House (gen) - 023. Lovers, 043. Blood
Title: Divide
Characters/Pairing: Dr. Greg House; references James Wilson/Allison Cameron
Prompt: 023. Lovers.
Word Count: 289
Rating: PG
Spoilers: "Hunting," "Sex Kills" and "Clueless"
Summary: House reacts to discovering an attraction between his best friend and his employee. Written for fanfic100 but do I love it so.
When you find out that Wilson slept with Cameron, you're not sure which one of them you want to kill first, but you're pretty sure both of them are going to be pulled into Dad's office for a bit of a conversation.
You're not sure which of them is the bigger idiot -- Cameron for giving it up again to a co-worker, as if the one-night stand with Chase while stoned wasn't bad enough, and to a known womanizer heading into a divorce at that. Or Wilson for falling for the doe-eyed looks, sympathetic speeches, and handwringing from a woman that will only want to change him...and one of your employees for God's sake. What the hell were either of them thinking?
You know that they're both grown adults and they can sleep with whoever the hell they want to sleep with. But seeing as how Cameron works for you, and how Wilson is currently occupying your couch, you're fairly sure you have a say in the matter. Considering that James owes you for that loud and horribly facetious blowdrying of his hair, anyway.
A bitter, caustic sigh escapes your lips, and you lean back in your chair and pop a Vicodin, trying not to think of the hickey you saw just above Cameron's blouse collar or the way Wilson wouldn't meet your eyes in the hall. This is either going to be the worst nightmare of your life, or excellent blackmail material.
But then the last thing that hits you, is that this is one more way that your life has become you and them. Them together, the whole damn world together, and you alone.
You're stealing Wilson's brownie when you get home. That's enough retribution for now.
Title: She's Got A Demon In Her
Fandom: Exposed
Prompt: 043. Blood.
Characters/Pairing: House/OFC
Word Count: 1632
Rating: PG
Summary: Melanie's father-in-law had warned her about New Jersey. He never warned her about the man she'd meet there. He probably should have.
Disclaimer: Melanie Taylor and her various associates, problems, and that bullet in her arm are all me. However, Greg House is from the FOX series House, and is the property of Hugh Laurie, David Shore, and FOX.
Author's Notes: Written originally as the introduction to an RPG storyline, so if it seems open-ended, that'd be why.
Being shot really fucking sucked sometimes.
The bullet was lodged in her upper right forearm. Melanie Taylor knew this because in six years and a few days of working deniable operations, this wasn't the first time she'd been shot by a longshot. However, on those previous occasions she'd at least had a partner to watch her back. This time, she was sans partner, sans son (thankfully), and quite alone, bleeding all over a Donna Karan suit jacket that had been meant to make a good impression on the source Dave had sent her to meet. No wonder why this guy had insisted on only speaking to her; he'd obviously said what he came to say, except for that he'd missed.
Son of a motherfucking bitch, she thought to herself, a string of obscenities she never would have even envisioned if her son had been in earshot. She was very thankful that her in-laws had him across the country and safe from backstabbing bastards.
But this presented a problem. She needed emergency medical care and quickly, and she couldn't exactly explain why she had been shot. Not only would no one believe her story if she told it, but if she told the truth, she'd be on Dave Rusch's radar within the hour. She needed to go somewhere she could be relatively anonymous, and she didn't relish the idea of some back-alley hole or trying to do surgery in her hotel room.
Clicking the safety on her gun, she shoved it down the waistband of her pants, clamped her left hand over the bullet hole, and grit her teeth to keep away the pain.
That was how she ended up in the walk-in clinic at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, a weapon carefully concealed and blood seeping through her fingertips, ignoring the looks from everyone else who wanted to know how a well-dressed woman had gotten shot and were probably theorizing nightmarish ideas of drive-by shootings in their upper class neighborhoods.
