New ficlet: Three Sheets To The Wind
Title: Three Sheets To The Wind
Author: joe_pike_junior, AKA Armchair Elvis
Pairing: Implied House/Cuddy, House/Wilson friendship
Summary: Set pre-infarction. House and Wilson turn up drunk at Cuddy's. House has bad aim. Around 800 words.
Disclaimer: House belongs to Fox.
Warnings: Drunkenness.
Notes: Thanks to sangria_lila, silja_b, nomad1328, and pwcorgigirl.
When Cuddy hears the muffled shout and the clattering bottle carry from somewhere in the direction of downtown in the night air, she assumes it’s just University students out having a good time. Even this quiet residential neighborhood is no stranger to pledges and other such late-night shenanigans.
She settles further into her bathrobe, takes a sip of peppermint and ginger tea, and grabs a journal from the pile of papers and envelopes on the coffee table. This is the only sort of idle weekend reading she’s done lately, her version of the wild night in. She’s just become absorbed (in fact, she can feel the tea and the warmth working to put her to sleep), when a polite little rat-a-tat comes at the door. She’s surprised - who would come knocking on her door at this time of night without calling first?, but there it comes again, a discreet, yet insistent tap.
Wilson looks apologetically through the crack between the door and the frame, his face broadcasting on a frequency between 'nervous' and 'long-suffering'. It’s a look she’s seen before. Cuddy shuts the door, draws back the chain, and opens it again, and that’s when she sees House leaning against one side of her entryway, squashing her climbing vine and wearing the stupidest grin she’s ever seen.
Oh God.
“Yes, but why did you bring him HERE?!?”
Wilson puts his hands on his hips, as if this is somehow Cuddy’s fault, not his… and House’s.
“Look, Cuddy, before we started walking over here he seemed almost sober…”
Wilson risks a sidelong glance at House, who is wandering out from the bathroom, fumbling with his belt buckle, weaving from side to side as he does it.
“Well, he isn’t now. He’s probably just urinated two quarts of beer onto my bathmat!”
Wilson shrugs and raises his eyebrows, and Cuddy realises that he has no explanation better than he seemed almost sober because he is just a little bit drunk, too. Like he had one drink out of House's four, every time. House is now in the kitchen. If Cuddy's grandmother were here, she'd be saying something like 'That boy, he needs a girlfriend to be looking after him!'. He’s managed to get a slice of bread out of the bag, but can’t seem to get the fridge open. He's pulling at the wrong side.
“House, c’mon, get out of there!”
House gives up on putting something on his bread, ambles out of the kitchen and plops himself heavily down on the couch, munching on the piece of bread as he does it.
“Hey, Wilson, Wilson, tell’er about the drinking… competition!”, he says as he sprays some crumbs onto the front of his shirt. He brushes them off with curious care, then sinks into a doze so fast it’s almost funny.
Cuddy transfers her best interrogative gaze to Wilson, who is now leaning against the back of the couch himself, and looking guiltier and guilter by the minute (Cuddy guesses that she can gauge his soberness by this), mumbling something about some frat who was already drunk, and it was only some vodka, jeez.
“You let HOUSE, the most dangerous LIGHTWEIGHT this side of the children’s ward enter a drinking competition with a FRAT? Whatever splitting headache you both have in the morning, you deserve!”
“Hey guys, actually here...”
House is mumbling as he sinks further and further into the cushions. Cuddy and Wilson both ignore him.
Cuddy sighs and draws her bathrobe tighter around herself. She takes Wilson to the kitchen table and makes him an instant coffee, and when he seems a little better she calls him a taxi. After he’s gone, probably to recite a litany of marital woes to the tired-looking cab-driver, she turns to House. Wilson has a wife to get home to, House, as far as she knows, has no-one. He'd be a trial to a girlfriend.
He’s got his head buried in her cushion, probably drooling. He's crumpling her reading material, and there are four or five beer mats spilling out of his pockets. Up close he smells like he’s been doused in a vat of hops. She guesses the vodka shots were probably preceded by a head-numbing quantity of beer. How long has it been since she was this drunk? She doesn’t know.
“House, c’mon, take your shoes off.”
She unlaces his sneakers and pulls them off his feet, which also smell like stale beer. Charming. She asks him if he thinks he’s going to throw up, and he shakes his head no. He mumbles something unintelligible, then sits up with effort.
“Hey Cuddy… c’mon…”
He grabs her arms and pulls her closer to him.
She sits back and looks at him, the lids of his eyes hooded, trying so hard to be sincere through a state of extreme intoxication, and not quite making it.
“Why so charming, House? You’re almost too drunk to talk. I’m not going to have sex with you.”
House makes a little philosophical noise, like he was expecting that answer, and lies back. Cuddy gets a blanket from the closet and covers him with it. He makes a murmuring noise, and then starts to snore. She smiles, satisfied that she has the last word, and goes to bed.
When she wakes in the morning House is gone. The bottle of Advil from her bottom drawer is sitting on the counter, and a carton of orange juice is missing from her fridge. House has left to find a greasy breakfast and nurse what must be an awful hangover. Serves him right.
