(no subject)
[mood| 
frustrated]
[music| Cold Water ~ Damien Rice]
Happy New Years Eve everyone! :D And Happy New Year to those of you on the other side of the date line! :D
So, the first drabble turned into this drinking thing. The fluff? Blame The Beatles and their happy songs, they make me hyper and giggly. I also realized afterwards that the same question appears in both drabbles, purely incidental. See if you can spot it ;)
---
Title: Snow Angel
Pairings: House/Cameron
Rating: R-ish for: Heavy alcohol. F-word once. Poking fun at Cuddy because she's great :D
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Nope.
Summary: They sit ouside while the New Years Eve party goes on indoors. Someone gets drunk.
Word Count: 895
She sips sparkling champagne. While him, bottled beer.
They sit on snow padded steps. Six feet behind, inside, the conference room bustles with noise. Heat. Excitement. Alcohol. Most will walk or take a bus home tonight.
He’d found her outside. Alone. When he had decided to sneak out. Wasn’t a hard decision between a room full of rambling idiots and a bottle of scotch accompanied by Verdi. After all, he was only there on account of Cuddy. Cuddy and her promise that there would be imported Bushmills. He was a fool to believe it.
The distance between him and her is sparing. He watches snow pile between them. She follows a snowflake until it catches a branch or lands in the bed of foaming white. Then another. And another.
The contrast of white on white is bright. Daring. She notices this.
He isn’t sure why he’s there. On the steps in the mild snowdrift with his jeans frostbitten to cement. But he’s there.
He takes a swig out of the narrow glass opening. Miller or Coors, it doesn’t matter. One tastes as bad as the other.
The silence is comforting. Almost warming. Peaceful.
Peace never last though, a shot of hysterical laughter lunges through glass doors, trespassing crudely into the outside world. He doesn’t have to turn to see that it’s Cuddy. He smirks at the notion of a drunken administrator.
She still hasn’t spoken.
If she won’t then he won’t. He’s set. He’ll make her talk first. It’s juvenile.
So he studies her. How she’s wound her hair into a bun. How tresses of caramel hung out from behind her ears. How they trail around her neck. How her dress is chaste ivory as if to melt into the snow. How loose and fragile it looks. How pristine she looks.
Another shot of laughter rings out, not just Cuddy now. He curses them under his breath for spoiling the moment. Then he lets out a puff of white into the air and pushes himself off hard cement. Balances with the cane.
Cheap beer is abandoned on the step.
He walks forward three steps and turns back around so he’s facing the colorful commotion behind the glass. He wishes he could let himself fall back. But that would hurt. Bad. Instead he rewinds the order of actions he took to stand up and lets himself down on the sea of patchy white.
A slight jolt of pain makes him grunt. He ignores it and leans back until he’s lying flat with limbs outstretched. The cane beside his leg.
“What are you doing?”
He smirks wide to the sky. Way to make a girl notice. “What does it look like? An invitation for sex?”
He emphasizes the word to make her uncomfortable. He knows the partiers won’t hear over their own preoccupation, not to mention a certain someone’s shrill hyena-laughter.
She rolls her eyes. “Funny.”
His smirk widens into a grin.
“What, never seen this before? You need to try it, trust me. It’s incredibly fun.”
“Are you drunk?” She takes a mouthful this time, of the champagne. “Because you are.”
“Never mind me. Look at you.”
Conscious, she frowns slightly and sets the glass down beside the Miller bottle. Coors, whichever.
“Snow angel.” He says.
“What?” She has the cheap beer bottle in her hands now. Puts her lips against the opening and tilts her head back. It tastes awful. But filling. She gives a few coughs when her head nods back down.
“Stop drinking.”
She tilts her head back once more.
“Hey. Stop drinking my beer.”
“I’m not.” Comes out as a gurgle. “Mmno.”
She takes another drink. Splutters this time. It makes her stand up and cough twice once thrice once.
“Hand me that.”
She stills herself first. Then reluctantly, walks over. Stands above him at his shoulder and stretches her arm out straight, the Coors-Miller bottle hanging by the neck in her hand.
