Hangman

PART THREE
After about half an hour of weeping profusely, Chase tries to pull himself together. The silver metal of the keys is glinting at him, teasing him with their shiny shiny surfaces. Chase shakes himself mentally.
“They’re keys.” He says to the empty room. “They are not *teasing* me!”
A small portion of his brain is trying to formulate an escape plan. Though once he’s unlocked the cuffs and freed himself he doesn’t know how he’ll get out of the room and into his house without anyone noticing him. After all, a naked blonde wombat isn’t a common sight.
He tries to move his hips in the vain attempt of shifting the keys upwards. He keeps this up for ten minutes before realising it’s hopeless. He sighs and tries to ignore the pounding in his forehead.
Chase is trying to make the best of the situation so he shifts himself slightly so it’s more comfortable on his back.
“Oh well,” he says to the empty room, “It can’t get any worse and eventually someone will find me.”
Just as Chase is beginning to doze off, the fire alarm goes off. Chase resists the urge to break through the cuffs and kill House, batter him to death with his stick. After all, he’d only end up in prison for murder or something.
The sprinkler system activates, as always, faithfully spraying down water all over Chase. It’s quite nice actually. Cold, admittedly, and in his tied-up position is does feel a little like the Chinese water torture method. But the icy liquid crashing over his body, designed to put out fires, cools the burning all over his body.

Cools the love bites on his chest-

House’s teeth graze one nipple and then the other, moving down, biting Chase’s tender skin until he can barely breathe, as House marks him, slow, slow enough to burn, to ache, to make Chase tip his head back and howl.

- cools the aching muscles in his thighs-

Chase rides House, hard, he’s sore, he’s so sore, but he’ll do it because House wants it, and that may be a shitty reason but it’s the only one he’s got so he’s going to cling to it with everything, because, really, if he stops for just one second to wonder why the hell he’s doing this, he knows this thin façade will crack and peel and he’ll have nothing left.

- runs though his hair and clings to his eyelashes, pools in the dips of his collarbones and the bruises in the hollows of his hips-

House holds him, hard, controlling Chase’s movements, the way he does out of the bedroom, the way he always does. His hands are strong, so strong, firm on his waist, guiding him, forcing him, and Chase lets him so it, lets him cum, ignores the fact that he is left alone and unsatisfied because, really, he was expecting that.

- and takes away everything, washes him clean of the love and hatred and sinning. He arches his back helplessly, and the water runs down the scratches on his shoulders.
The door opens again. Chase doesn’t really care who this person is, it could be Cuddy, it could be Foreman, it could be Cameron with her sad, sad eyes, like a puppy cringing away from the kick before you’ve even thought about giving it. The water is still soaking him, and that’s good, because water doesn’t want anything from him and doesn’t want to use him. He hears the keys jingle but refuses to open his eyes.
“Don’t stop now.” He breathes, not even sure who he’s speaking to, why he’s saying this. There is a moment of nothing, and then a pair of lips cover his own and a hand grasps his waist.
*
Meanwhile, out in the car park, House and the other members of the hospital are patiently waiting to see whether or not they can go back into the building. Wilson is anxiously biting his lip, brushing his hands though his hair in a vague attempt to look casual. He strolls over to House, his brown eyes scouring the floor, skirting around House’s feet, avoiding his eyes at all costs.
“Where’s Chase?” he asks finally, looking up and meeting the older man’s eyes. “Please don’t tell me you left him inside.” House smiles at his friend and then turns back to observing the hospital.
“House!” Wilson’s voice holds a sense of urgency and he grabs House’s arm. “If there’s really a fire he could die!” He punctuates the last words, wanting but resisting the urge to shake House until his teeth rattle in his stubborn head.
House gives Wilson another patronizing smile and removes Wilson’s hands from his arms.
“There is no fire,” he says, a brief flicker of annoyance crossing his blue eyes. “I set the alarm off to give him a scare. Plus it gets me out of clinic duty!”
“What?” Wilson splutters. “House, that’s a criminal offence! You’re gone beyond whatever twisted game you’re playing, you’re breaking the law.”
“Relax.” House says. “Nobody’s going to arrest a cripple.”
Wilson stares at House open mouthed for a few moments before staring off in the other direction. House turns back to the building, his mouth twisting into a smirk.
*
Chase leans into the kiss, as one hand runs slowly across his ribcage. And then one hand is free, the leather slipping from his wrist, and then the other, but he still can’t open his eyes. His shoulders *ache* as his arms return to his sides, slack, exhausted. He finds the keys being pressed into his hand, and then the kiss is broken, the door is closing, and Chase tries to work out if he was being molested, or if it was ok, because this sort of thing seems to be happening a lot lately.
He frees his feet and gets up, slowly, testing his weight on leaden legs. Ok. The sprinklers are still going off, which means the hospital is probably empty. And he has no choice…
*
“If I were House, where would I hide clothes?” Chase mumbles desperately, aware some small part of him is probably in shock, running naked through the empty sodden hospital. Today is turning out to be a fairly shitty day. He hurries into House’s office, and begins to go through the drawers of the desk. Oh God, he still has a hangover.
*
About half an hour later, the staff and patients who can still walk re-enter the hospital to find a soaking, laughing Australian cross-legged on the wet floor, mouth kiss-swollen.
“House, where are my shoes?” he asks.
House limps forward, supporting his weight on his cane and the wall next to him. Wet floors had never been very easy to walk on when you have a third limb. The wet Australian smiles up at him, his neck covered in House’s own love bites and his eyes shining with tears of mirth and, thinks House, pain. Because Chase is hurting. Physically- he’s bruised all over his body. Mentally- because he’s been humiliated and torn apart. But Chase is smiling because Chase doesn’t give a fuck any longer.
House has no idea what to say and that’s hardly ever a problem for him. Words are wonderful little whores he can wrap around other people to confuse them, to hurt them, to manipulate them. But all his little whores are melting away and he can’t speak.
“I just want my shoes back House.” Chase whispers, moving onto his knees, and House can’t help but think about the people around them, and how this must seem. This looks bad. It looks *so bad*. House turns to look around at Wilson, who looks back with absolutely nothing on his face.
“Give the boy some shoes.” House snarls and walks off in the opposite direction, trying to maintain some form of dignity as he slips on the wet floor. Wilson storms after him.
“Don’t walk away from me!” he snarls.
House tries to keep going, but unfortunately limping on a wet floor makes him incredibly slow. Wilson catches his arm.
“Why the hell do you assume it’s my responsibility to replace the shoes that you stole?” he asks. House raises his eyebrows slightly.
“Do you really want to do this *here*?” he asks.
“Why not? You’ll come out of this looking much worse than I do.” Wilson points out.
House remembers years and years ago, kissing Wilson and thinking he was everything. And then he got married again and their relationship became platonic but this isn’t friendship, not really.
“Why do you care this much about Chase anyway?” asks House bitterly. Wilson can’t help but sigh.
“I care because he’s a decent doctor and you’re gradually crushing him.”
House smirks slightly.
“Bit over-dramatic for you isn’t it James? Next thing I know you’ll be sending your wife flowers and writing her sonnets on the beauty of her green eyes.”
“My wife has blue eyes,” Wilson interjects, “And all I care about is trying not to destroy Chase’s life.”
“Why shouldn’t I want to destroy his life?” House snaps. “He very nearly destroyed mine.” He looks for some trace of sympathy in the other man’s eyes but all he can see is scorn.
“Fine.” House says. “Go take care of your precious wombat.”
House turns and walks off. This time Wilson doesn’t come after him and House can’t help but feel as if he’s lost something.
*