Flight 571 - Flashfic [Chase/Cameron]
Title: Flight 571
Author: skylilies
Pairing: Chase/Cameron; mentions of House/Cameron
Fandom: House, M.D.
Word Count: 517
Genre: drama/angst
Rating: r
Warning: sexual situations
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, just my interpretations of them.
Teaser: Chase won’t let the subject drop, ever, because everything in their lives revolve around House.
Notes: I love new fandoms. This is the Andes flight disaster.
Allison kisses like she’s desperate and distracted at the same time, and Chase never stops being amazed at the woman that comes through in the moments like this: sexy, seductive, aloof, desperate. A disjointed pattern distinct from her usual softness, and even if he tells himself otherwise, he thinks he knows that when she closes her eyes she stops thinking about him. He does everything he can to keep her eyes open while they’re making love, murmuring in her ear, telling her ‘look at me, look at me,’ as his own breathing turns ragged, desperately cupping hands around her face to get her to react to the words.
When her eyes are open, Chase can be sure that she seems him, sees blonde hair and bitten lips instead of dead husbands and lost loves and their boss all dressed up and put on a pedestal that Chase refuses to tear down because, maybe, he’s on that pedestal for Chase too. House is God, and Allison is some cross between the Virgin Mary and a desperate disciple, ready to dress in rags or shout in tongues for him. It’s sick, Chase thinks, that he’s pulling religion and God into the image of Allison going down on House like some kind of prayer, but he’s still thinking of it and then she -- whimpers -- and he lets go.
Afterward, they never talk. Chase tried, the first time, (the first real time, the time after Allison had said ‘I think we should have sex’ and Chase had gone: this is everyone’s wet dream so why is my heart sinking) and Allison acted like the words were white noise in the background. It’s sad, but he can still remember what he said. “Are you still thinking about him?”
Chase won’t let the subject drop, ever, because everything in their lives revolve around House. He has no real friends, no real social life, and when his father let House learn about his cancer the last bit of Chase’s life that was kept to himself is taken away from him: because House will always have something from his father that he can never have, the last secret.
And maybe the only reason Allison and him are even together is because they’re survivors in this little war camp called House’s team, because they’re two of the three people put through Hell and Foreman won’t let anyone get close enough to touch. This is the Andes flight disaster all over again, but instead of literal cannibalism it’s just the slow annihilation of each other’s morals, their sense of humanity caught between the jaws of House’s amusement.
It’s easy to be cynical with Allison clutching at his shoulders hard enough to leave moon-shaped scars. And when she whispers, breathless enough to drown out the words, he thinks of how life is closing in around him and all he has left is this scared, broken survivor with her Stockholm Syndrome and enough ghosts between the two of them to fill up a county graveyard.
He kisses her shoulder, and wonders when he stopped praying to God.
Author: skylilies
Pairing: Chase/Cameron; mentions of House/Cameron
Fandom: House, M.D.
Word Count: 517
Genre: drama/angst
Rating: r
Warning: sexual situations
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, just my interpretations of them.
Teaser: Chase won’t let the subject drop, ever, because everything in their lives revolve around House.
Notes: I love new fandoms. This is the Andes flight disaster.
Allison kisses like she’s desperate and distracted at the same time, and Chase never stops being amazed at the woman that comes through in the moments like this: sexy, seductive, aloof, desperate. A disjointed pattern distinct from her usual softness, and even if he tells himself otherwise, he thinks he knows that when she closes her eyes she stops thinking about him. He does everything he can to keep her eyes open while they’re making love, murmuring in her ear, telling her ‘look at me, look at me,’ as his own breathing turns ragged, desperately cupping hands around her face to get her to react to the words.
When her eyes are open, Chase can be sure that she seems him, sees blonde hair and bitten lips instead of dead husbands and lost loves and their boss all dressed up and put on a pedestal that Chase refuses to tear down because, maybe, he’s on that pedestal for Chase too. House is God, and Allison is some cross between the Virgin Mary and a desperate disciple, ready to dress in rags or shout in tongues for him. It’s sick, Chase thinks, that he’s pulling religion and God into the image of Allison going down on House like some kind of prayer, but he’s still thinking of it and then she -- whimpers -- and he lets go.
Afterward, they never talk. Chase tried, the first time, (the first real time, the time after Allison had said ‘I think we should have sex’ and Chase had gone: this is everyone’s wet dream so why is my heart sinking) and Allison acted like the words were white noise in the background. It’s sad, but he can still remember what he said. “Are you still thinking about him?”
Chase won’t let the subject drop, ever, because everything in their lives revolve around House. He has no real friends, no real social life, and when his father let House learn about his cancer the last bit of Chase’s life that was kept to himself is taken away from him: because House will always have something from his father that he can never have, the last secret.
And maybe the only reason Allison and him are even together is because they’re survivors in this little war camp called House’s team, because they’re two of the three people put through Hell and Foreman won’t let anyone get close enough to touch. This is the Andes flight disaster all over again, but instead of literal cannibalism it’s just the slow annihilation of each other’s morals, their sense of humanity caught between the jaws of House’s amusement.
It’s easy to be cynical with Allison clutching at his shoulders hard enough to leave moon-shaped scars. And when she whispers, breathless enough to drown out the words, he thinks of how life is closing in around him and all he has left is this scared, broken survivor with her Stockholm Syndrome and enough ghosts between the two of them to fill up a county graveyard.
He kisses her shoulder, and wonders when he stopped praying to God.