Have Cane, Won't Travel - PG-13
Greetings!
This story ordered itself written down over two days in September. The first part was written on a Thursday, and the next day the rest grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let me go until I'd finished it.
My thanks go out again to pwcorgigirl for an excellent job of putting a fine polish on this tale. The veriest Best of Betas, she. :-)
Warnings: Spoiler for S3-17 "Fetal Postion", possible spoilage for misc. bits of background trivia, rated PG-13 for mild profanity.
House M.D. and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, Fox, etc.
This particular variation on a theme belonging to others is mine.
Thank'ee's!
-Katrina
Have Cane, Won’t Travel
The key turned in the lock. House started to get up, turn off the television, now in its fourth day of the two-week-long Travel Channel marathon he’d planned, but stopped mid-rise. Screw Wilson. Whether he’d come to lecture or commiserate, either way, he wasn’t interested.
He blinked. The figure coming in the door bore absolutely no resemblance to Wilson’s harried form. Those long legs and short skirt could only belong to… Cuddy? He blinked again. The irate glare piercing him from the temporary height advantage hadn’t changed. It was Cuddy all right.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on Vancouver Island.”
Refusing to be baited, he answered, “One could ask the same of you. Not the Vancouver Island part, just the what are you doing here part.”
“I borrowed Wilson’s key. He seemed to think that you might pull something like this. Your phone’s been off the hook for four days now.” The glare continued, full-wattage. “Your turn.”
He ran through the list of possible responses - glib, misdirection, stubborn silence. In the end, he chose one she never would have expected. Something that sounded suspiciously like the truth.
“Shadows.”
She cocked her head at him inquiringly, finally allowing the glare to soften into concern.
Never being one to reveal his secrets willingly, or without price, House snapped at her. “Sit down!” He swung his body around and sat up, gesturing at the far end of the couch. “If you’re going to insist on being a pain in my ass, the least you can do is to not add being a pain in my neck.”
She sat slowly, studying him, concern mixed with just a touch of anger on her face. “Shadows?” she finally asked, when he showed no signs of planning to continue any time soon.
He sat there, trying to put the thoughts into words. “Shadows. Of what I used to have. Of what I used to be.” He glanced at her just long enough to verify she was watching him before he looked away again, unable to bear the combination of conversation and consideration.
“And this isn’t?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wave her arm in the direction of the television set, still playing its glass-enclosed scenes of faraway places.
He shook his head. “It’s different.”
“How?” There was honest question in her words, so he chose to answer it.
“Because this is what I am now.” The apartment, filled with music and intensely personal memories, held a variety of prison-like escapes. The toys and knick-knacks were an escape into the realms of the mind. The piano promised escape through the realms of music, and the television offered escape of another form entirely.
He could see Cuddy finally understanding, the expression on her face changing from one of concern and curiosity to one of compassion. He pressed on. “An outsider, looking in. I don’t care,” he added hastily, although he was forced to admit to himself that he wasn’t sure exactly who he was intending to reassure - her or him. “There’s freedom in that.”
“And loneliness.” He glanced at her again, saw her staring off into the distance, speaking as much to herself as to him.
“Yes.” He nodded agreement, the slow movement somewhere between a nod and a bow. “But if that’s the price I have to pay for freedom, I’m okay with that.”
“But how…” Motion and silence combined to bring meaning and question, as she indicated the screen with its pixilated fantasies dancing forever in place.
“I’m through trying to pretend I’m other than what I am.” He gazed at her with eyes like icy flint. “That’s over. And so is allowing others to try to make me other than what I am.” She had the grace to look away as he continued implacably. “I’m a cripple, I’m in pain, and I refuse to pretend any longer that my life is ever going to bear any resemblance to what it used to be.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
He shook his head again. “I think it does.”
“But you’re not free.”
“No. I’m not.”
And with that contradiction, he fell silent. For once, she knew better than to push. He’d said all he was going to say, and for once, she was content to be satisfied with that. At least for now. He sighed quietly in relief.
“What on Earth…?” She pointed at the screen, allowing herself to be pulled away from the here-and-now into Farnsworth’s looking-glass. House suspected it was merely a ploy to cover the conversation’s abrupt end, but he allowed her to pull him in along with her. At least he could give her that much.
The conversation drifted away then to other things, of tombs and travels, of cabbages and kings. And while it might not have been what Cuddy had intended with her gift, still, it was travel all the same.