Destiny in Deutschland: Chapter Two
Title: Destiny In Deutschland
Author: Cassandra_Elise
Rating: PG-13/Teen for language and situations
Genre: Romance/Drama with Smatterings of Angst and Humor
Spoilers: Takes place following the Series Finale. Do not read unless you've seen "Everybody Dies," or don't care if you're spoiled.
Summary: When Cameron's brother gets a job in Germany, she thinks moving with him and his family will be the perfect distraction from House's death. Little does she realize she is about to come face to face with her destiny thousands of miles away from home...
A Sure Sign that You’re Old: House’s POV
There’s no clearer way of announcing to the world that you’re old than by having an established routine. Sure, you could wear a t-shirt that says, “I’m an old fart,” but people tend to overlook such pronouncements as a clever joke not meant to be taken seriously. On the other hand, when Grandpa Fred has to go to the local Coney Island at four in the afternoon for the early bird special, or when Great-Aunt Mildred has to attend the knitting club every third Tuesday of the month, we have no problems accusing these individuals of being the one thing we undeniably fear becoming ourselves: namely, old.
So as I found myself waking up to the scratchy tones of “Bad to the Bone,” at 6:45 am, I clutched my pillow to my head to block out George Thorogood’s gravelly voice and realized with copious amounts of shame and regret, “Oh God, I’m old.” I could rebel against my very nature and sleep until 7:30 am, or I could accept my fate and get on with my regular schedule. It was another sign of my age that I couldn’t-no matter how badly I wanted to-justify staying bed an extra 50 minutes.
I unhooked my cane from the bedpost and used it to smack the off button on my MP3 alarm clock. Then I swung first my good leg and then my bum leg over the side of the bed and tottered to my feet with a groan. The cadence of my shuffling feet on the carpet seemed to chant mockingly, “You’re old. You’re old. You’re old.” But if there was one thing the last ten months had taught me, it was that I just didn’t care. If I was now an old man with a cane as opposed to a middle-aged man, so be it. It wasn’t as if my decrepit age foretold the end of my career as one of the world’s most renowned doctors. My “death” had already taken care of that.
I peered at my scraggily face in the bathroom mirror and decided I could go a few more days before I needed to shave. I tried to avert the piercing gaze of my own reflection, but those damn blue eyes kept following me. I finished brushing my teeth, turned on the faucet in my bath tub and lumbered around my bedroom locating the least wrinkled clothes to wear, an important step to my daily schedule. I’d go naked, but people don’t seem to want to see that. Go figure. Once I found something halfway decent, I settled in for my bath, just as I did every day-and had done since I had moved to the tiny and secluded burg of Neuendettelsau.
It had been just five weeks since Wilson had…taken up permanent residence in his English forefathers’ resting place when I had found myself-or rather Vic McCane, as the phony passport stated, had found himself-in the irritatingly cheerful German village of Neuendettelsau. I hadn’t been planning to stay longer than the outrageously good Italian dinner I was inhaling, but I made the mistake of engaging my waitress in conversation. Another sure sign that I had grown old. Young people don’t bother in being polite to their serving staff. The waitress’s name was Maria, which I believe is the name of 90% of the female population in Europe. Marie, Mary, Maria, doesn’t matter as long as the devout Catholics pay homage to the blessed Virgin in some way. But I digress.
Maria Schneider was a kid of about eighteen. She spoke fluent English, which I later learned was the norm for this town, and was the daughter of the owners of the restaurant. She told me the sob story of how her mom was head chef and loved cooking more than anything, but lately she was tired all the time and was getting quite forgetful…And on and on Maria whined. Well, being the genius that I am, it took me just five minutes listening to this rant to diagnose Maria’s mom with fibromyalgia. Excited that I had an answer for her mother’s mysterious ailment, Maria called her mom Anita out of the kitchen.
Anita Schneider was a swarthy Italian woman who spoke impeccable German, as well as her native tongue, but little English. Between Maria and me we managed to convey my theory to her and got her permission to perform a test to see how many of the 13 pressure points on her body were tender to the touch. After finding that ten of the thirteen were extremely tender, I gave my incomparable advice on treatment options for the illness.
By this time Mr. Schneider had joined the conversation, and the three of them expressed their undying gratitude by giving me my insanely decadent lasagna free of charge. But they weren’t through. They wanted to know where I was staying for the night and where I was headed and all of these highly intrusive questions. Maybe it was the heavy food sitting on my stomach, maybe it was the two lagers of beer I had consumed with my meal, maybe when you age you no longer have the strength to fight off busybodies; but for whatever reason, I found myself telling them all about Wilson.
