ticcyyy: (Default)
ticcyyy ([personal profile] ticcyyy) wrote2009-04-27 04:25 am
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Fic dump

Here be fics I've written for people or for challenges. I'd post them all separately except... I'm too lazy. On the upside, there's something for everyone here, I think.

title: Between The Sheets
pairing: House/Wilson
rating: pg-13
words: 1,700

summary: Wilson is a bedsheet hogger.

Okay, so.

Sleeping with Wilson was a dumb idea. No, scrap dumb. Fucking stupid. Insane. Crazy enough to be deemed certifiable. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at Wilson's sleeping, naked - naked - self. In my bed. Naked. Butt naked. I have seen Wilson naked to the point where I now know that his right testicle hangs lower than his left. A detail I'm not supposed to know about my best friend. Amongst other details. Like the noises he makes when he's aroused. Weird, grunting noises. I never took Wilson for a grunter. Or a ball groper. Or the kind of guy who'd sleep with another guy.

Well. Until now, that is. Jesus Christ.

While I'm staring dumbfounded at my best friend like he's some alien from outer space, Wilson turns his head on the pillow with a sleepy snort. Seriously. He's fast asleep. He jacked me off not more than half an hour ago and now he's doing the guy version of Sleeping Beauty in my bed. The drooling guy version, I realise. My mouth kinda stretches in a weird angle as I peer at the thin drizzle of drool creeping out of the corner of Wilson's mouth. He's drooling on my pillow.

No. Okay. Look, I want to snap at him. Make him jolt out of his sleep faster than a projectiling blob of semen. You played Slapping The Salami with me and now you're drooling on my pillow like it's The Done Thing? Not cool. Not kosher. Not normal.

I realise in that same instant that I might as well be the pot that calls Wilson as black as Foreman. I'm naked. Family jewels as exposed as Wilson's. Staring at my best friend. While naked. Mainly because I bolted out of bed the moment it struck me what the hell I'd done. I lick my lips and swallow back a sudden stab of panic. I can still taste Wilson Juice in my mouth. I dart my eyes to the floor for a second, at the scrunched up tissues that contain the evidence of said Juice.

The whole night has passed in a furious, bizarre blur. I almost can't remember who kissed who first anymore. I might've been me. Or possibly Wilson. Or maybe I'm just dreaming an extremely vivid dream and I'm going to wake up any moment now. I even pinch my arm just in case. No dice. Wilson's still naked and drooling in my bed. I'm still equally as naked and trying to pinpoint exactly when in the evening I lost my mind. And it's past one in the morning. I resume staring at Wilson. I stare long and hard, hoping maybe somehow I can make him levitate out of the room all the way back to his apartment across town, butt naked and all.

Instead, Wilson snorts again and rolls over onto his side. Onto my side of the bed. Arm flung out, legs splayed, bedsheets completely hogged. And he's drooling on my side of the mattress. I stand up, almost jump away. I don't like this. I don't like how unfamiliar Wilson suddenly seems. I really don't like him drooling on my side of the bed. I make a few aborted attempts to poke him, jab him, push him until I end up just digging my hands under him and shoving him over to the other side of the bed. And all he does is grunt before sinking straight back to sleep.

"Wilson, get out," I command.

I wait for a response. Silence. Followed by a snore.

So, I say louder, "Wilson." Pause. Silence. I decide an air of melodrama might rouse Wilson into action. "Your hair is on fire."

"Shut up, House," comes Wilson's groggy reply.

I frown. I stare. Wilson's not going anywhere, I realise. I either have to banish myself to the couch for the night or dare myself to share the same sleeping space as Wilson. I ponder all the possibilities. Maybe I could throw a glass of water on him. A bucket of water. A bucket of ice. Maybe I really could set his hair on fire. Or his nipples. Or maybe I could just shove him and shove him until he lands on the floor with a thump.

I swallow. Wilson resumes snoring. I frantically rub my thigh until I decide I am too tired to stay standing like this. I'll sleep first, I decide to myself. Sleep then stage a resistance against Wilson to make sure this never, ever, ever happens again. Ever. Never ever. Ever. I very slowly creep back into bed, keeping a close watch on Wilson the entire time. No sudden moves. No. Sudden. Moves.

Oh, crap. I realise as I lie down that my back is right on the spot Wilson drooled. Not going to move, though. Staying right where I am. I stare up at the ceiling, frozen while listening to Wilson snore. Eventually, somehow, I end up falling asleep.

