Hangman

PART TWELVE
*
It’s clear that Chase has been waiting for him from the speed he opens the door, but then since he stayed *in* the hospital it wasn’t hard to find him. He doesn’t cringe away from 6ft 4 in of angry House, but keeps standing there, staring at him.
“Are you happy now?” House shouts. Chase just stares at him. “Are you fucking happy now?”
House pulls the pieces of photograph out of his pocket and throws them on the floor in front of Chase. The younger man stoops to pick them up and looks at the images of House and Wilson. And then he tears them up, into little angry pieces, before House can stop him.
“I hate you.” Chase spits, and moves to slam the door. House won’t let him and pulls him out into the empty corridor, backing him against the wall. Chase’s hands are still clutching the pieces of photograph and he is trembling.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” House shouts. “You’re acting like a spoilt child and you have *no right* to act like this!”
“Bite me.” Hisses Chase, his back pressing hard into the wall, House pinning him there. House says nothing for a long time, and in the end Chase looks him in the eye and whispers: “All I ever fucking wanted was you.”
House laughs for a moment, loud and harsh. And then he bends his head and presses his lips to Chase’s, violently, angrily. He presses him harder into the wall, and rips Chase’s shirt off his shoulders, fingernails raking across the bared skin, tearing it in places and drawing blood and the Australian is maybe even sobbing but he can’t push the older doctor away because he has no other options left.
House is still kissing, well if you can call it kissing, Chase when Wilson rounds the corridor. Chase is crying into House’s mouth as pieces of a photograph fall through his fingers. House is scratching Chase’s body, his eyes open, his body tense and pushed hard against the younger doctor.
Wilson stands still for a moment, just watching the two men grapple against each other. Wilson isn’t sure whether it’s in pleasure or for the need of air. Chase’s cheeks are flushed and House- House looks furious and cold. Wilson didn’t think you could look aloof whilst your tongue was down another man’s throat, but evidently House can. The older doctor doesn’t seem satisfied until Chase is banging at his chest, desperate for air. House releases him.
“Are you happy?” House hisses. “Are you fucking happy now Robert?” Chase flinches at the use of his first name. “This is all I had left of him!” House gestures to the scattered pieces. “And you’ve fucking taken it!”
“All I had left was you!” Chase breaks, his own anger for once matching House’s. “And *you* took that from me!”
House looks shocked for a split second and then disgusted.
“Grow up Chase!” he spits. He brings his cane into contact with Chase’s soft side. The younger doctor hisses at the blow, but instead of crumbling like House wants, he grabs the stick and pushes House back. House stumbles onto his bad leg, loses balance and lands on the floor. Chase looks slightly shocked at what he’s done and House is flushing furiously. Chase extends a hand.
“Greg, I’m-”
“Leave it.” House snaps, sliding himself across the floor, wincing with each movement. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”
“I just want to help.” Chase says pathetically. “Greg please-”
“No.” House just wants Chase to go. He can’t stand the vulnerability of this situation. He knows he’s a cripple, but he doesn’t need other people to witness him at his weakest.
House makes a vain attempt to collect some of the photograph together. Chase can’t help but feel satisfied. However, this feeling is overwhelmed by the guilt and the pity that he feels watching House cradle the bits of the picture in his hand.
Wilson watches Chase kneel and pass a piece to the older man. House appears to have frozen. He stares at the piece. Then at Chase and then back to the picture. Wilson decides this is when he has to make an entrance. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, watching House crawl on the floor. He knows he should be angry at Chase for being so weak and for bending to House, but Wilson *can’t*. He stretches to pick up a shard of the picture that’s in his path. He shocked to see a much younger him smiling back.
“James…” Chase has noticed him. A mixture of emotions crease through Wilson. He touches the photograph, trying to remember a time when he was that happy and that free. House has glanced up at him.
“Oh great, here come the cavalry.” He attempts to hitch himself up to standing, but his leg bends beneath him. Wilson spots House’s cane a few metres away. He picks it up and passes it to the floored doctor.
“Here.” Wilson doesn’t meet House’s eyes, and tries to ignore the brush of the other man’s fingers on his hand. House doesn’t say anything. He leans onto the cane and pulls himself up.
House outstretches his hand.
“The piece please, Jimmy.”
Wilson can tell House is grasping at his last shred of dignity.
“What’s it of?” he says, twisting the paper between his fingers. “Why is it so important to you?”
He watches House’s facial expression flicker.
“Please Jimmy, give me the picture.” The other doctor’s voice is calm, neutral. Wilson wants to make House snap. He wants him undignified and vulnerable. Just like House made him. He wants House to realise that he’s lost.
