ticcyyy: (Default)
ticcyyy ([personal profile] ticcyyy) wrote2009-03-04 08:12 am
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Sometimes I write vignettes or something

I've been a bit quiet lately. Sorry about that. Thanks to the few of you who got in contact over last week - sorry I haven't gotten back to you. I'll rectify that in the next day or so!

Also, I have a new layout. Check it out. [livejournal.com profile] cryptictac

Meanwhile, I wrote a small fic last night. The whole House/hooker thing has always intrigued me, and this is one way I've always imagined a House/hooker scene would go.

PG-13, 900~ words

"Where's your happy place?" she asks.

House lies sprawled on his back, bed sheets over his middle, the sweat on his skin drying to a stale stickiness. The moonlight streaming in through the windows bends odd shapes across his dark bedroom. The sheets smell of sweat and sex. It's the first time he's gotten laid in - God, he can't even remember when.

"I don't have a happy place," he says. A flat response. An honest response. Hookers are easy to be honest with. Not that he opens up to hookers very often, nor does he turn to hookers all that often either.

She laughs; a throaty, dry laugh. Cherry, she'd said her name was when he let her into his apartment. "Oh, come on. Everybody has a happy place." She shifts onto her side towards him, breasts exposed, her head propped up on her hand. "Even us empty, cold-blooded whores."

"What's your happy place, then?" he retorts.

"We're not talking about me."

"I'm not interested in talking about me, either."

"You're the one who started talking, buddy. People only talk because they want someone to listen to them."

"Or maybe they just like the sound of their own voice."

She reaches to his chest and threads her fingers through the small tufts of hair on his sternum. He lets her. It's not going to matter once he's paid her and she steps out into the cold night. "Trust me," she says. "No one ever talks to a hooker unless they're lonely."

"Nice. Making your job sound like innocent social work."

"I'm just paid to be something another human being wants to connect to for an hour or so. That's why you're paying me, right?"

House thinks about that for a moment. Her hand is gentle on his chest, her fingers tracing light circles over his skin. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend for a moment he's being touched by someone who matters to him. He's not sure he can remember what that feels like, though. "It's none of your business why I'm paying you."

"Well, you hired me for three hours. You still have almost two hours left."

"So?" He looks at her sharply. "Like I said, it's none of your business why I'm paying you."

"It's my business when you make it my business."

House opens his mouth to argue. But he closes it again. He's not paying her to argue. He's not even paying her so he can hide. No point in hiding from hookers. They see too many empty, broken people to be fooled by pretenses. For that, House is strangely grateful. It's a relief to let go for a little while. He looks away and as she trails her hand up to his neck and strokes her fingers along his jaw, he turns his head slightly towards the touch.

"I'm not sure I know what happiness is," he admits quietly.

"You've never been happy?"

"I was once."

She slides her hand up into his hair. His one weakness: hands in his hair. He finally lets his eyes fall shut. "What happened?" she asks.

"Life happened."

"For some, that's a good thing."

"Guess I was one of the unlucky ones."

"What was her name?"

"What makes you think it's a person? Or even a she?"

"I've been in this business a long time. If people aren't seeking sex to fulfill something they're not getting elsewhere or to feed some kind of addiction, they're usually missing someone."

Her words cause an unexpected, twisting ache in his chest. "She's long gone from my life." He feels Cherry's nails lightly scratching his scalp and her thumb trace down his temple. "What's your real name?"

"Cherry. I told you."

"No," he replies. "Your real name."

"I can't tell you that."

He knows this, of course. It's along the same rule as hookers not kissing their clients on the mouth. Still. "I'm not going to tell anyone."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not paid to be a real girl."

"You seem pretty real to me."

"In your head, perhaps." She runs her hand down to his chest again. Her touch is so deceivingly gentle, so deceivingly genuine. He almost wants to turn his lips to hers and kiss her, just to feel that connection, that moment of feeling like he belongs somewhere, to someone. She's right, he realises. It's just in his head.

"You're good at what you do," he tells her in a wry tone.

"I know."

He opens his eyes and sees her watching him. "How much time do I have left?"

"An hour and forty-five minutes."

He nods. "Just keep doing what you're doing."

"Being touched gets you off more than getting you off does?"

"No." He closes is eyes again with a quiet sigh as she pushes her hand back into his hair. "I just want to get my money's worth."

He feels her head settle on his shoulder, her body up against his side, warm and solid and real. When she drapes her arm over his middle, he replaces her in his mind with someone who's as real to him as she is long gone from his life, and it's about as close to a happy place as he can get. Just for a little while, at least.

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