Lindsay Monroe for alphabetdrabble
Lindsay goes to visit Stella in the hospital. The other woman is shaking- not enough that you’d notice, but shaking. There seem to be too many bandages and it’s more than a little scary. At least Stella manages a smile when she sees her, no matter how bruised and small she looks in her hospital gown.
She lays down the flowers at the end of the bed and bites her lower lip, awkward as always. Stella gives her a smile, and they embrace wordlessly, swift and hard. The world’s cracking itself apart around them; maybe nothing can hold it together.
Lindsay is at her desk when Danny’s cellphone goes off. He pulls it out of his pocket, silencing Chris Martin mid-note.
Lindsay keeps typing, teeth gritted. It’s important that this report is finished. CSIs are not supposed to be distracted by their attractive coworkers, no matter how adorable their smile.
Really, what is it to her if Danny has a girlfriend? It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Next day it’s the same thing: Coldplay issuing from Danny’s phone, imploring let’s talk, let’s talk.
As Danny cheerfully picks up, Lindsay bitterly reflects that he really does talk too much.
There are candles burning softly on the table, a bottle of white wine with the chill just starting to wear off, sparkling silverware set on either side of plates piled with sumptuous food that someone must have been cooking all afternoon. Lindsay notes the oysters- a known aphrodisiac- with a small smile. He’s been wearing an expensive suit. And she-whoever she is- is wearing a beautiful deep red dress. They would probably be very happy together, were it not for the shotgun wounds in their chests. Danny makes some comment about Romeo and Juliet, and Lindsay sighs and starts processing.
Lindsay’s cellphone rings about five minutes into the intermission of Cosí Fan Tutte. It’s a tired-sounding police officer on the other end of the line asking her to drop whatever she’s doing; they’ve got a DB that’s fallen on top of a train, Danny’s already there, and Mac is on his way. They need her as soon as possible, night off be damned.
Lindsay snaps her phone shut, repeatedly apologises to her date (fully aware that it sounds like she’s arranged this), and hurries out, mentally sighing because she has absolutely no time to change out of her beautiful dress.
Sam Carter/Jack O’Neill for alphabetdrabble
Sam’s fingers gently stroke across the scar that cuts right through Jack’s left eyebrow, and then presses a kiss to it. She only vaguely remembers when he got it- one of their earliest missions, somewhere in between him leering at her cleavage in that dress he and Daniel forced her into, and her jumping him a couple of weeks later when she got sick. Sam blushes even at the memory. The first few years together, the only times they ever touched each other were because one or both of them had been infected by some kind of alien virus. Figures.
Jack could have been retired for the rest of his life, could have spent years sitting by the lake waiting for the fish that don’t exist to hook themselves onto the end of his line. Could have got a dog. Could have happily spent his remaining years drinking beer and making omelettes (he wishes he could cook. He can’t) and watching The Simpsons. And then Daniel Jackson came and so did Catherine and they pulled him out of retirement, and he might have gone back into his depressing nothingness were it not for a woman in blue called Samantha Carter.
It’s not in Jack’s nature to dwell too much on anything- part of that lovely warm sarcastic shell is just there so he doesn’t need to think much about anything. But some big/little part of him does dwell on Sam. Dwells on more than just her rather perfect physical attributes. He thinks about her smile, her laugh, her science, borrows a book from his local library on astrophysics, and then returns it unopened, because he can’t help thinking that Carter really wouldn’t like it nearly so much if he had a basic understanding of what she was babbling on about.
Everything hurts vividly but indirectly, and that could be painkillers or it could all be imaginary. Sam hopes it isn’t. Hopes she isn’t aboard Prometheus crazy and alone. Not with the way Jack’s hands are cupping her face and his mouth is connected with hers, not with the way she’s straddling him and strands of her hair are caught between his fingers, not with the way he feels so right and real against her. But she is aware that she’s injured and not in touch with reality, so she waits for the hallucination/dream that is Jack- Colonel O’Neill- to disappear.
House/Chase/Wilson for drabbles100
008. Weeks (105)
“You knew,” Chase says softly, “You knew for weeks and weeks and you were- you were fucking waiting for him to die. And you knew what was going to happen and you- and you didn’t say a word.”
House looks back at him with general disinterest in his eyes, cane tapping against the floor, the beat saying hurry up, make your point, go away. Wilson sits beside him, lower lip caught between his teeth, a look of general apology on his face, but ultimately not all that sorry either.
Chase looks from one to the other and honestly can’t tell which man’s a bigger bastard.
075. Shattered (111)
“Stay away from Wilson,” House snarls. His knuckles hurt but he resists the urge to rub them. Chase is still sprawled on the floor, blonde hair in his eyes, but he still manages to look up at House with more backbone than House would ever have given him credit for. No mafia-style slaps for House; no, he goes straight for a good, hard punch.
“But who are you jealous of?” Chase enquires softly, tongue flicking out to lick at the blood coming from a cut at the corner of his lips. House drags him to his feet and their mouths clash a moment later, answering the question perfectly. Or maybe not.
095. New Year (100)
Chase is alone. He has absolutely nowhere that he wants to be. He watches people hugging each other on TV and hears distant backyard fireworks. At midnight he drinks yet another shot of Jack Daniel’s, and counts off the twelve chimes of the clock, and then sits there in silence, listening to the sounds of celebrations echoing into his apartment. And he vaguely wonders, for a brief and surprisingly painful moment, if House and Wilson ever kiss on the stroke of the New Year, mouths sliding together, just shutting out the rest of the world the way they always do.
Cameron/Stacy for femslash100
The fuck-me shoes are catching a lot of attention. House won’t stop teasing, Wilson’s got his eyebrows raised and Cuddy is resoundingly not looking because she thinks she knows why Stacy’s wearing them and who for (for the record; she’s wrong). As for Mark, well, Stacy will have to get them off before he comes home.
Red, deep red, with heels too high for comfort. Against her dark pantsuit they look good. And Dr Allison Cameron from the diagnostics department on the fourth floor has been crossing her legs all day, teeth grazing her lower lip while murmuring things that would mess up the patient if taken seriously.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Cameron says much later, when the shoes are on the floor and so is everything else and the lighting in Stacy’s office is pretty much non-existent. Stacy smiles in reply but it isn’t a promise.
House has been reading the newspaper today and the black ink left on his fingers smears itself backwards onto Cameron’s skin; tantalising glimpses of words so smudged that no one will ever be able to read them. She blushes magenta when Stacy notices the dark marks around her wrists, pulling the cuffs of her shirt down to hide them, but Stacy also realises that Cameron has made no effort to wash away the marks. Like she wants House on her all day.
Stacy, even in her jealousy, wonders just how much of Allison’s body has newspaper print on it, and whether it’s rubbing off on her clothes into non-existence.
She knows that if she ever gets her hands on Allison, the marks won’t wash away, and won’t fade for days.