He pries it out of her grasp and sits up to finish it in one turn before tossing it aside. The yard duty won’t be happy.
“There. No more.”
“Hey…” Her knees buckle beneath her and she lands next to him. Distance not so sparing. He senses this is rational cue for him to leave.
“Go back inside.”
“No.”
“It’s.” He struggles with word choice. “Cold. Out here.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Cameron, you’re drunk.”
“Why? You don’t think it’s pretty?”
His turn to roll the eyes. “That’s not the point.”
“Do you think it’s pretty or not?”
He almost laughs. “I’ll get someone to take you inside.” He starts up but feels a hand clutch his collar. Her grip is tight and forceful.
“Why won’t you tell me what you think?” He’s taken aback. “Tell me. Because I don’t know.”
He’s unsure of how to respond now. He can tell her she’s drunk over and over again. Or he can simply respond. But she’s drunk. There’s no rationality in saying otherwise.
“Cameron.”
He has her attention now. Now. He can tell her she’s drunk. Clearly. Coherently.
“…No. I don’t think it’s pretty.” He lets it seep in, watching her expression closely. “I think it’s fucking cold.”
“Hush.” She cups a hand over his mouth. His stubble’s rough. He grins against the warmth of her fingers and sees the faint smile on her lips.
“Good. Now I know.”
End.
---
Title: In A Name
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: Fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Not a trace.
Summary: House comes knocking on Cameron's door and finds out what's really in a name. Possession. Mostly light stuff, flirting.
Word Count: 854
For: bytheshoreline for being a great friend and wonderful beta. Thanks hun *hugs*
Clunk clunk.
She sighs. The couch pillows were just starting to mold to her comfort too. Maybe another time.
She pulls herself up and opens the door lazily.
“Huh. You actually have a solid door.”
His blue eyes seem exceptionally … blue, today. There’s that cheeky grin on his face that she loves so much. He’ll never know though, that’s for sure.
“Apparently.” She’s surprised she’s this calm. “What’s up? Something happen to-”
“The patient, is fine.” His stern gaze assures her. (As if he can’t open those eyes any wider.) “If she did kick off, I would have called instead of crawling up three flights of stairs.”
“Two. And no, you wouldn’t have.”
“You’re right. I would have done nothing. Well, maybe cry a little.” He mock ponders with a pout.
“Right,” She mutters and nods once. “You-hey.” He’s slid past her, his nose scrunched up and leading the way. He sniffs, brows contorted in bemusement. Looks like amusement.
“What are you doing?” She closes the door behind her and steps closer. Curious. Her arms wrapped around each other and dangling at her waist.
He continues sniffing, once thrice. “Something smells fishy.”
She laughs and her arms return to her side. “I wouldn’t use that word. It’s probably just Tom. He’s in the bedroom.”
He spins around such that if she were blind, she would still see him. Feel the whip of air. A shade of something between murder and incredulity casts over his face. Especially prominent in those eyes.
“Tom?”
“Tom.” A chipper smile on her lips. Kind of like when a botanist brags of his petunias. “You want to meet him?”
He hasn’t noticed his mouth hanging slightly open. Masking it by exaggerating the space between his lips, cynicism comes and goes quicker than drive-thru. “Actually, I prefer naked women over naked men.” He makes a point to start toward the door. “But don’t be offended. That’s just me.” Tops it off with a whole-hearted mock smile. That should do.
“Don’t be shy.” He sees her perked eyebrows. “Come on.” She closes her slender fingers around the exposed skin of his wrist before he can make another move.
And this is the reason a responsible man (like Wilson-no, he only pretends) buttons up the ends of their shirt sleeves.
“Slow down.” He murmurs.
His right wrist is cuffed in her right hand, which creates quite a problem with him following behind. A) Limp backwards or B) round to her left with an arm wrapped around her waist.
Decision decision.
For any man with his mind in working order the choice is easier than adding one to one. (Almost.) In his book there’s always letter C) though, penciled in messily at the last second.
C) He trots behind her, balancing between not stepping on her slippers and not falling over his own limp. The awkward dance lasts all the way into her sun-drenched bedroom. Like a comic skit.