When I open my eyes again, it's morning. I'm warm and cozy. Still butt naked. Not even a bedsheet. But my hands are warm. Especially my right one. It's wedged between two pillows.

I suddenly scramble back with a start. Those are not two pillows. Wilson's ass is not a pillow. I reach up to something wet on my chin and realise I've been drooling. While pressed up behind Wilson. Snuggling Wilson and drooling on him. What the hell. What the hell. I'm wiping my hand over my chin repeatedly when Wilson rouses and begins to roll to his back. I freeze. He yawns, scrubs his face and then looks across at me and I count to four in my head before his eyes widen with the same abstract terror I've got gripping at my brain. We stare at each other for a while. A long while. Until I finally blurt out, "You snore. And you drool."

Wilson sits up sharply and scoots away from me like I'm some kind of offensive odour, grabbing the bedsheets he'd hogged all night up around his waist. "Do not."

"Do so."

"House," Wilson says in a cautious voice. I see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. "House, we need to t--"

"No, we don't."

Wilson runs a hand through his hair. "You're right. Let's not even go there."

"Too late."

Wilson stares at me again and I stare right back. "What did we--"

"Haven't got a clue," I cut in.

"Did we--"


"Last night, we--"


"What the hell did--"

"I don't know."

"You're right," Wilson says as he scrambles off the bed. "We shouldn't talk about this."

I'm thinking I should be relieved at that, except the sight of Wilson hobbling frantically around my bedroom with his hands covering his groin is distracting and something close to horrifying. And maybe a little comical - if it weren't for the fact that it's horrifying. I've never seen anyone dress so fast. Wilson's thrown his clothes on within a matter of a few minutes, hair sticking up in all angles and his clothes more rumpled than the clothes I have stashed at the bottom of my drawer. "I'm going to go now," Wilson says in a bewildered tone when he turns to me.

I just nod. And then he's gone. The front door shutting echoes through my apartment. I sit in silence and I'm waiting to return from the Twilight Zone. Except that never happens. I'm still naked, my bed still smells of Wilson and the evidence of Everything We Did is still lying on my bedroom floor in wadded tissues. I end up kicking those under my bed. I strip the sheets off the bed. I go and have a long, long hot shower. When I'm done, I feel no better and I haven't the faintest fucking clue how the hell I'm ever going to be able to look at Wilson again. Maybe I could sell my apartment and move to the Bahamas. Or maybe I could set fire to his apartment hope that'll make him leave town.

Or maybe I could... Maybe we could...


No way.

Never. Ever. Ever. Never.

I think the same thing two weeks later when I wake up with Wilson drooling on my pillow. And again when I spit his semen out of my mouth at his apartment. And again as a fall asleep sprawled almost on top of him after getting the best blow job I've had since I can remember. And again as I wrestle the bed covers from him for what seems like the millionth time six months later in the middle of winter.

About a year later, Wilson asks, "Would you call this a relationship?"

I'm wrestling the sheet from him. Again. "God, no. Why the hell would I want to be in a relationship with you?"

"I was just thinking the same thing."

I elbow him to shove over and turn onto my side. The closest thing Wilson ever gets to a good night kiss. "I'll thump you if you hog the covers tonight."

"I love you, too."

I look over my shoulder at him incredulously. "Shut up."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Relax, House. Seriously. As if. I'd rather graze my knuckles on a cheese grater than be in a relationship with you."

"Good. 'Cause I don't love you, either," I agree quickly. "Ew."

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Fine with me, I think to myself. I thump Wilson hard on the arm for good measure, much to his surprise and exasperation, before turning on my side with as much of the bed covers as I can get away with hogging. I roll my eyes at his ongoing dramatics and his whining about the bruise he's going to have on his arm in the morning. And smile to myself when he turns out the light and grumbles a begrudging good night.

Sleeping with Wilson really was the fucking stupidest thing I could've ever done.

No, seriously. Bastard's a serial sheet hogger.


title: Demons
pairing: House; House/Amber
rating: hard pg-13
words: ~1,000
spoilers: 5x21 & 5x22

summary: Amber is everywhere and sees everything.

I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends to the dead

- The Noose


"You know, Wilson's is thicker."

I pull my head from under the shower spray with a splutter and find myself staring at Amber. I dash my hands to my groin, the soap dropping to the floor with a dull thud. "How'd you get in here?"

