I'm still accepting prompts here until Friday.
House MD [No crossovers]
Title: Pale Blue Silences
Fandom: House MD
Word Count: 643
Prompt: "You plus me is bad news" (from Love On The Rocks by Sara Bareilles)
Notes: A little introspection never hurt anyone ;) I’m gonna use this for 100_prompts. Yay etc. Also; the song this comes from is the prettiest ever.
Things like this don’t ever end well and she wishes that she cared. Well, she cares to a certain extent, but only in a disconnected kind of way. Watching her own relationship with House in the same detached and faintly sadistic way she watched House’s relationship with Cameron. And it doesn’t worry her nearly as much as it should.
Except that she’s considerably stronger than Cameron and she knows House a little better and he’s probably not playing around with her just to see how far he can push before she snaps and pushes back, or crumbles away completely.
And if he is; that’s a chance she’s depressingly willing to take.
Cuddy, looking wonderfully dishevelled in a way that’s going to be haunting his Vicodin-dreams for weeks, says:
“This is the worst kind of mistake.”
He shrugs, pops a pill, make that two for the headache she’ll inevitably give him with her misplaced anger and anxieties.
“Why?” he sighs.
“Because it’s the kind where we don’t learn anything,” Cuddy tells him.
He thinks about this.
“It could be worse,” he replies, “I could be Wilson. We’d be married by the end of next week. That’s a mistake… and then some.”
Cuddy rolls her eyes, sick of him deliberately misinterpreting her, but doesn’t push it.
She doesn’t know why it still stings ridiculously painfully whenever House deliberately disobeys her in a way that just produces mounds of paperwork and pacifying on her half; it’s what he’s always done, regardless of their personal lives. He cares somewhere, in that twisted-up drug-addicted ticking time bomb of a brain, but it’s on a level so deep and complicated that he can’t extricate his emotions enough to go easy on her. It’s stupid, to halfway fall for House; god, it’s stupid even to be in the same room as him most days. He’s dangerous and edgy and crazy and she should keep her distance.
But she doesn’t, and House seems to revel in this to a truly unnerving degree.
“We should stop.”
“Did we start?”
He leans back in his chair, throws her the tennis ball; ball’s in your court and all that. Cuddy glares at him.
“We’re going to wind up killing each other,” she tells him.
“Well, there are worse ways to go.” He considers this, smirking slightly. “My mom always said not to hit girls.”
Cuddy rolls her eyes.
“I could take you,” she says loftily.
“Good.” He gives her a rare smile and turns away. Conversation’s over.
She’s far too connected with all this. House seems quite content to not at all be connected, wind her up all day and then peel that all off at the end of the day. It’s not that he changes; God forbid he’d ease up on her, and he doesn’t make any of it simple, but there’s an indefinable change that means she can deal with him. Well, mostly. She knows that sleeping with House, or whatever it is that she should call whatever they’re doing, is not a good idea, and it began badly and won’t end any better, and their personalities clash so violently she sees stars behind her eyelids.
It’s madness. Addictive, inevitable madness. And she can’t get enough of it, even though she suspects it could be her downfall. Pandora’s box with blue eyes. But she’ll do it anyway.
“House-” Cuddy begins. It’s late and kind of dark and he can already tell what she’s going to say; unprofessional and pointless and potentially fatal. He doesn’t need or want to hear them. Cuddy can save her confusion for someone who fucking cares.
He rolls his eyes, and silences her protestations with his lips against her mouth.
“So you plus me is bad news,” he murmurs as her eyes flutter closed, “Tell me something new, or shut the hell up.”
Thankfully, Cuddy chooses the latter.
Title: Lightning Strike
Fandom: House MD
Word Count: 803
Notes: My first piece of H/W Tritter!angst (look, it’s still new and exciting in the UK). Based around “Que Sera Sera” and “Son Of A Coma Guy”. It got random cuz I listened to Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats about a zillion too many times while writing it. And it’s a bit too long because I couldn’t stop myself.
It’s probably worth mentioning that this is the first time I have ever, ever shipped House/Wilson wholeheartedly while writing. I’m not entirely sure what that means.