The smile on Cuddy’s face doesn’t fade until she sees her bathmat.
Author: joe_pike_junior, AKA Armchair Elvis
Pairing: Implied House/Cuddy, House/Wilson friendship
Summary: Set pre-infarction. House and Wilson turn up drunk at Cuddy's. House has bad aim. Around 800 words.
Disclaimer: House belongs to Fox.
Warnings: Drunkenness.
Notes: Thanks to sangria_lila, silja_b, nomad1328, and pwcorgigirl.
When Cuddy hears the muffled shout and the clattering bottle carry from somewhere in the direction of downtown in the night air, she assumes it’s just University students out having a good time. Even this quiet residential neighborhood is no stranger to pledges and other such late-night shenanigans.
She settles further into her bathrobe, takes a sip of peppermint and ginger tea, and grabs a journal from the pile of papers and envelopes on the coffee table. This is the only sort of idle weekend reading she’s done lately, her version of the wild night in. She’s just become absorbed (in fact, she can feel the tea and the warmth working to put her to sleep), when a polite little rat-a-tat comes at the door. She’s surprised - who would come knocking on her door at this time of night without calling first?, but there it comes again, a discreet, yet insistent tap.
Wilson looks apologetically through the crack between the door and the frame, his face broadcasting on a frequency between 'nervous' and 'long-suffering'. It’s a look she’s seen before. Cuddy shuts the door, draws back the chain, and opens it again, and that’s when she sees House leaning against one side of her entryway, squashing her climbing vine and wearing the stupidest grin she’s ever seen.
Oh God.
“Yes, but why did you bring him HERE?!?”
Wilson puts his hands on his hips, as if this is somehow Cuddy’s fault, not his… and House’s.
“Look, Cuddy, before we started walking over here he seemed almost sober…”
Wilson risks a sidelong glance at House, who is wandering out from the bathroom, fumbling with his belt buckle, weaving from side to side as he does it.
“Well, he isn’t now. He’s probably just urinated two quarts of beer onto my bathmat!”
Wilson shrugs and raises his eyebrows, and Cuddy realises that he has no explanation better than he seemed almost sober because he is just a little bit drunk, too. Like he had one drink out of House's four, every time. House is now in the kitchen. If Cuddy's grandmother were here, she'd be saying something like 'That boy, he needs a girlfriend to be looking after him!'. He’s managed to get a slice of bread out of the bag, but can’t seem to get the fridge open. He's pulling at the wrong side.
“House, c’mon, get out of there!”
House gives up on putting something on his bread, ambles out of the kitchen and plops himself heavily down on the couch, munching on the piece of bread as he does it.
“Hey, Wilson, Wilson, tell’er about the drinking… competition!”, he says as he sprays some crumbs onto the front of his shirt. He brushes them off with curious care, then sinks into a doze so fast it’s almost funny.
Cuddy transfers her best interrogative gaze to Wilson, who is now leaning against the back of the couch himself, and looking guiltier and guilter by the minute (Cuddy guesses that she can gauge his soberness by this), mumbling something about some frat who was already drunk, and it was only some vodka, jeez.
“You let HOUSE, the most dangerous LIGHTWEIGHT this side of the children’s ward enter a drinking competition with a FRAT? Whatever splitting headache you both have in the morning, you deserve!”
“Hey guys, actually here...”
House is mumbling as he sinks further and further into the cushions. Cuddy and Wilson both ignore him.
Cuddy sighs and draws her bathrobe tighter around herself. She takes Wilson to the kitchen table and makes him an instant coffee, and when he seems a little better she calls him a taxi. After he’s gone, probably to recite a litany of marital woes to the tired-looking cab-driver, she turns to House. Wilson has a wife to get home to, House, as far as she knows, has no-one. He'd be a trial to a girlfriend.
He’s got his head buried in her cushion, probably drooling. He's crumpling her reading material, and there are four or five beer mats spilling out of his pockets. Up close he smells like he’s been doused in a vat of hops. She guesses the vodka shots were probably preceded by a head-numbing quantity of beer. How long has it been since she was this drunk? She doesn’t know.
“House, c’mon, take your shoes off.”
She unlaces his sneakers and pulls them off his feet, which also smell like stale beer. Charming. She asks him if he thinks he’s going to throw up, and he shakes his head no. He mumbles something unintelligible, then sits up with effort.
“Hey Cuddy… c’mon…”
He grabs her arms and pulls her closer to him.
She sits back and looks at him, the lids of his eyes hooded, trying so hard to be sincere through a state of extreme intoxication, and not quite making it.
“Why so charming, House? You’re almost too drunk to talk. I’m not going to have sex with you.”
House makes a little philosophical noise, like he was expecting that answer, and lies back. Cuddy gets a blanket from the closet and covers him with it. He makes a murmuring noise, and then starts to snore. She smiles, satisfied that she has the last word, and goes to bed.
When she wakes in the morning House is gone. The bottle of Advil from her bottom drawer is sitting on the counter, and a carton of orange juice is missing from her fridge. House has left to find a greasy breakfast and nurse what must be an awful hangover. Serves him right.
The smile on Cuddy’s face doesn’t fade until she sees her bathmat.