Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip

Drabble (well, almost) Madness #1

Drabbles part 1. Categorised kind of madly, just poke around until it looks like one you requested. The thing is; these aren’t really drabbles. They’re ficlets. Because each one is at least 500 words long. I was just having such a nice time writing them. I’ve done one for everyone who requested before 6:30 pm last night (and then by the time I’d finished writing it was 2 a.m and I had to go to sleep so I could get up for work), and I’ll be along with lots and lots more in the next few days.

If you haven't asked for things, ask here

House MD [No crossovers]

For: leiascully
Title: Entropy (And Its Detrimental Affect On Dinner Parties)
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Cuddy
Word Count: 620
Prompt: tequila and/or fundraisers [I chose ‘and’]
Notes: Heh. I just had this mental image and tried to get it down.

“The oncology department really don’t need another ward, do they?” Chase says hopelessly. “I mean, can’t you cram a few more beds into the wards you already have? How much space does the average dying person need?”

“You’re very insensitive,” Cuddy tells him, a look of disapproval on her face, slightly offset by the fact she’s kind of drunk.

They’re sat in her office with the blinds closed and the lights off, listening to the chaos happen a long way away.

“Yes, but you don’t seem to have any ways to get hold of money that don’t end in madness and you threatening to fire House again,” Chase points out, reaching for the tequila bottle sitting on the carpet between then. “Shouldn’t you be out there?” he adds, jerking his head to indicate the shouting and general insanity happening in the clinic.

“I’m indisposed,” Cuddy says, giving him a look, and snatching the tequila back.

“But you’re the Dean of Medicine at this hospital-”

“Would you be out there if you were me?” Cuddy asks, raising an eyebrow. Chase thinks about it. House, in a moment of infinite wisdom, deciding that it was the only way to solve his case, exposed half the staff present at Cuddy’s fundraising dinner party to a potentially fatal tropical disease. Cameron and Foreman couldn’t stop him and Chase didn’t even try, because that cane really hurts when House hits you with it. There was shouting and screaming and terror and lawyers and House was standing in the middle of it all, grinning and triumphant.

Chase left Wilson to deal with it, and went to seek refuge somewhere quiet and resolutely House-free. He tried Cuddy’s office and found it unlocked; Cuddy was hiding under the desk with a bottle of tequila (“I know I prefer spritzers. Tequila was more portable. And a bit more potent”), looking exhausted.

“You’re indisposed,” he agrees. Cuddy smirks in the half-light.

“I don’t know why I bother sometimes,” she says. Chase leaps on this because he can’t help it.

“Why do you keep House here?” he asks curiously. Cuddy groans, and slides a little further (they’re leant against the door, trying to make sure no one can see they’re in here and attempt to come and hide too).

Don’t ask me that, Chase,” she orders, “I’m not going to tell you.”

“I’m just curious,” he says. Cuddy pushes the tequila in his direction, the intent clearly being stop being curious; drink and just shut up. Chase doesn’t intend to stop being curious, but he’s not one to turn down alcohol, especially on an evening like this one.

“Fundraising never ends well here,” Cuddy complains.

“I liked the poker evening,” Chase says. Everyone looked lovely in formalwear and there was plenty of alcohol.

“It was fine,” Cuddy replies, “In between the bits where House was trying to make a small child dead.”

Chase bites his lip. She has a point. And tonight’s fiasco – House’s fault again – implies that Oncology aren’t going to get their new ward anytime soon. Cuddy takes the tequila back and looks thoughtful.

“Maybe we should have one of those slave auctions,” she says, smirking slightly, “Auction off Doctor Cameron. I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t bid.”

Chase leans into her shoulder, decides he’s drunk enough to let go of his inhibitions, and says:

“I wouldn’t.”

Cuddy meets his gaze.

“Coming onto your boss. You’re just a well of Really Good Ideas, aren’t you, Chase?”

But she isn’t pulling away.

“You could go back and deal with the chaos House caused,” he suggests.

