muse_shuffle: Prompt 5.
muse_shuffle: February Prompt 5. If I kill him there are complications. I did not ask for this. “Oh but Love yes you did” (Tori Amos - ‘Smokey Joe’)
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Chase groaned inwardly at the voice as he did, indeed, drag himself into the Diagnostics office. Of course, House’s comment just sucked, in Chase’s opinion, because there was no cat and he himself wasn’t a cat and cat’s don’t drag themselves and why the fuck were the lights so bright? They were never this bright and it was never this hot and House’s voice was never this grating. Okay, it was sometimes, but not like this.
He fumbled out of his leather jacket, head and shoulders hunched as he tossed it in the general direction of the coat wrack. His aim was off and he just didn’t give a crap as it fell to the floor in a messy heap. He gingerly felt his way over to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room and leaned over to take a large, lingering gulp of water directly from the tap. The cold liquid felt amazing, so without even thinking twice, he stuck his head under the tap with a small moan. After the whole process, and now with a dripping wet head of hair, he eased himself into the closest chair at the head of the conference table and put his forehead down on the cool glass surface. Oddly enough, the complete string of events occurred without House opening his mouth once. Was it too much the floor had opened up and swallowed House into a pit of nothingness?
“You’re unattractively hung over.”
Nope. No such luck. “I’m not hung over,” Chase mumbled, not bothering to lift his head. He wasn’t even sure he could lift it now.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are to.”
An irritated sigh. “Are not.”
“Yes.”
“No. Fuck. Not hung over,” Chase growled. “Stop talking.” There was a suspicious silence that followed, forcing Chase to look up. When he did, he found House standing far too close for comfort and all poised to jab Chase in the ribs with his cane. “I have a migraine.”
“Oh, you do not. Let’s say for interest purposes, you have a brain tumour.” House moved over to the whiteboard and started listing potential symptoms on it, starting with headache and extreme thirst. “Or something cooler, like Mexican Flying Fish Fever.”
Chase made a pained noise and put his head back down on the table. “There is no such thing, and if there was, my quota of snogging and swapping spit with sealife is down this year.” He heard and felt House come up next to him again, without actually needing to look up. Pointy fingers prodded at the back of his neck and felt down under his ears at his throat.
With another growl, Chase lifted his head sharply to try and bat House’s hand away. “Just fu-” The motion had been a huge mistake. His stomach lurched and before either of them had further warning, Chase threw up spectacularly all over House’s leg and feet before the older man had a chance to move (the joys of being a cripple).
Great. On the upside, it stopped House prodding him, on the downside… he’d puked on House. Nothing good could come of this.
House had frozen and for the first time ever, Chase got to witness his boss completely and utterly speechless, save for a slight squeak of horror. If it was anyone but him in the firing line, he probably would’ve been laughing his arse off by now. The silence felt like it spanned about an hour, but it was really more like thirty seconds. Pushing his hair back of his sweaty forehead, Chase glanced up at House. “You asked for that,” he decided roughly, knowing it was only going to make matters worse. But seriously, if he’d thought vomiting on House before this moment would’ve caused this priceless reaction, he would’ve tried it five years ago.
“You’re fired,” House growled, finally stepping back out of the mess with a horrified scowl on his face.
“You can’t fire me for being sick.”
House glare just increased in ferocity and Chase thought for a minute he really was going to get a belt with House’s cane. “Fine then, I’m going to kill you. I’m not opposed to first-degree murder. Great cable in prison.”
“You couldn’t kill me, you love me,” Chase declared with a weak smirk.
House gave Chase a firm flick in the forehead, causing the Aussie to hiss in pain and double over. He limped over to the phone to call a cleaner. “I love you as much as I would having my scrotum sliced off with a rusty razorblade. If this was some sort of revenge for the punch in the mouth, I’ll have you know, I always have the last word.”
Chase just put his head back down on the table top and gave a half-hearted thumbs-up in House’s general direction. “You’d miss me if you killed me,” he mumbled to the glass.
“Yeah, like I’d missed a second anus.” House huffed in irritation and dialled in the number. “The only reason I’m not killing you is because I don’t want blood and vomit on my new shoes. You haemorrhoid.”
Chase closed his eyes. “And you’re my one and only pain in the arse too, House.”