If it were only that simple to blame this on a couple of gangbangers, Melanie thought cynically, only half-listening when a nurse directed her -- she'd have to have Jessica alter the hospital records and wipe the database later, just to be safe -- to an exam room.
She sat on the exam table and tried to figure out exactly how she would explain this. She could claim she'd accidentally shot herself somehow, but that would be pretty stupid. Really, there were no easy ways to explain this. She'd have to just roll with it and if all else failed, make sure that whoever walked through that door didn't ask too many questions. After all, she herself had probably asked about eighteen thousand questions too many, and Brian...God knew which one had put him six feet under.
So she contented herself with meaningless facts. There are still seven bullets in this gun. There are still twenty-six hours before Dave assumes me missing or dead. I am still breathing. Yeah, that's a good one to remember.
The door cracked open and thudded against the wall, and unceremoniously, as if she'd interrupted his golf game, she heard someone say, "So what exactly is the problem with you, Miss...Taylor..."
She gave him her best 'how fucking stupid are you?' look and waited for him to look up. He was leaning heavily on a cane, and when he snapped the file shut, piercing blue eyes looked from her pissed-off face to her hand and the blood dripping down it, and he shifted his jaw and smirked. "Answered my own question," he said glibly, knocking the door shut with his cane.
Melanie rolled her eyes. "The bullet went through, I just need you to take care of the hole."
House was undaunted by her attitude and set the file down on the counter, limping toward her. "That's why we have surgeons," he replied coolly. "Not really my thing, though I am interested in knowing how you managed to shoot yourself."
"I didn't shoot myself," she retorted. "Somebody else shot me. Not like it's not fun, but I am bleeding here. You wanna know what happened, fix the hole, buy me a drink, and then maybe I'll tell you."
He smirked. "Is that like, a bet or something?"
She just smirked back at him.
The surgery was minor and she hadn't lost enough blood to be that badly out of it. Once her arm had been wrapped and was secure, she was determined to go back to her hotel and fly back to Las Vegas, with a very irritated phone call to Dave or Jess, telling them that the intelligence was bad and to start over. They could not make mistakes when she knew she was running on borrowed time as it was.
Except for the part where they wanted her to stay in a recovery room for a few hours. Being stationary for too long was not Melanie's idea of a good evasion plan, but she didn't know how to get around it besides making a point-blank run for the door, and she had to admit re-injuring her arm would be a mistake she could ill afford. She resigned herself to staring at the TV and counting the minutes until she could make a break for it.
That was one of the things she had learned in life on the run. Her brain never stayed in one place anymore. It was always one move after the next, no room to breathe. She was half expecting one of Rusch's boys to try and take a shot at her. After all, they were the best of the CIA best, it wasn't like they couldn't get it done. Rusch at least didn't hire crap talent...which she had appreciated once and now cursed to the depths of hell.
At least she'd managed to hide the gun before they'd taken her to surgery, and she had picked it up a few minutes ago and it was hiding under the other pillow.
When she heard the door slide open, her hand was already on the gun before she looked up and realized it was the doctor she'd seen in the clinic. One hand on his cane, the other on an impressive bottle of scotch. She relaxed her grip on the gun slightly and the smirk came back again. "Decided to take me up on that bet?" she asked, arching an eyebrow and wondering just how crazy this guy was if he actually followed up on strange patients who wandered into him.
"I never turn down an excuse for drinking on the job," he quipped, setting down the scotch and two glasses on the nightstand. "Especially not when it involves beautiful women who bite when provoked." Pouring the scotch, he handed one over to her and arched an eyebrow. "You gonna hold up your end of the bet?"
Melanie Taylor never backed down on a bet.
"No," she said, "but are you going to believe anything I say?"
He smirked. "Everybody lies," he replied, "but you've done that part already, haven't you?"
She chuckled and took a slow drink, swallowing before she looked him dead in the eyes -- damn but he had attractive eyes -- and spoke. "There are people that are trying to kill me, because they killed my husband and I want to kill them for it."
