"Comrades" Stacy/Chase (R)

title: Comrades
author: astonish
rating: R
pairing: Stacy/Chase (Stacy/House, Chase/House)
spoilers: The Mistake, mentions of the Vogler!arc
summary: They're at polar ends of the spectrum but they have one thing in common, one thing that binds them together hopelessly.
notes: For houserareathon. Prompt #10: "Hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy." -Hanif Kureishi

There's a moment between them, a moment where they look at each other and think all the things they've been carefully avoiding up until now. There's so many reasons to stop, so many reasons that this just shouldn't happen - one much more important than the others - and they all surge up in a moment of hesitation. Their eyes lock, their breathing loud and heavy in the empty room. They look at each other and indecision fades; they might want it, but they both need it.

It's all skin and rushed kisses, caresses that grow tight, rough, fingers digging into sensitive skin hard enough to bruise. Her nails rake down the skin of his back, leaving red, angry marks, marks that will still be there by morning, proof of their indiscretion. She's on top the first time, his hand on her hip as she sets the pace, her fingers around his free hand, holding him down. (Greg had always said she was controlling, and in this one thing he was right.) She closes her eyes and rocks, grinding her hips down; she could easily pretend he's someone else, anyone else, but she doesn't. She likes that it's him; she likes knowing people would be shocked if they ever found out, offended. She likes that it's wrong. She wants to be as dirty as she feels.

The second time, she lets him on top but they both know who holds the reins. When she says "faster" he picks up speed, when she says "harder" he pins her down against the kitchen table and fucks her like the world is ending. He's a good lover, attentive, maybe even a little submissive. She likes to control and he likes to be controlled. Thinking about it later, it's makes sense. He was once a good Catholic boy, after all.

--
Once it's all said and done, Chase goes to a bar.

His head is full of too many painful things: the disciplinary meeting, his father, the fact that he can't do anything right. He's out of it, he can't close his eyes without seeing something that reeks of incompetence, that points out yet again what a total disaster of a person he's turned out to be. Rowan was right not to tell him, what good would have come of it? They aren't father and son, just two strangers that have the misfortune of sharing the same DNA. Two strangers that have never, ever gotten along. Imminent death wasn't going to solve that. He probably only would have messed it up further like he's always done.

The beer is tasteless in his mouth but there's a girl sitting at the end of the bar who throws him an interested look every now and then. She's pretty, not overly made up, her hair falling in loose curls around her face. She's just his type. He offers her a smile but doesn't get up to sit beside her, just takes another drink from his glass.

(Back at the hospital, he'd stopped by House's office before he left. His hair had been wet from the shower, dripping down to leave damp spots on the shoulders of his shirt, and Wilson had been hovering at the edge of House's desk when he came in, always the perpetual shadow. He left a few seconds later, giving them a bit of privacy despite the bored look on House's face and the fact that the walls were glass.

He'd meant to say something along the lines of that wasn't too bad, eh? but House was looking at him like he was about as interesting as a used bedpan and he just cracked, blurting out, "I can't believe you knew about my father and you didn't tell me."

"Didn't we already have this conversation?" House had asked.

"Yes, we did," Chase spat, "but we're having it again until I figure out your genius reason for keeping this from me or I realize you're just the asshole everyone thinks you are."

"I'd opt for #2."

Chase let out a noise of pure frustration, crossing the floor of the office to slam his hands down on House's desk, sending a flutter of papers across the surface. House merely raised one unimpressed eyebrow.

"I've been working beneath you, taking orders from you for months; months that my father was wasting away in some hospital bed, and you never told me. You complete bastard. Did it ever occur to you that I might want to see my father before he died?"

"If you had wanted to see your father, you would have gone," House stated. "Or what, you were just waiting for him to fall ill so you could run home and play the good son?"

"God, do you even listen to yourself?" Chase laughed, the sound humorless. "You know, I don't even know why I'm bothering. You work so hard to keep us all away, to hurt us before we have the chance to hurt you. You couldn't possibly understand human emotion, not when you're so busy trying to keep from feeling anything at all. You're a robot."

House just stared at him. "Glad you finally caught on."

Chase held his gaze for a moment, the muscles in his arms trembling with tension, his jaw clenched. He looked in House's face for something, some sign, some emotion, but there was nothing. Finally, he broke, shaking his head as he pushed himself away from the desk, turning to leave. It was pathetic, this useless attempt to find answers that he hadn't even known he was looking for. Maybe it was because everything had almost fallen apart, maybe it was because he had actually trusted House. Maybe he just didn't know when to call it quits. Either way he was an idiot, but he still had his job, and that, that was something. Or so he kept telling himself.)

Things could be worse, he thinks, he could have AIDS. He could be like Cameron, just passing the time, waiting to see if his death sentence was going to be delivered early. His career could be over, he could have gotten his license revoked. His life isn't that bad. Just because his father is dead, just because his boss lied, doesn't mean anything. He should be used to this by now, people always let you down, it's just their nature.

He finishes his drink and slides off of the stool. The girl at the bar looks up from her glass, a flirty smile curling the edges of her mouth, lighting up her face in a hopeful gleam. He folds his jacket over his arm and doesn't look over as he heads for the door.

--
A long time ago, way before she met Mark and quite some time before she was with House, Stacy was the kind of woman that didn't need a man. She was beautiful, a real knock-out, and if she had a guy around, it was just for a little fun. She didn't need anyone to feel whole, to feel validated. Men were just toys, a dime a dozen.

Then she met House and everything went to hell.

