Apr. 11th, 2006 05:36 pm
Title: The In-Betweens
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lovely_ambitionTitle: The In-Betweens
Pairing: mild House/Wilson/Chase
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Sadly. Oh, so sadly.
Summary: Chase is tired of being in the middle of House and Wilson's prank war.
Notes: Set just after Safe. Written for 'middles' at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100
It’s difficult to be in the in-betweens of something so longstanding and strong. Years back, Chase had gone for a few drinks with the fellows at the time, House, and Wilson. He hadn’t expected anything to come out of it, but one by one, those fellows had quit and Chase had remained. Then, Cameron had been hired and it was like House and Wilson forgot that those drinking nights ever happened; forgot the conversations and the ‘bonding’. It turns out, though, that it had only been short-term memory loss. It’s a delayed memory; it’s two years delayed, but it does hit and Chase wishes for all the world that it had been delayed forever.
Some college-era nostalgia has seemingly infiltrated House’s place and Wilson and House are in the grips of it while the whole rest of the world goes on in accordance with their age-appropriate maturity. Five-year-olds are five-year-olds and old men remain so, never the two shall meet.
It had started a week ago, so innocently, with broken shards of wood on the conference table.
“What’s this?” Chase asks, flicking away a piece of the broken wood from the glass surface that could have wound up a veritable splinter magnet. He picks up the two fragments of the cane to study it further.
House barely looks up from his coffee. “Walking aid for blind midgets,” he responds. “Were you in the market? Blonde tricks pick up sticks.”
Chase rolls his eyes and puts them on the table. He returns after twenty minutes with athletic tape in his hands, fixing the two pieces of cane into one and placing it on House’s desk. He turns to grasp his coat and leave and it’s then that he catches Wilson watching him, trying to conceal a smile. Chase pauses in his step and waves to him before departing in the other direction.
*
His pager reads: ‘HEEL PUPPY’ and he takes it as a sign to call House, even though it's eleven at night. “It’s late,” he mumbles in greeting, when House finally picks up.
“Get over here. My place. I need a consult.”
House hangs up and Chase scowls. “Didn’t know hookers needed consults,” he mutters to the all-encompassing silence of his house. Foreman would have appreciated.
He drives over in sweats, a t-shirt, and sneakers – not bothering to get fancy for House. He’s relegated to knock on the door for five minutes straight before Wilson, who looks decidedly surprised to see him, answers it. “Chase? What are you…”
Chase just holds up his pager so that Wilson can see the message.
“See?” House shouts from inside. “Told you I didn’t kill him!”
*
Wilson sits at Chase’s table during lunch and places down a store-bought meal. Chase arches an eyebrow. Usually, Wilson’s lunch is a three-course meal. “House,” Wilson says by way of explanation, when he catches Chase staring at the limp leaves of fast-food lettuce. “I’m like his slave.”
Chase is picking fennel off his own sandwich. “You could stay my place if you’re really desperate. I’ve got a guest room, a habit of listening to sob stories, and I’m not a food thief.” He doesn’t seriously think that Wilson will consider. The strength of his friendship with House trumps all else. “Besides,” he says, mouth full. “I cook and do my own dishes.”
Wilson’s staring at something across the courtyard and Chase turns to see House standing there with a pair of binoculars, watching them carefully.
“Can he read lips?” Chase asks after a disconcerting moment of silence.
Wilson isn’t answering. Just stabbing his salad. “You know what,” he says decisively. “I’ll be there.”
“Great.” Chase is still panicky. “So…can he read lips?”
“What?” Wilson grasps the salt-shaker. “Probably.”
Chase freezes when he realizes what he's just done. He’s just placed himself utterly and completely and wholly in the middle of House and Wilson.
Crap.
*
As expected, Chase is accosted by House in the morning. “Courting Jimmy?”
“Offering him escape,” Chase’s answer is easily lobbed as he hands House a cup of black coffee from his Starbucks run. “He came over. I cooked. He crashed in my guest room.”