They were absolutely quiet as I explained how my best friend had gotten terminal cancer, and how I had been stupid enough to break parole and wasn’t going to be there when he died. They were teary-eyed when I elaborated how I had faked my death to be with him, and how we had sneaked off together to LIVE before it was too late. They were riveted as I explained how about a month into our secret bromance, Wilson had gotten the sudden urge to go to England where he had some long lost relatives. They were transfixed when I detailed our little plan to get the best fake IDs money could buy and finally flew off to Europe on our last adventure.
I had summarized the rest of my journey with, “After he was gone, I wandered around Europe like a regular tourist until I ended up here.” With my story finished I had found that my voice was raspier than usually and there were irritating pinpricks in the corners of my eyes. Hoping no one noticed, I casually swiped at the telltale tears, but I didn’t fool anyone. The Schneider clan patted me sympathetically on the arm and shoulder and found me a room for the night in the local Pension, the German equivalent of a boarding house.
The next morning I had walked back to the Schneider’s restaurant, which was conveniently two doors down from the boarding house, and offered my services as the new Sous chef. It really had nothing to do with helping out this perfectly saccharine family and everything to do with keeping myself busy. I was off Vicodin, I could no longer legally practice medicine, and I enjoyed cooking. If I managed to relieve some of the duties of the head chef, who had recently been diagnosed with a debilitating illness, that was an added bonus, but it was NOT my intention for taking the job. At all. Nuh uh.
The next afternoon I had permanently taken up residence in the Pension in the only remaining ground floor room. The landlord Lena had to kick someone out to make room for me, but I think the feisty ninety-year-old took immense pleasure in doing it. Thus began my daily routine. Get up, brush teeth, take bath, get dressed, go to work. For hours on end I’d toil in the kitchen (sitting of course-I’m not a martyr), concocting recipes for the breakfast, lunch and dinner crowds. I never used recipes, so no meal was ever repeated. Recipes just take the fun out of cooking. Soon the restaurant was thriving as even people from neighboring burgs came to check out the exotic delicacies of the “crazy Sous chef.”
On my spare time I would gimp around the tiny town and talk to the people. If they had medical issues, I would casually offer them my advice. I became “Dr. Neuendettelsau.” People actually began searching me out at my job, sneaking back into the kitchen to ask me how to cure a three day stomach-ache or how to determine whether their rash was herpes, poison ivy or nerves.
Everybody grew to love me. It was ridiculous. I was still churlish, sarcastic and vain, and yet these idiotic villagers found these qualities endearing, not alienating. It was like the entire town was inhabited with Wilsons…Or Camerons.
Cameron. Allison Cameron. I didn’t believe in God or religion, in spite of the several Lutheran churches and seminary that populated the burg, yet I could have sworn Cameron was an angel. She had come to me in my hour of need and delivered me from my stupidity. She had told me I was a coward, encouraged me to die, and because of her, I lived. I could still see her ethereal face peering sympathetically at me as the flames rose higher around us. The fire reflected off of her flowing, flaxen hair, and her vest suit hugged her trim body. For an angel, she was damn hot.
Many angels had come to my rescue that night, loved ones and enemies from my past life that my subconscious had dug up in a moment of crisis. But of all the hallucinations that visited me in that scorching hellhole, one voice had influenced me the most. All of my imaginary friends had offered good advice, but it hadn’t been until Cameron proverbially bitch-slapped me that I really woke up. She had called me out for what I was: a selfish bastard hiding behind his cowardice, and the weird thing was she had done it out of love.
There were still times when I had to remind myself that Cameron hadn’t really been there. It had been an illusion, but the results were real and vivid. When Cameron had spoken to me, I had made my first selfless decision in years: I was going to live for Wilson’s sake. I faced my fear of losing the one guy I loved the most and walked out of the building alive and unscathed. After years of invoking the mantra “nobody changes,” to excuse a multitude of my sins, I made a vow to change. I didn’t think I had changed much, but Wilson had sworn he noticed a difference. And if my new attitude, imaginary or not, was going to pacify a dying man in his final days, far be it from me to argue.
On the morning George Thorogood was snarling that he was “Buh buh buh buh baaaaaad,” I was puzzling once again over what possible transformation Wilson could have noticed in me from the time I walked into the apartment building in hopes of getting a fix to the time I sneaked out the back as glass and wood exploded around me. It occurred to me for not the first time that these supposed differences in my manner might have been responsible for the warm reception I had received from my new hometown. I couldn’t see it or feel it, but the inhabitants of Neuendettelsau seemed convinced that I had an altruistic streak. I hated to disappoint the delusional Deutsch, but it just wasn’t true.
As I limped on over to the restaurant for my morning shift, I considered the possibility that it wasn’t altruism that had taken over me like a dangerous parasite, but rather old age. The elderly have little strength to put up a fight when the stronger and scarier “young folk” push their agenda on them. That’s why the elderly will pay men twelve times more than they deserve to pave their driveway with crappy asphalt.
Established routine + loss of desire to fight + no longer caring = old age. My mathematic skills had always been impeccable.