House just looked at her for a second, and then the smirk grew. This, was interesting. Definitely more interesting than doing more experiments on the coma guy. "Must've been a real bitch," he remarked glibly.
Melanie gave a low laugh. "Yeah. I am."
That made him snicker, quite amused. Not to mention that she was pretty nice to look at, even with a shoulder wrapped tight and blood on her clothes. He let his eyes wander her body for a moment before he snapped them back to her face and said, "So that's it, huh? Just go on a killer rampage and flee the country, ride off into the sunset?"
"Hardly." She chuckled. "The people I'm going to kill, no one will even notice they're gone. And I have family I'd like to get back to. Sorry to disappoint."
"Disappoint?" He scoffed. "Beautiful woman with a license to kill...best clinic duty I've ever had. You're much more attractive than the forty-year-old cranky married guy looking for the little blue pill."
Mel snorted. "I'm thirty-seven but I don't need any help in that department."
"What, nobody to cuddle up to since the husband kicked?"
"No," she replied, then just to be a bitch, continued, "You volunteering?"
House looked impressed, and then looked her over one more time, still with that damn smirk on his face. "Tempting," he quipped, "but you know, hospital sex just isn't my thing. It's so unsanitary."
That made her laugh. Melanie hadn't laughed much, if at all, since Brian had died. She found this encouraging...and curious all the same. Maybe she'd been a little farther gone than she realized, or she was just losing her mind by now. Either way, this guy was still better company than she had expected. And it was good to not be alone with a cell phone, a laptop and a gun, waiting for the next move to make sense or the next answer to appear. She was past her prime but she wasn't dead and she did still have a life to live.
Or maybe that was the scotch talking.
Either way, she smiled at him and when he smiled back, just chuckled. Didn't bat an eyelash when she gave him her hotel room number and phone number and dared him to call. He would. He liked a good mystery. She liked a man with guts. She'd found one.
Maybe being shot wasn't so bad after all.
Characters/Pairing: Dr. Greg House; references James Wilson/Allison Cameron
Prompt: 023. Lovers.
Word Count: 289
Rating: PG
Spoilers: "Hunting," "Sex Kills" and "Clueless"
Summary: House reacts to discovering an attraction between his best friend and his employee. Written for fanfic100 but do I love it so.
When you find out that Wilson slept with Cameron, you're not sure which one of them you want to kill first, but you're pretty sure both of them are going to be pulled into Dad's office for a bit of a conversation.
You're not sure which of them is the bigger idiot -- Cameron for giving it up again to a co-worker, as if the one-night stand with Chase while stoned wasn't bad enough, and to a known womanizer heading into a divorce at that. Or Wilson for falling for the doe-eyed looks, sympathetic speeches, and handwringing from a woman that will only want to change him...and one of your employees for God's sake. What the hell were either of them thinking?
You know that they're both grown adults and they can sleep with whoever the hell they want to sleep with. But seeing as how Cameron works for you, and how Wilson is currently occupying your couch, you're fairly sure you have a say in the matter. Considering that James owes you for that loud and horribly facetious blowdrying of his hair, anyway.
A bitter, caustic sigh escapes your lips, and you lean back in your chair and pop a Vicodin, trying not to think of the hickey you saw just above Cameron's blouse collar or the way Wilson wouldn't meet your eyes in the hall. This is either going to be the worst nightmare of your life, or excellent blackmail material.
But then the last thing that hits you, is that this is one more way that your life has become you and them. Them together, the whole damn world together, and you alone.
You're stealing Wilson's brownie when you get home. That's enough retribution for now.
Title: She's Got A Demon In Her
Fandom: Exposed
Prompt: 043. Blood.
Characters/Pairing: House/OFC
Word Count: 1632
Rating: PG
Summary: Melanie's father-in-law had warned her about New Jersey. He never warned her about the man she'd meet there. He probably should have.
