what not to wear
Title: What Not to Wear
Summary: Small memories are tied into Cuddy's clothes as we watch her get ready on a cold, snowy morning.
Spoilers: um, her clothes? from Kids, Who's Your Daddy, and The Socratic Method.
Notes: This is my first fic, yay. And I wrote it because, lol, I was in the shower yesterday and all of the sudden my brain started narrating for me in fanfic language. It was funny as hell. So I was like, "either I read too much fic, or this is a sign I need to be writing some." So I decided on the latter and wrote this specific thing because I am obsessed with Cuddy, her clothes, and how people see her through them. Concrit=GOLD.
The hospital administrator opened her closet door and stared at the vast array of her "business attire". Most of it was some shade of pink, but she had a great variety, she noted. Regardless of color, most all of her clothes had the same attributes. There was the obvious fact that 90% of them showcased her brilliant clevage. But more importantly, they hugged her curves like taut plastic wrap--the colorful kind that Reynold's puts out over the holidays, the kind that demands your attention over the plain, boring, and clear kind, making the dish it covers not only shiny, but slightly blocked off. You could see her, oh yes, but you couldn't get to her easily...to that great epitome of female sexuality that every testosterone-laden man would love to make his own. She was the dish underneath that everyone wanted a taste of.
She stood there in a towel, her rich, velvet curls cascading around her neck and falling around her face. She ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she decided what to wear, her lips pursed out and at an angle. She ran her soft fingers along a light green shirt, with bright pink flowers and a plunging neckline. She was reminded of the extremely busy day at the hospital, where she was running around like a chicken with her head cut off (with less flailing, of course), trying to keep everything under control... especially her counterpart. He noticed her attire that day more than he noticed the massive viral outbreak in the clinic--which, by logic, should have been the more obvious of the two. He made some lame metaphor about a grocery store, and she rolled her eyes at his immaturity. She brushed it off and sent him on his way, but the second she turned around, a smile spread across her beautfully delicate face, and she walked away feeling slightly flattered.
She moved past a few hangers draped with various other articles of clothing, gently brushing them as she went. She cocked her head to the side, silently dismissing her pink tweed suit, and then her blue sweater vest. She stopped when her fingers made contact with the soft dark material that formed a flowing black skirt. The same skirt she once lifted in a desperate attempt to get the help she needed, from the only person she truly trusted. Their relationship was a professional one. But it was so much deeper than that. They needed each other, and not in a physical way (although, god knows she's thought about that too). They needed each other in a you-are-the-only-person-who-knows-all-of-me-and-respects-me-for-it kind of way. "The question is, why did I hire him?" she once asked aloud. She knew EXACTLY why she hired him, but she didn't expect anyone else to agree with or understand her reasons. So she painted it as such, that she herself didn't understand. It was easier that way, but more importantly, it protected what they had. She felt the soft pinch of the needle penetrating her skin, but a slight pain wasn't the only thing she felt. She felt their relationship, built on trust and understanding, move to the next level.
A ways behind it, rested a light gray suit that she had worn on his birthday. He didn't take the time to tell her that it was such, but he did take the time to make a reference to her stunning figure. He told her that her suit screamed she was a woman, but softly spoke that she was a professional at the same time. He teased her like it was his job. Throughout the years, he had woven her a tapestry of indirect compliments wrapped up in sexual innuendo, and it gently rustled at her everytime she slid her closet doors open. "Yeah, and your big cane is real subtle too," she snarked back at him, feeling the flutter of butterflies' wings.
She came across a chocolate-brown top she hadn't worn in awhile. It was comfortable, and looked amazingly chic with a beige skirt with trim of the same chocolate-brown color she bought to go with it. She grabbed both hangers and laid them on her bed. She returned to her closet and grabbed a pair of brown leather heels... " 'do me' pumps", as he liked to call them. She slid a pair of pantyhose up over her well-toned, tennis-trained, love-to-run calves, her fingertips unrolling the soft material almost as if in slow-motion, and nails gently tickling her skin as she went. She wrapped herself in the candy-colored confection, and slid into her heels, as an extreme sense of power coupled with femininity washed over her.
She fastened her trademark string of pearls behind her neck, and felt a slight chill as the jewelry found its place along her collarbone. She picked up her purse and keys, and made a mental note to keep her jewelry in a drawer away from the window. New Jersey had gotten its first snow of the season late last night, and every bit of landscape was covered in icy white purity. It mirrored her grace as she walked outside, leaving soft imprints in her wake.
She pulled up to a stoplight, and cursed it for turning red. She decided to make use of this time however, by digging though her purse. She retrieved her lipstick and turned her rearview mirror to face her. She caught her reflection and looked herself over. She had natural beauty and it was incredibly innocent. She slid the lipstick along her luscious lips, the lips that longed for the wonder and sensation of something so great as a first kiss.
She walked through the parking garage and into the hospital--her second home, her castle, her baby--and began the long lonely walk to her office. She stopped to pick up some paperwork, and landed herself just in eyeshot of him. He scanned her up and down, noticing every detail of her every curve. He traced his way back up to her beautifully sculpted face, her mauve lips and flushed cheeks, and stopped at her deep blue eyes... that were staring back into his. She had seen the whole thing. He averted his eyes and limped off, muttering a mere two words. "Nice outfit."
