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  The Healing Process 
 by Megs  

 Dedicated to Starr. Finally, hopefully sweet Chase/Foreman that doesn't
involve alcohol at all. Yay.

. - . - . - .

The street was long, and damp. Robert Chase tightened his jacket around
himself as he watched his father's taxi disappear into darkness, and had
the sudden urge to run down that street. Maybe he'd jump in front of the
cab, get them to stop--it'd be like a movie. He'd wrap his arms around him
again, beg him to stay, and Rowan would say something paternal and they'd
live happily ever after and all wounds healed--the end. 

Instead, he blinked hard and turned around, his shoes slapping against the
wet ground rhythmically as he approached his car. The street lights were
reflected and distorted in the puddles, like fire--as if there were
candles lining the sidewalk. He kicked at them absently, feeling sickly
satisfied as he destroyed a little candle with each step. He slid into the
driver's seat and sat for a moment, pressing his palms against his eyes
painfully, so hard that he saw colors. When he removed them he couldn't
help but sniffle, give a small shake. Head tilted forward, he allowed a
tear to slip down his nose, where it rested at the tip like a raindrop. He
brushed it away, feeling ashamed and ridiculous.

He glanced up and took a deep breath, looking at his passenger seat where
Eric Foreman sat still, looking back sympathetically with large eyes in
which the street lights were creating the illusion of fire in Foreman's
eyes. If it had been anyone else, Chase would have been annoyed at the
pity that he saw there. But Foreman wasn't just anyone else. 

He said nothing, and for that Chase was grateful. Foreman reached one
large hand across the seat and rested it on Chase's knee, and, in turn,
Chase put his hand over it. He stared at their intertwined fingers a
moment, enjoying the contrast of Foreman's dark skin on his own pallid
complexion before he looked out at the wet street again, and, blinking,
smiled.

. - . - . - .  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.