give me evenings and weekends, evenings and weekends

[concluded]

There had been a cookie on Chase's lunch tray. About four seconds ago.

Currently, a third of it is already shoved into Gregory House's mouth, and being chewed thoughtfully from the seat he's taken on the other side of the bench with his own spicy chicken sandwich and large soda. Chase had gotten up for only a moment to leave his food unattended.

House saw it as a learning moment.

Now he waits for Chase to return to that seat in the hospital cafeteria, House still wearing (reluctantly) his scrubs, face protector pulled up into his greying hair. As much as he would eschew the uniform look when he was working a job he could mostly do from an office chair, he has little intention of soiling all of his small selection of screen-printed shirts. He's been building up an array of them from scratch in Darrow. It hasn't been easy.

And it hasn't all been fun.

Comments

[theorized]

He'd gotten up to get a refill of his drink. Maybe that was the mistake, letting his guard down for even a moment. Truth is, Chase was quickly made aware of House's new job in the hospital, hearing rumors of there being someone in forensics with a sharp tongue and a remarkable ability to cut people's confidence down. But somehow, he started believing that House was going to leave him alone.

That's obviously a mistake.

Not wanting all of his lunch to be pilfered by his former boss, Chase sucks down on his drink as he slides back into his chair, picking up a couple of fries and biting down almost aggressively.

He was only having lunch.

He's not sure that he likes where this is going instead.

[concluded]

There's a nurse nearby, whispering to a co-worker from over a salad loaded with iceberg lettuce. He can imagine what she's talking about. Wondering why Dr. Chase is eating his own meal with the employee who has quickly become the most gossiped about -- and derided -- personage on Darrow General's staff.

Perhaps to unseat Chase. He also imagines that a face like his got its own steady gossip.

House doesn't care. Truthfully. But he files away the knowledge that being with Chase is getting attention. It might be useful some day. Or it might just be fun.

Quickly putting work into covering his sandwich with an almost obscene amount of mayo, House raises both eyebrows in surprise.

"I had no idea this was your tray. I thought they just left it here as bait to appease the hungry bears roaming the hallways. Or something. It feels like days since we've last seen each other. Isn't that so weird? It must be because they keep me hidden away down in the basement in the cold these days. How's life in Diagnostics, Dr. Chase?"

[theorized]

Chase watches as House slathers his sandwich with a coat of mayo, brows pinching in distaste, even as he reaches for a couple more of his fries. He can practically hear the murmurs around the both of them, nurses and doctors alike gossiping, suddenly twice as much attention turned onto Chase as he's accustomed to from the staff. There are some people he imagines might applaud him for the ability to put up with a personality like House's, but Chase knows for that for the most part, people will wonder what kind of hold House has over him. Chase has been pleasant since he started at the hospital, almost unbearably slow.

The man sitting across him is anything but.

It's a question that Chase could ask himself in turn. Why does he still sit there under the weight of House's mockery?

With a slight wrinkle of his nose, Chase picks up his sandwich, taking a bite.

"It must have perks," he remarks after carefully swallowing. "No fear of reprisal from friends and family, and all the doctors in the world to piss off as part of your actual job. I'm sure you're thrilled."

[concluded]

"Basically," House says, picking up his sandwich for a large bite. He mostly chews the food before speaking, but only mostly. "I'm a genius. An evil genius. I have the best patients in the world. They don't argue, they can't get up and go anywhere, they can't tattle on me to my boss, and I never have to worry about whether or not insurance is going to cover anaesthesia or therapy, because dead people don't have feelings. Of any kind. Basically the only thing they can still do is smell funny and lie. And that just means it's still interesting."

He smiles, a little too ebullient. It isn't all he has to say on the subject, but it's enough to distract from what he hasn't.