“You cocky little-” she begins, but stops and smiles. And Chase thinks that maybe this evening might not be a total loss after all.

For: deelaundry
Title: Sunlight On Blonde
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Chase/Wilson
Word Count: 654
Prompt: “Chase is an attending now, Cuddy. You can’t say a damn thing”
Notes: I don’t know what we have instead of attendings in the UK, but I watch lots of ER so it’s ok ;) I don’t know what I was trying to achieve with this, but it was nice to write. Future(and a bit cracky)!fic.

Around eighteen months after his fellowship ended and he decided that it was really, really time to leave, Chase comes back to Princeton/Plainsboro. He’s got a distracting tan and is almost white-blonde from all the sunshine in Australia, a wicked smile, and has inexplicably become an attending. He works in the ICU now, and spends about three weeks avoiding House.

This is hardly fair. House is amusing himself with watching Wilson’s Divorce Number Four proceedings (because Jimmy, although he is quite attractive and owns a lot of ties, never ever learns), and Wilson has actually moved in with him again (although he isn’t sleeping on the couch anymore; maybe he has learned a thing or two), but he can’t help feeling that having a tanned, blonde plaything might considerably brighten up clinic duty.

Foreman left for L.A a while ago and Cameron gave up not all that long after Chase left, so House is surrounded by moronic new fellows who still seem to care a little too much and don’t know to get Reuben sandwiches without pickles, so House has to spend most of his time patronising them and attempting to work out what their secret trauma is so he can abuse it as much as possible. Chase’s daddy issues were fun (although they rapidly became not fun, and kind of more tiresome and excessive).

“You’re avoiding me,” he announces, dropping in uninvited when Chase is trying to intubate a crashing patient.

“Yes, I’m trying to do my job; silly, silly me,” Chase mutters, flashing him an irritated look as he finally gets the tube in and connects the bag, handing the whole thing over to a nurse and snapping his gloves off. He does this smoothly and effectively and a whole lot more efficiently than he used to; House supposes that a lot more than just Chase’s haircut has changed in the last year and a half.

“But you worked for me for four years,” he says, “And then when you come back you don’t even drop by and say ‘hello’. I’m wounded.”

They walk out into the hall.

“You’re not,” Chase replies.

“I didn’t know they transplanted backbones in Australia,” House says brightly, “They’ve done a fantastic job with yours, I must congratulate the surgeon.”

Chase gives him one of those pissed-off-rich-boy looks he’s oh so good at, which tells House that not all that much has changed.

“Is this ‘cause you still have that crush on me?” he asks cheerfully.

A rather pretty blush spreads over Chase’s cheeks.

“Come on,” House says, suppressing a smug grin, “Wilson’s been missing you something dreadful.”

Chase’s look is priceless and says a thousand (rather irritated) words, but he’s still blushing, which House takes to be a good sign.

Wilson’s office has fewer glass walls than his own and an entirely opaque door, and after a few suggestions and a lot more blushing on Chase’s part and the fact House has to keep dragging Wilson’s attention away from just how blonde Chase’s sun-bleached hair really is, things get a whole lot more fun and interesting.

Which is when, of course, Cuddy walks in.

The whole situation is rather compromising, which is all to the good, and House is suddenly reminded of one of Cuddy’s rather more entertaining lectures/rants a couple of years back, the topic of which seemed to be “stop attempting to corrupt your fellow; it’s irresponsible and a bit tasteless”.

“Chase is an attending now, Cuddy. You can’t say a damn thing,” he tells her, and he knows that smugness isn’t the most attractive of qualities, but it is so very fun.

Cuddy regards all three of them for a long moment.

“House, you’re due in the clinic,” she informs. And then she just walks out, and House swears he can hear her laughing.

“I bet you’re really glad you came back now,” Wilson whispers to Chase. Chase shrugs.

“It could be worse.”