Muse | Dr Robert Chase
Fandom | House, M.D.
Words | 881
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Chase groaned inwardly at the voice as he did, indeed, drag himself into the Diagnostics office. Of course, House’s comment just sucked, in Chase’s opinion, because there was no cat and he himself wasn’t a cat and cat’s don’t drag themselves and why the fuck were the lights so bright? They were never this bright and it was never this hot and House’s voice was never this grating. Okay, it was sometimes, but not like this.
He fumbled out of his leather jacket, head and shoulders hunched as he tossed it in the general direction of the coat wrack. His aim was off and he just didn’t give a crap as it fell to the floor in a messy heap. He gingerly felt his way over to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room and leaned over to take a large, lingering gulp of water directly from the tap. The cold liquid felt amazing, so without even thinking twice, he stuck his head under the tap with a small moan. After the whole process, and now with a dripping wet head of hair, he eased himself into the closest chair at the head of the conference table and put his forehead down on the cool glass surface. Oddly enough, the complete string of events occurred without House opening his mouth once. Was it too much the floor had opened up and swallowed House into a pit of nothingness?
“You’re unattractively hung over.”
Nope. No such luck. “I’m not hung over,” Chase mumbled, not bothering to lift his head. He wasn’t even sure he could lift it now.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are to.”
An irritated sigh. “Are not.”
“Yes.”
“No. Fuck. Not hung over,” Chase growled. “Stop talking.” There was a suspicious silence that followed, forcing Chase to look up. When he did, he found House standing far too close for comfort and all poised to jab Chase in the ribs with his cane. “I have a migraine.”
“Oh, you do not. Let’s say for interest purposes, you have a brain tumour.” House moved over to the whiteboard and started listing potential symptoms on it, starting with headache and extreme thirst. “Or something cooler, like Mexican Flying Fish Fever.”
Chase made a pained noise and put his head back down on the table. “There is no such thing, and if there was, my quota of snogging and swapping spit with sealife is down this year.” He heard and felt House come up next to him again, without actually needing to look up. Pointy fingers prodded at the back of his neck and felt down under his ears at his throat.
With another growl, Chase lifted his head sharply to try and bat House’s hand away. “Just fu-” The motion had been a huge mistake. His stomach lurched and before either of them had further warning, Chase threw up spectacularly all over House’s leg and feet before the older man had a chance to move (the joys of being a cripple).
Great. On the upside, it stopped House prodding him, on the downside… he’d puked on House. Nothing good could come of this.
House had frozen and for the first time ever, Chase got to witness his boss completely and utterly speechless, save for a slight squeak of horror. If it was anyone but him in the firing line, he probably would’ve been laughing his arse off by now. The silence felt like it spanned about an hour, but it was really more like thirty seconds. Pushing his hair back of his sweaty forehead, Chase glanced up at House. “You asked for that,” he decided roughly, knowing it was only going to make matters worse. But seriously, if he’d thought vomiting on House before this moment would’ve caused this priceless reaction, he would’ve tried it five years ago.
“You’re fired,” House growled, finally stepping back out of the mess with a horrified scowl on his face.
“You can’t fire me for being sick.”
House glare just increased in ferocity and Chase thought for a minute he really was going to get a belt with House’s cane. “Fine then, I’m going to kill you. I’m not opposed to first-degree murder. Great cable in prison.”
“You couldn’t kill me, you love me,” Chase declared with a weak smirk.
House gave Chase a firm flick in the forehead, causing the Aussie to hiss in pain and double over. He limped over to the phone to call a cleaner. “I love you as much as I would having my scrotum sliced off with a rusty razorblade. If this was some sort of revenge for the punch in the mouth, I’ll have you know, I always have the last word.”
Chase just put his head back down on the table top and gave a half-hearted thumbs-up in House’s general direction. “You’d miss me if you killed me,” he mumbled to the glass.
“Yeah, like I’d missed a second anus.” House huffed in irritation and dialled in the number. “The only reason I’m not killing you is because I don’t want blood and vomit on my new shoes. You haemorrhoid.”
Chase closed his eyes. “And you’re my one and only pain in the arse too, House.”
Muse | Dr Robert Chase
Fandom | House, M.D.
Words | 881