She used to wear leather boots that went up to her knees and little skirts that barely covered anything. She used to be sexy, desirable. She could go to a bar and turn the head of every man she passed. Now, these days, she feels old and pinched. She puts on her dress suits and goes to work, leaving behind a crippled, miserable husband to be harassed by her crippled, miserable ex-boyfriend. Her life is the same endless circle of frustration; she never has any fun anymore.

(Mark is starting to hate her, she can feel it. When they touch, he flinches, a small moment where he pulls back before he resigns himself, leaning into her. He's cold in her touch, lifeless. Their marriage is slowly failing, soon it'll be dead, leaving her with nothing but a pile of ash and another poor attempt at a life she never wanted. She thinks about leaving him time and time again but she doesn't have the energy. She doesn't want a divorce, an ex-husband, another failed relationship. But most of all, she doesn't want to be alone again.)

The situation with House is the last straw. She used to love this man, this horrible, shell of a man that's slowly killing himself and everyone else he can take with him during the process. He used to be her life, the beginning and end of her, her purpose. Before him, she was independent, fierce and strong-willed. She didn't need a man, oh no, she was fine all on her own. But House changed her, made her weak, turned her into some simpering, wisp of a woman. She hates him for it, for making her this way, but not enough to stop loving him.

(He's right when he says she liked where things were going and she's sick of it. She's sick of him knowing everything about her, all her wants and hopes and fears, and not giving a shit.)

Stacy only wishes she could be that woman again. Then all of her problems, Mark, House, would be gone, nothing. She could pick up her self-respect and leave, make a life for herself somewhere far, far away. But for now she's stuck here, needy and pathetic - waiting on a man that only disappoints.

--
Chase opens at the first knock. He's a mess; his hair is standing up in all directions like he's been pulling and twisting at it, his disheveled clothes the same ones he'd had on when he left the hospital. There are dark circles beneath his eyes and the smile he offers is weak around the edges, jittery. It's clear that whatever he's been doing, he hasn't been sleeping.

"Thank you for coming, I know it's late," he pauses, looking down with his hand on the door, shaking his head. "I just, I started thinking about the meeting, about how close I really was to losing my entire career, and I can't stop. I'm going crazy."

Stacy steps inside, sliding past him. She catches a faint whiff of beer but he doesn't seem drunk, caffeinated more than anything. She slips off her jacket and he takes it from her, shaking hands ghosting over hers before he turns to the closet, pulling open the door. They go to the kitchen where she takes a seat at the table and he paces in front of her, making loops back and forth, back and forth.

"I keep thinking of what I would have done if they'd taken away my license, if I had to start all over and again, and you know what? I don't think I'd care. I love my job, I've fought so hard to keep this bloody job. Don't you think I should have been panicking over something like this? Gross negligence should have had me shaking but I just - I didn't care."

"Now, Chase," Stacy says, looking at him and gesturing to one of the seats beside her, "why don't you sit down and just take a breath? You were numb, shock is a perfectly normal response to something like this, especially having the meeting moved up so early. I'm sure when you wake up tomorrow you'll find yourself much more relieved. Maybe even thankful."

He takes the seat, fidgeting for a minute before he looks at her, another one of those weak smiles tugging at his lips, "How do you always know the right thing to say?"

"I'm a lawyer," she deadpans.

That gets a laugh from him and soon he's relaxed, slumped back against the chair. It doesn't take much prodding to get him talking again, he rambles a bit about his job, his co-workers. Every now and again there's a pause, something omitted, and she knows what it is, she read all about the Vogler incident after she took the job at Princeton Plainsboro; these were the types of things she needed to know, after all. He talks about House and there's something in his voice, something bitter and almost hopeless. She knows that sound, she hears it in her own voice far too often. There's something in him, past all the pretty looks and the daddy issues, way deep down inside of him, that she recognizes. Something that she relates to.

(Stacy's thought about having an affair almost as much as she's thought about leaving. She knows she's still attractive when she wants to be - she got Mark easily enough - but the moment has never felt right. There are little openings sometimes, sarcastic comments from House that aren't as scathing as they're meant to be, and she could call him on them if she wanted, but she just can't give him the satisfaction.)

By the time the clock strikes two, they've been talking for over an hour - well, Chase has been talking mostly - and the time is growing well past the borders of something dangerous. Married women don't stay out all night talking to men that aren't their husbands. She moves to get up, pushing her chair in, and Chase stands beside her. The smile on his face is fuller, something real this time. He leads her to the door and she's glad she could give him this, a little pick-me-up after the day they've both had.

He helps her with her coat, holding it up as she slides her arms inside. His hands trace down the sides, smoothing the material out around her body, and she doesn't know if it's intentional or not, the way his hands almost caress her waist, but it sparks something between them. She's hesitant to leave. She turns and he's looking at her, eyes dark with something, emotion, but what, she can't name. There's nothing, silence, then he leans forward and kisses her.

"What about-" he says when they part but her fingers on his lips staunch the words. She's not sure if he's talking about Mark or House, but she doesn't care either way. She wants this and she wants it now, no questions asked, no explanations. She wants to be herself again, not this pale imitation she's been playing at for years. She wants to feel alive.

She presses him up against the wall, her mouth on his, and there's something desperate about the way he clings to her body, like he's starved for human contact. They're not compatible, nothing will ever come of this. She's married and he's young and selfish. They have no future, but they do it anyway, his fingers strong as they slip beneath her closes, tracing the lines and curves of her body. They're at polar ends of the spectrum but they have one thing in common, one thing that binds them together hopelessly.

(She can see it in his eyes, the sad dip of the corner of his mouth, little signs that scream out his dejection and utter refusal to abandon a mission that was hopeless from the start. They're comrades in the same war; they both love House and they both hate themselves for it.)