Fic: Not A Good Shot (House/Cuddy)
Jan. 28th, 2008 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swatkatAnother fluffy ficlet for the House/Cuddy drabble-a-thon. Improv is fun!
Title: Not A Good Shot
Fandom: House, M.D
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Rating: R
Summary: You're not a good shot, but I'm worse.
A/N: Characters are not mine. Title and summary from Josh Ritter's 'Good Man'. For the House/Cuddy drabble-a-thon; prompt was 'honesty'; 652 words. This is set after 3.15, Half-wit. Originally posted here.
*
He raps on her window pane, once, twice. The glass is cold against his knuckles; white; light imprints where he touched.
He watches the light go on. Footsteps, and then the window crashes open: 'House, it's midnight! Are you insane?'
'Do you always wear that at night?' he asks her, admiring the view.
The window slams down abruptly.
House draws stick-figures on the glass with his forefinger.
He's counting on that trusty old guilt complex to let him in. If not, well, he has this little flask inside his jacket that'll get him by till he gets back home again. Backups. That's the thing.
He's standing back to admire the breasts on the Cuddy stick-figure when the window opens again. 'For god's sake, get inside,' Cuddy says. 'I don't want you to freeze to death outside my house.'
'You could always sell my corpsicle to the ice exhibit,' he tells her once he's inside her house. It's warm, and yes, he's grateful, the cold is hell on his leg. 'Be worth at least a pair of thongs,' he says, hanging his jacket on the coat-rack.
She's watching him with narrowed eyes and he ignores her, heading straight for the warmth of her living room.
She follows him. 'What do you want, House?'
'Whatever happened to being there when I needed you?' he says, rubbing his hands together to generate heat.
'Brain cancer,' she says slowly. 'House, you are…'
She appears to be at a loss for words so he supplies helpfully, 'Brilliant? Amazing? Astonishing? All of the above?'
That obtains the response he was looking for, because she crosses her arms against her chest and glares, 'We thought you were dying.'
'We all are,' he says, and takes a step towards her. Another, and another, till they're face-to-face and she's trying to stare him down, which really doesn't work without the killer heels. 'Eventually.'
Another step, and he's in her personal space. She does not back away.
'Your fellows wasted precious hospital time and resources trying to cure you,' Cuddy says. Her tone is dry.
'You can take that out of their salaries,' House says. She huffs, but does not protest when he lifts a hand to cup her cheek.
'Your hand is cold,' she complains.
Her lips are softer than he remembers.
*
She keeps the light on and he's grateful for that: the visuals are to die for.
Age has touched her lightly over the years, in the fine lines on her face and the slightly fuller hips. It suits her.
'Your hips used to be way bonier back then, you know,' he says conversationally. 'Really uncomfortable.'
'I hope this isn't your way of telling me that I've gained weight,' she says, her words ending in a gasp as he takes an experimental bite.
'And the grey hair? Totally goes with the power-dressing thing.' Her skin is softer than he remembers; warmer.
She doesn't protest. 'All thanks to you.'
'I do what I can,' he responds, modest as always.
'A model of thoughtfulness and consideration,' she agrees, brushing against him; teasing.
'A paragon of virtue.' It comes out more strangled than he intended because of this really amazing thing she does with her thumb. 'Your best candidate for employee of the year.'
'That's pushing it a bit too far, don't you think?'
She sinks down on him, then, all that wet heat: enough to ignite.
*
'This was actually Wilson's idea,' he tells her later, willing the slow burn in his thigh to go away.
He can hear her footsteps drawing closer; a sudden dip on the other side of the bed.
House reaches for his pills. Shakes out a Vicodin and swallows.
'Which part? The waking me up in the middle of the night and nearly giving me a heart attack, or…?' Her lips brush against his ear, warm.
'Something like that,' he says, and burrows deeper under the covers.
*
Title: Not A Good Shot
Fandom: House, M.D
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Rating: R
Summary: You're not a good shot, but I'm worse.
A/N: Characters are not mine. Title and summary from Josh Ritter's 'Good Man'. For the House/Cuddy drabble-a-thon; prompt was 'honesty'; 652 words. This is set after 3.15, Half-wit. Originally posted here.
*
He raps on her window pane, once, twice. The glass is cold against his knuckles; white; light imprints where he touched.
He watches the light go on. Footsteps, and then the window crashes open: 'House, it's midnight! Are you insane?'
'Do you always wear that at night?' he asks her, admiring the view.
The window slams down abruptly.
House draws stick-figures on the glass with his forefinger.
He's counting on that trusty old guilt complex to let him in. If not, well, he has this little flask inside his jacket that'll get him by till he gets back home again. Backups. That's the thing.
He's standing back to admire the breasts on the Cuddy stick-figure when the window opens again. 'For god's sake, get inside,' Cuddy says. 'I don't want you to freeze to death outside my house.'
'You could always sell my corpsicle to the ice exhibit,' he tells her once he's inside her house. It's warm, and yes, he's grateful, the cold is hell on his leg. 'Be worth at least a pair of thongs,' he says, hanging his jacket on the coat-rack.
She's watching him with narrowed eyes and he ignores her, heading straight for the warmth of her living room.
She follows him. 'What do you want, House?'
'Whatever happened to being there when I needed you?' he says, rubbing his hands together to generate heat.
'Brain cancer,' she says slowly. 'House, you are…'
She appears to be at a loss for words so he supplies helpfully, 'Brilliant? Amazing? Astonishing? All of the above?'
That obtains the response he was looking for, because she crosses her arms against her chest and glares, 'We thought you were dying.'
'We all are,' he says, and takes a step towards her. Another, and another, till they're face-to-face and she's trying to stare him down, which really doesn't work without the killer heels. 'Eventually.'
Another step, and he's in her personal space. She does not back away.
'Your fellows wasted precious hospital time and resources trying to cure you,' Cuddy says. Her tone is dry.
'You can take that out of their salaries,' House says. She huffs, but does not protest when he lifts a hand to cup her cheek.
'Your hand is cold,' she complains.
Her lips are softer than he remembers.
*
She keeps the light on and he's grateful for that: the visuals are to die for.
Age has touched her lightly over the years, in the fine lines on her face and the slightly fuller hips. It suits her.
'Your hips used to be way bonier back then, you know,' he says conversationally. 'Really uncomfortable.'
'I hope this isn't your way of telling me that I've gained weight,' she says, her words ending in a gasp as he takes an experimental bite.
'And the grey hair? Totally goes with the power-dressing thing.' Her skin is softer than he remembers; warmer.
She doesn't protest. 'All thanks to you.'
'I do what I can,' he responds, modest as always.
'A model of thoughtfulness and consideration,' she agrees, brushing against him; teasing.
'A paragon of virtue.' It comes out more strangled than he intended because of this really amazing thing she does with her thumb. 'Your best candidate for employee of the year.'
'That's pushing it a bit too far, don't you think?'
She sinks down on him, then, all that wet heat: enough to ignite.
*
'This was actually Wilson's idea,' he tells her later, willing the slow burn in his thigh to go away.
He can hear her footsteps drawing closer; a sudden dip on the other side of the bed.
House reaches for his pills. Shakes out a Vicodin and swallows.
'Which part? The waking me up in the middle of the night and nearly giving me a heart attack, or…?' Her lips brush against his ear, warm.
'Something like that,' he says, and burrows deeper under the covers.
*
