way he could be more bored.
---
House comes out of his office three minutes and twenty-four seconds after Wilson storms off to the saner pastures of Oncology. His face is creased, so he doesn't have lines so much as trenches of worry and anger pulling at his features. He looks at Chase as says, "That was a trust exercise."
He smiles into his coffee cup, because he knows it'll drive House crazy more than anything else, and looks down at the table. "You," he says, "are a liar." The most shocking thing of all, he realizes, is that it's the truest thing he's said in months.
---
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*loves you immensly*
I'm liking the Chase-tied-Up-Scene VERY much...
*grins happily*
You just made my night!
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Thank you for sharing! :)
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Really great line. And the whole thing was hot.
<3<3
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I love this line particularly. It's so perfect, because House really is more than just a who... his presence and all the baggage and nonsense that comes with his personality is a force.
I love your writing style. Your voice. Whatever the correct term for it is.
Ohhhh, that was so sexy.
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I LIKE that.
I always enjoy it when personalities like his get torn down from their self-made pedestals, even if it's just for a moment.
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I love how you wrote Chase who knows nothing yet something.