Summary: After a drunken night, Foreman and Thirteen don’t remember how they got to the position they found themselves in, but only know that the future holds surprises for them. Set sometime after It’s a Wonderful Lie
Ugh. That’s all she can think. Ugh. Thirteen recognized the feeling of her organs being oozed out through her skin as an extreme hangover. Ugh. She groans audibly and tries to open her eyes. Bright! Too bright! After a moment, Thirteen gets used to the light looks around to her surroundings. She’s in a brown room, with warm sheets and a few bookcases, a nightstand, and a bureau (all toupe). This is most definitely not her apartment. She sits up; trying to get her bearings, only to find her stomach begins to flip.
Gasping, Thirteen jumps from the bed and runs into the nearest doorway, praying that it will be a bathroom. Her assumption was correct, and she collapses onto the floor in front of the porcelain bowl, beginning to vomit. After her sickness passes, she realizes that she’s naked, and has absolutely no idea where she is, nor where her clothes are. The bathroom she’s in is extremely clean and pristine, white tiles shining, men’s toiletries lined up by size. Strange, she thinks. Thirteen sees a bathrobe on a peg, and stands up slowly, reaching for it. She shrugs it on, and can’t help but think that it smells woodsy and familiar. The smell brings an image of PPTH to mind, so believes it could belong to a coworker.
Thirteen hears the groan of wood as her unidentified mystery man gets up from his bed. For the first time in the morning, she looks in the mirror, and what she sees disgusts her. Her makeup is completely smudged, mascara and eyeliner running all over her face. Her hair is tangled in knots that will take hours to work out, and she has a large, red hickey on her neck. Damn, not even theater makeup will cover that! Thirteen grabs a handful of paper towels and wets them, trying to scrub her face clean. The cold feels good against her throbbing forehead. Drying her face, she attempts to finger-tame her limp brown locks. Looks better than it did before, she thinks.
“What the hell?” she hears being muttered (much too loudly) from the next room. Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open. They both gasp in surprise.
Eric Foreman is standing in a tee shirt and boxers, holding her brown thong in between his thumb and middle finger, looking just as hangover as she feels, with an even bigger hickey (if that’s possible).
“Thirteen, these are…?” Foreman said, realization washing over his face, staring at the panties. “Um, here.” He says, handing her the thong. Thirteen accepts it, slightly embarrassed.
“So, I guess we slept together,” Thirteen comments, trying to look nonchalant, yet she can’t look into his eyes. This was something that had happened before, but usually the men at least knew her name.
Foreman wasn’t a stranger to one night stands, but he always ended up feeling depressed, empty, and most of all guilty. And at this moment, hungover. “I… kind of have no memory of what happened last night,” Foreman informs her, feeling even guiltier.
“Neither do I,” Thirteen admits. “But I’m about 99 sure it was my idea.” They both chuckle nervously for a moment, then uncomfortable silence surrounds them. “I should get dressed,” she finally says, walking past her colleague to gather the rest of her clothes. She finds her pants, one high heeled shoe, and a blue shirt, but not her bra or her other shoe.
“Let me make you some coffee,” Foreman says, leaving the room for her to change. After a few more minutes of pointless searching, she decides she’ll have to forego the bra, and possibly walk barefoot. Thirteen pulls on the clothes that she has, and caries her one shoe.
She walks down the light corridor of Foreman’s house, noticing the complete lack of personal touches. Squinting, she sees and smells a cup of coffee sitting on a table in the room in front of her. Thirteen doesn’t have the heart to tell him she drinks decaf, and as well decides that at this moment she could use the caffeine.
Foreman comes into her view, still dressed in the shirt and boxers, cradling his head and nursing his coffee. He looked up at Thirteen, then quickly looked away, not realizing it was so cold in his apartment. She sat down and downed most of the brown liquid in one sip, grimacing as she swallows.
“Thirteen?” He mumbles, she looks up at him. “First, this obviously shouldn’t happen again, but House’ll probably find out and jump to conclusions, and be an ass, so…I’m just saying, be prepared.”
Thirteen smiled lightly. “I think I can handle House.”
“Second, it’s 7:40, I don’t know if you have time to go to your place,” Foreman told her.
“Oh shit!” Thirteen said, grabbing his wrist and looking at his watch. He couldn’t help but wonder if she could feel the same bolts of electricity running through her body when they touched. Foreman! It’s a one night stand! He mentally slapped himself. It means nothing! “I guess I’ll change at work.”
“Let me drive you,” He said, standing up and grabbing the two empty mugs. “Oh, I’ll get you an aspirin as well.” She smiled graciously at him. He came back in holding two small white pills and a glass of water, which she takes immediately.
“Shouldn’t you get dressed?” she asks, gesturing at his current clothes, trying to hide her smile. He looks down at himself and turns a bit pink in the cheeks.
“Yeah, I’ll be ready in a few moments. Oh, I think I saw your shoe in the foyer, just go left.” He says over his shoulder. Thirteen walks in the direction he pointed, trying to ignore the dizziness she feels. She explores his apartment for a couple minutes, before finally coming back to the foyer. Foreman was correct, her shoe was there, but her bra was still AWOL. Leaning down, she hooks her foot into the black high heel, then tries to slip into the other one. The blood rushes to her head, and she feels faint for a moment.
“Whoa! Easy there,” Foreman says, grabbing her arm to stable her.
