![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perpetual_motionTitle: The Constant Non-Questions
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: R [imagery. Boo-yah.]
Summary: House, Chase, sex.
Dis: Lied. Made it up.
The Constant Non-Questions
By Perpetual Motion
He tries not to think about what they’re doing. When he thinks about it, it makes him want to ask questions. Why. When will it end. Why. It doesn’t make any logical sense, none that Chase can readily see at least, and he wonders if perhaps House is seeing something more in the fact that they keep meeting up after dark and having hard, sweaty sex with grunting and pulling and a press of fingers so hard that Chase has oval bruises on his left thigh for almost a week.
He wonders if he’s losing his mind. If all the years of psychological damage that he’s tried to ignore are finally coming up to be dealt with whether he wants to or not. Why. That’s the question. Why does he fuck House. Why does he keep fucking House. Why does he hope that some night House won’t poke him in the ribs and kick him out. Why do none of the questions sound like questions in his head.
He watches the way House moves in front of everyone and thinks about how different it is when he shows up, tie in his pocket, taking off his jacket before House latches the door. The way House moves around his apartment with a lighter step, how he seems to need the cane a little less. Chase still can’t decide if the lesser limp is conscious or not. He can’t really decide anything where House is concerned, except that he wants approval at work and House’s cock at night. The nights he can’t have it, he jerks off to the idea of it; remembering the way it flushes at the head and the way the veins stand out against his tongue when he’s got it in his mouth.
Eventually, it becomes too hard to try and stop the questions. The why. He snaps one night when House wakes him up with a poke to the ribs, and he demands answers.
“Why?”
House, half-asleep, half-drugged, but hardly at half-capacity, leers at him. “You’re pretty.”
“And?”
“And what? This is sex. It’s what people do when they’re not Catholic or British.”
“I’m Australian.” Said before he can stop himself. It’s such an automated response. “Is it anything else at all?”
“No.”
It’s one syllable. It’s two letters. It answers every single why that’s been slamming against Chase’s head since that first time, right after Vogler, when House threatened him with punishment after too much champagne and that lecture from Cuddy. He considers demanding more. More answers. More relationship. More of some unidentified thing that he only recognizes as a tight feeling in his gut when House looks at him in the half-light from the street lamps that always hit them as they have sex. He opens his mouth, but before anything comes out, House has turned over, resettled, and closed out Chase completely. He can stay. He can go. Odds are House won’t give a damn either way. He thinks over his options and gets out of the bed in search of his pants. They’re no more than exactly what they are. They’ll never be any more than exactly what they are. He thinks about pressing questions. Why did they end up like this. Why doesn’t it bother him that it’s nothing but angry sex. Why do the questions still not sound like questions in his own head.
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: R [imagery. Boo-yah.]
Summary: House, Chase, sex.
Dis: Lied. Made it up.
The Constant Non-Questions
By Perpetual Motion
He tries not to think about what they’re doing. When he thinks about it, it makes him want to ask questions. Why. When will it end. Why. It doesn’t make any logical sense, none that Chase can readily see at least, and he wonders if perhaps House is seeing something more in the fact that they keep meeting up after dark and having hard, sweaty sex with grunting and pulling and a press of fingers so hard that Chase has oval bruises on his left thigh for almost a week.
He wonders if he’s losing his mind. If all the years of psychological damage that he’s tried to ignore are finally coming up to be dealt with whether he wants to or not. Why. That’s the question. Why does he fuck House. Why does he keep fucking House. Why does he hope that some night House won’t poke him in the ribs and kick him out. Why do none of the questions sound like questions in his head.
He watches the way House moves in front of everyone and thinks about how different it is when he shows up, tie in his pocket, taking off his jacket before House latches the door. The way House moves around his apartment with a lighter step, how he seems to need the cane a little less. Chase still can’t decide if the lesser limp is conscious or not. He can’t really decide anything where House is concerned, except that he wants approval at work and House’s cock at night. The nights he can’t have it, he jerks off to the idea of it; remembering the way it flushes at the head and the way the veins stand out against his tongue when he’s got it in his mouth.
Eventually, it becomes too hard to try and stop the questions. The why. He snaps one night when House wakes him up with a poke to the ribs, and he demands answers.
“Why?”
House, half-asleep, half-drugged, but hardly at half-capacity, leers at him. “You’re pretty.”
“And?”
“And what? This is sex. It’s what people do when they’re not Catholic or British.”
“I’m Australian.” Said before he can stop himself. It’s such an automated response. “Is it anything else at all?”
“No.”
It’s one syllable. It’s two letters. It answers every single why that’s been slamming against Chase’s head since that first time, right after Vogler, when House threatened him with punishment after too much champagne and that lecture from Cuddy. He considers demanding more. More answers. More relationship. More of some unidentified thing that he only recognizes as a tight feeling in his gut when House looks at him in the half-light from the street lamps that always hit them as they have sex. He opens his mouth, but before anything comes out, House has turned over, resettled, and closed out Chase completely. He can stay. He can go. Odds are House won’t give a damn either way. He thinks over his options and gets out of the bed in search of his pants. They’re no more than exactly what they are. They’ll never be any more than exactly what they are. He thinks about pressing questions. Why did they end up like this. Why doesn’t it bother him that it’s nothing but angry sex. Why do the questions still not sound like questions in his own head.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2006-01-25 12:01 am (UTC)Awesome. I needed angry sex and pissiness today. :) Rock on.
no subject
on 2006-01-25 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-25 05:33 pm (UTC)That's just perfect House. A great line from a great little fic.
no subject
on 2006-01-25 05:38 pm (UTC)And I <3 your icon. Although I think Blair's kind of a dick, the other two more than make up for it.
no subject
on 2006-01-25 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-25 11:46 pm (UTC)He's still no match for tea. :)
no subject
on 2006-01-26 07:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-25 11:39 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-26 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-26 04:06 am (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-25 06:42 pm (UTC)Yum!
on 2006-01-25 08:24 pm (UTC)(Ducks and runs before my H/W buddies can find me.)
Re: Yum!
on 2006-01-26 05:35 am (UTC)B-G C
Stalker. XD
on 2006-01-26 06:52 am (UTC)I would never. Ahem.
on 2006-01-26 08:45 am (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-25 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-25 11:48 pm (UTC)So glad you enjoyed it.
no subject
on 2006-01-26 03:54 am (UTC)