Wilson: She stole a kiss from Chase. What have you done lately?
House: I’m pacing myself.

Day One

House taps his fingers against the glass desk, listening to the slow drum. He didn’t buy the motorcycle, but only because he’s already got a Corvette and there’s only so many mid-life crises he can have. He figures it’s only a test drive away and that he can hang his sanity on that small, simple…

“House?”

House glances up, finds Chase standing in the doorway. “Sorry, no little girls for you to kiss here.” Chase glowers at him and steps inside. Someone’s still a little touchy, but not in the fun sexual harassment kind of way. “Okay, shoo,” House tries again. He’s finally feeling better, but this isn’t going to help.

Chase offers folders out to House, his fingers brushing against House’s in the process. “Autopsy results,” he says, voice dry and ironic. “Copied to you from Wilson. Parts are highlighted.”

“That bastard,” House remarks good-naturedly, flipping open the charts. “See, can’t say that I kill them all. At least, not permanently. This one walked out the fron…” When he looks up, Chase is gone. “Huh.”

House glances down at the autopsy results to find a sticky note smack-dab in the middle of the page. When running a marathon, one tends to pace himself towards the beginning and sprint towards the end. Oh, and drink plenty of fluid.

Everyone’s a doctor.

Day Two

The hospital has showers, but House doesn’t really like to use them. They’re so public. But quite often, he’ll pop in there to get himself refreshed, stare in the mirror and run the tap so the showerhead will cascade scalding hot water over someone.

Yeah, House also enjoys flushing the toilet while someone’s showering. But only when he’s bored. Or it’s a day that ends in ‘y’. There’s a sharp wince the first flush, a gasp the second, and a very amusing, “Christ’s fucking sake and all his bloody blood,” on the third. House is actually grinning when the shower curtain is yanked open, revealing a dripping wet, very naked, very angry looking wombat.

“House,” he growls. He’d look more menacing if he weren’t, you know, soaking wet and looking like a puppy that got caught in the rain. “I’m trying to shower!”

“Don’t let me stop you,” House replies amiably, leaning against the counter. “I’m sure you’ll get it right one of these days.”

Day Three

“You’re doing it wrong,” House says bluntly, grabbing Chase’s hand, about to redirect it in its movements around the patient’s heart, but thinking better of it and trying to push it away. The patient is dying and Chase has been trying to manually massage the heart back. Apparently, the patient doesn’t like technology.

Chase glares and looks a half second from shoving House off of him, but he slows himself and very calmly waits for House to finish before studying his technique and easing away, giving House the control; they’re both up to their elbows in blood. Chase grabs a cloth and pats down House’s forehead, seemingly content to take the backseat.

“You’re not doing it right,” he says calmly.

House glares before shifting slightly, finding a better angle and massaging lightly. “Backseat driver,” he retorts as Chase’s fingers glide over his forehead, only the faint barrier of cloth between skin and latex gloves as he works to make House comfortable.

Day Four

Chase walks into the office after the others have gone off to run tests and House stops in his tracks and stares. “Is that…” He steps closer and frowns, bending over, his coffee mug in hand as he peers at Chase’s chest. There is a tired sounding sigh that comes from somewhere – probably Chase, but you can’t rule out those tired air vents – and House just straightens his posture, reaching out and grabbing Chase by the tie, yanking him closer.

Chase stumbles forward, eyes wide. “House!”

“Your tie!” House remarks, staring with awe. “It matches your shirt!”

Another tired sigh. Maybe that’s the window this time.

“Impressive. Except now I owe Cuddy ten bucks. I told her you wouldn’t know primary colors if they bit you in the ass and painted you purple,” House retorts, letting go of the tie and giving Chase a little bit of a push backwards. Chase sighs tiredly for the third time, his brow furrowing in put-upon woe as he makes his way to the table to do his research.

Day Five

“Chase, in here, now,” House snaps, grinning madly. It had only taken hours of practicing with Wilson and one of the patients in the clinic – eight year old who didn’t want to go back to school – before he had it down pat, but now he has it and he intends to show off. He tosses one of his pills to Chase, giving him a glare of death that clearly communicates that if Chase loses the pill, his neck’s on the guillotine. Chase catches it swiftly, tossing his hair off his forehead.

“What?” Chase asks with a shrug.

House tips his head back, opening wide. “Toss,” he instructs.

He catches the look on Chase’s face that clearly does its own communicating that House should be in a mental ward somewhere, but he lowers his hand and steadily gives the pill a good trajectory, right into House’s mouth. He dry-swallows it quickly and grins triumphantly. “Better than a dolphin with a fish.”

Chase frowns. “Still hoping your DNA shifts a percent?” he mutters dryly with a smirk.

“I’ll call you and start chattering my success in brief squeals the day it happens.”

Day Six

When House arrives at six in the morning to check on the patient, he finds Chase asleep on the conference table. Well, mostly. His head and his upper body are splayed on the table, hair spread out like a halo of perfectly pretty hair. House leans on his cane for a moment and debates just how he’s going to wake Chase up. There are so many appealing possibilities here.

He walks quietly over to the other chair and slowly sits down, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hands as he stares at Chase, reaching forward and giving his hair a good yank.

“Ow,” the tired mumble comes. “Mum, stop it…”

House snorts. Ten years and he’s still dreaming his mother is waking him up. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetically sad. One day, Chase is going to explode from that molten bed of issues running within him.

House yanks again.

“Stop it,” Chase protests, shifting slightly and glancing up, face marked with his hands. His eyes widen.

“Good morning, sunshine,” House greets. “Here’s your hair. You can glue it back on later.” He hands Chase a few strands of his hair and to his delight, Chase just stares at him with abject horror at losing something so very precious.

Day Seven

“Great, there he is,” House remarks with delight, nudging Wilson along. “Come on, you’re going to owe me a hundred bucks in a second,” he relays, limping along quickly towards Chase, who pauses in the hall like a good little trained dog, waiting for his master to give him a command. Wilson trails him and mutters something under his breath, that sounds suspiciously like, ‘sexual harassment’, but House never listens too closely.

Chase frowns, glancing from House to Wilson to House to Wilson and then to the patient’s room just briefly. “Did you want something?”

“Just a little taste of Aussie heaven,” House smirks and reaches his hand around, grabbing Chase’s ass and earning a really interesting sound from Chase – something like a strangled shout.

“House!”

House gives Chase’s ass a pat as he glances to Wilson. “A hundred bucks.”

“Only you would grab not only Cameron and Chase’s ass, but Foreman’s too,” Wilson mutters as he digs out his wallet.

Day Eight

“Where exactly do you go to get your hair done like that? Catholic Boys R Us?” House muses one day when he’d accidentally taken one too many Vicodin. “Pretty Boys Depot? Australia For Men?”

“Jealous your hair isn’t as nice as mine?” Chase remarks, barely glancing up from the notes he’s making. It’s late and Foreman and Cameron have gone home when their fields didn’t apply any longer, but the intensivist was helping quite well with the stats. House bounces the ball on the desk as he stares at Chase, Madame Butterfly playing in the background.

House tosses the ball to Chase and even though he’s only half-looking, he catches it with one hand. “Cameron’s jealous of your hair,” he informs him. “It’s a thing.”

“A Cameron thing?”

“A hospital thing.”

Chase glances up. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says plainly, tossing the ball back to House.

“Have I ever?”

Chase’s smile is genuine as he laughs a, “No.”

tbc