ficpost: "Late Nights and Other Irrelevancies" House/McKay
Title: "Late Nights and Other Irrelevancies"
Fandom: House M.D. and Stargate
Pairing: House/McKay
Rating: hard R
Spoilers/Timeline: very general spoilers. Set pre-series House and in S5/6 SG-1
Warnings: There's a little bit of sarcasm. But only a little. Because naturally neither man snarks. Ever.
Notes: Yes, posted about ten minutes (give or take) after swearing my House was asexual. Because the snark was irresistible. Additionally, this is not for any of the ficathons I have due in two weeks.
Summary: Accurate diagnoses all around.
Words: 1,050
Late Nights and Other Irrelevancies
"You're deeply neurotic."
"Yes, but that's irrelevant to my condition."
"No, it is your condition. You aren't sick -- except maybe in the head. You're paranoid. Hypochondriac. And possibly borderline autistic. Which would, technically, be a sickness, but not one I can treat."
"Pills. I want pills. A diagnosis would be helpful, an accurate one more so, but if you give me pills, I'll leave you alone."
"You'll leave me alone?" The gleam was more than slightly manic. "You intrigue me with your wiles. What sort of pills do you want?"
"Something for the pain. Something for the paranoia. Something for the insomnia. And something to keep me awake and focused while I'm working."
He watched House (despite the lukewarm invitation to call him Greg, Rodney knew his doctor would always be only House) scribble his prescription while he talked. "Painkillers. Sleeping pills. For the stimulant, come with me."
"Are you going to take me to a pharmacy?"
"No. I'm taking you to a coffee shop."
Rodney could feel his heart beating faster and his perspiration increase, but even he didn't need House to diagnose those symptoms. He was in love.
The best thing about House was that they were both anal retentive, but, as House had delicately put it one night, their anuses collected different data.
"You, for instance." House gestured broadly.
"Why does it always have to be me for instance? Why can't you take yourself first once in awhile?"
"I was raised to be chivalrous," said House, patently absurd, since regardless of how he'd been raised, the closest he came to chivalry was insisting that his boss, Cuddy, didn't have to see him out. Or, in his words, "Crippled or not, I can walk myself to the damn door."
"So, taking you for an example," House recommenced. "You're anal about punctuality. Absolutely ridiculous about it. If I had been two minutes late tonight --"
"You would have been wasting my time. I have important things I could be doing."
"Precisely. On the other hand, I bet you can't tell me how long we've been sitting here."
"An hour?"
"Two hours and sixteen minutes," House said without glancing at his watch. "And that, my friend, is the difference between you and me. You know when something begins, but I know when it's time for it to end. Goodnight."
The best thing about sex with House, Rodney didn't want to venture to say, for fear he'd get it wrong or accidentally offend House, who, while blithely unabashed by any negative comments about his attitude (poor), his work ethic (spotty), his intelligence (eclectic), or his emotional intelligence (non-existent), was occasionally incredibly sensitive about his body.
The many good things about sex with House included, however:
-the complete lack of any breasts getting bruised when they pressed chest to chest. Rodney loved breasts, in theory, because they were aesthetically the most pleasing part of a female body and he, being male, was hard-wired genetically to find their shape attractive. In practice, however, he often found them misplaced and awkward, interfering with the dogged pursuit of intercourse.
-the total lack of any sort of kissing whatsoever. Kissing, Rodney had learned early, was what women craved. Although he knew it to be medically impossible, he'd half-suspected through the last two years of university that his girlfriend could achieve orgasm only through mouth-to-mouth kissing. Her excited moans, her desperate clinging, the way she scratched her arms down his back, all were consistent with his initial hypothesis. House never wanted to be kissed.
-the need. Good God, the desperate longing clinging need when he hooked his arms through House's and his legs around House's hips and pushed and never met with any resistance as House pushed back and groaned and shuddered, twitchy spasms of pain in his leg and of pleasure in the rest of his body.
-the easy, unashamed way House could shrug his clothes off and present himself to Rodney, crooked leg and hairy chest and scruffy beard all. It made Rodney able to shed his own clothes, paunchy belly and untanned skin, "about twenty pounds overweight. You should probably go the gym three, no, four times a week and go on a strict diet." Beat. "But since that's out, fellatio first tonight?"
-without a doubt, the way House said his name when he came. Rodney tried to relive it afterwards but, like orgasm itself, House saying his name was a pleasure difficult to remember when not being actively experienced. He knew the low, growled "Rodney!" made him feel like he was being ripped open, though more often than not he was the one doing the penetrating, and that it scratched his brain the way House's beard would scratch his chin if they ever kissed.
When Rodney went away, he stopped by the clinic before he even called his sister.
"I'm going to Russia," he said, not looking House in the eye.
House didn't look up from his novel -- a spy thriller. "Bring a warm coat. You won't need to bring liquor; they have plenty there. Some sunlight wouldn't go amiss, I imagine, but is hard to transport You'll need about three months' worth of placebos just to get you through the transition."
"In a few weeks," Rodney continued. "I've been... reassigned. It's complicated and confusing and it probably wouldn't interest you to know why the Russians are suddenly in desperate need of my extensive knowledge, though it shouldn't surprise you to know that anyone is in need of my..."
"Not surprised," House said. "Bit hurt. The government couldn't use a real doctor? A physician, I mean."
"I don't really want to go, but I'd rather go than lose my job."
"You can have mine if you're desperate. Hell, you can have mine if you can tell the difference between a broken leg and conjunctivitis."
McKay, confident that House wasn't about to look up, stared at him. His brain was telling him to turn around and go, but something stronger was telling him...
"So, are you going to take up my valuable office hours by dithering, or are you planning to kiss me goodbye?"
"Uh -- the seco -- no, never mind. I was just going."