Torchwood [No crossovers]

For: sparrowette
Title: Can’t Take Me Anywhere
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Ianto
Word Count: 682
Prompt: Owen and Ianto trying to have dinner in public (key word: trying)
Notes: There were about eight ways to approach this prompt; I picked this one. *grins*

Owen should have known, right from the offset, that this was going to end in tears and flames and screaming. He just didn’t think that it would be literally. However, being a member of Torchwood means that you forfeit the right to a normal life and any sort of social life, and he supposes morosely that this means when two members of the team attempt to have a social life together, it just means double the chaos.

He could have done without the actual Armageddon outside the window though. From this angle it kind of looks like Jack is on fire.

Ianto, of course, being irritatingly unflappable, is steadily eating his way through his salad and studying the dessert menu.

“The cheesecake sounds good,” he remarks. Owen just stares at him.

“Ianto,” he says, “There is a giant fire-breathing thing outside the window trying to incinerate our leader, and it seems to be impervious to the huge gun thing Gwen is firing at it.” He cranes his neck. “I didn’t know we had one of those in the armoury. That’s cool.”

“It’s a hybrid of a P-90 and a piece of tech that came through the Rift in 1972,” Ianto tells him without looking up, “The accompanying card says that it can fire missiles at around 90 miles an hour without any sort of kickback. I never found anywhere safe to actually prove it, though.”

Owen watches Gwen fire it again. 90 mph is certainly plausible.

“I have got to get me one of those,” he says.

“I shudder to think at the kind of damage you could cause,” Ianto murmurs dryly. “I’ll eat yours, if you don’t want it.”

“There’s an alien trying to murder Tosh,” Owen points out.

“Yes,” Ianto looks unbelievably tired, “But I never get evenings off, so I am going to cling onto this one until the creature flies through the window of this restaurant and steals my cheesecake. And you asked me to dinner, so if you’ve decided this was a stupid idea and you want to pretend it isn’t happening, then that’s your problem and not mine.”

Ianto is wearing jeans and a loose black shirt. He looks more edible than the meal steaming away in front of him. Owen decides not to mention this to Ianto, but he could never regret his decision. It’s just being a little bit awkward, right now, what with the fact that Jack is running down the street with the back of his coat on fire right outside the window.

“What if they die?” he asks, tearing his eyes away from the jet of flame that only just misses Gwen and Tosh; they throw themselves flat onto the concrete.

“Well then,” Ianto says, “It will be very sad, and we will obviously hurry out without paying the bill in order to organise the paperwork.”

“You’re completely mad,” Owen mumbles, getting started on his dinner before it gets cold.

“I just want to have one evening when I don’t have to worry about saving the world,” Ianto tells him, a wry smile on his lips. “You have to admit, it’s a fairly small request, as requests go.”

“You’re in the wrong job for that,” Owen points out, “And the wrong city too.”

Ianto shrugs. Owen glances out the window. The shops across the street are now on fire, and he can hear sirens approaching. The creature does seem to be out for the count, though, so it could be worse.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s just pay up and have dessert back at my place.”

Ianto finally looks at the carnage outside the window and gives him a sheepish smile.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he admits.

Jack, rather singed-looking, waves jauntily at them as they walk past. They haven’t got all that far away when there’s a loud crunching sound and a lot of screaming. Owen is about to look back, and then shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know.

“Next time,” he says, as Ianto starts laughing, “We’re just having a takeaway in the Hub, all right?”

Doctor Who [No crossovers]

For: taffimai
Title: [Almost Entirely] Shameless
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Jack/Ten
Word Count: 512
Prompt: “Blush”
Notes: I’m going to be unrepentent about the fluffyness of this. Set after “Parting Of The Ways”, this is a shiny AU version as to how I’d like Jack and The Doctor to meet again.

Captain Jack Harkness (the “Captain” bit is stolen, but he’ll cling onto it until his fingers are pried from its neck, or at least he gets the opportunity to nick a “Commander”) has made a lengthy and illustrious career out of not blushing. After all, if you’re going to rampage around the galaxy, some of the time wearing little more than a smile, propositioning people or persuading them to proposition you (because variety is always fun), then getting embarrassed easily isn’t exactly a good character trait. So he spent years un-learning how to blush.

