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fic: "oooh eee, ooh ah ah"
Title: Oooh eee, ooh ah ah.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
Pairing: House/Cate Millton (south pole doc)
Rating: NC-17, for het sex, drunkenness, grand theft chocolate bar
Spoilers: 4.11, "Frozen"
Disclaimer: Not mine. Am broke. Don't sue.
Author's Note: Set during House's residency. Because he never said that he didn't sleep with her - he just said she was half a world away. This plotbunny grabbed me by the neck last night and wouldn't let me go, even through the medically induced fog, which is pretty damn impressive if I may say so. Also this is a hell of a lot longer than most things I write. Go me!
1988.
Boston General's Hallowe'en party is predictably lame, but there's free food and cheap booze and if he spooks the right nurses near the apple bobbing bin he occasionally gets a glimpse of wet t-shirt skimming over dark aerolae, and that's always a good time. The band (if you could call it that) was playing a half-assed off-key version of 'Monster Mash'. He's lazily half-drunk on bourbon and Cokes and is haunting one of the candy bowls, trying to surreptitiously steal the cherry blow-pops and miniature chocolate bars and leave the shitty peanut butter toffees for the less fortunate (or less sneaky).
He catches a glimpse of a Snickers bar, digs through the chaff to find it - and suddenly encounters long fingers pinching the tiny candy bar between them. Their hands brush under the blanket of Tootsie Rolls and Double-Bubble gum.
He looks up, sees dark eyes, a fall of blonde hair under a pointed hat, an impish smile, smeared green face makeup on high cheekbones.
"So you're the candy thief."
He raises one eyebrow, eyes wide and as innocent as he can make them. "Candy thief?"
"The one that's been stealing candy bars all night. The bowls are suspiciously chocolateless."
"Could be someone ate them."
"Not according to your pockets."
"I could be happy to see you?"
"Then you need to get yourself to plastics, stat, because you're looking a little malformed and square from this angle."
He grins then and surrenders some of his ill-gotten booty while checking her out.
Maybe if he's lucky he'll be trading booty for booty.
*
Her name is Cate Millton. She's a psychology resident, but he doesn't hold that against her too much, because she's smart and can trade banter like a pro and doesn't try to pick him apart (at least not in ways he can see, and considering he's looking for it, that's pretty telling). They end up in a dark corner of the cafeteria, leaning up against the wall, chatting and eating the better pickings of the candy bars while trying to calculate the chances of mutual co-workers having embarassing morning-after moments or posting photocopies of their asses to department bulletin boards. She goes from merely hot to extra-spicy when she tries to calculate the mean, median and mode of drunken, embarassing sex encounters in the psych department.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" she asks him, mumbling around a mouthful of caramel and peanuts.
He looks down at his jeans and t-shirt. "Serial killer. They always look perfectly ordinary." Truth be told he hadn't bothered to dress up and hadn't expected to be called on it. "You? I doubt your face is usually that colour, unless you find me that revolting."
She gives him something he instantly recognises as the female version of his own 'duh!' face and flicks her stethoscope. "Witch doctor."
He groans and rolls his eyes. "Right. I should have guessed."
"Everyone has off days." She tips her head to the side a little and checks him out. "I wouldn't say you're revolting at all. A little abrasive at times, but some people respond well to that kind of treatment."
"Hey! I've been on my best behavior tonight!" He glances at his watch, makes a mock-offended face. "Okay, I've been on my best behavior for the last ... hour or so, at least, give a guy some credit."
She grins. "Your reputation precedes you, Doctor House. Rumor has it that the Dean of Medicine has it in for you."
"Damnit, and I paid extra for a shy and retiring reputation. I'm writing an angry letter first thing in the morning."
She starts checking him out again, the impish grin revealing a trace of chocolate on her lower lip that looks even odder against the green facepaint.. "I hope that's not the only thing that isn't shy and retiring."
"Well, my big toes are a little skittish sometimes around new people - ."
She leans over and kisses him to shut him up.
Her mouth tastes like chocolate tinted with rum punch, and he can feel the heavy smear of the stage makeup getting on his face, but he doesn't care, slides his hands under her white coat and shirt to reveal the soft skin of her back to his palms, and she doesn't slap him, just licks the corners of his mouth with her nubile tongue and pulls him closer for a moment before they break apart.
"You wanna-" he starts.