"See yourself out," House said. "It's what I always do."
Fandom: House M.D. and Stargate
Pairing: House/McKay
Rating: hard R
Spoilers/Timeline: very general spoilers. Set pre-series House and in S5/6 SG-1
Warnings: There's a little bit of sarcasm. But only a little. Because naturally neither man snarks. Ever.
Notes: Yes, posted about ten minutes (give or take) after swearing my House was asexual. Because the snark was irresistible. Additionally, this is not for any of the ficathons I have due in two weeks.
Summary: Accurate diagnoses all around.
Words: 1,050
Late Nights and Other Irrelevancies
"You're deeply neurotic."
"Yes, but that's irrelevant to my condition."
"No, it is your condition. You aren't sick -- except maybe in the head. You're paranoid. Hypochondriac. And possibly borderline autistic. Which would, technically, be a sickness, but not one I can treat."
"Pills. I want pills. A diagnosis would be helpful, an accurate one more so, but if you give me pills, I'll leave you alone."
"You'll leave me alone?" The gleam was more than slightly manic. "You intrigue me with your wiles. What sort of pills do you want?"
"Something for the pain. Something for the paranoia. Something for the insomnia. And something to keep me awake and focused while I'm working."
He watched House (despite the lukewarm invitation to call him Greg, Rodney knew his doctor would always be only House) scribble his prescription while he talked. "Painkillers. Sleeping pills. For the stimulant, come with me."
"Are you going to take me to a pharmacy?"
"No. I'm taking you to a coffee shop."
Rodney could feel his heart beating faster and his perspiration increase, but even he didn't need House to diagnose those symptoms. He was in love.
The best thing about House was that they were both anal retentive, but, as House had delicately put it one night, their anuses collected different data.
"You, for instance." House gestured broadly.
"Why does it always have to be me for instance? Why can't you take yourself first once in awhile?"
"I was raised to be chivalrous," said House, patently absurd, since regardless of how he'd been raised, the closest he came to chivalry was insisting that his boss, Cuddy, didn't have to see him out. Or, in his words, "Crippled or not, I can walk myself to the damn door."
"So, taking you for an example," House recommenced. "You're anal about punctuality. Absolutely ridiculous about it. If I had been two minutes late tonight --"
"You would have been wasting my time. I have important things I could be doing."
"Precisely. On the other hand, I bet you can't tell me how long we've been sitting here."
"An hour?"
"Two hours and sixteen minutes," House said without glancing at his watch. "And that, my friend, is the difference between you and me. You know when something begins, but I know when it's time for it to end. Goodnight."
The best thing about sex with House, Rodney didn't want to venture to say, for fear he'd get it wrong or accidentally offend House, who, while blithely unabashed by any negative comments about his attitude (poor), his work ethic (spotty), his intelligence (eclectic), or his emotional intelligence (non-existent), was occasionally incredibly sensitive about his body.
The many good things about sex with House included, however:
-the complete lack of any breasts getting bruised when they pressed chest to chest. Rodney loved breasts, in theory, because they were aesthetically the most pleasing part of a female body and he, being male, was hard-wired genetically to find their shape attractive. In practice, however, he often found them misplaced and awkward, interfering with the dogged pursuit of intercourse.
-the total lack of any sort of kissing whatsoever. Kissing, Rodney had learned early, was what women craved. Although he knew it to be medically impossible, he'd half-suspected through the last two years of university that his girlfriend could achieve orgasm only through mouth-to-mouth kissing. Her excited moans, her desperate clinging, the way she scratched her arms down his back, all were consistent with his initial hypothesis. House never wanted to be kissed.
-the need. Good God, the desperate longing clinging need when he hooked his arms through House's and his legs around House's hips and pushed and never met with any resistance as House pushed back and groaned and shuddered, twitchy spasms of pain in his leg and of pleasure in the rest of his body.
-the easy, unashamed way House could shrug his clothes off and present himself to Rodney, crooked leg and hairy chest and scruffy beard all. It made Rodney able to shed his own clothes, paunchy belly and untanned skin, "about twenty pounds overweight. You should probably go the gym three, no, four times a week and go on a strict diet." Beat. "But since that's out, fellatio first tonight?"
-without a doubt, the way House said his name when he came. Rodney tried to relive it afterwards but, like orgasm itself, House saying his name was a pleasure difficult to remember when not being actively experienced. He knew the low, growled "Rodney!" made him feel like he was being ripped open, though more often than not he was the one doing the penetrating, and that it scratched his brain the way House's beard would scratch his chin if they ever kissed.
When Rodney went away, he stopped by the clinic before he even called his sister.
"I'm going to Russia," he said, not looking House in the eye.
House didn't look up from his novel -- a spy thriller. "Bring a warm coat. You won't need to bring liquor; they have plenty there. Some sunlight wouldn't go amiss, I imagine, but is hard to transport You'll need about three months' worth of placebos just to get you through the transition."
"In a few weeks," Rodney continued. "I've been... reassigned. It's complicated and confusing and it probably wouldn't interest you to know why the Russians are suddenly in desperate need of my extensive knowledge, though it shouldn't surprise you to know that anyone is in need of my..."
"Not surprised," House said. "Bit hurt. The government couldn't use a real doctor? A physician, I mean."
"I don't really want to go, but I'd rather go than lose my job."
"You can have mine if you're desperate. Hell, you can have mine if you can tell the difference between a broken leg and conjunctivitis."
McKay, confident that House wasn't about to look up, stared at him. His brain was telling him to turn around and go, but something stronger was telling him...
"So, are you going to take up my valuable office hours by dithering, or are you planning to kiss me goodbye?"
"Uh -- the seco -- no, never mind. I was just going."
"See yourself out," House said. "It's what I always do."