(Although he had a shameless streak to begin with.)

It’s a Thursday, an upmarket bar on the very accommodating planet of Rygas-9, lavender-coloured rain is pattering down on the pavements outside, and Jack has drunk just enough Hyper Vodka for the world to be going cheerfully wavy around the edges. There are at least seven very beautiful people in this bar, and if Jack has his way, he will sleep with three, if not more, in the next four hours. This has the look of a potentially brilliant evening.

A man sits down on a barstool beside him, ordering a glass of water (ordinarily, Jack would think of this as a sign of someone positively avoiding having a good time, but even the water here is 2% pure ethanol). Jack doesn’t look up for a moment, amusing himself chasing the (bright blue) olive in the bottom of his glass around with a cocktail stick, and when he does he is greeted with the sight of a youngish man with ridiculously wild hair grinning madly at him.

In spite of the manic edge to the grin, it’s a lovely smile that makes the man’s eyes light up, and there’s an adorably liberal sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. Jack knows that he’s light-headed from the vodka, but he shouldn’t be this light-headed; not this early in the evening, anyway. He lets his gaze slide down, over a pinstriped suit, down to a pair of rather incongruous red high-topped sneakers.

“Captain Harkness,” the other man says, rolling the words around his mouth in a cheerful fashion, “Long time no see. And may I say you’re looking good.” There’s a pause while his eyes slide down over Jack’s white t-shirt, black jeans. “Very good. I’m impressed.”

Jack feels his cheeks flush with heat, which is stupid. Except that maybe, maybe it’s not.

After all, there’s only one man who’s ever been able to make him blush quite like this.

“Doctor,” he says, a faintly crazily happy smile spreading over his own face, “You’re not looking so bad yourself.”

He thinks that he had things he was going to say to the Doctor when he next met him, things like you left me for dead, and that was really quite hurtful, but now, now that he’s blushing like a schoolgirl boy, with seemingly no control over it, the only thing he can think of to do is order another Hyper Vodka, sit back, and wait and see what happens next.

Firefly [No crossovers]

For: little_red_kite
Title: Ruby Through The Looking Glass
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: River/Inara
Word Count: 650
Prompt: “Ruby Through The Looking Glass” (Tori Amos)
Notes: This was supposed to be ”something that would be Carly-friendly, considering she has only seen like 1 1/2 episodes of Firefly, but will make her want to watch more” (yes, I have friends who talk about themselves in the 3rd person). I don’t know if I achieved it but it was crazy fun to write either way.

Running through the house screaming, girl unstrung; you could always play that one
Tori Amos

The girl in Inara’s mirror is young, excessively so. Her eyes are large and wide and staring quizzically forwards, and there is the slightest of creases between her eyebrows, as though she is confused by something too complex to ever figure out. Her dark hair tumbles around her shoulders and down her back, long, long, and Inara, face immaculately painted and dressed in a pale gold robe, is brushing it. Inara is good at brushing hair; never tugs like Simon does, and she has a beautiful brush with a little geisha girl painted delicately on the back. The girl in the mirror smiles suddenly, as though thinking something that pleases or amuses her. She twists her fingers together in her lap.

You can’t take your eyes off the girl. You feel like you know her, but you can’t think why you would. You don’t know any girls. Sometimes you think that you’re one yourself, but it all snaps into shards and most of the time you just think that you’re shaped fire. All wrapped up and blunted but one day-

Inara lays her brush down on the dressing table. You reach out to pick it up and look at the picture painted on it, run your fingers over the rough bristles. When you next glance up, the girl in the mirror is having her hair braided back and little gold combs holding it back. She already looks older than she did. You can feel slight tugging on your own scalp so you look down, twist you hands together. White skin on red silk. White and red. That’s important, but you can’t remember why. You can’t remember why there’s silk either. You don’t wear silk. You would only spoil it. River can’t take care of her things. River breaks them. River was made only to break.