To his relief, the blankets and hug pillows appear doused in a deep sleep, placed neatly atop her bed, looking more composed than he ever will.
He can’t feel her fingers around his wrist, but they’re there. He knows when he looks down and sees they’re still there. Before he can mutter about blood circulation, he sees her hand release upon uttering a name.
“Tom?”
It makes him churn inside. Sick. He watches her peer inside the walk-in-closet. Disappear inside. He waits. Taps the cane. Waits.
Can’t wait any longer.
He tells himself he doesn’t have to take this. He can leave. (Should.) But there’s someone he needs to see first.
“Meet my boss.”
There’s a wide grin on her face (again the botanist look) and a bundle of gray in her arms.
He wants to sock himself. “Tom…is a cat?” Right until the last tooth falls out.
“Hm?” Raised eyebrows. “Yeah, what did you think he was?”
He interjects quickly before she can let her mind roam. “A puppy.” He nods. One too many times.
“Ah.”
She walks closer, causing the ball of well-groomed fur-ball to stir with a low growl. A warning.
“I don’t like cats.” He leans his head away.
“Why not? Cats love their owner, they just get edgy when strangers are near.” She pauses tactfully. “Cats, are possessive.”
He sees a subtle smirk. Realizes he needs to find his footing first.
“Cats. Scratch.” He steps clear when he hisses. He, Tom, the cat.
“Only when they don’t know how to express their affections. When they’ve forgotten how to purr.” The botanist smile turns into a triumphant hero grin. Villain perhaps.
For too long a moment he studies her. Her gaze is relentless yet casual.
“…You named your cat Tom?” Insults are veils.
“Your mother named you Greg.” She likes cold hard facts.
“Gregory.”
“Thomas.”
There’s a pause that never occurs in Kindergarten arguments.
“Gregory’s a better name.” Sticking out a tongue seems most appropriate for the occasion. But of course, he refrains. Like he refrains from reaching for her waist and claiming her lips.
She merely laughs. Something about five year olds.
End.
Hope you liked :)
frustrated]
[music| Cold Water ~ Damien Rice]
Happy New Years Eve everyone! :D And Happy New Year to those of you on the other side of the date line! :D
So, the first drabble turned into this drinking thing. The fluff? Blame The Beatles and their happy songs, they make me hyper and giggly. I also realized afterwards that the same question appears in both drabbles, purely incidental. See if you can spot it ;)
---
Title: Snow Angel
Pairings: House/Cameron
Rating: R-ish for: Heavy alcohol. F-word once. Poking fun at Cuddy because she's great :D
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Nope.
Summary: They sit ouside while the New Years Eve party goes on indoors. Someone gets drunk.
Word Count: 895
She sips sparkling champagne. While him, bottled beer.
They sit on snow padded steps. Six feet behind, inside, the conference room bustles with noise. Heat. Excitement. Alcohol. Most will walk or take a bus home tonight.
He’d found her outside. Alone. When he had decided to sneak out. Wasn’t a hard decision between a room full of rambling idiots and a bottle of scotch accompanied by Verdi. After all, he was only there on account of Cuddy. Cuddy and her promise that there would be imported Bushmills. He was a fool to believe it.
The distance between him and her is sparing. He watches snow pile between them. She follows a snowflake until it catches a branch or lands in the bed of foaming white. Then another. And another.
The contrast of white on white is bright. Daring. She notices this.
He isn’t sure why he’s there. On the steps in the mild snowdrift with his jeans frostbitten to cement. But he’s there.
He takes a swig out of the narrow glass opening. Miller or Coors, it doesn’t matter. One tastes as bad as the other.
The silence is comforting. Almost warming. Peaceful.
Peace never last though, a shot of hysterical laughter lunges through glass doors, trespassing crudely into the outside world. He doesn’t have to turn to see that it’s Cuddy. He smirks at the notion of a drunken administrator.
She still hasn’t spoken.
If she won’t then he won’t. He’s set. He’ll make her talk first. It’s juvenile.