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I realise how ridiculous that sounds. "I'm in your head, remember?" Amber ever so not helpfully replies. "I'm everywhere. I see..." She lowers her eyes with a taunting lift of her brow. "Everything that you don't want me to see."

I clutch my balls and penis a little more protectively. Stupid that a hallucination can make me feel naked about being naked. "You mean you see everything I already know. You're not Amber; you're me. You're just a manifestation of my mind."

"If that's true, then you're obviously well acquainted with Wilson's package."

Her lips curve into an aggravatingly smug smile. Not for the first time since she 'reappeared' in my life, I find myself wondering how the hell my mind is able to conjure such a vivid, accurate detail of Amber's face, of her body, her voice, her mannerisms, even her scent. "No." I turn away from Amber to finish up washing. "My mind only came up with that because of association. Wilson, Amber, sex, I'm washing my balls. Hence, completely inappropriate remark because that's the kind of thing I do."

"What if I am real? What if I'm a ghost? What if I never died?"

I shut the taps off hard; the pipes creak and jostle, and I wipe my hands over my face. Hallucination or not, I'm not going to let Amber goad me into anything I don't want to talk about. "I may be hallucinating but I'm not a gullible idiot."

"You have a nice ass."

I quickly look over my shoulder at Amber. She smirks, I frown. "Why would you say something like that?"

"Seeing you're convinced I'm not real, why would you think something like that?"

"I don't think things like that."

"When has that ever stopped you from wishing someone found you attractive?"

For only a moment, I'm caught off guard. Just a hallucination, I remind myself. I turn around and reach for the towel, replying dryly, "Compliments from a dead person. You know, the real Amber would be turning in her grave right about now."

"I never said I wasn't."

I rub my chest dry, then wrap the towel around my waist. "If you were really Amber, you'd know that the only compliments that you give are the ones that get you something. Or somewhere."

"Or someone."

Halfway out of the shower, I stop to stare at her again. "Someone like who? What do you want?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking pleased with herself. "Definitely not you."

"Then why would you tell me--"

"Screwing with you, on the other hand, just like all the times you screwed with me..."

Well, that sort of makes sense, I think to myself. I stand on the rumpled towel I'd tossed down on the floor earlier as a makeshift bathmat. "Conversations about screwing with dead people will only go in highly questionable places. You done screwing with me yet?"

Amber tosses her head with a chortle. She takes a step closer and I remind myself that if I take a step back, I'm going to land flat on my ass. "Oh, I'm never done screwing with you. In fact, I'd say this is only the beginning, wouldn't you?"

"It's not my head I'm screwing with."

"Of course it is. You're always screwing with your own head - trying to understand things, trying to puzzle things out, trying to solve the unsolvable." She moves in a bit closer and a cold chill runs through me as she lifts a hand and touches my chest. Light strokes of her fingertips down my sternum. If it wasn't Amber I was hallucinating, I'd think this was the most incredibly fascinating hallucination I'd ever had. The fact that I can smell her perfume and even sense her body warmth takes this right out of the fascinating zone and right into something that's really starting to make me feel afraid. "It must get so dark up in that head of yours. All those thoughts, all that guilt, all those things in your life you've refused to take responsibility for."

"What things?" I ask and I'm horrified to hear the nervousness in my own voice.

"Oh, come on," Amber purrs, and I really wish she'd stop that. She presses her palm flat to my chest and trails it down my wet stomach. "Don't tell me you've forgotten our little drink at the bar, the night of the bus crash. Or all those little clues you should've noticed about Kutner."

I swallow. "Neither of those things were my fault."

"What makes you so sure?" Amber runs her finger back up my chest and I feel her breath on my chin as she starts to lean in closer. Her mouth is so close to mine, I can almost taste it. Despite everything, my eyes start fluttering closed. "I mean, none of those things would've happened had you been able to save us in time."

"It wasn't my fault. Neither of those things were my fault," I tell her weakly. Her lips brush mine and I draw in a sharp gasp. She's so real, she's so close. I open my mouth to let her kiss me, eyes closed. Her face is burned into the backs of my tired eyelids.

"Then why can't you get me out of your head?" she whispers.

Everything crashes back to reality. What is she doing to me? What am I doing? She's not real. I don't believe a word she's saying. Except... except it's not her that's saying anything, it's me. Me. This is all in my head. All in my screwed up head. I snap my eyes open and go to shove her away from me as fast as possible.