Inara turns her around so she can look at you; there’s a smile on her face. She kneels down, ever graceful, opening a little carved box – everything she has is beautiful, while everything you have is cold, so cold; but you have been taught that you do not deserve beautiful things, you exist only to serve, only to cause destruction – and revealing a sea of colour. You watch black and red and white and sit very, very still, as though you’re made of glass, while she brushes things over your face. You blink when Inara reaches your eyelashes, and she laughs, kissing your forehead. It’s almost enough to make you shatter.

When she’s finished she packs everything back in a neat, straight order that pleases you because it make so much sense, places the box back in the huge chest she keeps in the corner. You and Kaylee have spent hours searching eagerly through, swathes of silk, so fine they’re water in your hands, incense that smells so sweet it makes you think of light and summer and all the things you’re not supposed to think of because they told you not to, pillows and powders and so many colours and scents that it’s overwhelming.

You sit still, and wait to see what is expected of you.

A moment, and Inara walks back across her shuttle to take your hands and help you stand up. She turns you around to face the glass and its occupant. You stare for a long moment at the woman trapped, her dark hair pulled back with shining gold combs, her face painted as elegantly as Inara’s, red silk like a waterfall.

“Look at you,” she says, “Look how beautiful you are.”

You stare.

“That isn’t me,” you explain, unsure why she’s got so confused, “That isn’t me.”

Inara’s smile slips; her eyes fill with what might be tears.

“Oh River,” she says softly, pulling you into a hug that rustles with silk, “Oh mei mei.”

You don’t know what the matter is. So you don’t say anything at all.

For: faith_less_one
Title: Learn The Hard Way
Fandom: Firefly
Character: Inara (and a bit of Kaylee, cuz yay)
Word Count: 590
Prompt: School
Notes: Far angstier than I meant it to be, and I seem to be on a second-person kick, but I like this :)

After dinner one evening (tasteless protein again; sometimes you’re not sure why you bother clinging onto the raggedy edge of the black, but only because you can’t admit the true reason to yourself) Kaylee comes into your shuttle. She’s cleaned up the worst of the engine grease but her elbows and fingernails are black and there’s a smear on her face that she’s forgotten. You smile slightly, and brew you both some tea.

Kaylee sits down in a pile of pillows, crossing her legs and setting out two teacups. Sometimes you think that you live for these moments of silence. When no one is shouting and no one is doing anything obviously illegal and Mal isn’t around twirling your thoughts into something painful and complicated. When you don’t have to lie and don’t have to control your every movement. Except that you do, you always do.

Setting down the teapot, you kneel down, smoothing the silver-blue silk over your legs so it won’t crumple. Kaylee studies you through narrowed eyes.

“You’re always so graceful ‘Nara,” she observes, admiration in her tone. “Like it’s as natural as breathin’.” You smile, and say nothing. “I guess they taught you how ta do all that at the Guild, though.”

Your smile becomes fixed, but you know Kaylee won’t be able to tell; they taught you how to hide the difference between a real smile and one born of sheer necessity.

“They did,” you say. Kaylee’s eyes are shining, and she blows over the top of her teacup, smiling slightly as the steam rises.

“Companion School,” she says, with the wistful tone of the blissfully ignorant, “It must be so… elegant there. Is it, ‘Nara?”

You bite the inside of your mouth to avoid giving a wry laugh. It always sounds like it should be a beautiful, quiet place, where all day little girls dance and make tea and learn to walk in long dresses without tripping. It isn’t. You still shiver from the memories, thirteen, knelt on a cold stone floor until your knees and back ached, your teacher refusing to let you go until you’d perfected the art of serving tea in the most graceful manner possible. Hours spent straightening your spine. Being backhanded across the face if you slouched, or didn’t glide when you walked, or sat down without spreading your dress out evenly and aesthetically.

On your fifteenth birthday, they moved onto how to make love with conviction. Three more years of study. By then, they’d trained the ability to cry out of you, made graceful sweeps of movement second nature, and there was no one you couldn’t seduce. Tricks of the trade stamped and slapped into you. You couldn’t get rid of them if you tried. You’re a companion, down to the bone. And sometimes, sometimes you hate it, and what they did to you.