So he studies her. How she’s wound her hair into a bun. How tresses of caramel hung out from behind her ears. How they trail around her neck. How her dress is chaste ivory as if to melt into the snow. How loose and fragile it looks. How pristine she looks.
Another shot of laughter rings out, not just Cuddy now. He curses them under his breath for spoiling the moment. Then he lets out a puff of white into the air and pushes himself off hard cement. Balances with the cane.
Cheap beer is abandoned on the step.
He walks forward three steps and turns back around so he’s facing the colorful commotion behind the glass. He wishes he could let himself fall back. But that would hurt. Bad. Instead he rewinds the order of actions he took to stand up and lets himself down on the sea of patchy white.
A slight jolt of pain makes him grunt. He ignores it and leans back until he’s lying flat with limbs outstretched. The cane beside his leg.
“What are you doing?”
He smirks wide to the sky. Way to make a girl notice. “What does it look like? An invitation for sex?”
He emphasizes the word to make her uncomfortable. He knows the partiers won’t hear over their own preoccupation, not to mention a certain someone’s shrill hyena-laughter.
She rolls her eyes. “Funny.”
His smirk widens into a grin.
“What, never seen this before? You need to try it, trust me. It’s incredibly fun.”
“Are you drunk?” She takes a mouthful this time, of the champagne. “Because you are.”
“Never mind me. Look at you.”
Conscious, she frowns slightly and sets the glass down beside the Miller bottle. Coors, whichever.
“Snow angel.” He says.
“What?” She has the cheap beer bottle in her hands now. Puts her lips against the opening and tilts her head back. It tastes awful. But filling. She gives a few coughs when her head nods back down.
“Stop drinking.”
She tilts her head back once more.
“Hey. Stop drinking my beer.”
“I’m not.” Comes out as a gurgle. “Mmno.”
She takes another drink. Splutters this time. It makes her stand up and cough twice once thrice once.
“Hand me that.”
She stills herself first. Then reluctantly, walks over. Stands above him at his shoulder and stretches her arm out straight, the Coors-Miller bottle hanging by the neck in her hand.
He pries it out of her grasp and sits up to finish it in one turn before tossing it aside. The yard duty won’t be happy.
“There. No more.”
“Hey…” Her knees buckle beneath her and she lands next to him. Distance not so sparing. He senses this is rational cue for him to leave.
“Go back inside.”
“No.”
“It’s.” He struggles with word choice. “Cold. Out here.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Cameron, you’re drunk.”
“Why? You don’t think it’s pretty?”
His turn to roll the eyes. “That’s not the point.”
“Do you think it’s pretty or not?”
He almost laughs. “I’ll get someone to take you inside.” He starts up but feels a hand clutch his collar. Her grip is tight and forceful.
“Why won’t you tell me what you think?” He’s taken aback. “Tell me. Because I don’t know.”
He’s unsure of how to respond now. He can tell her she’s drunk over and over again. Or he can simply respond. But she’s drunk. There’s no rationality in saying otherwise.
“Cameron.”
He has her attention now. Now. He can tell her she’s drunk. Clearly. Coherently.
“…No. I don’t think it’s pretty.” He lets it seep in, watching her expression closely. “I think it’s fucking cold.”
“Hush.” She cups a hand over his mouth. His stubble’s rough. He grins against the warmth of her fingers and sees the faint smile on her lips.
“Good. Now I know.”
End.
---
Title: In A Name
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: Fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Not a trace.
Summary: House comes knocking on Cameron's door and finds out what's really in a name. Possession. Mostly light stuff, flirting.
Word Count: 854
For: bytheshoreline for being a great friend and wonderful beta. Thanks hun *hugs*
Clunk clunk.
She sighs. The couch pillows were just starting to mold to her comfort too. Maybe another time.
She pulls herself up and opens the door lazily.
“Huh. You actually have a solid door.”
His blue eyes seem exceptionally … blue, today. There’s that cheeky grin on his face that she loves so much. He’ll never know though, that’s for sure.
“Apparently.” She’s surprised she’s this calm. “What’s up? Something happen to-”
“The patient, is fine.” His stern gaze assures her. (As if he can’t open those eyes any wider.) “If she did kick off, I would have called instead of crawling up three flights of stairs.”
