vicodincrutch | 095. Diagnosis

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095. Diagnosis

I wouldn't be who I am without looking a gift horse in the mouth. Either someone has paid all women some amount of money to appear attracted or mildly interested or there is a curse going on. Or an out break.

In the event of the first, C-cups and up only.

[ooc; you know you want to.]

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There isn't that much money in the world for you.

[Voices over the Network sound closer than they appear... because they're just outside your office door.]

There is plenty of money in the world. And it resents your mentality.

Only those with questionable values and mentalities would take money to spend time with you. Or spend time with you, period.

[Yes, outside the door. And if he listens closely, he can hear it--or the person it belongs to, rather--stop right in front of it.]]

You say that even though you're well aware that I'm a doctor. Consider your point nullified.

Let me rephrase that: spend time with you willingly for funsies.

[Too bad the gun isn't there. Wet T-Shirt contest, anyone? No? Oh well, but there's some sniffing. A lot of sniffing.]

Health isn't fun?

Testing the air for cocaine?

[She's not going to answer that dumb question because Angela--sadly, like an actual dog at the moment--has a one track mind and her attention is clearly being tugged towards his office. She couldn't stop herself even if she tried.]

Something smells... amazing.

The gospel according to Toucan Sam says follow your nose.

[Anorexic, her ass. Angela's the first one at the dinner table. Besides, food would be a perfect explanation for Angela pushing herself into the office to take in more of whatever's caught her attention. You know, if House was a cheeseburger.

But he's obviously not, and for some other strange reason, Angela finds herself leaning into him, snuggling her nose into the spot where neck meets ear to breathe in deep. Whether it's a light shiver from curse-imbued attraction or some shudder from a deep down bit of disgust that runs down her spine will forever stay unknown.]

Oh my god. It's you. What cologne is that?

Me.

The usual.

The usual.

[She replies in a hushed tone, like she's in awe. Or heat, depending on how one looks at it. Hard times have been happening lately and poor Angela... the curse caught her at a rough patch in her life. There's no resistance on her part as one arm snakes its way around House's neck, pulling him in closer.]

You should wear the usual more often. It turns me on.

[Tomorrow will be an awkward day. Oh yes, it will be.]

Do you often treat people like a scratch and sniff sticker?

[The big surprise is that neither one of them loses their lunch. Closer and closer, Angela comes, practically using the man as her personal jungle gym.]

Nope. Just the special ones. [She pauses to stroke a finger along that stubbly jawline of his.] I never noticed how handsome you were before.

You should get your vision checked.

[She's humming in the negative. Her vision's fine. her mental status, maybe not, but no, this isn't a tactic to get back at Chase. The Thunder from Down Under is so far from her mind at the moment.]

I know what I see, House. And I like what I see. I want what I see.

You're an American right.

Last time I checked my birth certificate, I was.

[Hold on tight, boy, because Angela's taking them on a ride backwards towards his desk. If he lets her do all the moving, he won't need the cane for a while.]

Don't tell me you only do foreign women because I do speak some French, the language of romance. I can fake it until I make it.

[Whatever. Not only did she understand him, but she could order the lobster too if she felt like it. She didn't live in Paris just to learn nothing. At least she slows them down before he bangs into the edge of the desk; she's not that out of control.]

They don't bite.

[Keeping up with the foreign language game, she hopes he understood her heavily accented French. Staring at them will get him nowhere.]

Thank God.

[The door should be locked. In fact, not only should the door be locked, it should be locked with Angela on the other side, far, far, far down the hall. But it's not, so only if they're lucky will somebody walk in and stop them both from doing something they'll both regret.

Well, at least Angela will, because she's slipping her hands into the back pocket of his pants, tapping out a rhythm on his read end. Looking up at him she smiles slightly. Okay, more like a bloodthirsty shark.]

My hands got bored.

[She glances down at the hand on her breast and then the one on her ass. This is interesting in more ways than one. Her own hands can't stay where they are, not by a long shot, so she brings them forward to his belt buckle, deftly removing the leather strap.]

Are you just going to touch all day or will I have to do all the work?

[Not that she minds, but hey, might as well put who's running the show on the table.]

I'm along for the ride. Joy ride I mean.

[Angela shrugs to that. Whatever. It's not the first time she took the lead. Hell, some of the guys she's been with actually liked that. Rising just a little to press her lips against his, she continues down his jawline, leaving a trail of lip gloss prints in her wake as she popped those little annoying shirt buttons of his.]

I don't know what it is...

[She pauses because what doesn't she know? It's not as clear to her as it should be. Way in the back of her head, there's a little voice screaming bloody murder about red flag, but through the haze of the curse, Angela's consciousness can't hear it. Or maybe it's ignoring it. Her brain says no, but her body is definitely saying yes.]

I don't think I can wait much longer.

095. Diagnosis

audio: I am a terrible, terrible person.

audio: you are.

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