You pick up your own teacup, take a sip. A small sip, careful so you don’t smear lipstick onto the porcelain. You place it back down, at an exact right-angle to the teapot. The teapot with the spout pointed towards you, because it’s a discourtesy to point it towards your guest.

“It is beautiful,” you begin carefully. “When all the students are in the courtyard learning to ballroom dance, their dresses shimmer under the sun like a liquid rainbow…”

You can’t bring yourself to disillusion Kaylee. After all, there was a time, a long time ago, when you believed that the Guild School for Companions was the only place you’d ever want to be.

Crossovers [yes, I know, everyone asked for a lot of crossovers, but I had to get to sleep eventually, so be patient.]

For: rivers_bend
Title: Why Sand And Time Lords Really Don’t Mix
Fandoms: Doctor Who/Lost
Character: The Doctor
Word Count: 570
Prompt: The Doctor on Lost island. Broken.
Notes: This is more a beginning without an end, a snapshot thingy, so I might have to write a sequel at some point. The plane wasn’t the only thing to crash that day…

He’s getting sand in places that no one should have sand and there’s a dangerous chance that the leather jacket will never be quite the same again; that, more than anything, is rather depressing. Not that there’s actually anything good about this situation; he has no idea where Rose is, he has a splitting headache, half the beach seems to be on fire, and there’s something crashing about in the jungle that sounds not entirely human.

Of course, the Doctor is not entirely human himself.

He’s never been a huge fan of strong sunlight. Rose always strips off to the bare minimum the moment there’s any hint of warmth, lying about attempting to get a tan, but he burns too easily and it gives him a migraine. Here, there seems to be nothing but sea and sand and glaring, malevolent sunshine, and since the last thing he remembers was being on the TARDIS about to spend a lovely afternoon playing around with some sparking wires in the control room, the Doctor assumes that something complicated and stupid happened. He’s not entirely sure what, though, and his sonic screwdriver is being no help at all; it keeps flashing away towards something in the trees, but refusing to do anything helpful like tell him where he is, and although he’s got his TARDIS key in his pocket, he can’t summon his ship to him.

For the moment, it seems that he is stuck here. And unfortunately, he isn’t alone.

The Doctor likes the human race. He can’t help it. They’re so sweet and arrogant and optimistic and determined to conquer everything, which is admirable so long as they don’t succeed, but they’re not at their best in a crisis. There’s far too much screaming going on for the Doctor’s liking, as every loud sound shoots right through his head in an increasingly painful way, and everywhere he looks they’re running about like headless chickens and getting themselves more hurt. It looks like a plane has gone down, all in bits in the sand, and no one knows what to do.

Sighing, brushing sand off his jeans and reflecting that his maroon jumper is maybe a little hot for this weather, the Doctor walks down the beach, neatly avoiding burning wreckage, tapping his sonic screwdriver against his hand in the hope that something will make it work and he can figure out what’s going on and therefore escape. Rose would love it, if she were here; trapped on a nice, sunny desert island, carnage or no carnage, but unfortunately, Rose is not here, so he has to get back.

However, with broken equipment and rather awkward amnesia, he can’t see a way out of this soon, and since everyone around him seems to be incredibly unhelpful, what with the screaming and the hysteria and the exploding they all seem to be dealing quite badly with, it seems that the Doctor isn’t going to get out of here any time soon. He’s as imprisoned as the rest of the passengers here, and he doesn’t like it.

Slipping his far too hot jacket off, and hoping that his ears don’t get sunburnt (he’s lived 900 years and experienced all sorts of fascinating and uncomfortable complains, and sunburn is still the most awkward), the Doctor twists his screwdriver round to setting 49, hopes for the best, and walks into the jungle.

Things can hardly get worse.

For: entangled_now
Title: Good Source Of Potassium
Fandoms: House/Torchwood
Pairing: Ianto/Chase
Word Count: 650
Prompt: Banana smoothies
Notes: The actual plot for this came to me in a dream when I was home sick from school and asleep in bed for hours, I just changed it about and added some dialogue. But sick!Ianto nice!Chase was all there in my dream. Yay!