For a long time after Tritter leaves, James Wilson sits in his office and watches the rain pour down outside in a fashion that he tells himself isn’t morose. It’s one of those evenings where he can’t see a resolution; where all is grey and cold and shattered. He hates evenings like this, but his life has had more of them recently. Grace’s fading smile, House’s heartbeat fluttering on the monitor screen, Julie’s face twisting, tears slipping down her cheeks, Stacy’s footsteps fading away, packing his office into cardboard boxes and Vogler’s eyes narrowed with victory.
Bleakly, Wilson comes to realise that pretty much everything that’s been fucked-up in his life in the last few years can be traced, obscurely, back to House in some way. And today isn’t any different.
He turns the lights in his office off and walks out into the rain, with no idea where he can go from here.
– You have spent the last six and a half years force-feeding me your drug addiction, flinging it in my face. Now you make me responsible for it?
– I’m in pain. If you won’t help a friend in need-
– No. It’s gone beyond the point where I can still pity you. I took a look at the dates on those prescriptions; you’d been back at work three days, House. What, did you wait for the second you completed your rehab course and then pick up right where you left off?
– The pain was coming back!
– There are other methods of dealing with it. Or you could have come and spoken to me, or to Cuddy. You stole my prescription pad, and you couldn’t even be bothered to fake my signature properly!
– You lied to the cops. I didn’t ask you to. That’s your problem.
– You’re making it my problem, in case you hadn’t noticed. If I’d admitted you’d stolen my pad, after they’d finished prosecuting you, there would have been an investigation into every single prescription filled in my name for fuck knows how far back. I’d lose my reputation, and god knows what else. I have no problem with you screwing around with the cops and hitting rock bottom, if that’s how you’re getting your kicks these days, but I wish you wouldn’t fucking drag me down with you.
With no money, no wife, a hotel room masquerading as an apartment, the police blackmailing him into selling out his best friend (and, while he’s at it, getting himself into quite a lot of trouble for withholding information or whatever it is they call it), and said best friend self-destructing in a laughably scary and obvious fashion, Wilson wonders how it could possibly get worse.
House has always been this bad. He’s the sort of guy who would be quite content to smother himself in copper and dance around on the roof in the middle of a lightning storm, just to see how hard and often he could be struck. It bothers Wilson, but it’s something he’s used to by now. What he really resents is House grabbing his wrist and dragging him with him. He has no wish to be embroiled in House’s latest method of self-harm because his leg hurts and he’s too bored to love anyone for a long period of time (and yet it magically all becomes Stacy’s fault – or Wilson’s). But he’s always been House’s accomplice in these ridiculous and painful matters. He’s not stupid enough to think that he’ll ever be able to escape this.
House’s mouth against his; he should never have accepted his invitation to dinner.
– I don’t want-
House’s his hand moves up to cup Wilson’s cheek; less to be tender, and more to stop him from moving away.
Haven’t you done enough damage this week? Wilson thinks.
But it’s too late now, he’s in this almost as deep as House is, and to push House away would be to get rid of the last thing he has, down here in the sticky madness that is Rock Bottom, and he’s not feeling quite fatalistic enough to do that yet.
He feels the lightning strike when House kisses him again, something irreparable and irreplaceable but still indefinable going up in flames, the electricity singing through both their bones.
Wilson stares at the blackness of the ceiling, refusing to look at House and whatever the hell his facial expression is.
– I’ll never forgive you for this.
House’s voice is pragmatic and bordering on smug.
– Yes, you will. You can’t afford not to.
Wilson bites his lower lip until it hurts and gets out of the bed.
– Where are you going?
– To sleep on your couch.
He hears House shifting in bed.
– You’ll be back.
Wilson closes his eyes against the dark for a moment; the truth hurts more than he wants to admit.
Title: International Relations
Pairing(s): House/Jack (with Ianto/Chase, Owen/Cameron and Tosh/Foreman)
Word Count: 900
Notes: I don’t know where Gwen is in this fic. Nor do I care. She’s probably at home with Rhys where she belongs. Owen/Cameron is a secret OTP of mine, but I liked the idea of looking at the House/Jack dynamic through their employees getting off with each other. It’s a very Torchwood thing to do, I feel ;)
About three days after the first patient starts erupting in a worrying mass of purple tentacles, Princeton/Plainsboro finds itself invaded by a group of good-looking people, wearing an unhealthy amount of black and all with accents seemingly created solely for House to mock relentlessly.
