requested ficlet: motorcycle!House for stoic_slim
Survival [500 words.]
There is one thing in every man's life that he needs to survive.
For each man it's a different thing. Some men need money, so they can buy what they want. Some men need women, so they can feel better about themselves. Some men need fast cars, so they can return to the days of their youth when nothing matter more than how fast you could make it to the railroad tracks a quarter mile away.
For Gregory House, the answer is different. Because he has the money to buy what he wants, when he wants it. He has a beautiful wife at home, pregnant with his first son, one what will carry on his name and give him a sense of permanence in this life and existance. Someone to carry on the legacy -- but if House has his way, his son will build his own. He has a fast car, an 1965 Corvette Stingray, cherry red and smooth as silk in the turns. He has all that and while he likes it, and he needs it, there's one thing he loves that he can't compare to anything else.
The feel of the wind rushing past his body, heart pounding, when he's riding his motorcycle.
Because he'll never run again, at least not with a lot of hard work and a possible supernatural occurrence. And that feeling, that rush of blood through his veins and the sound of wind in his ears, is as close to running as House'll ever get. As zen and completely random as it sounds, he is at one with his motorcycle, it's an extension of his body, his limbs.
The thrumming of the engine underneath his body reminds him of feet pounding on asphalt, the lean of momentum as he whips around a corner reminds him of running so fast he would skid when he tried to change direction, the whine and purr of the bike as he shoves it up a gear reminds him of his own breath, his heartbeat in his ears, telling himself to go faster, go harder, just go until he can't ogo anymore.
His motorcycle isn't all that perfect. She's got a scratch down her side from a boneheaded architect laying her down, and the tires are a bit worn around the edges, but House knows what that's like. He's got his own scars, his own wear and tear, and he can empathize with the machine that gives him that freedom. She frees his soul and he treats her right -- it's a perfect relationship.
People think he's crazy. A cripple on a powerful sportbike, tearing up asphalt in a quiet little town in a tiny little state. He's a doctor, he should know better. He's a husband, he has a wife and son to come home to. Which he may be wild, he's not reckless. He's not stupid. He doesn't race -- unless he's forced to -- and doesn't go without a helmet. Because he doesn't have a deathwish.
He just has a need for speed.
There is one thing in every man's life that he needs to survive.
For each man it's a different thing. Some men need money, so they can buy what they want. Some men need women, so they can feel better about themselves. Some men need fast cars, so they can return to the days of their youth when nothing matter more than how fast you could make it to the railroad tracks a quarter mile away.
For Gregory House, the answer is different. Because he has the money to buy what he wants, when he wants it. He has a beautiful wife at home, pregnant with his first son, one what will carry on his name and give him a sense of permanence in this life and existance. Someone to carry on the legacy -- but if House has his way, his son will build his own. He has a fast car, an 1965 Corvette Stingray, cherry red and smooth as silk in the turns. He has all that and while he likes it, and he needs it, there's one thing he loves that he can't compare to anything else.
The feel of the wind rushing past his body, heart pounding, when he's riding his motorcycle.
Because he'll never run again, at least not with a lot of hard work and a possible supernatural occurrence. And that feeling, that rush of blood through his veins and the sound of wind in his ears, is as close to running as House'll ever get. As zen and completely random as it sounds, he is at one with his motorcycle, it's an extension of his body, his limbs.
The thrumming of the engine underneath his body reminds him of feet pounding on asphalt, the lean of momentum as he whips around a corner reminds him of running so fast he would skid when he tried to change direction, the whine and purr of the bike as he shoves it up a gear reminds him of his own breath, his heartbeat in his ears, telling himself to go faster, go harder, just go until he can't ogo anymore.
His motorcycle isn't all that perfect. She's got a scratch down her side from a boneheaded architect laying her down, and the tires are a bit worn around the edges, but House knows what that's like. He's got his own scars, his own wear and tear, and he can empathize with the machine that gives him that freedom. She frees his soul and he treats her right -- it's a perfect relationship.
People think he's crazy. A cripple on a powerful sportbike, tearing up asphalt in a quiet little town in a tiny little state. He's a doctor, he should know better. He's a husband, he has a wife and son to come home to. Which he may be wild, he's not reckless. He's not stupid. He doesn't race -- unless he's forced to -- and doesn't go without a helmet. Because he doesn't have a deathwish.
He just has a need for speed.