Night Out
Title: Night Out
Pairing: George/Alex pre-slash
Word Count: 679
Rating: R
Status: Complete
Note: This may be a one-shot and this may be a part one. It depends on the response and if I can think of a way to continue.
Summary: George and Alex run into each other in a place no one would have expected.
PLEASE REVIEW!
Seattle
Handing a twenty to the bouncer on his way in, George walked into the club, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't really go clubbing often (ever), but he'd been hearing a lot about it and the girls were all busy, so here he was. And now he was regretting it. He wasn't going to dance, he never danced. All he was going to do was hang out at the bar and he could have done that at Joe's and saved himself the entry fee.
He pulled his hands from his pockets, pulling on his button-down maroon shirt. He never wore this shirt either, didn't know why, he just didn't. Loose jeans hung on his hips, the bottoms pooling over gray sneakers. God, this was awkward. He looked around, confusion crossing his face as he sat down at the bar. Where were all the girls?
The bartender dropped a beer in front of George, giving George a smile that made him shift, uncomfortable, in his seat. Well, that was weird, George thought, raising the bottle to his lips and looking around.
He choked on his beer.
There were guys making out over in the corner.
Spinning in the other direction to give the men some privacy-and so his eyes could go back into their sockets-George sputtered his drink back into the bottle.
AGAIN?!
More guys.
More kissing.
Where the hell was he?!
Shaking his head harshly, George pivoted again, looking at the bottle. Dear God, he was in a gay club. This couldn't be right. He had the wrong club. Mike and Lucas had been talking about Lightening Strike, this was-George glanced at the napkin-Lightening Strike.
Fuck.
And to make it worse, he couldn't leave. Come in, take a sip of his drink, then run? He'd look like an idiot. And apparently he worked with some pretty frequent customers, so running was out of the question. But if he stayed, they'd think he was gay too.
This was a lose-lose situation wasn't it?
George sighed, taking another sip of his drink. Might as well get drunk, right? He rose his eyes from the floor, his beer this time spraying from his mouth.
No. Way.
This was not happening.
George pinched his arm. Oh, crap. This isn't a dream. That's really him.
And it was. Alex Karev was across the club, dancing on the edge of the dance floor, dancing with a guy.
Wait. No.
That wasn't dancing.
That was sex with clothes on.
Oh, my God!
---
Chest pressed against chest and lips pressed against lips, Alex moved to the music, his hands drifting down to squeeze his partner's ass. What was his name again? They'd been dancing for two hours and he couldn't remember the guy's name, hell, he could barely remember his own. God, he was drunk.
He pressed closer to the man, his head tilted up to the point where his neck would be hurting in the morning. This guy was freaking tall. Alex could feel the other guy's arousal pressing against his hip, his own brushing against the now too tight (not that they weren't already tight in the first place) black jeans. His black tank top had been shoved up at some point during the night and now his stomach was rubbing hard against the fishnet top his dance partner was wearing.
They separated from the kiss so his partner could turn him around, Alex's lower back now being prodded by the unfamiliar appendage. His head fell back onto the man's chest, eyes drifting across the club before settling on the bar.
Alex froze and George and he made eye contact, both growing pale. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Alex heard his partner trying to move him and sweet talk him before finally huffing and walking away.
Alex stood still, blinking as the the drunken haze disappeared. This was no alcohol induced hallucination. George O'Malley was really there.
And at that moment, two words slipped from both of their lips.
“Oh, fuck.”
The End/TBC?
Pairing: George/Alex pre-slash
Word Count: 679
Rating: R
Status: Complete
Note: This may be a one-shot and this may be a part one. It depends on the response and if I can think of a way to continue.
Summary: George and Alex run into each other in a place no one would have expected.
PLEASE REVIEW!
Seattle
Handing a twenty to the bouncer on his way in, George walked into the club, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't really go clubbing often (ever), but he'd been hearing a lot about it and the girls were all busy, so here he was. And now he was regretting it. He wasn't going to dance, he never danced. All he was going to do was hang out at the bar and he could have done that at Joe's and saved himself the entry fee.
He pulled his hands from his pockets, pulling on his button-down maroon shirt. He never wore this shirt either, didn't know why, he just didn't. Loose jeans hung on his hips, the bottoms pooling over gray sneakers. God, this was awkward. He looked around, confusion crossing his face as he sat down at the bar. Where were all the girls?
The bartender dropped a beer in front of George, giving George a smile that made him shift, uncomfortable, in his seat. Well, that was weird, George thought, raising the bottle to his lips and looking around.
He choked on his beer.
There were guys making out over in the corner.
Spinning in the other direction to give the men some privacy-and so his eyes could go back into their sockets-George sputtered his drink back into the bottle.
AGAIN?!
More guys.
More kissing.
Where the hell was he?!
Shaking his head harshly, George pivoted again, looking at the bottle. Dear God, he was in a gay club. This couldn't be right. He had the wrong club. Mike and Lucas had been talking about Lightening Strike, this was-George glanced at the napkin-Lightening Strike.
Fuck.
And to make it worse, he couldn't leave. Come in, take a sip of his drink, then run? He'd look like an idiot. And apparently he worked with some pretty frequent customers, so running was out of the question. But if he stayed, they'd think he was gay too.
This was a lose-lose situation wasn't it?
George sighed, taking another sip of his drink. Might as well get drunk, right? He rose his eyes from the floor, his beer this time spraying from his mouth.
No. Way.
This was not happening.
George pinched his arm. Oh, crap. This isn't a dream. That's really him.
And it was. Alex Karev was across the club, dancing on the edge of the dance floor, dancing with a guy.
Wait. No.
That wasn't dancing.
That was sex with clothes on.
Oh, my God!
---
Chest pressed against chest and lips pressed against lips, Alex moved to the music, his hands drifting down to squeeze his partner's ass. What was his name again? They'd been dancing for two hours and he couldn't remember the guy's name, hell, he could barely remember his own. God, he was drunk.
He pressed closer to the man, his head tilted up to the point where his neck would be hurting in the morning. This guy was freaking tall. Alex could feel the other guy's arousal pressing against his hip, his own brushing against the now too tight (not that they weren't already tight in the first place) black jeans. His black tank top had been shoved up at some point during the night and now his stomach was rubbing hard against the fishnet top his dance partner was wearing.
They separated from the kiss so his partner could turn him around, Alex's lower back now being prodded by the unfamiliar appendage. His head fell back onto the man's chest, eyes drifting across the club before settling on the bar.
Alex froze and George and he made eye contact, both growing pale. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Alex heard his partner trying to move him and sweet talk him before finally huffing and walking away.
Alex stood still, blinking as the the drunken haze disappeared. This was no alcohol induced hallucination. George O'Malley was really there.
And at that moment, two words slipped from both of their lips.
“Oh, fuck.”
The End/TBC?