“Two. And no, you wouldn’t have.”
“You’re right. I would have done nothing. Well, maybe cry a little.” He mock ponders with a pout.
“Right,” She mutters and nods once. “You-hey.” He’s slid past her, his nose scrunched up and leading the way. He sniffs, brows contorted in bemusement. Looks like amusement.
“What are you doing?” She closes the door behind her and steps closer. Curious. Her arms wrapped around each other and dangling at her waist.
He continues sniffing, once thrice. “Something smells fishy.”
She laughs and her arms return to her side. “I wouldn’t use that word. It’s probably just Tom. He’s in the bedroom.”
He spins around such that if she were blind, she would still see him. Feel the whip of air. A shade of something between murder and incredulity casts over his face. Especially prominent in those eyes.
“Tom?”
“Tom.” A chipper smile on her lips. Kind of like when a botanist brags of his petunias. “You want to meet him?”
He hasn’t noticed his mouth hanging slightly open. Masking it by exaggerating the space between his lips, cynicism comes and goes quicker than drive-thru. “Actually, I prefer naked women over naked men.” He makes a point to start toward the door. “But don’t be offended. That’s just me.” Tops it off with a whole-hearted mock smile. That should do.
“Don’t be shy.” He sees her perked eyebrows. “Come on.” She closes her slender fingers around the exposed skin of his wrist before he can make another move.
And this is the reason a responsible man (like Wilson-no, he only pretends) buttons up the ends of their shirt sleeves.
“Slow down.” He murmurs.
His right wrist is cuffed in her right hand, which creates quite a problem with him following behind. A) Limp backwards or B) round to her left with an arm wrapped around her waist.
Decision decision.
For any man with his mind in working order the choice is easier than adding one to one. (Almost.) In his book there’s always letter C) though, penciled in messily at the last second.
C) He trots behind her, balancing between not stepping on her slippers and not falling over his own limp. The awkward dance lasts all the way into her sun-drenched bedroom. Like a comic skit.
To his relief, the blankets and hug pillows appear doused in a deep sleep, placed neatly atop her bed, looking more composed than he ever will.
He can’t feel her fingers around his wrist, but they’re there. He knows when he looks down and sees they’re still there. Before he can mutter about blood circulation, he sees her hand release upon uttering a name.
“Tom?”
It makes him churn inside. Sick. He watches her peer inside the walk-in-closet. Disappear inside. He waits. Taps the cane. Waits.
Can’t wait any longer.
He tells himself he doesn’t have to take this. He can leave. (Should.) But there’s someone he needs to see first.
“Meet my boss.”
There’s a wide grin on her face (again the botanist look) and a bundle of gray in her arms.
He wants to sock himself. “Tom…is a cat?” Right until the last tooth falls out.
“Hm?” Raised eyebrows. “Yeah, what did you think he was?”
He interjects quickly before she can let her mind roam. “A puppy.” He nods. One too many times.
“Ah.”
She walks closer, causing the ball of well-groomed fur-ball to stir with a low growl. A warning.
“I don’t like cats.” He leans his head away.
“Why not? Cats love their owner, they just get edgy when strangers are near.” She pauses tactfully. “Cats, are possessive.”
He sees a subtle smirk. Realizes he needs to find his footing first.
“Cats. Scratch.” He steps clear when he hisses. He, Tom, the cat.
“Only when they don’t know how to express their affections. When they’ve forgotten how to purr.” The botanist smile turns into a triumphant hero grin. Villain perhaps.
For too long a moment he studies her. Her gaze is relentless yet casual.
“…You named your cat Tom?” Insults are veils.
“Your mother named you Greg.” She likes cold hard facts.
“Gregory.”
“Thomas.”
There’s a pause that never occurs in Kindergarten arguments.
“Gregory’s a better name.” Sticking out a tongue seems most appropriate for the occasion. But of course, he refrains. Like he refrains from reaching for her waist and claiming her lips.
She merely laughs. Something about five year olds.
End.
Hope you liked :)