The Puzzling Matter of Dr. Chase and the Fishnet S

Title: House and the Wager Conundrum
Author: ClarySage
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: Nc-17
Summary: an unexpected(to me) continuation of The Puzzling Matter of Dr. Chase and the Fishnet Stockings
Warnings & Disclaimers: There might be a part 3…that’s a warning. Also, due to my not being born as: Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions, Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. Katie Jacobs, David Shore, Paul Attanasio, Bryan Singer and Dan Sackheim, or anyone of note, I do not own House.
Author Notes: I took a chance and wrote this out, despite my fears, faults, and doubts.
Feedback: is more than welcome
Spoilers: None


Wilson was just taking a sip of coffee when a hand clamped onto his shoulder. Startled, he managed to spill only half the cup on the floor, before whirling and spilling the other half on House. They both exclaimed, House more so, and Wilson glared at his friend. “It is not right that a man with a cane is able to sneak up on people.”

“People? Or just you?”

“Fine, on me.”

“I’m so glad you said so. I could use some breakfast after that bath of coffee,” House announced, ignoring the puddle on the floor and himself, and clacking away briskly towards the elevator.

Wilson groaned and nodded in defeat at the back of House’s head. The morning seemed to be getting off to its typical start of Wilson zero, House one. Then he abruptly remembered the night before, and ran to catch up to the closing elevator doors and a grinning Greg House.

The doors slid shut and he turned to House with an expectant look, one eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“Well what?” House turned a bored gaze towards the doors.

“You know what, I know you know what.”

“You know that I know what?”

“That I know that you know that…” Wilson trailed off; he glared at House while trying not to smile. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“I didn’t know that.” A smug look accompanied the declaration.

“So,” Wilson tried again, taking a different approach, “How did you like the gift?”

“Ahh, that what.”

“Well?”

House gave him a long steady look, a corner of his mouth quirking into a half smile. “It came in handy.”

“Why do I get the feeling I don’t really want to know what you mean by that?”

“Oh, but you do, Jimmy, I can tell.” The elevator dinged and opened its doors, and the two continued their walk towards the cafeteria, House leading. “By the way, where did you find that outfit?”

“That’s what you’re curious about?” Wilson asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. There was no response as they entered the cafeteria and House made a beeline for the food. By the time they’d both picked out something, paid and found a seat, Wilson had given up trying to withhold any information about the bet. “Alright, you have your blood-breakfast, now tell me about last night.”

“This was for the coffee all over my favorite shirt, I’ll tell you about last night for free.” House paused and contemplated that. “On second thought, tell me about the bet and I’ll tell you about last night.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you what the bet was, considering it has to do with both of you.”

House perked up at that, absently munching on a piece of waffle and staring off at the other diners with an air of vacancy. He was contemplating what the bet could have been, knowing now that it involved both Chase and himself. At last he smiled at Wilson and asked, “Does he wuv me? Is that what it was about? His undying feelings of wuv?”

Wilson glared witheringly, “Wuv? When did you turn into a teenage girl?”

“Never, but Chase always has been. Now start spilling your guts so I can read the entrails.”

“You’re into voodoo now?”

“No, I just like the loops, now spill.”

“Not here,” Wilson said with a quick look around at the rest of the cafeteria. “Meet me at my office around two.”

House grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, I can tell this is going to be good.”

A few hours later, House, dressed in a fresh t-shirt, slipped over the railings outside and made a face at Wilson through the glass when he found the door locked. “I know I said you should lock it once in a while, but I didn’t mean it,” he told his friend when he was finally allowed in.

“I love that even when I listen to you, you complain about it.” Wilson said with a roll of his eyes, collapsing behind his desk.

“Spill,” was the response.

“You have no patience.”

“I waited until today, I could’ve called you last night,” House pointed out smugly.

“Hm, and believe me, I appreciate that you waited.”

“Wilson…”

“Okay, alright, fine. It started about two months ago.”

It was mid-October, a beautiful time of year. Leaves falling, weather crisp, and Robert Chase unaware that just because you mixed and matched loud tones, didn’t mean they went together. Maroon and baby blue did not work, especially when you tossed a pale yellow tie into the mix and covered it all up in a white coat.

