Author: Charlie Winchester PM
No, Wilson, I do NOT want to make out with you." "Tell you what, Cuddy, when I think you mean that, I'll let you know." Oneshot, WilsonCuddy obviously.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Humor - J. Wilson & L. Cuddy - Words: 426 - Reviews: 10 - Favs: 5 - Follows: 1 - Published: 11-05-06 - Status: Complete - id: 3231789
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Summary: oneshot "No, Wilson, I do NOT want to make out with you." "Tell you what, Cuddy, when I think you mean that, I'll let you know."
Author's note: I know, usually I'm a Huddy shipper, but it wouldn't leave me alone! Blame it on Wilson and those beautiful puppy-dog eyes of his… I'd make out with him. LOL.
Disclaimer: Don't even start with me.
Review, or I'll throw rotten apples at you. That's right, be afraid.
I truly believe that if my paperwork could talk to me, it would whimper incessantly and plead in a high pitched, annoying whiny voice, "Lisa, stop scowling at me!"
It wouldn't work, of course, but I growl anyway and in a rare display of temper, shove it away with a sigh of disgust. Damn you, James Wilson. I'm trying to friggin' work, here. Get outta my head and go flirt with some slutty little nurse. Like, now.
In two seconds I realize I've been talking out loud.
(Or is it written on my forehead?)
Well, regardless… shit.
A lone brown eyebrow arches up gracefully, completing his patented Wilson look.
God, I can just feel my face turning red. Why can't I just scoff at him like I did before and make a composed exit?
Why am I even having this conversation? With myself, no less?
Ugh. For pete's sake.
I force myself to smile coolly. "Sorry. Just talking to myself," I reply, gathering my paperwork from, well, everywhere. It lets me not look at him. Until he squats down and helps me, that is.
Wilson I hate you.
Soft brown eyes gaze tenderly at me. His hand lightly rests overtop of mine as I reach for a loose page. Cliché, I know, but hey, I'm only human.
Oh god. Was that a whine?
A mischievous glint appears in his eyes. "You really don't want to make out with me?"
I heave an exasperated sigh. "No, Wilson, I do not want to make out with you."
He purses his lips, retrieves the remaining paper, and stands, heads for the door. At the last possible second he turns around and meets my gaze. Grins without remorse.
"Tell you what, Cuddy. When I think you mean that, I'll let you know." With that, he winks- winks!- and walks out the door, leaving me gaping at him.
I still think it was written on my forehead.