two shorts
Lora drabble.
Theme: Happy.
Prop: Socks. Warm socks out of the dryer.
Kin and Micah
Somewhere not too far away a redhead sat disconsolately in a beam of thin winter sunlight. He was watching through a glass portal as clothing old and not-so-old tumbled and whirled and clung to itself in a square machine. His toes were cold; this was the source of his discontent. Also that his husband was elsewhere. Either of these, taken alone, would have been cause for forlornity; taken together...
A bell chimed. The redhead looked up from contemplation of the knotted rug upon which he sat; he stood, he stretched, he scratched at his scalp with hands crooked into claws. He swung the glass portal of the machine wide, he reached in. He retrieved socks! Alas, they did not match. The redhead bent himself and poked his head into the machine, rooting around in the toasty dry fabric for the twin of the blue sock he held.
"Ooh, hold that thought," came his husband's dulcet voice.
Somewhere, said husband is protesting. We shall ignore him, though he is adorable when in a huff.
Said husband draped himself along the redhead's back and rested his cheek against the redhead's shoulder. "Doing okay?"
"Umph," said the redhead. He at last succeeded in locating the other blue sock, and joy! it was warm and dry.
"Here!" said the husband, a small, slim juggernaut in a skirt that had ruffles round the hem. He reached round the redhead, into the machine, and drew out an enormous towel. Great was the fluff of the towel, plush was its weave. The redhead was led back to his sunbeam and urged to sit; his husband lifted the cold feet into his lap one at a time and graced each one with a gift of warm sock. Then did the husband envelope the redhead in warm towel, and climbed into his lap and cuddled him. The redhead was a champion cuddler, and somewhere between the sunlight, the warm socks, and his husband, he was happy.
Piig drabble!
Prologue to the Cane Fight.
Spider Jerusalem and Dr. House
Doctors don't neccessarily do it better, but they certainly charge you more. Dr. House graced the room at large with a smug be-stubbled smirk. His gait had an elegant lurch to it, a result of the cane of dark wood he used. The room was full of people. House had only the vaguest idea who they were; the large conference room was elegantly appointed in red and cream, black accents here and there, and the whisky had a smooth bite to it. Another glass and the smirk might've softened into a smile; House knew this, which was why he'd switched to coffee. Evening was over, in any event; people were packing up, putting away, trying to find someone to fuck.
A tall crow of a man, 'Spider' on both his forehead and his nametag, bald and clad from stem to stern in cushiony black; he too walked with a cane, black and shiny, with an exotic and uncomfortable-looking grip. He leaned over and eyed House's cane with professional interest, the way women at toddler play-groups examined one another's children.
House said, "What?" The other man wore a peculiar set of glasses; one lense was a green circle, the other a red rectangle. He glanced at House, touched the corner of the rectangle and said, "Picture."
House sighed and tossed off the remains of his coffee. It had been good coffee, too, the sort to put hair on your chest. In fact it was strong enough to put hair on your grandmother's chest. He eyed the black cane; rosewood? Its owner lifted it and brought it down on the tile with a tik.
House lifted his head, the smirk cutting grooves of smugness and cynicism on his face. He said, "Oh, just admiring the thrust of your argument."
Spider showed all of his teeth. "I'd say something scathing but my synapses are covered in sugar and I've got baboon meat between my teeth."
"That's charming. And if your simian wasn't cooked properly-"
A peal of derisive laughter that rose and fell. "My stomach acid is augmented by pharmaceuticals and injectibles from all over the world, and some that haven't been invented yet. I am immortal."
House tapped his cane against his sneaker. "I'm going to have to go with, not."
Just then, a tiny blonde at the snack-table said, "Would anyone like the last eclaire?"
House and Spider pivoted towards her in tandem; upon noticing this, they immediately exchanged looks and sneers. House said, "I'm a doctor, I get the eclair."
Spider flourished his cane. "And I am a fucking JOURNALIST."
House said, "You'll be a journalist without an eclair," and moved to take a step forward, but Spider's cane shot out and neatly poked at the rubber base of House's cane, shifting it out of position; House caught himself with a stumbled half-step and turned a hangover-inducing glare on Spider, who cackled and waved the cane over his head as he lurched towards his conquest. House whacked the black cane with his own; Spider's head came round and he met House's glare with one of his own, ignoring the glasses he wore.
Somewhere, bets were placed, cameras adjusted; somewhere, someone said, Round one, FIGHT!
