Drabbles :D
Sunday, June 15th, 2008 04:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evila_elfkk, here are a few!
Two Requested by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
patterns_rhyme
Wilson clutched tightly to House’s waist as the motorcycle purred. They were going up a steep trail and Wilson was worried he might slip off the back and left in the dust. Stopping wasn’t an option.
House had to elbow him sharply in the side before he realized they were stopped on flat ground. “Like a boa,” House complained.
Wilson slowly let go and as he looked around, his breath caught: They were overlooking a valley of evergreens, blue skies, and swallows frolicking on the breeze. He wrapped his arms around House again, loosely, head resting on shoulder, and stared.
Wilson broke the hat off of Santa, the chocolate caving in under his fingers, disappearing into the hollow body. Wilson sighed and upturned the jolly man to get the shards back out.
He had no idea who had left it, just came into work to find it grinning at him from his desk. He put a piece in his mouth, not chewing, letting it melt on his tongue. He could relate to the little hollow man--being pulled apart piece by piece until the shell was all gone.
He looked out his window and saw House--the giver of metaphors.
And one requested bypwcorgigirl:
House has lots of shoes. Each one tells a story, stories buried underneath stories at the bottom of his closet, waiting to spill out at you if you show them any interest. He has cheap ones from med school days, flattened from years of being crushed; ones from his pre-infarction days, when he ran every day but Sunday; shoes without laces, when it hurt too much to bend; slippers from his mom that he is saving for when he is 80; designer shoes bought on a whim...
They say shoes make the man. House is a little bit of everything.
Two Requested by
patterns_rhymeWilson clutched tightly to House’s waist as the motorcycle purred. They were going up a steep trail and Wilson was worried he might slip off the back and left in the dust. Stopping wasn’t an option.
House had to elbow him sharply in the side before he realized they were stopped on flat ground. “Like a boa,” House complained.
Wilson slowly let go and as he looked around, his breath caught: They were overlooking a valley of evergreens, blue skies, and swallows frolicking on the breeze. He wrapped his arms around House again, loosely, head resting on shoulder, and stared.
Wilson broke the hat off of Santa, the chocolate caving in under his fingers, disappearing into the hollow body. Wilson sighed and upturned the jolly man to get the shards back out.
He had no idea who had left it, just came into work to find it grinning at him from his desk. He put a piece in his mouth, not chewing, letting it melt on his tongue. He could relate to the little hollow man--being pulled apart piece by piece until the shell was all gone.
He looked out his window and saw House--the giver of metaphors.
And one requested by
pwcorgigirl: House has lots of shoes. Each one tells a story, stories buried underneath stories at the bottom of his closet, waiting to spill out at you if you show them any interest. He has cheap ones from med school days, flattened from years of being crushed; ones from his pre-infarction days, when he ran every day but Sunday; shoes without laces, when it hurt too much to bend; slippers from his mom that he is saving for when he is 80; designer shoes bought on a whim...
They say shoes make the man. House is a little bit of everything.