Author: Cassandra_Elise
Rating: PG-13/Teen for language and situations
Genre: Romance/Drama with Smatterings of Angst and Humor
Spoilers: Takes place following the Series Finale. Do not read unless you've seen "Everybody Dies," or don't care if you're spoiled.
Summary: When Cameron's brother gets a job in Germany, she thinks moving with him and his family will be the perfect distraction from House's death. Little does she realize she is about to come face to face with her destiny thousands of miles away from home...
A Sure Sign that You’re Old: House’s POV
There’s no clearer way of announcing to the world that you’re old than by having an established routine. Sure, you could wear a t-shirt that says, “I’m an old fart,” but people tend to overlook such pronouncements as a clever joke not meant to be taken seriously. On the other hand, when Grandpa Fred has to go to the local Coney Island at four in the afternoon for the early bird special, or when Great-Aunt Mildred has to attend the knitting club every third Tuesday of the month, we have no problems accusing these individuals of being the one thing we undeniably fear becoming ourselves: namely, old.
So as I found myself waking up to the scratchy tones of “Bad to the Bone,” at 6:45 am, I clutched my pillow to my head to block out George Thorogood’s gravelly voice and realized with copious amounts of shame and regret, “Oh God, I’m old.” I could rebel against my very nature and sleep until 7:30 am, or I could accept my fate and get on with my regular schedule. It was another sign of my age that I couldn’t-no matter how badly I wanted to-justify staying bed an extra 50 minutes.
I unhooked my cane from the bedpost and used it to smack the off button on my MP3 alarm clock. Then I swung first my good leg and then my bum leg over the side of the bed and tottered to my feet with a groan. The cadence of my shuffling feet on the carpet seemed to chant mockingly, “You’re old. You’re old. You’re old.” But if there was one thing the last ten months had taught me, it was that I just didn’t care. If I was now an old man with a cane as opposed to a middle-aged man, so be it. It wasn’t as if my decrepit age foretold the end of my career as one of the world’s most renowned doctors. My “death” had already taken care of that.
I peered at my scraggily face in the bathroom mirror and decided I could go a few more days before I needed to shave. I tried to avert the piercing gaze of my own reflection, but those damn blue eyes kept following me. I finished brushing my teeth, turned on the faucet in my bath tub and lumbered around my bedroom locating the least wrinkled clothes to wear, an important step to my daily schedule. I’d go naked, but people don’t seem to want to see that. Go figure. Once I found something halfway decent, I settled in for my bath, just as I did every day-and had done since I had moved to the tiny and secluded burg of Neuendettelsau.
It had been just five weeks since Wilson had…taken up permanent residence in his English forefathers’ resting place when I had found myself-or rather Vic McCane, as the phony passport stated, had found himself-in the irritatingly cheerful German village of Neuendettelsau. I hadn’t been planning to stay longer than the outrageously good Italian dinner I was inhaling, but I made the mistake of engaging my waitress in conversation. Another sure sign that I had grown old. Young people don’t bother in being polite to their serving staff. The waitress’s name was Maria, which I believe is the name of 90% of the female population in Europe. Marie, Mary, Maria, doesn’t matter as long as the devout Catholics pay homage to the blessed Virgin in some way. But I digress.
Maria Schneider was a kid of about eighteen. She spoke fluent English, which I later learned was the norm for this town, and was the daughter of the owners of the restaurant. She told me the sob story of how her mom was head chef and loved cooking more than anything, but lately she was tired all the time and was getting quite forgetful…And on and on Maria whined. Well, being the genius that I am, it took me just five minutes listening to this rant to diagnose Maria’s mom with fibromyalgia. Excited that I had an answer for her mother’s mysterious ailment, Maria called her mom Anita out of the kitchen.
Anita Schneider was a swarthy Italian woman who spoke impeccable German, as well as her native tongue, but little English. Between Maria and me we managed to convey my theory to her and got her permission to perform a test to see how many of the 13 pressure points on her body were tender to the touch. After finding that ten of the thirteen were extremely tender, I gave my incomparable advice on treatment options for the illness.
By this time Mr. Schneider had joined the conversation, and the three of them expressed their undying gratitude by giving me my insanely decadent lasagna free of charge. But they weren’t through. They wanted to know where I was staying for the night and where I was headed and all of these highly intrusive questions. Maybe it was the heavy food sitting on my stomach, maybe it was the two lagers of beer I had consumed with my meal, maybe when you age you no longer have the strength to fight off busybodies; but for whatever reason, I found myself telling them all about Wilson.
