Summary: What Chase wants, and what he gets.
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: James Wilson/Robert Chase
Spoilers: through second season
Original story: Perfect Crime by Yvi (recrudescence)
Disclaimer: No profit, not mine
Notes: Many thanks to my beta, zulu, for her support, and for making this story less confusing than it would otherwise have been! :D Any remaining errors are mine, all mine.
Chase had quickly learned to recognize his mother's moods. He could walk in the door from school and tell -- by the signs of the dishes in the sink, the state of the furniture, whether her door was closed or open -- if it was going to be an angry day, or a day for crying jags, or for maudlin sentimentality, or for pretending that all the other days had never happened.
There was a party, once, in the evening; some school friends of his were throwing it. She'd been tearful when he came home, reaching for him and smoothing her hands through his hair. "My boy," she said. "My boy, you won't leave me like he did, not you."
He'd slipped out, later, left her sodden and asleep on the sofa; he was resentful. He just wanted this one evening, just once, not thinking about what he had to hide when he came home.
He opened the door at half past one in the morning to shattered glass on the floor; everything had gone to hell in his absence, and he found his mother on the bed, sleeping, one slipper off. Her foot was bare and pale and unmarked.
His shoes crunched through the shards of the bottle as he cleaned it up; on the bed, she barely moved.
Next time they asked him, he made up an excuse; they stopped asking soon enough.
Chase isn't quite sure how he got here, with Wilson pressed into the wall and shaking slightly in front of him, face turned up toward the ceiling, impassive despite the tremor. He scrapes his stubble along Wilson's cheek, one hand shoved into his trousers. His fucking life, he thinks.
One time, Chase tried to keep a job he wanted; he was desperate. It backfired, spectacularly. And led, somehow, through some impossible logic to this, Wilson in his cheap apartment, backed against the wall, resting his head against the faded, peeling paint. Wilson, who told him, "You don't ask permission," and Chase isn't asking any more; he just falls to his knees, easy as anything.
Wilson sucks in his breath and his thighs are tense as Chase runs his hands down them. Chase is suddenly angry -- this is Wilson's idea of penance? And more, he's sure -- he's heard the stories, listened to House mock the affairs, and Wilson is still wearing his wedding ring. Chase himself is a convenient excuse, an opportunity that had finally reached its time to happen, and he watches Wilson ruthlessly as he draws Wilson's cock into his mouth.
He makes Wilson beg before he lets him come.
Chase found Jenny in Trenton, in a boring expensive bar on a boring evening, the sound of her laugh coming too loud from across the room, and he hadn't said no when she invited him home.
She was surprising: a dry humor that caught him off-guard, a determined solitary streak. He was young, good-looking, a doctor -- he was used to women who wanted to get their hands on him and hang on. Jenny didn't care.
Three weeks after he met her he found himself at her bedside, surrounded by candles, trying to keep his surgeon's hands from shaking.
"You... you want this?" he'd asked.
"Yeah," she said, eyes closed, so quiet and so serious, and her beautiful face contorted in something neither pain nor pleasure as he touched flame to flesh.
It didn't do much for him but she sighed, afterwards, and pulled him to her, and he was so careful of her, and it felt, for a little while, like he'd gotten everything right and he could be everything that she needed.
They did it three times, all told, and then she stopped returning his calls. He erased her number after the second week. It was better that way.
Chase is maybe starting to want this more than he should, Wilson over him, the heavy weight of him bearing Chase down into the floor, pressing inside him, the small noises Wilson makes and can't manage to stop. Chase feels like he's wringing them out of him, every time.
He laughs to himself, sometimes, when he thinks of it, when Wilson's not there. Wilson wants something safe, something that will skirt the edges of the disaster that he already is without showing it too clearly to the light. He thinks he's got it, for now anyway; he thinks Chase is safe, that the carefully-preserved distance between them means that Wilson is not responsible, does not have to control this.
Whatever Wilson thinks is going on, he can't still think it's penance. Chase smiles, under him, slow and private, and digs his fingers into Wilson's back, just lightly enough not to bruise. Whatever Wilson might think, he wants this; it's his need that brings him back, and Chase can give it to him.
He tries not to pay attention to the treacherous curl of warmth in his stomach at the thought.
He bears down harder, and Wilson curses and comes, and Chase wraps a hand around his own cock and follows him over the edge.
Chase spends each Sunday Mass staring at the latticed wood of the confessional
He has always spoken the language of flesh too well; he wanted to be a priest, wanted to feel God's grace moving through his hands, but he didn't have what was needed. Chase is no good at renunciation, and he's terrible at believing in forgiveness. Wilson's forgiveness is fleshly and just shy of bruising, entirely conditional, and Chase is coming to think he prefers the honesty in that.
He leaves church without confessing, every time.
Chase is muttering, out loud, lost somewhere in the press of flesh in flesh, and it takes a minute to parse it when Wilson pulls away, to remember what he'd been -- oh. Oh. He can hear his own voice, a moment ago, pressed into Wilson's shoulder and mumbling, "can tell, want him and don't have a chance." He's stuttering apologies before he can think better of it, trail off, breathe and try to think through the rushing of blood.
He'd been watching, in diagnostics, he'd seen something and it slipped through the filter, and now Wilson is looking at him, pulling the calm down over his face like a mask. So this is how it breaks. Fine.
"It did happen," Chase says, and he's not looking for confirmation, not really. He already knows. "You fucked him, didn't you."
He can hardly hear what Wilson's saying over the tone he's saying it in, smooth as glass, and Chase has to push forward, bite at him, try to rumple, mark him, mar that pristine surface in whatever way he can.
"It wasn't--" Wilson says, and Chase snaps, just fucking loses it, snarls at him, because maybe it wasn't but this is, and now House is a part of it, like every other bit of Chase's life, creeping in about the edges, and into this one place where he'd thought maybe his own lack could somehow miraculously be enough.
Wilson goes to touch him, run a hand through his hair, maybe, like a parent to a child -- Chase shoves him, manhandles him over the couch, pressing him down into it. He makes Wilson beg for it, voice catching, first one finger, then two.
If this is what he wants then it's what Chase will give him, send him back to House sore and fucked-out and used, send him back into this game he and House have been playing since long before Chase ever arrived but he won't be able to forget, there'll be muscle burns and bites and Chase's presence left, always now, between them, where there were only two before; Chase puts one hand on the back of Wilson's neck and shoves him further into the couch, shoves just the head of his cock in, making Wilson gasp and whisper a plea.
House will never be able to fuck him like this, the leg makes it impossible, and all three of them know it.
House watches him, these days, eyes sharp against his neck. Chase stays determinedly oblivious, glues himself to Cameron's side, to Foreman's. House lets him get away with it, though he keeps his ears peeled for the squeak-tap of sneakers and cane on the floor every time he pulls the late shift in the lab.
He's seen House watching Wilson, though, seen Wilson's lips tighten, his eyes flick carefully away from Chase, his face blank. House bites his lip, then, curbs himself; Chase wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it, the shockingly physical restraint of it. He'd been unable to fool even himself that he had any part in it.
House doesn't say anything. For him, for Wilson, it is a strange kind of mercy.
Chase doesn't want it, but he takes it all the same.