Wilson was just turning down the hall when he caught sight of the young doctor running away from House’s office. Perhaps, he mused, he was trying to run away from his own fashion sense? But, since that was obviously impossible, it was more than likely an order from House that had sent him running.

Sure enough, upon looking into House’s office he could see his friend was deep in thought; his eyes wearing that faraway glaze, a case file beneath his hand on the desk. He considered interrupting for a moment, but just as his hand hovered over the door handle Chase reappeared at a dead run. He gave Wilson a brisk nod and flung his way into House’s office.

Wilson decided to get on with the business of the day and leave House to his case. He was walking away when he heard it. Normally he would have continued walking, but the slamming of a pressurized door is a hard feat to achieve, and out of curiosity he turned. Chase was hurrying away once more, but this time Wilson noticed what he hadn’t noticed before.

He’d never quite liked Chase, something about the boy irking him in a way he couldn’t describe. The kid was a stooge, albeit a good-looking stooge - a yes man, a sycophant, a bootlicking ass-kisser, and he was in love with House. Funny, Wilson had never noticed that before.

“Wait, wait, wait.” House held up his hand, interrupting Wilson’s story. “How did this insightful epiphany happen? One minute you don’t notice a thing, and the next you realize he’s in love with me? There’s a faulty line of reasoning in there somewhere. Now how about you tell me the truth?”

“I am!”

“You widen your eyes when you lie.”

Wilson sighed, “Alright, that’s not how I figured it out.”

House nodded, “I know, now tell me how you did.”

It was mid-October, a crap-ass time of year, wet and cold. Wilson was running late and full up to the eyebrows with patients. The eyebrows were fed up with being filled up to, and were considering a vacation somewhere warm, the rest of Wilson was considering a vacation as well, but was less open about its needs. Wilson had just dropped a file around the corner from House’s office when he heard two voices. Not one to eavesdrop he’d shuffled together his spilled papers and was just hurrying off when a few words caught his ear.

“-a crush on House,” one voice said – Wilson recognized it as Foreman’s.

“Chase? What makes you say that?” – Cameron’s voice, high-pitched and unbelieving.

“When was the last time he went against anything House has asked?”

Silence for a moment and then, “that doesn’t mean he wants House.”

“What? You don’t want the competition?”

“I…no, that’s not it at all! I think you’re making assumptions without proof. I haven’t noticed anything I would call crush behavior.”

“You’re not a guy.”

Silence again, and then the sound of footsteps walking away. Cameron’s voice faded as they moved, and the last Wilson managed to hear was, “Chase is not gay, okay? Believe me.”


House stared at him, eyes boring holes as if he could see the truth scrolling across Wilson’s forehead. Purposefully he reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle of Vicoden, popping two and dry swallowing. His eyes remained intently on Wilson until his friend at last broke.

“Alright, fine,” he held up his hands, “you got me.”

House grunted, and leaned back, still lancing Wilson with his gaze.

“That’s not what happened either. God! You never cut me a break!” Wilson clutched at his forehead as if a headache was brewing from all the intense staring. “Why can’t you ever let anything go? I should have known you wouldn’t let this be.”

“What happened?”

“…I can’t tell you.”

“What? You’re choosing Chase over me?”

“House!” Wilson exclaimed in a pained voice. “It’s…complicated.”

“You’ve got one more swing, don’t strike or you’re out.”

Wilson slanted him a look, “I’m beginning to agree with Cameron about those sports metaphors.”

“She doesn’t like them because she doesn’t understand them. And that was a weak attempt to try and change the subject. I’m very disappointed in you, Jimmy.”

“You’re not going to like this…”

House went back to boring holes into his forehead.

There wasn’t a bet. There had never been a bet. The bet was a red herring. What there had been was a tipsy Wilson, a mid-October costume party, and Dr. Robert Chase dressed as a French maid.

Wilson hadn’t liked Chase much before that party, but found that with a few drinks and an amusingly dressed Chase, he was positively engaging. They’d chatted for a while at the party - one House hadn’t gone to, when suddenly Wilson had the brilliant idea of daring Chase to show up at House’s apartment dressed in the costume and offer maid service to go with it. They’d howled over the idea. It’d never been anything more than a joke.