[theorized]

"Don't have any underlings to force around and do your work though, do you?" Chase points out in turn, his tone slightly sharp as he takes another draw of his soda, peering down at the rest of his food, as though trying to decide whether or not he still has enough of an appetite for it at all. Possibly not. Probably not. But if he doesn't eat, chances are a hunger pain will strike at an inopportune hour, so still Chase cuts his sandwich down the center and picks up one half, letting a few loose shreds of lettuce fall to his plate. "It's not like you had to worry about people tattling on you for your bedside manner when you never made it to the bedside to start with."

It's a horrifically juvenile argument.

The kind Chase has only ever had with House.

(Maybe Foreman as well.)

[concluded]

The longer that Chase argues, the thinner House's mouth gets. Which he doesn't understand. Which is ridiculous. Whatever it is that Chase is arguing about, he's heard it before. It should roll off, and easily, and he should throw a retort that either ends it or sends Chase storming off.

He takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing restlessly, staring instead of talking, or quipping, or rolling his eyes, though the urge to do the last is considerably strong.

This bothers him. It bothers him because, pick at what's being said as he might, he isn't sure what they're even arguing about. That he refused the job both of them knew from the start that he couldn't, wouldn't take?

"I ate your dessert the other day too and you didn't crawl up my ass for it," he finally grinds out, watching Chase's face with studious blue eyes, face open and without expression, focused. Waiting for the answer to present itself, maybe. Waiting for his a-ha.

It's not coming yet.

[theorized]

Sometimes, House just doesn't get it. Ten years of working under him has made Chase incredibly cognizant of that fact, and more than likely to accept it rather than allow himself to swirl endlessly in frustration. This time, however, the anger remains. Because this isn't something that should be beyond House's ability to conceptualize, because House has certainly on occasion felt betrayed before, and he knows what abandonment is like, and he understands people as well as the rest of them, if not better.

Understands Chase, in particular, perhaps better than anyone else in the world does.

That House is pulling away and forcing an explanation just feels lazy. Avoidant, in a way, in spite of how intent the blue-eyed gaze that stalks across the table is.

"Yes, well, that was back before I realized that you ran away from everything without an explanation to anyone other than Foreman. Did you want to sever ties, or didn't you?" Chase asks, tilting his head. "The whole mess could have been avoided with a bit more foresight. But I suppose that could be said for a lot of what you do."

[concluded]

The moment comes, but the a-ha is that Chase is feeling resentful. And that House knew he would, had been hurt just as many times and just as deeply when things he wasn't ready to give up were taken from him.

His first reaction is anger, as it always is, at being caught in a vulnerable truth. Dithering becomes bubbling irritation, waiting to boil over or explode. His eyes narrow. His lips form a frown, his voice falling to a low growl of a whisper.

Something holds him back.

"This has nothing to do with my lack of foresight. I didn't want to go to jail and watch Wilson wither away through goddamned ... photographs. And I don't want to be here. So if I have to be ... "

[theorized]

It's probably not the appropriate place to discuss this. Maybe it puts Chase at risk in ways that he's not prepared for; he doesn't want to lose his job, doesn't want to lose this pointless anchor that holds him to some semblance of his former life. He doesn't want to lose the opportunity to help people who are severely in need, who otherwise might lose hope, because the importance of that will never be removed no matter the context.

Losing his job would mean a loss of some tremulous form of identity.

He's not ready for that just yet.

Still, he leans forward, eyes flashing with anger, however well his tight expression holds it back.

"You wouldn't have had to go to jail, you wouldn't have needed to communicate through postcards. We knew each other for an entire decade; you put me through the ringer just so that we could handle things like this, and you're telling me that you didn't let me in because you thought it'd keep you from Wilson?" Chase leans back, jaw set. "Doesn't matter, though. I'm sure I'll get over it."

He picks up another fry, chewing thoughtfully.

[concluded]

There are a lot of ways that House could retort, hundreds, some of them even rational. But there are none that he immediately chooses.

He sits in silence instead, elbows on the small cafeteria table and sandwich clutched in one hand. Whatever else has been ruined as the conversation has gone on, it hasn't been House's appetite. He feels hungrier than ever now, like he needs the energy to finish the day.

But he doesn't say anything.