They were absolutely quiet as I explained how my best friend had gotten terminal cancer, and how I had been stupid enough to break parole and wasn’t going to be there when he died. They were teary-eyed when I elaborated how I had faked my death to be with him, and how we had sneaked off together to LIVE before it was too late. They were riveted as I explained how about a month into our secret bromance, Wilson had gotten the sudden urge to go to England where he had some long lost relatives. They were transfixed when I detailed our little plan to get the best fake IDs money could buy and finally flew off to Europe on our last adventure.
I had summarized the rest of my journey with, “After he was gone, I wandered around Europe like a regular tourist until I ended up here.” With my story finished I had found that my voice was raspier than usually and there were irritating pinpricks in the corners of my eyes. Hoping no one noticed, I casually swiped at the telltale tears, but I didn’t fool anyone. The Schneider clan patted me sympathetically on the arm and shoulder and found me a room for the night in the local Pension, the German equivalent of a boarding house.
The next morning I had walked back to the Schneider’s restaurant, which was conveniently two doors down from the boarding house, and offered my services as the new Sous chef. It really had nothing to do with helping out this perfectly saccharine family and everything to do with keeping myself busy. I was off Vicodin, I could no longer legally practice medicine, and I enjoyed cooking. If I managed to relieve some of the duties of the head chef, who had recently been diagnosed with a debilitating illness, that was an added bonus, but it was NOT my intention for taking the job. At all. Nuh uh.
The next afternoon I had permanently taken up residence in the Pension in the only remaining ground floor room. The landlord Lena had to kick someone out to make room for me, but I think the feisty ninety-year-old took immense pleasure in doing it. Thus began my daily routine. Get up, brush teeth, take bath, get dressed, go to work. For hours on end I’d toil in the kitchen (sitting of course-I’m not a martyr), concocting recipes for the breakfast, lunch and dinner crowds. I never used recipes, so no meal was ever repeated. Recipes just take the fun out of cooking. Soon the restaurant was thriving as even people from neighboring burgs came to check out the exotic delicacies of the “crazy Sous chef.”
On my spare time I would gimp around the tiny town and talk to the people. If they had medical issues, I would casually offer them my advice. I became “Dr. Neuendettelsau.” People actually began searching me out at my job, sneaking back into the kitchen to ask me how to cure a three day stomach-ache or how to determine whether their rash was herpes, poison ivy or nerves.
Everybody grew to love me. It was ridiculous. I was still churlish, sarcastic and vain, and yet these idiotic villagers found these qualities endearing, not alienating. It was like the entire town was inhabited with Wilsons…Or Camerons.
Cameron. Allison Cameron. I didn’t believe in God or religion, in spite of the several Lutheran churches and seminary that populated the burg, yet I could have sworn Cameron was an angel. She had come to me in my hour of need and delivered me from my stupidity. She had told me I was a coward, encouraged me to die, and because of her, I lived. I could still see her ethereal face peering sympathetically at me as the flames rose higher around us. The fire reflected off of her flowing, flaxen hair, and her vest suit hugged her trim body. For an angel, she was damn hot.
Many angels had come to my rescue that night, loved ones and enemies from my past life that my subconscious had dug up in a moment of crisis. But of all the hallucinations that visited me in that scorching hellhole, one voice had influenced me the most. All of my imaginary friends had offered good advice, but it hadn’t been until Cameron proverbially bitch-slapped me that I really woke up. She had called me out for what I was: a selfish bastard hiding behind his cowardice, and the weird thing was she had done it out of love.
There were still times when I had to remind myself that Cameron hadn’t really been there. It had been an illusion, but the results were real and vivid. When Cameron had spoken to me, I had made my first selfless decision in years: I was going to live for Wilson’s sake. I faced my fear of losing the one guy I loved the most and walked out of the building alive and unscathed. After years of invoking the mantra “nobody changes,” to excuse a multitude of my sins, I made a vow to change. I didn’t think I had changed much, but Wilson had sworn he noticed a difference. And if my new attitude, imaginary or not, was going to pacify a dying man in his final days, far be it from me to argue.
On the morning George Thorogood was snarling that he was “Buh buh buh buh baaaaaad,” I was puzzling once again over what possible transformation Wilson could have noticed in me from the time I walked into the apartment building in hopes of getting a fix to the time I sneaked out the back as glass and wood exploded around me. It occurred to me for not the first time that these supposed differences in my manner might have been responsible for the warm reception I had received from my new hometown. I couldn’t see it or feel it, but the inhabitants of Neuendettelsau seemed convinced that I had an altruistic streak. I hated to disappoint the delusional Deutsch, but it just wasn’t true.
As I limped on over to the restaurant for my morning shift, I considered the possibility that it wasn’t altruism that had taken over me like a dangerous parasite, but rather old age. The elderly have little strength to put up a fight when the stronger and scarier “young folk” push their agenda on them. That’s why the elderly will pay men twelve times more than they deserve to pave their driveway with crappy asphalt.
Established routine + loss of desire to fight + no longer caring = old age. My mathematic skills had always been impeccable.