“You cooked?” House scoffs, taking the coffee anyway. “And, let me guess, you both did each other’s hair at seven AM?” House sips at the coffee and gives Chase a surprised look, stopping in their walk down the hall. “You got it right. Impressive.”
Chase smiles and takes the remaining cup of coffee, trashing the tray. “He did his own hair. And it was at 8:15.” He’s cheerful as he leaves the office, takes a right, and heads down the hall towards Wilson’s office, not once looking back to see House's reaction.
*
Finally, it goes on too long and House has accused Chase of sleeping with Wilson and Wilson has hinted that Chase has performed sexual favours for House and one night, House and Wilson had both crashed at his place, commenting on the fluffy nature of his duvet.
“Enough,” he snaps one morning over the diagnosis.
House taps on the board. “Enough of gout? But we love gout! It’s the Jagger of protein problems.”
Chase glowers, glancing from Wilson – sitting in the corner of the room, looking so blameless – back to House. “Enough of the tug of war. Keys. Today. You’re both evicted.”
Cameron and Foreman exchange a glance, sitting back in tandem, obviously trying to get out of getting in the middle of the argument. Chase just glares at House, palm out. He’s not kidding around. He’s tired of his sheets being shorted and of shaving crème on his hands and he’s tired of all the sexual tension he gets out of having House or Wilson or both of them wandering about his apartment, being so them.
Wilson sighs and hands over his key first. Soon enough, House does the same.
Chase tucks them away, sitting back down. “Better.”
House continues on with the diagnosis, sending them all on their way to run tests. “And Chase?” he calls over. Chase pauses in the doorway, on his way to spin the patient’s urine. House is holding up a small, silver key. “I made copies.” He's grinning like a child who's just been told that he can have chocolate and ice cream if he's good.
Chase sets his jaw and doesn't say a word.
That’s a battle for another day.
THE END
Pairing: mild House/Wilson/Chase
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Sadly. Oh, so sadly.
Summary: Chase is tired of being in the middle of House and Wilson's prank war.
Notes: Set just after Safe. Written for 'middles' at
fanfic100It’s difficult to be in the in-betweens of something so longstanding and strong. Years back, Chase had gone for a few drinks with the fellows at the time, House, and Wilson. He hadn’t expected anything to come out of it, but one by one, those fellows had quit and Chase had remained. Then, Cameron had been hired and it was like House and Wilson forgot that those drinking nights ever happened; forgot the conversations and the ‘bonding’. It turns out, though, that it had only been short-term memory loss. It’s a delayed memory; it’s two years delayed, but it does hit and Chase wishes for all the world that it had been delayed forever.
Some college-era nostalgia has seemingly infiltrated House’s place and Wilson and House are in the grips of it while the whole rest of the world goes on in accordance with their age-appropriate maturity. Five-year-olds are five-year-olds and old men remain so, never the two shall meet.
It had started a week ago, so innocently, with broken shards of wood on the conference table.
“What’s this?” Chase asks, flicking away a piece of the broken wood from the glass surface that could have wound up a veritable splinter magnet. He picks up the two fragments of the cane to study it further.
House barely looks up from his coffee. “Walking aid for blind midgets,” he responds. “Were you in the market? Blonde tricks pick up sticks.”
Chase rolls his eyes and puts them on the table. He returns after twenty minutes with athletic tape in his hands, fixing the two pieces of cane into one and placing it on House’s desk. He turns to grasp his coat and leave and it’s then that he catches Wilson watching him, trying to conceal a smile. Chase pauses in his step and waves to him before departing in the other direction.
*
His pager reads: ‘HEEL PUPPY’ and he takes it as a sign to call House, even though it's eleven at night. “It’s late,” he mumbles in greeting, when House finally picks up.
“Get over here. My place. I need a consult.”
House hangs up and Chase scowls. “Didn’t know hookers needed consults,” he mutters to the all-encompassing silence of his house. Foreman would have appreciated.