“Come on Greg,” Wilson says, his voice a playful sing-song. “What’s it of?”
House can’t explain why he’s ashamed of having this picture. He just knows that he wants it back.
“Please Jimmy.” House says, raising his eyes to they meet the other doctor’s. “Please.”
Wilson shakes his head. The sound of House pleading is unnerving, but he still wants more.
“Tell me what it is Greg.” He snarls. “What is it?”
Chase is watching the conversation. He watches as House grows smaller at Wilson’s pestering question.
“It’s a picture of us James.” House says firmly. “Of you and me. From when we went to Venice.”
Wilson blanches slightly before thrusting it at House.
“Take it.” He spits. “You really are pathetic Greg. Clinging to a picture. To a memory. To something that was nothing more than a web of deceit and lies!”
House is burning with humiliation. His hands are quivering, but he turns and walks off. Inside his head, a little voice is crying out But I loved you! I still love you! House ignores the voice. The last time he listened to it he wound up bitter and crippled. House has learnt to ignore the voice of his youth.
*
Chase turns to look at Wilson as he gets to his feet. The older doctor looks sleep deprived. His tie is crooked and there are bags beneath his eyes. Chase doesn’t know what to say.
“I don’t think you are who I thought you were James.” He whispers. “The man I know isn’t cruel.”
“Yeah, well. That’s what House does to you.” Wilson says, his voice tired.
“No.” Chase shakes his head. “*This* is what House does to you.” He gestures to his body, which is bared to the waist, and the scratches House has covered it with, deep enough to bleed and sting. There are fading bruises all over it, fading teeth marks, and Chase is looking far too thin. Chase looks at Wilson, unhealthy, pale, sick from too much drink and too little food and sleep. And then Chase kisses him, slowly, and he tastes of House, and despair and desperation, like House has erased everything that made Chase who he was. “This is what House does to you.” Chase whispers, lips trembling, and Wilson can’t tell if he means that House has eroded his soul, or if he means that House sends Chase off to kissing men he doesn’t really want just to escape. “The cruelty- that’s you Wilson. It all comes from you. House destroys you, he doesn’t make you a different person. He just takes everything away and-” Chase can’t speak any more and he rubs one hand up a bleeding arm almost compulsively. “He takes everything from you.” Whispers Chase, still too close to Wilson, close enough to kiss except that Wilson *can’t*.
“I know.” Wilson murmurs and Chase gives him a helpless smile before gathering what remains of his shirt and walking away too.
Wilson notices dispassionately that there are speckles of blood all over his lab coat and it isn’t his.
*
Wilson goes home and thinks for a long time. He then eventually goes into his wardrobe, and underneath the formal shoes he never wears because they pinch, is the cardboard box of things that reminded him of his relationship with Greg. There are a lot of photographs and he begins to rifle quickly though, trying hard not to look too closely at them because he can’t. He doesn’t know why Venice meant so much to House; as far as he can recall, they spent half the time arguing, and a quarter of the remaining time not being able to look each other in the eye.
He eventually finds the immaculate picture, a far cry from the one in pieces in House’s pocket or trash can or whatever he’s done with it, and wonders when the hell he ever felt like that. It’s a perfect moment frozen forever in time, and if you don’t look too hard at their eyes you can almost believe their love is forever.
Before he can lose his nerve, Wilson drives over to House’s apartment, slides the photograph under the door and then goes before House can find him. He has many miles to go before he sleeps.
*
Chase sleeps for hours on the sofa, after stopping the worst of the bleeding and covering himself in band-aids. His skin looks as though a wild animal has attacked him, scabbing and disturbing.
He dreams exhaustedly, mostly abstract colours although after a while they form a shape. He dreams of being caught between House and Wilson, House behind him, Wilson in front of him, and both men run their hands over his skin. House’s touch feels like a razor blade, and Chase’s skin bleeds and bruises under his viscous fingers. Wilson’s touch is much softer, but it’s so cold, and his hands stroke across Chase’s chest, freezing him and making him feel like he’s dying.
House’s hand runs up the inside of his thigh, making it *hurt*, making him bleed, while Wilson kisses his neck. And then Wilson’s hand is running up his thigh too, slow, so slow, trailing ice after it. House’s hand stops just before where Chase *wants* him to touch, nails digging into his soft skin, and Wilson’s fingers slide up to connect with House’s, trapped between Chase’s thighs, and Chase can’t breathe, and he has no idea what they want from him or what part he’s supposed to be playing for these two men who make him so cold and who hurt so bad.
As their joined hands slide up a little higher, spreading ice to his already aching wounds, Chase wakes up. He knows he’s running out of options.