They don't seem to be worried about the tentacles or the gooey, slimy mess that the additional appendages secrete, or the way the affected patients have developed an insatiable appetite for human flesh. House has been feeding the most irritating of nurses (and, they can’t help noticing, the nurses that it's rumoured Wilson has slept with) to the creatures, who are down in the basement, thumping about and being generally unsettling. House also tried to feed Cameron to the aliens, until Cuddy pointed out that feeding his fellow to carnivorous aliens of uncertain descent is just asking to get sued ("I hate red tape," House muttered).
Now, the black-clad British people are contentedly handling the aliens in a far-too-calm fashion. Chase can't help but be relieved, since he's fairly sure that he'd be next on House's list of "Disposible-Staff-Members-Who-Look-Like-T
"What kind of a name is 'Torchwood' anyway?" House asks, bored on a Tuesday afternoon with nothing but imminent death to amuse him.
The alarmingly gorgeous leader, Captain Jack Harkness (of what exactly?) seems rather irritated by this, and the two of them start sending each other death glares.
"They'll be shagging by the end of the week," a quiet voice remarks from behind Chase. It's Torchwood's resident tea boy, ridiculously unpronounceable name, and a Welsh accent that wraps itself around words and throttles them to within an inch of their lives without any sort of consideration for things like vowel sounds and proper verb endings.
It's almost cruel, Chase thinks, the way the guy casually murders the English language. Cruel, but indefinably sexy.
“No way,” he says.
Ianto gives him a pitying look and a mug of coffee.
“Care to put money on that?”
Cameron pretends very, very hard that she isn’t listening to Jack Harkness and House arguing behind the glass next door. Everyone else is downstairs squishing monsters or clinic duty, and she’s up here doing paperwork. House seems to think that Jack is a shallow moron, Jack is (foolishly) accusing House of being nothing more than a useless addict, and she’s surprised that the glass hasn’t melted from the overdose of testosterone.
“They’re still at it,” she remarks as the door opens behind her. She fully expects it to be Chase or Wilson or someone, but in fact, it’s Owen Harper. His leather jacket is running with purple slime and he’s got a nasty cut on his face, but he’s grinning.
“Those two won’t stop yelling at each other until we go home,” he says, chucking his sticky jacket on top of the bookcase and coming to sit down beside her, “And even then, only possibly.”
“Why do they hate each other so much?” Cameron asks curiously, leaning over to check the cut on his face isn’t serious.
“That isn’t hatred, that’s foreplay,” Owen says, so bluntly that it makes her blush.
“You can’t mean-”
“I wouldn’t stay much longer in here, God knows what they’ll do next,” Owen continues, laughing and then flinching as Cameron pokes his cut a little too hard. “Dump the paperwork on Ianto or someone, and come kill aliens.” His hand moves up to catch hers.
“I’m not wearing the right shoes,” she protests vaguely, feeling her face flush again.
“Not a problem, sweetheart.” Owen grins wickedly, gets to his feet, and picks her up.
“Owen!” she protests as he carries her out of the Diagnostics department, threatening to hit her head on the glass wall, but it’s not long before her shouting turns to giggling.
Foreman is sitting down with a well-earned cup of coffee and Tosh, reflecting that his shirt will probably never be the same again, but at least the carnivorous purple things are gone and no new patients are being infected.
The blinds in House’s office are drawn and there’s a worrying silence coming from inside.
“Do you think they’ve killed each other?” he suggests after a while. Tosh flushes behind her mug.
“Um,” she begins, but luckily she doesn’t have to continue talking because the blinds shiver and someone behind them yells “YES!”
Foreman and Tosh exchange My. Boss. Is. A. Madman. kind of looks.
“I think we should get out of here,” Foreman says. “Want to go email out our CVs to anyone who’ll take them?”
“YES!” Jack shouts, punching the air. House gives him an unamused look and chucks his tennis ball at him.
“You’re such a child,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Says the man who has an entire dance routine for when he captures a pawn,” Jack replies, looking at the chessboard between them. “Checkmate, by the way.”
House smirks as he pops a Vicodin.
“All our employees think we’re in here screwing, did you know that?”
“I have no idea why,” Jack says, carefully packing away the chess pieces. “They seem to be having fun mingling, anyway.”
The silence lasts about one second.
“What do we do now?” House asks, attention span of a dead flea and all that. Jack grins.
“Wanna have sex?”