Panic Attack [ 8/12 ]
Ah, productivity at last.
Title: Panic Attack (8/12)
(chapter name: Tell Me)
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: Thirteen/Cameron
Word Count: 1005
Rating: M
Warning: Femslash. Non-canon after Wilson’s Heart. There is actual medicine being practiced in this chapter, which is probably all wrong.
Instead of doing something to help the patient (apparently, Foreman, Taub and Kutner have it all under control), she’s standing in front of House’s desk, watching as he snickers slightly and scribbles something out, replacing it with another word. She peers surreptitiously at the piece of paper. At the top, in huge letters, it reads, ’TWENTY QUESTIONS FOR THIRTY-ONE’. She sighs.
“So, you don’t tell your pseudo-hooker about the fact that you’re dying, and she’s into you anyway. Impressive,” he says with a quirk of the mouth as he finally looks up. Clearing his throat (in lieu of a drum roll, probably), he booms out in an announcer-style voice, making sure the entire hallway can hear, “So, Thirteen! How long have you been fucking Cameron?” He puts a special emphasis on the word ‘fucking’, as if it’s supposed to shock her or something. Whatever.
“A little more than a week,” she says clearly. Obviously, the best way to throw him off is to try not to run away, completely red-faced, even though that’s what she wants to do. Her strategy seems to work as he stops for a second, then peers back down at his list. As he’s deciding which question to ask next, a still-livid Allison appears at the door. Remy’s back is to her, but upon smelling the delicate scent she’s come to know so well, Fuck is Remy’s only thought. Suddenly she can’t stand being near House anymore. Her resolve has completely dissolved in the past second, and she turns around and dashes out the door. She surmises that Allison’s following her from House’s yell.
“Not exam room three, ladies! There was a projectile-vomiter in there last time I checked!”
Remy stops speed-walking at the far end of the parking lot and wearily leans against a lamppost. Allison stops too. They just stand in silence for a little while, each gauging the other’s mood. Remy realizes that she can’t put it off any longer. She has to talk.
“This blows,” she says, kicking at the ground, then lifting her eyes slightly.
“What, having to talk to me?” Allison asks bitterly, not meeting Remy’s eyes. She knows she’s being unfair, but she feels a sense of betrayal. Sighing, she clarifies, “House told me already. About the Huntington’s. I know you find it hard to talk, but I feel like you’re just using me for sex. Like you never would have told me if House hadn’t found out.”
Remy stays silent.
“Would you have?” Allison presses. She reaches out gingerly, as if she’s making a huge effort; touches Remy’s chin and forces eye contact. “Would you have told me you were dying? Or would you just have come have sex with me every night so I could do the same to you?”
Remy averts her gaze as best as she can, gathering her thoughts. After a minute or two, she finally says, “Ally, what the hell are you talking about? You never would have stood for me not telling you. I know that, and I would have eventually. Really.”
Allison seems to be somewhat comforted by Remy’s pronouncement. “Remy,” she says softly, taking her hands. “I want you to be my girlfriend. I don’t want a nightly fuck, I don’t want a mouth and some fingers and a squish mitten. I want all of you. I want you to know that you can trust me, that whatever you tell me…”
Remy silences her with a kiss. That, beyond anything, conveys Remy’s message: she wants all the same things, but it’s going to be hard for her. Just to make sure Allison gets it, she leans in and whispers, “We’re on the same page.”
Allison kisses her again, deeper this time. Remy’s tongue has just passed over her bottom lip when a throat clearing behind them sends them flying apart and standing ramrod-straight.
“House can see you,” Foreman says, grimacing.
This time, though, it doesn’t affect the two women as much. They’re still a little dazed from being shocked out of their encounter.
“Whatever he wants to see, he’s seen in pornos. Whatever he wants to know, he knows already, or can figure out easily enough. I don’t really care,” Remy says, glancing up at the hospital building. She turns to Allison, who looks a little less certain, and sighs. “I guess we should go back anyway.”
By the time Remy gets back up to House’s office, he’s scrapped his list of questions. “You annoy me,” he says shortly, before pointing his cane in the direction of the adjoining room. “Go forth and diagnose!”
“What’s the latest?” Remy asks Kutner, who appears to be doodling a stylized X-wing Rebel fighter on a copy of the patient’s chart.
“Patient’s becoming delirious,” he says, adding a mini-Luke Skywalker inside the cockpit.
“Are you guys serious?” she exclaims, glancing at the board. “Hello? Are you even using your brains?” She jumps up and points at each of the symptoms, almost toppling the board over as she stabs at it.
“Shut up, you sound and act like House minus the cane,” Taub quips. “What is it?”
“Methanol poisoning,” she says, frowning at them. “Duh.”
“We tested her for it ages ago. Gave her a couple shots of tequila, which should counter-act the methanol; slight improvement. Then she started thinking she was at a carnival and tried to straddle the nurses’ station,” Kutner said, finally finishing his doodle.
“Well, maybe she’s still being poisoned, then,” she says, extremely annoyed with the rest of the team. “And if House wasn’t so obsessed with my personal life, he would have realized that.” She raises her voice slightly so it carries over to the office next door.
“Fine,” House yells from his office, a little louder than necessary. “Go call the cops on the fiancé, give her an ethanol drip and go home and have sex with your girlfriend. That last one only applies to Thirteen, because she’s the only one here with a girlfriend.”