His head hangs heavy in thoughts of Wilson instead. Nothing had kept House from him. He had made a determination, however in convoluted parts and in desperate pain that he still has no intention and no channel or skill to share with Chase. Not after Lisa Cuddy. He had valued Wilson above everything else, even surcease.

Maybe that deserved a moment of silence. Maybe House was using it as an excuse for running away from an argument that would only spring up again and again later until it was solved.

Either way, his mouth is shut, his eyes on everything but the stubborn expression on Chase's face.

[theorized]

The silence is the worst. Silence is intended for contemplation, reflection, a time for remorse and a recounting of sins. More than that, silence was all that Chase ever knew in those evenings when his mother was drunk enough to forget about him, but just sober enough to put him out of sight first. It's not that all silence is crippling, but in this situation, it calls forth a fast desire to apologize. Even if it isn't warranted. Even if there's a wrong being done him that will likely never go acknowledged.

There's a line that pulls at Chase's jaw when he comes to the realization, blurred and distant though it is.

Any trace of a stubborn look on his face fades quickly.

"Look, it doesn't matter," he says, exhaling, though the words come at the cost of being unable to meet House's eyes. Whatever. Whatever, indeed. "It's none of my business and I shouldn't have brought it up."

When he says it, it's almost possible to believe, and Chase leans forward to take another bite of his sandwich without much trouble.

A good boy afraid of divine retribution, doing what his father tells him. Or doesn't tell him.

[concluded]

"You're lying," House says, and for all that it might want to be an accusation, the words come out with too much apprehension for that, not quite nervousness, definitely not hurt. Worry, reluctant and unbidden. House has lost everything, even the one thing that he gave everything else up to have.

He doesn't care if he loses Chase, he believes, after all that. In truth, the very idea of it terrifies him into unsettled anxiousness. He picks at his food.

"But this is a really stupid time to have an argument. If we're going to have it at all, we might as well go home and study for it, first."

[theorized]

Chase heaves a heavy sigh, lifting his hands for a moment to drop his food, his marginal attempt at the dramatic, at venting his frustration, before he slumps back in his chair with defeat. The thing is, he's not lying, not as far as he's been made to believe his input matters — not at all. If House didn't care to bring him into the matter, then that indeed makes this none of Chase's business. They're only colleagues, and this choice wasn't one about work, wasn't one about that environment, but instead a more intimate and personal part of House's life that Chase doesn't believe he'll ever be fully privy to.

So he lets his jaw work for a second before he shakes his head, raising his chin a touch.

"Where are you staying these days?"

[concluded]

House lets a long, low breath slide out between his lips, deciding to relent against Chase's continued, oddly gracious attempts at defusing the start of further arguing. House doesn't want to argue.

He hates that Chase can clearly see what he doesn't want to acknowledge himself. Hates it legitimately. Hates it.

"Dimera apartments," he finally manages, working his way through his sandwich again. He's glad for all the mayo, not just because he likes it and to hell with his health, but because it keeps his mouth from being too dry as he clears his throat. "That's where they stuck me when I got here. Figured I might as well stay. If they can put a picture of my face on an ID card, trying to hide's just gonna make me look like a jackass."

He doesn't ask where Chase lives. He knows already.

[theorized]

He sets all the food down, doesn't make any effort to pick it up again, because his stomach feels like it's being twisted and turned all at once. He knew to expect it. Maybe the fact that he almost always knows to expect it makes the times he doesn't all the more discomfiting. Didn't expect that House was still alive, even if he considered it. (Of course he considered that possibility.) Didn't expect House to show up in Darrow, not really, not in any meaningful way that he could depend on.

Yet here they are.

Chase closes his lips around his straw and drinks, because it's the only thing he can stomach while his skin feels oddly cold and clammy.

"That's one of the places that opened up to newcomers more recently," Chase says quietly, even though there's every chance House already knows. "Hiding does still work against other people, though. Just not the city."

Feels like something House doesn't believe in, Chase is tempted to say. He doesn't.