Theme: Happy.
Prop: Socks. Warm socks out of the dryer.
Kin and Micah
Somewhere not too far away a redhead sat disconsolately in a beam of thin winter sunlight. He was watching through a glass portal as clothing old and not-so-old tumbled and whirled and clung to itself in a square machine. His toes were cold; this was the source of his discontent. Also that his husband was elsewhere. Either of these, taken alone, would have been cause for forlornity; taken together...
A bell chimed. The redhead looked up from contemplation of the knotted rug upon which he sat; he stood, he stretched, he scratched at his scalp with hands crooked into claws. He swung the glass portal of the machine wide, he reached in. He retrieved socks! Alas, they did not match. The redhead bent himself and poked his head into the machine, rooting around in the toasty dry fabric for the twin of the blue sock he held.
"Ooh, hold that thought," came his husband's dulcet voice.
Somewhere, said husband is protesting. We shall ignore him, though he is adorable when in a huff.
Said husband draped himself along the redhead's back and rested his cheek against the redhead's shoulder. "Doing okay?"
"Umph," said the redhead. He at last succeeded in locating the other blue sock, and joy! it was warm and dry.
"Here!" said the husband, a small, slim juggernaut in a skirt that had ruffles round the hem. He reached round the redhead, into the machine, and drew out an enormous towel. Great was the fluff of the towel, plush was its weave. The redhead was led back to his sunbeam and urged to sit; his husband lifted the cold feet into his lap one at a time and graced each one with a gift of warm sock. Then did the husband envelope the redhead in warm towel, and climbed into his lap and cuddled him. The redhead was a champion cuddler, and somewhere between the sunlight, the warm socks, and his husband, he was happy.
Piig drabble!
Prologue to the Cane Fight.
Spider Jerusalem and Dr. House
Doctors don't neccessarily do it better, but they certainly charge you more. Dr. House graced the room at large with a smug be-stubbled smirk. His gait had an elegant lurch to it, a result of the cane of dark wood he used. The room was full of people. House had only the vaguest idea who they were; the large conference room was elegantly appointed in red and cream, black accents here and there, and the whisky had a smooth bite to it. Another glass and the smirk might've softened into a smile; House knew this, which was why he'd switched to coffee. Evening was over, in any event; people were packing up, putting away, trying to find someone to fuck.
A tall crow of a man, 'Spider' on both his forehead and his nametag, bald and clad from stem to stern in cushiony black; he too walked with a cane, black and shiny, with an exotic and uncomfortable-looking grip. He leaned over and eyed House's cane with professional interest, the way women at toddler play-groups examined one another's children.
House said, "What?" The other man wore a peculiar set of glasses; one lense was a green circle, the other a red rectangle. He glanced at House, touched the corner of the rectangle and said, "Picture."
House sighed and tossed off the remains of his coffee. It had been good coffee, too, the sort to put hair on your chest. In fact it was strong enough to put hair on your grandmother's chest. He eyed the black cane; rosewood? Its owner lifted it and brought it down on the tile with a tik.
House lifted his head, the smirk cutting grooves of smugness and cynicism on his face. He said, "Oh, just admiring the thrust of your argument."
Spider showed all of his teeth. "I'd say something scathing but my synapses are covered in sugar and I've got baboon meat between my teeth."
"That's charming. And if your simian wasn't cooked properly-"
A peal of derisive laughter that rose and fell. "My stomach acid is augmented by pharmaceuticals and injectibles from all over the world, and some that haven't been invented yet. I am immortal."
House tapped his cane against his sneaker. "I'm going to have to go with, not."
Just then, a tiny blonde at the snack-table said, "Would anyone like the last eclaire?"
House and Spider pivoted towards her in tandem; upon noticing this, they immediately exchanged looks and sneers. House said, "I'm a doctor, I get the eclair."
Spider flourished his cane. "And I am a fucking JOURNALIST."
House said, "You'll be a journalist without an eclair," and moved to take a step forward, but Spider's cane shot out and neatly poked at the rubber base of House's cane, shifting it out of position; House caught himself with a stumbled half-step and turned a hangover-inducing glare on Spider, who cackled and waved the cane over his head as he lurched towards his conquest. House whacked the black cane with his own; Spider's head came round and he met House's glare with one of his own, ignoring the glasses he wore.
Somewhere, bets were placed, cameras adjusted; somewhere, someone said, Round one, FIGHT!