Summary: Small memories are tied into Cuddy's clothes as we watch her get ready on a cold, snowy morning.
Spoilers: um, her clothes? from Kids, Who's Your Daddy, and The Socratic Method.
Notes: This is my first fic, yay. And I wrote it because, lol, I was in the shower yesterday and all of the sudden my brain started narrating for me in fanfic language. It was funny as hell. So I was like, "either I read too much fic, or this is a sign I need to be writing some." So I decided on the latter and wrote this specific thing because I am obsessed with Cuddy, her clothes, and how people see her through them. Concrit=GOLD.
The hospital administrator opened her closet door and stared at the vast array of her "business attire". Most of it was some shade of pink, but she had a great variety, she noted. Regardless of color, most all of her clothes had the same attributes. There was the obvious fact that 90% of them showcased her brilliant clevage. But more importantly, they hugged her curves like taut plastic wrap--the colorful kind that Reynold's puts out over the holidays, the kind that demands your attention over the plain, boring, and clear kind, making the dish it covers not only shiny, but slightly blocked off. You could see her, oh yes, but you couldn't get to her easily...to that great epitome of female sexuality that every testosterone-laden man would love to make his own. She was the dish underneath that everyone wanted a taste of.
She stood there in a towel, her rich, velvet curls cascading around her neck and falling around her face. She ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she decided what to wear, her lips pursed out and at an angle. She ran her soft fingers along a light green shirt, with bright pink flowers and a plunging neckline. She was reminded of the extremely busy day at the hospital, where she was running around like a chicken with her head cut off (with less flailing, of course), trying to keep everything under control... especially her counterpart. He noticed her attire that day more than he noticed the massive viral outbreak in the clinic--which, by logic, should have been the more obvious of the two. He made some lame metaphor about a grocery store, and she rolled her eyes at his immaturity. She brushed it off and sent him on his way, but the second she turned around, a smile spread across her beautfully delicate face, and she walked away feeling slightly flattered.
She moved past a few hangers draped with various other articles of clothing, gently brushing them as she went. She cocked her head to the side, silently dismissing her pink tweed suit, and then her blue sweater vest. She stopped when her fingers made contact with the soft dark material that formed a flowing black skirt. The same skirt she once lifted in a desperate attempt to get the help she needed, from the only person she truly trusted. Their relationship was a professional one. But it was so much deeper than that. They needed each other, and not in a physical way (although, god knows she's thought about that too). They needed each other in a you-are-the-only-person-who-knows-all-of-me-and-respects-me-for-it kind of way. "The question is, why did I hire him?" she once asked aloud. She knew EXACTLY why she hired him, but she didn't expect anyone else to agree with or understand her reasons. So she painted it as such, that she herself didn't understand. It was easier that way, but more importantly, it protected what they had. She felt the soft pinch of the needle penetrating her skin, but a slight pain wasn't the only thing she felt. She felt their relationship, built on trust and understanding, move to the next level.
A ways behind it, rested a light gray suit that she had worn on his birthday. He didn't take the time to tell her that it was such, but he did take the time to make a reference to her stunning figure. He told her that her suit screamed she was a woman, but softly spoke that she was a professional at the same time. He teased her like it was his job. Throughout the years, he had woven her a tapestry of indirect compliments wrapped up in sexual innuendo, and it gently rustled at her everytime she slid her closet doors open. "Yeah, and your big cane is real subtle too," she snarked back at him, feeling the flutter of butterflies' wings.
She came across a chocolate-brown top she hadn't worn in awhile. It was comfortable, and looked amazingly chic with a beige skirt with trim of the same chocolate-brown color she bought to go with it. She grabbed both hangers and laid them on her bed. She returned to her closet and grabbed a pair of brown leather heels... " 'do me' pumps", as he liked to call them. She slid a pair of pantyhose up over her well-toned, tennis-trained, love-to-run calves, her fingertips unrolling the soft material almost as if in slow-motion, and nails gently tickling her skin as she went. She wrapped herself in the candy-colored confection, and slid into her heels, as an extreme sense of power coupled with femininity washed over her.
She fastened her trademark string of pearls behind her neck, and felt a slight chill as the jewelry found its place along her collarbone. She picked up her purse and keys, and made a mental note to keep her jewelry in a drawer away from the window. New Jersey had gotten its first snow of the season late last night, and every bit of landscape was covered in icy white purity. It mirrored her grace as she walked outside, leaving soft imprints in her wake.
She pulled up to a stoplight, and cursed it for turning red. She decided to make use of this time however, by digging though her purse. She retrieved her lipstick and turned her rearview mirror to face her. She caught her reflection and looked herself over. She had natural beauty and it was incredibly innocent. She slid the lipstick along her luscious lips, the lips that longed for the wonder and sensation of something so great as a first kiss.
She walked through the parking garage and into the hospital--her second home, her castle, her baby--and began the long lonely walk to her office. She stopped to pick up some paperwork, and landed herself just in eyeshot of him. He scanned her up and down, noticing every detail of her every curve. He traced his way back up to her beautifully sculpted face, her mauve lips and flushed cheeks, and stopped at her deep blue eyes... that were staring back into his. She had seen the whole thing. He averted his eyes and limped off, muttering a mere two words. "Nice outfit."