TM: 227
A friend asks you to recommend a book: which book would you choose and why?
He's thumbing through the bookshelf in the office, the various medical texts and journals, all organized with a system that would be insane to anyone else, but to him, it makes sense. When he doesn't find what he's looking for in the office, he moves down the hallway to the living room, to the wall to ceiling bookshelves that cover a corner. There are books on legs and arms and nervous systems, books on drugs and drug abuse, retrospectives on bands like Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, books with photos of album covers, books with pages full of skin and body parts (Sex by Madonna is tucked away somewhere next to a guide to the human form and anatomy, for instance) and more.
So many books. Books to read when you want to know something, when you're seeking information, when he needs a fact or figure, a statistic. Books to read when you want to lose yourself, another world, another place, another time when the things you take for granted aren't quite what they seem. Books to read when you want to see something, glossy photos and colors dancing across the pages with tiny captions.
And then, there are the books to read when you just want to read. House doesn't have many of those books. His books have purpose, have meaning, have scientific research and hours of sweat and late nights put into the editing, some have the pages dog-eared and post-it notes sticking every which way.
Jackson is standing next to the couch and watching as his father combs through the bookshelf in the living room, a stuffed bear tucked underneath his arm. Twenty-months old. Come August, he'll be two. Two years old. House kneels carefully to search along the titles.
"You're sure you put it here, Jackson?"
"Yes."
House continues to search along the bottom row as the boy walks over and stands next to him. His hair is ruffled and the look in his eyes is one of both being tired, but being excited. It's almost time for bed.
If only dad can find the book.
"I know Wild Things is in your room."
"Don't want Wild Things."
More searching continues, along the bookshelf, in the kitchen, through the bedrooms (twice) and then finally, while House is going through the living room bookshelf for the third time, he hears bare feet padding against the wood flooring in the hallway.
"Da?"
He lifts his head to look up at his son, who still has the bear, but now has a book tucked under his arm.
"I found it." A pause. "Under blankets."
House smiles a little and then hauls himself up off the floor. His knees are protesting a bit from the effort, but he doesn't show it. "Go ahead and take it to your room, I'll be there in a minute. I need to lock the house up."
"Kay, Da."
As the boy wanders back down the hall, he surveys the bookshelf he's torn apart, contemplates putting things back in their place, but leaves them to instead turn off the lights and make his way back to his son's room. Much like the bear in the story, Corduroy, the book has been found, and everything else can wait for the tale to finish.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word count: 535
AN: A TM canon (fanon) answer.
He's thumbing through the bookshelf in the office, the various medical texts and journals, all organized with a system that would be insane to anyone else, but to him, it makes sense. When he doesn't find what he's looking for in the office, he moves down the hallway to the living room, to the wall to ceiling bookshelves that cover a corner. There are books on legs and arms and nervous systems, books on drugs and drug abuse, retrospectives on bands like Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, books with photos of album covers, books with pages full of skin and body parts (Sex by Madonna is tucked away somewhere next to a guide to the human form and anatomy, for instance) and more.
So many books. Books to read when you want to know something, when you're seeking information, when he needs a fact or figure, a statistic. Books to read when you want to lose yourself, another world, another place, another time when the things you take for granted aren't quite what they seem. Books to read when you want to see something, glossy photos and colors dancing across the pages with tiny captions.
And then, there are the books to read when you just want to read. House doesn't have many of those books. His books have purpose, have meaning, have scientific research and hours of sweat and late nights put into the editing, some have the pages dog-eared and post-it notes sticking every which way.
Jackson is standing next to the couch and watching as his father combs through the bookshelf in the living room, a stuffed bear tucked underneath his arm. Twenty-months old. Come August, he'll be two. Two years old. House kneels carefully to search along the titles.
"You're sure you put it here, Jackson?"
"Yes."
House continues to search along the bottom row as the boy walks over and stands next to him. His hair is ruffled and the look in his eyes is one of both being tired, but being excited. It's almost time for bed.
If only dad can find the book.
"I know Wild Things is in your room."
"Don't want Wild Things."
More searching continues, along the bookshelf, in the kitchen, through the bedrooms (twice) and then finally, while House is going through the living room bookshelf for the third time, he hears bare feet padding against the wood flooring in the hallway.
"Da?"
He lifts his head to look up at his son, who still has the bear, but now has a book tucked under his arm.
"I found it." A pause. "Under blankets."
House smiles a little and then hauls himself up off the floor. His knees are protesting a bit from the effort, but he doesn't show it. "Go ahead and take it to your room, I'll be there in a minute. I need to lock the house up."
"Kay, Da."
As the boy wanders back down the hall, he surveys the bookshelf he's torn apart, contemplates putting things back in their place, but leaves them to instead turn off the lights and make his way back to his son's room. Much like the bear in the story, Corduroy, the book has been found, and everything else can wait for the tale to finish.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word count: 535
AN: A TM canon (fanon) answer.