He drives over in sweats, a t-shirt, and sneakers – not bothering to get fancy for House. He’s relegated to knock on the door for five minutes straight before Wilson, who looks decidedly surprised to see him, answers it. “Chase? What are you…”
Chase just holds up his pager so that Wilson can see the message.
“See?” House shouts from inside. “Told you I didn’t kill him!”
*
Wilson sits at Chase’s table during lunch and places down a store-bought meal. Chase arches an eyebrow. Usually, Wilson’s lunch is a three-course meal. “House,” Wilson says by way of explanation, when he catches Chase staring at the limp leaves of fast-food lettuce. “I’m like his slave.”
Chase is picking fennel off his own sandwich. “You could stay my place if you’re really desperate. I’ve got a guest room, a habit of listening to sob stories, and I’m not a food thief.” He doesn’t seriously think that Wilson will consider. The strength of his friendship with House trumps all else. “Besides,” he says, mouth full. “I cook and do my own dishes.”
Wilson’s staring at something across the courtyard and Chase turns to see House standing there with a pair of binoculars, watching them carefully.
“Can he read lips?” Chase asks after a disconcerting moment of silence.
Wilson isn’t answering. Just stabbing his salad. “You know what,” he says decisively. “I’ll be there.”
“Great.” Chase is still panicky. “So…can he read lips?”
“What?” Wilson grasps the salt-shaker. “Probably.”
Chase freezes when he realizes what he's just done. He’s just placed himself utterly and completely and wholly in the middle of House and Wilson.
Crap.
*
As expected, Chase is accosted by House in the morning. “Courting Jimmy?”
“Offering him escape,” Chase’s answer is easily lobbed as he hands House a cup of black coffee from his Starbucks run. “He came over. I cooked. He crashed in my guest room.”
“You cooked?” House scoffs, taking the coffee anyway. “And, let me guess, you both did each other’s hair at seven AM?” House sips at the coffee and gives Chase a surprised look, stopping in their walk down the hall. “You got it right. Impressive.”
Chase smiles and takes the remaining cup of coffee, trashing the tray. “He did his own hair. And it was at 8:15.” He’s cheerful as he leaves the office, takes a right, and heads down the hall towards Wilson’s office, not once looking back to see House's reaction.
*
Finally, it goes on too long and House has accused Chase of sleeping with Wilson and Wilson has hinted that Chase has performed sexual favours for House and one night, House and Wilson had both crashed at his place, commenting on the fluffy nature of his duvet.
“Enough,” he snaps one morning over the diagnosis.
House taps on the board. “Enough of gout? But we love gout! It’s the Jagger of protein problems.”
Chase glowers, glancing from Wilson – sitting in the corner of the room, looking so blameless – back to House. “Enough of the tug of war. Keys. Today. You’re both evicted.”
Cameron and Foreman exchange a glance, sitting back in tandem, obviously trying to get out of getting in the middle of the argument. Chase just glares at House, palm out. He’s not kidding around. He’s tired of his sheets being shorted and of shaving crème on his hands and he’s tired of all the sexual tension he gets out of having House or Wilson or both of them wandering about his apartment, being so them.
Wilson sighs and hands over his key first. Soon enough, House does the same.
Chase tucks them away, sitting back down. “Better.”
House continues on with the diagnosis, sending them all on their way to run tests. “And Chase?” he calls over. Chase pauses in the doorway, on his way to spin the patient’s urine. House is holding up a small, silver key. “I made copies.” He's grinning like a child who's just been told that he can have chocolate and ice cream if he's good.
Chase sets his jaw and doesn't say a word.
That’s a battle for another day.
THE END
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I's swamping you with comments, I know. Some of these, I just can't help myself.
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Thank you for reading!
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hehehee. This was great! I loved the idea that the three of them were actually (in their own rather twisted way) friends :) THIS is what we need more of in the series! *ignores the horror that is Chase/Cameron*