*I didn't write this. But the fanfic was on a weird page for a link. Plus it looks better and is easier to read as an article, IMO.*
Ugh. That’s all she can think. Ugh. Thirteen recognized the feeling of her organs being oozed out through her skin as an extreme hangover. Ugh. She groans audibly and tries to open her eyes. Bright! Too bright! After a moment, Thirteen gets used to the light looks around to her surroundings. She’s in a brown room, with warm sheets and a few bookcases, a nightstand, and a bureau (all toupe). This is most definitely not her apartment. She sits up; trying to get her bearings, only to find her stomach begins to flip.
Gasping, Thirteen jumps from the bed and runs into the nearest doorway, praying that it will be a bathroom. Her assumption was correct, and she collapses onto the floor in front of the porcelain bowl, beginning to vomit. After her sickness passes, she realizes that she’s naked, and has absolutely no idea where she is, nor where her clothes are. The bathroom she’s in is extremely clean and pristine, white tiles shining, men’s toiletries lined up by size. Strange, she thinks. Thirteen sees a bathrobe on a peg, and stands up slowly, reaching for it. She shrugs it on, and can’t help but think that it smells woodsy and familiar. The smell brings an image of PPTH to mind, so believes it could belong to a coworker.
Thirteen hears the groan of wood as her unidentified mystery man gets up from his bed. For the first time in the morning, she looks in the mirror, and what she sees disgusts her. Her makeup is completely smudged, mascara and eyeliner running all over her face. Her hair is tangled in knots that will take hours to work out, and she has a large, red hickey on her neck. Damn, not even theater makeup will cover that! Thirteen grabs a handful of paper towels and wets them, trying to scrub her face clean. The cold feels good against her throbbing forehead. Drying her face, she attempts to finger-tame her limp brown locks. Looks better than it did before, she thinks.
“What the hell?” she hears being muttered (much too loudly) from the next room. Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open. They both gasp in surprise.
Eric Foreman is standing in a tee shirt and boxers, holding her brown thong in between his thumb and middle finger, looking just as hangover as she feels, with an even bigger hickey (if that’s possible).
“Thirteen, these are…?” Foreman said, realization washing over his face, staring at the panties. “Um, here.” He says, handing her the thong. Thirteen accepts it, slightly embarrassed.
“So, I guess we slept together,” Thirteen comments, trying to look nonchalant, yet she can’t look into his eyes. This was something that had happened before, but usually the men at least knew her name.
Foreman wasn’t a stranger to one night stands, but he always ended up feeling depressed, empty, and most of all guilty. And at this moment, hungover. “I… kind of have no memory of what happened last night,” Foreman informs her, feeling even guiltier.
“Neither do I,” Thirteen admits. “But I’m about 99 sure it was my idea.” They both chuckle nervously for a moment, then uncomfortable silence surrounds them. “I should get dressed,” she finally says, walking past her colleague to gather the rest of her clothes. She finds her pants, one high heeled shoe, and a blue shirt, but not her bra or her other shoe.
“Let me make you some coffee,” Foreman says, leaving the room for her to change. After a few more minutes of pointless searching, she decides she’ll have to forego the bra, and possibly walk barefoot. Thirteen pulls on the clothes that she has, and caries her one shoe.
She walks down the light corridor of Foreman’s house, noticing the complete lack of personal touches. Squinting, she sees and smells a cup of coffee sitting on a table in the room in front of her. Thirteen doesn’t have the heart to tell him she drinks decaf, and as well decides that at this moment she could use the caffeine.
Foreman comes into her view, still dressed in the shirt and boxers, cradling his head and nursing his coffee. He looked up at Thirteen, then quickly looked away, not realizing it was so cold in his apartment. She sat down and downed most of the brown liquid in one sip, grimacing as she swallows.
“Thirteen?” He mumbles, she looks up at him. “First, this obviously shouldn’t happen again, but House’ll probably find out and jump to conclusions, and be an ass, so…I’m just saying, be prepared.”
Thirteen smiled lightly. “I think I can handle House.”
“Second, it’s 7:40, I don’t know if you have time to go to your place,” Foreman told her.
“Oh shit!” Thirteen said, grabbing his wrist and looking at his watch. He couldn’t help but wonder if she could feel the same bolts of electricity running through her body when they touched. Foreman! It’s a one night stand! He mentally slapped himself. It means nothing! “I guess I’ll change at work.”
“Let me drive you,” He said, standing up and grabbing the two empty mugs. “Oh, I’ll get you an aspirin as well.” She smiled graciously at him. He came back in holding two small white pills and a glass of water, which she takes immediately.
“Shouldn’t you get dressed?” she asks, gesturing at his current clothes, trying to hide her smile. He looks down at himself and turns a bit pink in the cheeks.
“Yeah, I’ll be ready in a few moments. Oh, I think I saw your shoe in the foyer, just go left.” He says over his shoulder. Thirteen walks in the direction he pointed, trying to ignore the dizziness she feels. She explores his apartment for a couple minutes, before finally coming back to the foyer. Foreman was correct, her shoe was there, but her bra was still AWOL. Leaning down, she hooks her foot into the black high heel, then tries to slip into the other one. The blood rushes to her head, and she feels faint for a moment.
“Whoa! Easy there,” Foreman says, grabbing her arm to stable her.
*I didn't write this. But the fanfic was on a weird page for a link. Plus it looks better and is easier to read as an article, IMO.*