They’d begun talking after that. When they met in halls they’d stop and exchange words, instead of merely passing one another by. And little by little, Wilson began to realize something about the Australian. He may have been a yes-man, a sycophant, and a bit of an ass-kisser, but he loved House. He looked up to him, maybe even wanted to be him a little. Wilson couldn’t blame him for that; sometimes the heroes you worshipped didn’t even know they were heroes, let alone worshiped as such. And sometimes, you couldn’t tell your egotistical best friends that they were looked up to more than they’ll ever know.

The truth was, Chase had gone to House’s all on his own, no bet or dare needed. And had spilled the whole story out to Wilson in a rush as he’d hurried down the hall that morning*. Right down to the nitty-gritty details that Wilson really wished he could erase from his memory. But what Wilson said instead of all this was, “I bet him he wouldn’t show up at your house dressed like that, he won, I paid him this morning. Happy now?”

“Yes,” House said slowly, he could tell Wilson was still holding something back, part of the truth remaining untold. He also realized there was no way he would get Wilson to spill the rest. Though, there was still Chase to bully into an answer.

Wilson let loose a heartfelt sigh of defeat. “You’re going to go ask Chase now, aren’t you?”

House grinned, “You can’t just hand me a bone to chew and then tell me it’s not mine to devour.”

“Which bit’s the bone exactly? No, wait, on second thought I don’t think I want to know.”

House tipped an imaginary hat towards his friend and stood. “Thanks for the treat, by the way, I did enjoy it immensely.” He leaned across the desk and patted Wilson rather hard on the shoulder, “I even enjoyed the lies.”

It was nearing nine at night when House cornered Chase in an upstairs hallway. Without a word he took Chase by the elbow and limpingly ushered him towards a nearby empty room. Chase shut the door once they were inside, and waited.

The room used to contain a hospital bed, faint marks on the floor from where the sun had bleached its way around the shape. A few chairs stacked in a corner the only furniture left behind. House slid the blinds closed, gesturing to Chase to grab some chairs for them. He did so without a word, setting them side-by-side facing the door.

House sat down and began tapping his cane across the floor in a game of which only he knew the rules. Chase watched quietly for a few minutes, growing visibly tenser with each nip of sound. At last it seemed he couldn’t take another moment of the light clacking and blurt, “You found out what it was.” He ran a hand nervously through his hair afterward, looking as if he were about to start pacing.

House merely glanced at him and continued to tap. It was a matter of out-waiting the blonde, and annoying him while he did so. Chase had a low tolerance for tense, silent situations, especially if you mixed in intermittent irritating sounds.

Clack, clack, tap, tick, tap, click, clack.

It took a total of two and a half minutes before Chase snapped like a glove on a proctologist’s hand. He jumped up and rushed towards the door, one hand on it and ready to throw it open when House spoke for the first time since he’d dragged him into the room.

“I think I was right last night.”

Chase turned, eyes wide. “About what?”

House didn’t answer; instead he stood and began a menacing walk towards Chase. His hand covered the blonde’s on the knob and with a twist he made Chase’s hand lock the door. Beneath his fingers, the hand trembled. For a moment House was thrown a full twenty-four hours into the past to the exact moment when he’d realized Chase wanted him. “There was no bet.”

“But,”

“There was no bet. You just wanted to do it, didn’t you?”

“I…”

“He gave you a key though, which is interesting and disturbingly un-Wilson like.” House struggled not to notice his hand had become possessed once more. Apparently it had ideas of its own about touching Chase, and despite the fact that he was internally yelling at it to come back, it ignored all direct orders and went its own route. “The real question, is why did you want to do it?”

Chase’s eyes were following the hand, which was apparently trying to loosen his tie. His breathing escalated a notch, hands at his sides clenching and unclenching. He opened his mouth to respond and then seemed to think better of it, abruptly dropping to his knees. The hand suddenly bereft was left clutching at thin air.