She nods at him and glances around the room. No one's paying attention to them at the moment, but the setting isn't exactly ideal. "I know a place."
*
"A place" turns out to be the residents' shared office in the psych department. It's empty - everyone's at the party, or somewhere more comfortable than a tiny, drafty office in the old wing - but there's a sofa there and even if it is older than his medical degree he'll take what he can get, especially when what he can get includes those fabulous legs wrapped around his hips.
He palms her breasts, nuzzling between them, tasting the salt of her skin and the acid tang of her perfume on his tongue, and she moans as his lips skate across her nipples, leaving the faintest hint of her green face paint trailing behind him. Something foil catches the light through the blinds and he looks up, expecting to see a candy square and seeing something even more delightful in her hand.
She chuckles at his expression and tears open the condom wrapper. "Always prepared."
"I thought you were a witch doctor, not a girl scout?"
This time the light catches her grin and she rolls the condom on him, slides down on top of him and god those legs are even more fantastic than he'd thought they'd be and that's saying a lot. His arms reach up over her shoulders and trail down over the small of her back, her ass and hips, up across her flat stomach to those fantastic breasts again. She rocks against him, moans throatily in the half-light. The couch is too damn short but he manages somehow, sliding two fingers between her thighs to rub her clit and she bucks against him, drawing him deeper inside; he feels her tense, pulling him closer still. She throws her head back with a musky, sexy moan, and the sound goes straight to his cock as he comes.
*
They lie on the sofa as best they can for a few minutes, spent; and then she leans forward and kisses him again, sexy and slow, and says something about a shower. He's about to suggest that he join her when his pager goes off: one of the goddamn patients is coding again, kidney failure, and he's got to sprint and barely gets much more than a quickie feel and a kiss.
Worst of it was that the fucking patient died anyway. He's on call for twenty-eight hours after that and by the time he gets back to his apartment he doesn't even have the energy to strip before he passes out.
When he wakes up there's a box on his doorstep and a message on his machine. The patient was the son of some fatcat donor and that gave the Dean the final excuse to fire him. Fucker.
The next time he saw Cate she was half a world away, with the same blonde hair and impish smile, but much less greasepaint and a lot more clothing.
Pity.
He thinks of medians and modes and something tugs a little in his chest.
Author:
phinniaPairing: House/Cate Millton (south pole doc)
Rating: NC-17, for het sex, drunkenness, grand theft chocolate bar
Spoilers: 4.11, "Frozen"
Disclaimer: Not mine. Am broke. Don't sue.
Author's Note: Set during House's residency. Because he never said that he didn't sleep with her - he just said she was half a world away. This plotbunny grabbed me by the neck last night and wouldn't let me go, even through the medically induced fog, which is pretty damn impressive if I may say so. Also this is a hell of a lot longer than most things I write. Go me!
1988.
Boston General's Hallowe'en party is predictably lame, but there's free food and cheap booze and if he spooks the right nurses near the apple bobbing bin he occasionally gets a glimpse of wet t-shirt skimming over dark aerolae, and that's always a good time. The band (if you could call it that) was playing a half-assed off-key version of 'Monster Mash'. He's lazily half-drunk on bourbon and Cokes and is haunting one of the candy bowls, trying to surreptitiously steal the cherry blow-pops and miniature chocolate bars and leave the shitty peanut butter toffees for the less fortunate (or less sneaky).
He catches a glimpse of a Snickers bar, digs through the chaff to find it - and suddenly encounters long fingers pinching the tiny candy bar between them. Their hands brush under the blanket of Tootsie Rolls and Double-Bubble gum.
He looks up, sees dark eyes, a fall of blonde hair under a pointed hat, an impish smile, smeared green face makeup on high cheekbones.
"So you're the candy thief."
He raises one eyebrow, eyes wide and as innocent as he can make them. "Candy thief?"
"The one that's been stealing candy bars all night. The bowls are suspiciously chocolateless."
"Could be someone ate them."
"Not according to your pockets."
"I could be happy to see you?"
"Then you need to get yourself to plastics, stat, because you're looking a little malformed and square from this angle."
He grins then and surrenders some of his ill-gotten booty while checking her out.
Maybe if he's lucky he'll be trading booty for booty.