Ianto, in his haze of sleepiness and uncomfortable amounts of mucus, thinks that he can smell bananas. This is slightly unsettling, since the last time he could smell bananas in the Hub, Jack was squashing them and reminiscing about the banana plantations of Villengarde and mumbling about potassium and it was all a bit unnerving. Ianto is in no fit state to tidy up squashed bananas, and he’s beginning to suspect Jack just creates all this mess because he likes having someone to tidy up after him.

“Jack,” he mumbles, “I’m ill. Don’t-”

“Jack went off about half an hour ago,” an Australian accent informs him, “So whatever he’s doing that you don’t want him to, he’s not doing it here.”

“Oh,” Ianto says vaguely, “That’s nice.”

He has a cold. But not the irritating, itchy kind of cold that you can drink a lot of lemsip for and then ignore; no, this is the kind of cold that attacks you from behind and holds you in a merciless headlock until it feels inclined to let go. Ianto has been in a bed downstairs in the Hub for two days, blowing his nose and sleeping a lot. He feels disgustingly swollen and unhappy.

Robert Chase has been working for Torchwood for about a month. He’s a doctor, like Owen, but seems more inclined towards the laboratory side, rather than the ‘let’s-just-cut-up-dead-aliens-and-poke-their-pancreases-in-a-curious-fashion’ side, which Ianto likes, because there’s less cleaning up of intestines.

Sometimes it worries Ianto that he has a job where he has to concern himself regularly with the cleaning up of intestines.

“Sit up,” Robert orders, and Ianto makes a feeble attempt that doesn’t work very well. His head is thumping and he feels all depressed and shivery.

“I can’t,” he rasps, and rather hopes that Robert will leave him alone in his Bed Of Pain, to feel sorry for himself and try and work out why the whole place smells like bananas. Surely Jack hasn’t been keeping mutant chimpanzees in the basement again; Ianto made it very clear that if he did it again, he’d hand in his notice, and who would Jack find to clean up his crap and look decent in Armani then?

“It might help if you actually opened your eyes,” Robert adds, amusement in his tone, and Ianto bites his mouth together and decides that he does not like Robert at all, and he should sod off back to America or Australia or wherever it was that he was working before House recruited him.

Ianto reluctantly opens his eyes and Robert helps him sit up, pushing pillows about and tucking the blankets tighter around Ianto in a surprisingly competent fashion.

“Can’t you just leave me to die like everyone else has?” he asks helplessly. Robert smiles.

“You’re not dying, you have a cold,” he says. “It’s not like an alien virus is eating your immune system.”

“That was last month,” Ianto agrees. That whole thing was actually much less painful. “What have you got there?”

Robert holds up a tall glass, full of a creamy-looking liquid. There is also a straw in it.

“Banana smoothie,” he explains.


“Good source of potassium,” Robert shrugs, sitting down on the bed beside him. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Ianto gives him a doubtful look, but Robert holds the straw to his mouth so he obediently drinks. It’s very nice.

“See?” Robert gives him an incredibly pretty smile (or maybe that’s just the Jack in Ianto’s head talking) and Ianto finishes up the rest of the drink. “You should get some sleep,” Robert adds, carefully helping Ianto lie down again and tucking him in properly.

Ianto watches his incredibly pretty arse out the door before closing his eyes again and trying to work out how exactly he’s going to get Robert to make him smoothies when he’s not incredibly sick.

He’s sure he’ll think of something.

Tags: character: inara serra, insanity, pairing: house/chase/wilson, pairing: ianto/chase, pairing: inara/river, pairing: owen harper/ianto jones, pairing: robert chase/lisa cuddy, pairing: the doctor/jack harkness, tv show: doctor who, tv show: firefly, tv show: house md, tv show: lost, tv show: torchwood, type: crossover, type: femslash, type: gen, type: het, type: slash
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