Nothing. No Amber. Just an empty bathroom.


title: Sing Me To Sleep
pairing: House/Stacy
rating: pg
words: 800

summary: A conversation House and Stacy have in the middle of the night.

I've been awake for hours.

This isn't anything new. Sleep has become like sex, just like sex has become like sleep - something I'm getting way too little of, and when I do get it, it's pathetic. My leg is throbbing. My head feels like it's going to split open from tiredness alone. And maybe I've been restless much more than I realised: "Greg?" Stacy says quietly once I've tried in vain yet again to get comfortable. Impossible to get comfortable in a bed that's become little more than a prison. Just like everything else in my shitty, worthless life.

"What?" I snap.

"You've been tossing and turning for hours."

I give a quiet, derisive snort. "Yeah. It's called chronic pain. Don't know if you've heard, but it kinda makes the whole sleeping thing a little on the not sleeping side."

"I wasn't offering platitudes, Greg," she replies, a little tersely.

"No. You just felt like pointing out that I'm annoying you by disrupting your beauty sleep."

"I'm pointing it out because I want to know if there's anything I can do to help."

"You're about three months and four leg operations too late to be any help to me."

Silence. I don't need to look at Stacy to know the way she's looking back at me. That thin, twisted shape she presses her lips into whenever I say something she doesn't like: it's about the only look she gives me these days when she's not shouting at me, or crying, or trying to ignore me. She hasn't looked happy in months. I've almost forgotten what she looks like when she smiles. I can't say I blame her, as much as I want to. The infarction has killed both of us.

I hear her sigh. Her hand slides onto my chest, warm and gentle. I turn my head away from her and when she doesn't get the hint that I don't want to be touched, I reach up and shove her hand away.

"Go back to sleep," I tell her.

"Greg, just let me--"

"I don't need comforting."

She sighs again, a frustrated one this time. She sits up. The room is dark but I don't need to see her clearly to know she's pissed off. "When are you going to stop pushing me out? You told me you wanted us to keep trying to be like we always were, and yet you do nothing except treat me like I'm an enemy."

"I'm not pushing you out. I want to left alone."

"What's the difference, Greg? You always want to be left alone."

I rub my face, pushing my fingers into my eyes. They're burning from tiredness. My whole head feels like it's swimming with white noise. I don't want to fight about this yet again. All I want is a decent night sleep. "Pain. It makes me touchy."

"That's your excuse for everything. The pain."

"Which I wouldn't be in if it wasn't for you," I reply sharply.

Silence again, followed by the sound of Stacy swallowing. "You going to keep hating me for the rest of your life? Because I don't think I can live with a man who hates me for wanting him to live."

"Fine. You wanna leave, then leave. I'm not going to stop you."

It's a spiteful comeback. It's meant to be a spiteful comeback. I want to mean it, too. As Stacy turns away from me and lies down, I hear her quietly sniff. She's crying. Good. Let her hurt as much as she's hurt me.

Except as I turn over onto my side, a slow and awkward struggle, I realise I didn't mean what I'd just said. Nothing's stopping her from leaving but I'm not sure I want her to actually leave. What would my life be without Stacy in it? Empty. It's already empty enough. I think about turning back to her and telling her I didn't mean it. But instead, I do nothing.

I stare at the wall and listen to her crying into the pillow until she finally falls back to sleep.


title: Simple Explanation
characters: House, Kutner, Wilson; House/Cuddy
rating: pg-13
words: 1,100

summary: House deals, or doesn't deal, with the aftermath of Kutner's death.


You feel fine. Really.

Just another day in the office. Paperwork to avoid, patients to avoid even more, work colleagues to avoid the most. Really, it's fine. Everything is fine.

It's those around you that are making this into something else. Cuddy keeps hovering, watching you, touching your arm in placating ways that you see as nothing more than patronising. You shrug her off every time. You're fine. You don't need another one of her disbelieving, worried looks or another one of her barely controlled sighs as you insist, yet again, you're fine.

And Wilson. You're not actually sure he cares. Not that you want him to. He's way more interested in lecturing you about how much you're puzzling over all of this. Obsessing, he called it. You're obsessing, House. Again. And, Let it go. There are some things you're just not going to find out. Right. Says the guy who'd told you to stick a probe in your god damn brain in order to save his girlfriend. He hadn't cared if you were obsessed then, had he?

Except. You're not obsessing. You're not. You're fine.

