Hangman

This is a piece of slash written by myself and my friend Jenn (lj username kohl_rimmed_eye) when we got bored in our lessons. It was never meant to be this long but for some reason we just carried it on... its angsty and we cannot gurantee a happy ending...
Any feedback is always appreciated and loved like a small child... or like a Wilson figurine.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to either me or Jennie. Otherwise they would be mud wrestling and paying regular booty calls to each of our houses... anyway, ENJOY!

PART ONE

It is four a.m and Chase is pretty sure that he’s drunk. He picks up the empty bottle and turns it upside down, watching the last few drops fall into the glass. He tries to put the bottle back on the table, but his hand is shaking too hard to make it stand up. Make that very drunk. Chase runs a hand through his hair, his mouth twisting into a bitter smirk. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. Had promised himself when he stood next to his mother’s grave that he would *never* do this. Never turn to the bottle to drown his sorrows. He shakes his head, an amused snort escaping. You’re just as bad as her really, aren’t you? Chase thinks. Just the same as your drunken mommy who’s lying in the ground. Chase feels the first few tears fall from his eyes.
“Goddamn you House,” he says, his knees beginning to shake. “God-fucking-damn you.”

House has had him breaking every promise he’s ever made to himself.
He promised himself that he wouldn’t fall in love with any more men who are bad for him.
He promised himself that he wouldn’t let himself be controlled any more.
He promised himself that he wouldn’t drink to forget.
And he promised himself that he would stop letting House use him the way he does.

Chase bangs his fist into the wall. How is it that *House* can break him down, use him, hurt him, *fuck him* and each time Chase will ask for more? No matter what House does to him, he will always come back to him. Always trot back to follow his master’s heels.
“Just like the good little whore that I am.” Chase snarls angrily against the wall.

Chase is sure he used to be a stronger person than this. But somehow he remembers very little about life pre-House. Just snatches of Hail Marys, empty vodka bottles, shouting and slamming of doors, and weeks of self-conscious lust which culminated in a kiss that tore his soul apart.

Chase remembers the kiss in anger and in- he pauses himself and traces a finger across his lips.
“Love?” he whispers. He doesn’t know who he’s asking and he doesn’t know the answer himself.
It can’t be love. Love isn’t supposed to hurt like this. Love isn’t supposed to confuse him like this. Love isn’t supposed to keep him this off-balance, one second thinking everything’s going to be fine, the next second drinking and breaking things because House won’t fucking *look* at him. This can’t be love, except that some little, sick, screaming part of him thinks that it might be.
Chase doesn’t know whether he wants it to be love. Doesn’t know if he’s ready to sell his heart and soul to a single person. But House… Chase has never felt anything this strong for anybody. And when Chase thinks he might lose him to something, to anyone, it hurts with a cold burning right in his stomach. Chase lets out a long, deep, shaking breath and tries to stop crying. He steps away from the wall and hears the phone in the hall start to ring.
There’s no way he can answer it right now, with these tears rolling down his face, and his whole body trembling like he’s a junkie on his second day of withdrawal. He probably even sounds drunk. There’s no way he can pick up the phone.
He finds it in his hand anyway.
“Hello?” Chase’s throat threatens to close up as he utters the first shaking syllables.
“Have you been drinking?” It is, of course, House, sounding amused and annoyingly awake for this time of the morning.
“I’ve had a few,” Chase replies, trying to sound cold and aloof, but in fact making his words slur even more. He hears House tut down the other end of the receiver.
“Would’ve thought you’d learnt your lesson from your mother.” He says. “Start of a long slippery slope Chase.” The fact this warning is delivered in such an emotionless, casual tone riles Chase.
“Go away House,” he says, “I’m not in the mood for one of your fucking lectures.”
He can see House in his mind’s eye chewing on his Vicodin tablets in a pathetic attempt to stop his pain. Chase would like House to spend a day in his shoes.
“What makes you think this is a lecture?” House asks, and Chase can hear him swallow the pill. The Australian gets the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that House has no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. “This could be a booty call for all you know.”
Chase feels his cheeks redden and hears House chuckle. “I wouldn’t let you in.” Chase knows it is a weak response but his head is hurting and the scent of vodka is still lingering in his nostrils.
“Oh I’m sure you would.” House says quietly. “I’m standing right outside your door.”
Chase, unable to stop himself, reaches a few feet to the right, and undoes the deadlock. The door clicks open. There is, of course, no one there. When Chase points this out to House, the older man laughs.
“No. But see? You’d let me in. You always let me in.”
Chase lets the door shut itself, the only thing on his mind is trying to prove that House is wrong wrong wrong.
“You can’t control me Greg,” he says into the mouthpiece, “I’m not a fucking plaything you can pick up and fondle whenever you want a quick one.”
Chase closes his eyes, trying not to listen to his inner voice telling him that House is right right right.
“That’s not the impression you gave me,” House says, voice still light and amused, but each word boring a hole through Chase’s drunk and aching brain. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘no’. N-O. Keep practicing, I’m sure you’ll get it right eventually.” Chase scowls and is about to put the phone down when House continues, “And now you’re going to slam the phone down like the sulky little Catholic schoolgirl that you are, right Chase?” Chase curls his fingers tighter around the handset. Fuck he thinks. He’s being manipulated, he can tell that. If he puts the phone down, he’s playing into House’s hands. If he doesn’t, he has to stand here and listen to more of this. House laughs.
“Goodbye Chase. Don’t forget to come in early for work.”
The line goes dead.
“I hate you.” Chase says into the silence, and, for a moment, almost believes it to be true.
*