Allison is a little drunk.
She's not a big drinker, obviously. Other females with her body mass and lean-to-fat ratio are able to handle more than two glasses of white wine without getting drunk, but something about how she metabolizes alcohol messes it up for her.
Being drunk at hospital fundraisers is a faux-pas, of course. This, the being tipsy on cheap Chardonnay, and sitting at a crowded table with Foreman and Chase, is Allison's secret rebellion.
It's sort of pathetic, as rebellion goes, but it still feels kind of good.
She's drunk enough that she's enjoying the long press of Chase's thigh against her own, under the table. There's no thought behind it on his part: the chairs make it impossible not to touch, but it's still making her feel warm and tingly inside, and sort of like she wants to casually slide a hand up his arm the next time he leans across her for the salt.
Chase looks like he might be well-muscled, under the ill-fitting sports jacket. Allison doesn't normally think about these things, but when she's drunk, she thinks about them a lot. She's pretty sure this is the physical state other people refer to as "horny."
"Excuse me," Allison says, and lurches to her feet. Rebellious, yes, a little drunk and horny, yes, but she's not insane enough to roll with it.
When she starts wondering what would happen if she rubbed up against Chase is when she goes home and to bed- alone. Maybe she thinks hot slippery thoughts about her boss, and maybe she slides her own fingers over her aching flesh, but that's easily forgotten in the morning.
"Good night," she says, and grabs her purse. Before Foreman and Chase can react, she's away, walking in a very straight line, and paying quite a lot attention to doing so.
Her boss is seated in a chair close to the exit. Good for easy escape. She tries not to look at him as she passes.
She waits at the elevator, looking down at the pinching toes of the expensive heels.
"Is the food really that bad?" He says. She doesn't look up.
"No," she says, and shrugs. "It all tasted the same, but it wasn't bad."
House taps his cane on the marble floor. The elevator makes a slow, grinding sound.
"Loup de mer," House says.
"Yes," Allison says, after working out the words in her head. "Seabass, I think."
"Pommes puree a la moutard," House says. His voice is gravelly, and Allison has to lean away from him.
"I don't speak very much French," she says, and she pushes the elevator's button again.
"Haricots vert," House says.
"I don't know—" She doesn't even know why she's talking, except maybe to fill the dead air. It doesn't matter what it means.
"I don't think you speak French at all, Cameron."
The elevator pings to a stop and the doors slide open.
"Kids today," House says. "No one learns a language anymore." And then, looking at the tip of his cane, as it traces patterns on the tile: "It doesn't look good for you to leave so early."
"I'm tired," Allison says. Her chest feels tight on the inside.
"So am I."
"I'm tired and drunk," Allison says, and her cheeks flame. "I want to gohome."
The elevator, deciding that no one's getting on, closes its doors. Allison pushes them open again.
"I'll give you a vocabulary lesson," House says. His eyes glance off of hers, and away, back to his cane on the marble.
"Good night, House." She gets on the elevator, and pushes the button for the parking garage.
Not looking up again, House taps his cane twice, and walks away. The elevator doors aren't fully closed when he limps out of sight, into the ballroom.
"And now I'd like to present our head of Oncology," Allison hears Dr. Cuddy say, and the applause fades with the closing doors.
She slumps against the wall, her head already pounding.
At home, she'll find her ragged French dictionary, and look up the words that poured off his tongue. Vert, she will think, and the sound will rock her to sleep.
fin