*
Her name is Cate Millton. She's a psychology resident, but he doesn't hold that against her too much, because she's smart and can trade banter like a pro and doesn't try to pick him apart (at least not in ways he can see, and considering he's looking for it, that's pretty telling). They end up in a dark corner of the cafeteria, leaning up against the wall, chatting and eating the better pickings of the candy bars while trying to calculate the chances of mutual co-workers having embarassing morning-after moments or posting photocopies of their asses to department bulletin boards. She goes from merely hot to extra-spicy when she tries to calculate the mean, median and mode of drunken, embarassing sex encounters in the psych department.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" she asks him, mumbling around a mouthful of caramel and peanuts.
He looks down at his jeans and t-shirt. "Serial killer. They always look perfectly ordinary." Truth be told he hadn't bothered to dress up and hadn't expected to be called on it. "You? I doubt your face is usually that colour, unless you find me that revolting."
She gives him something he instantly recognises as the female version of his own 'duh!' face and flicks her stethoscope. "Witch doctor."
He groans and rolls his eyes. "Right. I should have guessed."
"Everyone has off days." She tips her head to the side a little and checks him out. "I wouldn't say you're revolting at all. A little abrasive at times, but some people respond well to that kind of treatment."
"Hey! I've been on my best behavior tonight!" He glances at his watch, makes a mock-offended face. "Okay, I've been on my best behavior for the last ... hour or so, at least, give a guy some credit."
She grins. "Your reputation precedes you, Doctor House. Rumor has it that the Dean of Medicine has it in for you."
"Damnit, and I paid extra for a shy and retiring reputation. I'm writing an angry letter first thing in the morning."
She starts checking him out again, the impish grin revealing a trace of chocolate on her lower lip that looks even odder against the green facepaint.. "I hope that's not the only thing that isn't shy and retiring."
"Well, my big toes are a little skittish sometimes around new people - ."
She leans over and kisses him to shut him up.
Her mouth tastes like chocolate tinted with rum punch, and he can feel the heavy smear of the stage makeup getting on his face, but he doesn't care, slides his hands under her white coat and shirt to reveal the soft skin of her back to his palms, and she doesn't slap him, just licks the corners of his mouth with her nubile tongue and pulls him closer for a moment before they break apart.
"You wanna-" he starts.
She nods at him and glances around the room. No one's paying attention to them at the moment, but the setting isn't exactly ideal. "I know a place."
*
"A place" turns out to be the residents' shared office in the psych department. It's empty - everyone's at the party, or somewhere more comfortable than a tiny, drafty office in the old wing - but there's a sofa there and even if it is older than his medical degree he'll take what he can get, especially when what he can get includes those fabulous legs wrapped around his hips.
He palms her breasts, nuzzling between them, tasting the salt of her skin and the acid tang of her perfume on his tongue, and she moans as his lips skate across her nipples, leaving the faintest hint of her green face paint trailing behind him. Something foil catches the light through the blinds and he looks up, expecting to see a candy square and seeing something even more delightful in her hand.
She chuckles at his expression and tears open the condom wrapper. "Always prepared."
"I thought you were a witch doctor, not a girl scout?"
This time the light catches her grin and she rolls the condom on him, slides down on top of him and god those legs are even more fantastic than he'd thought they'd be and that's saying a lot. His arms reach up over her shoulders and trail down over the small of her back, her ass and hips, up across her flat stomach to those fantastic breasts again. She rocks against him, moans throatily in the half-light. The couch is too damn short but he manages somehow, sliding two fingers between her thighs to rub her clit and she bucks against him, drawing him deeper inside; he feels her tense, pulling him closer still. She throws her head back with a musky, sexy moan, and the sound goes straight to his cock as he comes.
*
They lie on the sofa as best they can for a few minutes, spent; and then she leans forward and kisses him again, sexy and slow, and says something about a shower. He's about to suggest that he join her when his pager goes off: one of the goddamn patients is coding again, kidney failure, and he's got to sprint and barely gets much more than a quickie feel and a kiss.
Worst of it was that the fucking patient died anyway. He's on call for twenty-eight hours after that and by the time he gets back to his apartment he doesn't even have the energy to strip before he passes out.
When he wakes up there's a box on his doorstep and a message on his machine. The patient was the son of some fatcat donor and that gave the Dean the final excuse to fire him. Fucker.
The next time he saw Cate she was half a world away, with the same blonde hair and impish smile, but much less greasepaint and a lot more clothing.
Pity.
He thinks of medians and modes and something tugs a little in his chest.