At least Thirteen leaves you alone. Well. When she's not arguing with you that his death isn't a case, stop treating it like a case, House, you can't diagnose a suicide. You ignore her as much as you can; her red-rimmed eyes and her sallow face and, for god's sake, the last thing you want or need is Thirteen moping around your office. And Foreman is, well, Foreman. The guy has one expression for every occasion.

You're fine, you remind yourself for the millionth time as you rub your fingers into your tired and itchy eyes. You're fine. You're fine.

You'll be just fine once you get your answer.


Three weeks after Kutner dies, you lose your temper.

Not that you hadn't lost your temper plenty of times already. Except you lose your temper. You're staring down at the pictures of Kutner you'd taken from his apartment, still trying to piece the puzzle together, and it suddenly hits you like a sledgehammer to your chest.

This could've been you.

You fucking idiot!, you want to shout at the pictures. You IDIOT. You're staring at a picture of Kutner standing on a beach with his friends, his easy smile frozen in time. A simple, transient moment of Kutner's life captured on a piece of photograph paper and you find yourself so angry that you're shaking, the photo trembling in your hand. Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you give me a clue? A simple clue?

Kutner's deceivingly happy face just keeps staring back at you. You feel like hitting something. Kicking something. If only you'd known. If only you'd known that he was just like you. Living in misery sucks marginally less than dying. You could've told him that. You could've told him a lot of things. You could've told him, Don't be like me.

You swipe the photos off your coffee table in one angry sweep of your hand. They scatter to the floor, some upturned, some landing blank side up. And then you push your fingers into your eyes to physically hold back the anger threatening to take form in the shape of weak, humiliating tears. You keep them pressed there until the red sting behind your eyelids fades to a dull, angry ache.


It's been almost two months.

Everything's back to normal. You've solved two cases. You're back to scribbling differentials on the whiteboard and finding ways to worm your way out of clinic and dictations. If you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend Kutner was never even here. Almost.

All I have to do is solve this, find the answers, you tell yourself as you pour over Kutner's photos for the millionth time. You know them so well now, you'd be able to recall every single little detail in every single photo, from the crookedness of people's toothy smiles to the wrinkles on article of clothing every person in the photos is wearing. If I solve this, then none of this will matter anymore. No point in chasing ghosts once their last fingerprints have been brushed away.

All you have to do is find where those fingerprints are.


Three months.

Wilson keeps calling you obsessed. You don't care. You don't even listen to him. But you're beginning to wonder why you're bothering anymore. Staring at the same photographs over and over, going through all the notes you'd made, going through the coroner's report to the point where you could recite the entire thing word for word, combing through every bit of evidence you've gotten your hands on. And coming up with nothing. Just dead ends. Unanswered questions.

Kutner would've been you, you think to yourself. You've sunk to that low place before. Right to the very depth where Wilson had found you sprawled on your living room floor in your own vomit and an empty vial of stolen oxycodone lying scattered and damning by your limp body. You're sinking back down there again. Fast. Sinking, sinking, drowning. In fact, you're not even sure you ever stopped drowning. Maybe you've been drowning your whole life and the only times you realised you were was when you remembered to breathe.

Exactly the place Kutner must've been.

Cuddy keeps calling you obsessed, too. She keeps giving you exasperated sighs, hard looks, angry twists of her mouth every time she figures out you're thinking about Kutner again. She keeps trying to insinuate herself between you and this puzzle, and you're stupid enough to fall for it just the once. A concerned touch of her hand to your forehead somehow leads to a hungry press of mouths and hands all over each other's bodies - a distraction - and in the afterglow of her lying naked and sweaty beside you in a tangle of sheets, you realise you've toed a dangerous line with her and, god. You can't afford to lose anyone else.

You're losing yourself to this, Cuddy tells you quietly in the still of the night with your bedsheets clutched up around her chest. Don't lose yourself to this, House. There's nothing you could've done.

You turn on your side, away from her.

I'm sorry, she adds softly as she touches your back with a tender stroke of her fingers. Sorry for what, you don't know. You don't want to know.

You shrug her away and when you finally fall to sleep, Kutner is there in your dreams and you tell him, It should've been me.

He just smiles at you; that same roguish smile that haunts every photograph you've been obsessing over for the last three months. That same roguish smile that you realise you've been missing since the day you found out he was gone.

At least I'm free, he replies before he fades away.


It should've been you.

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