Remy feels like smashing her head against the table.
Title: Panic Attack (8/12)
(chapter name: Tell Me)
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: Thirteen/Cameron
Word Count: 1005
Rating: M
Warning: Femslash. Non-canon after Wilson’s Heart. There is actual medicine being practiced in this chapter, which is probably all wrong.
Instead of doing something to help the patient (apparently, Foreman, Taub and Kutner have it all under control), she’s standing in front of House’s desk, watching as he snickers slightly and scribbles something out, replacing it with another word. She peers surreptitiously at the piece of paper. At the top, in huge letters, it reads, ’TWENTY QUESTIONS FOR THIRTY-ONE’. She sighs.
“So, you don’t tell your pseudo-hooker about the fact that you’re dying, and she’s into you anyway. Impressive,” he says with a quirk of the mouth as he finally looks up. Clearing his throat (in lieu of a drum roll, probably), he booms out in an announcer-style voice, making sure the entire hallway can hear, “So, Thirteen! How long have you been fucking Cameron?” He puts a special emphasis on the word ‘fucking’, as if it’s supposed to shock her or something. Whatever.
“A little more than a week,” she says clearly. Obviously, the best way to throw him off is to try not to run away, completely red-faced, even though that’s what she wants to do. Her strategy seems to work as he stops for a second, then peers back down at his list. As he’s deciding which question to ask next, a still-livid Allison appears at the door. Remy’s back is to her, but upon smelling the delicate scent she’s come to know so well, Fuck is Remy’s only thought. Suddenly she can’t stand being near House anymore. Her resolve has completely dissolved in the past second, and she turns around and dashes out the door. She surmises that Allison’s following her from House’s yell.
“Not exam room three, ladies! There was a projectile-vomiter in there last time I checked!”
Remy stops speed-walking at the far end of the parking lot and wearily leans against a lamppost. Allison stops too. They just stand in silence for a little while, each gauging the other’s mood. Remy realizes that she can’t put it off any longer. She has to talk.
“This blows,” she says, kicking at the ground, then lifting her eyes slightly.
“What, having to talk to me?” Allison asks bitterly, not meeting Remy’s eyes. She knows she’s being unfair, but she feels a sense of betrayal. Sighing, she clarifies, “House told me already. About the Huntington’s. I know you find it hard to talk, but I feel like you’re just using me for sex. Like you never would have told me if House hadn’t found out.”
Remy stays silent.
“Would you have?” Allison presses. She reaches out gingerly, as if she’s making a huge effort; touches Remy’s chin and forces eye contact. “Would you have told me you were dying? Or would you just have come have sex with me every night so I could do the same to you?”
Remy averts her gaze as best as she can, gathering her thoughts. After a minute or two, she finally says, “Ally, what the hell are you talking about? You never would have stood for me not telling you. I know that, and I would have eventually. Really.”
Allison seems to be somewhat comforted by Remy’s pronouncement. “Remy,” she says softly, taking her hands. “I want you to be my girlfriend. I don’t want a nightly fuck, I don’t want a mouth and some fingers and a squish mitten. I want all of you. I want you to know that you can trust me, that whatever you tell me…”
Remy silences her with a kiss. That, beyond anything, conveys Remy’s message: she wants all the same things, but it’s going to be hard for her. Just to make sure Allison gets it, she leans in and whispers, “We’re on the same page.”
Allison kisses her again, deeper this time. Remy’s tongue has just passed over her bottom lip when a throat clearing behind them sends them flying apart and standing ramrod-straight.
“House can see you,” Foreman says, grimacing.
This time, though, it doesn’t affect the two women as much. They’re still a little dazed from being shocked out of their encounter.
“Whatever he wants to see, he’s seen in pornos. Whatever he wants to know, he knows already, or can figure out easily enough. I don’t really care,” Remy says, glancing up at the hospital building. She turns to Allison, who looks a little less certain, and sighs. “I guess we should go back anyway.”
By the time Remy gets back up to House’s office, he’s scrapped his list of questions. “You annoy me,” he says shortly, before pointing his cane in the direction of the adjoining room. “Go forth and diagnose!”
“What’s the latest?” Remy asks Kutner, who appears to be doodling a stylized X-wing Rebel fighter on a copy of the patient’s chart.
“Patient’s becoming delirious,” he says, adding a mini-Luke Skywalker inside the cockpit.
“Are you guys serious?” she exclaims, glancing at the board. “Hello? Are you even using your brains?” She jumps up and points at each of the symptoms, almost toppling the board over as she stabs at it.
“Shut up, you sound and act like House minus the cane,” Taub quips. “What is it?”
“Methanol poisoning,” she says, frowning at them. “Duh.”
“We tested her for it ages ago. Gave her a couple shots of tequila, which should counter-act the methanol; slight improvement. Then she started thinking she was at a carnival and tried to straddle the nurses’ station,” Kutner said, finally finishing his doodle.
“Well, maybe she’s still being poisoned, then,” she says, extremely annoyed with the rest of the team. “And if House wasn’t so obsessed with my personal life, he would have realized that.” She raises her voice slightly so it carries over to the office next door.
“Fine,” House yells from his office, a little louder than necessary. “Go call the cops on the fiancé, give her an ethanol drip and go home and have sex with your girlfriend. That last one only applies to Thirteen, because she’s the only one here with a girlfriend.”
Remy feels like smashing her head against the table.