House glanced down and leaned back against the door. Certainly the blonde wasn’t going to do what he thought he was going to do. It would be completely unlike Chase. A small voice from the deep left corner of his mind reminded him that last night had also been completely unlike Chase, as well as unlike himself. For a shocking instant he met Chase’s gaze head on, and his hand twitched at his side. It was going to go for the hair, he could just tell.

Chase had his zipper halfway down and was panting against it when the hand made its move, diving for the hair and tugging it forward. A moment later House’s eyes shut, his head thumping gently against the door.

Truly, if blowjobs were cheaper and easier to come by, he might not need Vicoden at all. It had nearly the same effect, his muscles relaxed, his brain stopped humming at such high and dangerous speeds, his mood became slightly more elevated. And for a short while, though only ever for a short while, he didn’t think at all on his leg or the pain it caused him.

He knew Chase was only doing it to shut him up and stop the questions. He would have pondered that, but as a distraction, a blowjob worked very well. With his eyes closed and his treacherous, betraying hand buried wrist deep in hair, all House could concentrate on were the sensations and sounds. Yet after only a few moments of the wet, slurping, suction-filled, sloppy noise, he just had to look.

At first all he saw was his own fist clenched so tightly within Chase’s hair it would have taken a crowbar and a pro-weightlifter to get it off. Then he saw the eyes, those normally solemn green eyes were staring straight at him, not closed, or shyly cast down, but right into his own. House had always believed that the idea of the eyes being the windows to the soul was ridiculous, suddenly - he knew why they said it at all. There was such intensity, Chase wasn’t just blowing him, oh no, he was searing the memory into place. For both of them.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, House found himself desperately wishing for a camera. Not that his mind wouldn’t be able to supply him with the image for the rest of his life, but more, he wanted actual proof that yes, someone could look good giving head. No, not only look good, but to look so good they should be filmed and studied for the next few generations to get it right. And then there was tongue and teeth and for a moment a very somber look, right before House’s eyes slid shut.

For a while, longer than the amount of time that in reality passed, House swirled in a stunning haze of pleasure. Forgotten were petty annoyances, puzzles, and bets; instead there was only the mouth and what it was managing to do to him. He did not question, he did not think.

There was the quiet of the room, dirty with the sounds of slurping. The feel of the hair within the grasp of his left hand; the surprise of finding his other hand had committed high treason by slipping down and finding Chase’s fingers braced on his hip, where they twined. His eyes opened when he came, and despite the warnings of what was left of his mind, they chose to look down. It seemed every part of his body was becoming treasonous.

His mouth opened, a mocking comment on the tip of his tongue, but before he could even begin the sentence he stopped. Chase was looking up at him, his hand still twined with House’s, and what House could not stop looking at was the tiny shiny remnant of his own orgasm gleaming at him from Chase’s bottom lip. It was mesmerizing. Before he could stop himself, his lips proceeded to betray him in the most horrible fashion, and slide over Chase’s; his tongue licked out and grabbed the droplet.

When he pulled away his leg started to remind him it was there, the room was filled with the sound of central air, and Chase was staring at him with doe eyes - wide and liquid and just a little bit fearful. It was like waking, he nearly shook himself with the jolt of it. The world came into focus again, yet Chase remained a fuzzy blob, a question mark. His mouth opened once more, but all that came was, “Want to clean my apartment again tonight?”

Chase buried his head against a jean-clad thigh and groaned. “Sure,” came the muffled reply, “I’m a glutton for humiliation.”

Above his head House grinned to himself. In his mind he saw the night ahead; Chase bent over a couch arm, Chase flushing crimson, Chase … Chase cleaning under the couch, oh yes, oh that was the stuff. He chuckled evilly, and from his thigh came a muttered, “I am not wearing the outfit.”

House smirked, “Wanna bet?”




*
Because my friend, the one who started this whole mess, is evil. I just had to post the conversation she decided Chase and Wilson had the "morning after". Because it fits too well.


" ...And then I came, and he kicked me out before I could have a proper afterglow--"

"Uh..."

"So I slammed the door when I left."

"Oh."

"But I locked the door afterward."

"...that was nice of you...excuse me Chase, I just need to go...scrub my brain."