Disclaimer: Melanie Taylor and her various associates, problems, and that bullet in her arm are all me. However, Greg House is from the FOX series House, and is the property of Hugh Laurie, David Shore, and FOX.
Author's Notes: Written originally as the introduction to an RPG storyline, so if it seems open-ended, that'd be why.
Being shot really fucking sucked sometimes.
The bullet was lodged in her upper right forearm. Melanie Taylor knew this because in six years and a few days of working deniable operations, this wasn't the first time she'd been shot by a longshot. However, on those previous occasions she'd at least had a partner to watch her back. This time, she was sans partner, sans son (thankfully), and quite alone, bleeding all over a Donna Karan suit jacket that had been meant to make a good impression on the source Dave had sent her to meet. No wonder why this guy had insisted on only speaking to her; he'd obviously said what he came to say, except for that he'd missed.
Son of a motherfucking bitch, she thought to herself, a string of obscenities she never would have even envisioned if her son had been in earshot. She was very thankful that her in-laws had him across the country and safe from backstabbing bastards.
But this presented a problem. She needed emergency medical care and quickly, and she couldn't exactly explain why she had been shot. Not only would no one believe her story if she told it, but if she told the truth, she'd be on Dave Rusch's radar within the hour. She needed to go somewhere she could be relatively anonymous, and she didn't relish the idea of some back-alley hole or trying to do surgery in her hotel room.
Clicking the safety on her gun, she shoved it down the waistband of her pants, clamped her left hand over the bullet hole, and grit her teeth to keep away the pain.
That was how she ended up in the walk-in clinic at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, a weapon carefully concealed and blood seeping through her fingertips, ignoring the looks from everyone else who wanted to know how a well-dressed woman had gotten shot and were probably theorizing nightmarish ideas of drive-by shootings in their upper class neighborhoods.
If it were only that simple to blame this on a couple of gangbangers, Melanie thought cynically, only half-listening when a nurse directed her -- she'd have to have Jessica alter the hospital records and wipe the database later, just to be safe -- to an exam room.
She sat on the exam table and tried to figure out exactly how she would explain this. She could claim she'd accidentally shot herself somehow, but that would be pretty stupid. Really, there were no easy ways to explain this. She'd have to just roll with it and if all else failed, make sure that whoever walked through that door didn't ask too many questions. After all, she herself had probably asked about eighteen thousand questions too many, and Brian...God knew which one had put him six feet under.
So she contented herself with meaningless facts. There are still seven bullets in this gun. There are still twenty-six hours before Dave assumes me missing or dead. I am still breathing. Yeah, that's a good one to remember.
The door cracked open and thudded against the wall, and unceremoniously, as if she'd interrupted his golf game, she heard someone say, "So what exactly is the problem with you, Miss...Taylor..."
She gave him her best 'how fucking stupid are you?' look and waited for him to look up. He was leaning heavily on a cane, and when he snapped the file shut, piercing blue eyes looked from her pissed-off face to her hand and the blood dripping down it, and he shifted his jaw and smirked. "Answered my own question," he said glibly, knocking the door shut with his cane.
Melanie rolled her eyes. "The bullet went through, I just need you to take care of the hole."
House was undaunted by her attitude and set the file down on the counter, limping toward her. "That's why we have surgeons," he replied coolly. "Not really my thing, though I am interested in knowing how you managed to shoot yourself."
"I didn't shoot myself," she retorted. "Somebody else shot me. Not like it's not fun, but I am bleeding here. You wanna know what happened, fix the hole, buy me a drink, and then maybe I'll tell you."
He smirked. "Is that like, a bet or something?"
She just smirked back at him.
The surgery was minor and she hadn't lost enough blood to be that badly out of it. Once her arm had been wrapped and was secure, she was determined to go back to her hotel and fly back to Las Vegas, with a very irritated phone call to Dave or Jess, telling them that the intelligence was bad and to start over. They could not make mistakes when she knew she was running on borrowed time as it was.
Except for the part where they wanted her to stay in a recovery room for a few hours. Being stationary for too long was not Melanie's idea of a good evasion plan, but she didn't know how to get around it besides making a point-blank run for the door, and she had to admit re-injuring her arm would be a mistake she could ill afford. She resigned herself to staring at the TV and counting the minutes until she could make a break for it.
That was one of the things she had learned in life on the run. Her brain never stayed in one place anymore. It was always one move after the next, no room to breathe. She was half expecting one of Rusch's boys to try and take a shot at her. After all, they were the best of the CIA best, it wasn't like they couldn't get it done. Rusch at least didn't hire crap talent...which she had appreciated once and now cursed to the depths of hell.
At least she'd managed to hide the gun before they'd taken her to surgery, and she had picked it up a few minutes ago and it was hiding under the other pillow.
When she heard the door slide open, her hand was already on the gun before she looked up and realized it was the doctor she'd seen in the clinic. One hand on his cane, the other on an impressive bottle of scotch. She relaxed her grip on the gun slightly and the smirk came back again. "Decided to take me up on that bet?" she asked, arching an eyebrow and wondering just how crazy this guy was if he actually followed up on strange patients who wandered into him.
"I never turn down an excuse for drinking on the job," he quipped, setting down the scotch and two glasses on the nightstand. "Especially not when it involves beautiful women who bite when provoked." Pouring the scotch, he handed one over to her and arched an eyebrow. "You gonna hold up your end of the bet?"
Melanie Taylor never backed down on a bet.
"No," she said, "but are you going to believe anything I say?"
He smirked. "Everybody lies," he replied, "but you've done that part already, haven't you?"
She chuckled and took a slow drink, swallowing before she looked him dead in the eyes -- damn but he had attractive eyes -- and spoke. "There are people that are trying to kill me, because they killed my husband and I want to kill them for it."
House just looked at her for a second, and then the smirk grew. This, was interesting. Definitely more interesting than doing more experiments on the coma guy. "Must've been a real bitch," he remarked glibly.
Melanie gave a low laugh. "Yeah. I am."
That made him snicker, quite amused. Not to mention that she was pretty nice to look at, even with a shoulder wrapped tight and blood on her clothes. He let his eyes wander her body for a moment before he snapped them back to her face and said, "So that's it, huh? Just go on a killer rampage and flee the country, ride off into the sunset?"
"Hardly." She chuckled. "The people I'm going to kill, no one will even notice they're gone. And I have family I'd like to get back to. Sorry to disappoint."
"Disappoint?" He scoffed. "Beautiful woman with a license to kill...best clinic duty I've ever had. You're much more attractive than the forty-year-old cranky married guy looking for the little blue pill."
Mel snorted. "I'm thirty-seven but I don't need any help in that department."
"What, nobody to cuddle up to since the husband kicked?"
"No," she replied, then just to be a bitch, continued, "You volunteering?"
House looked impressed, and then looked her over one more time, still with that damn smirk on his face. "Tempting," he quipped, "but you know, hospital sex just isn't my thing. It's so unsanitary."
That made her laugh. Melanie hadn't laughed much, if at all, since Brian had died. She found this encouraging...and curious all the same. Maybe she'd been a little farther gone than she realized, or she was just losing her mind by now. Either way, this guy was still better company than she had expected. And it was good to not be alone with a cell phone, a laptop and a gun, waiting for the next move to make sense or the next answer to appear. She was past her prime but she wasn't dead and she did still have a life to live.
Or maybe that was the scotch talking.
Either way, she smiled at him and when he smiled back, just chuckled. Didn't bat an eyelash when she gave him her hotel room number and phone number and dared him to call. He would. He liked a good mystery. She liked a man with guts. She'd found one.
Maybe being shot wasn't so bad after all.