a HOUSE crossover for tripperfunster
Author: istalksnape
Recipient: tripperfunster
Title: Tattoo
Rating: PG
Crossover Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: Severus Snape / Gregory House, if you squint
Notes: I really hope you like this. I didn't get into the smut like I had planned on (these two decided against it, I suppose). I hope I got the sort of thing you were looking for and thank you for the great prompts. Thanks to A. for the beta and to the mod for running such a great exchange.
The room is warm and I can't seem to focus on anything, save for the man leaning against the wall, his hand clutching a cane against his hip.
.
There is a pulsing in my arm. It burns and the ice pack the brunette straps on doesn't seem to help. The room sounds like it's rushing around me. I can't sit up without feeling nausea rise in my throat.
.
"It's not lupus."
"I'm glad you've finally joined us, and with such wit and wisdom, too. Now, run everything. And don't wake me up until you‘ve gotten all the results."
"But-"
The cane makes a soft sound on the tile.
.
The room is spinning. I lie back down. There is a hand pressing against my chest. It grips at my shirt as I fall back against my pillow.
.
The room smells sour. There is a taste on my tongue that won't go away even after four glasses of water. Everything is too quiet. Everything is too still. I wonder if they are aware of the war going on across the ocean. I wonder if they know it's about them. I wonder if they've looked at my arm.
.
Everything is too bright.
.
The food is a mixture of an attempt to amaze and failure to focus. I can feel the grit of the pancake mix between my teeth on Tuesday. Wednesday I can smell the smoke from the kitchen on the salad.
.
I wonder what they've done with my things.
.
For three days I see only the assistants. They keep talking about a house, but I wonder why they've kept me here for so long if this house can work such miracles. I want to be moved to the house.
.
The man is my age, but crippled with a drastic limp that he drags with him through the hallways. He is bitter and he cannot block his mind from my quick and furious searches. He is wandering. He only glances at the chart before backing out of the room.
.
We are alone in the room for a moment, between nurses shoving needles through flesh and the brunette asking me question after question. In that moment I feel changed. I feel just as those around myself must feel. Uneasy.
.
"I'm not one for the tattoos."
He stares at me with his hands folded over the handle his cane. I've decided that I miss my privacy. I wake up and people are always there, always walking around my room, adjusting switches and poking me again and again. I want my books. I want my tea.
I lean up and prop myself against the pillow. "Excuse me?" I say, not quite sure how my voice should sound after eight days of remaining silent.
"Oh, so the tall, dark, and handsome one speaks. I am amazed." He pauses and tilts his head just a fraction before opening his mouth again. His voice holds something familiar. "I said I'm not one for the tattoos. You know, the ink staining your flesh. I hate needles." He shivers and makes an awkward expression cross over his face. "Nope, no needles for me."
I remain silent, studying him, prying him apart at the seams. The medicine makes me weak and after one glimpse into his mind I lie down and rest again.
.
He is in my room constantly, now. I want to walk. I want to be able to stretch my legs and I want my possessions back. I wonder if they've tested the bottle I had in my pocket. And I wonder why I'm still here. Where are my leaders? Where are the people I've betrayed? They must be searching for me in this strange place, away from the war. They knew where I was going.
.
He sits with a book propped against his knee. He is a quiet man, sour and sharp when he speaks. I've counted; he's spoken four times. He never asks questions that demand answering. I can feel him searching my eyes for a clue. This is his game.
"Everybody lies, you know."
I want to tell him I know. I want to tell him this is my life. Lies, secrets, deceit. Everybody lies because everybody has secrets. Instead, I hold my tongue. I am waiting until this medicine leaves my system. I need clarity in my thoughts before I speak again.
.
"I just love sitting in your room. I have my music and my book and no one bothers me. You scare them away, you know."
He has bashful eyes, blue and contrasting with his thoughts. He thinks dark things. He remembers obscure moments meant to be missed by a hurried eye. The hem of a dress brushing against a slim leg. A pen falling to the floor. A child's tears streaking flushed cheeks. These are his memories. He does not belong here, in this hospital that thrives on light and life.
.
"My mother used to call tattoos trashy."
He eats a sandwich and wipes at the corner of his mouth with a crumpled napkin. When he speaks again his voice is high, much like a mother's voice would sound to a teenage boy.
"Don't get a tattoo, Greg! For the sake of Peter, don't get a tattoo. They'll kill you. Mark my words. They'll kill you." He sets the napkin down on the tray he's stolen from the cafeteria. "I trust you had yours done by a professional?"
If only he knew.
.
"Yes, I am looking for a soul mate," he says as he enters my room. "How did you know? You must be one of those mind readers, right? You study me and I study you, only you can sense a change in pulse without a stethoscope. Am I right? I better be right. I have a bet going with the dark one. Oh, right, they have names now. Foreman."
.
He watches me as he sits in the chair beside my bed. Today is different. The chair is no longer shoved in a corner away from the lamps and the monitors. His knee brushes the sheets on my bed. I remain still as he leans forward, looking at me while making a pen dance between his fingers.
"You go home tomorrow."
And with that he leans back and simply closes his eyes to the world and me.
I watch him. I watch the way his chest rises and falls in even beats. His fingers clench impulsively, as if searching for something to do other than sit folded on his knee. His shirt is red and is bright against the black of his jacket. As he sits there, isolated in his own mind, I study him. I do not feel for his heartbeat. I do not wait for his finger to shift nervously as I ask questions. I see his memories and I understand him as best any human being can be understood.
.
I cringe away from the nurse who brings in a wheelchair. My clothes are the same I was wearing when the boy left me at the doorway of this hospital, save for the shirt that has been switched for some blue tee with a face and music notes streaming across the front. I feel alien without a black shirt tucked into the waist of my jeans.
He waits for me by the desk, elbow propped against the ledge as if he is waiting for his soul mate to walk through the door I am about to exit through. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in his eyes as he watches me. It is nothing special, nothing different from how he studies the child with a cold in the corner or the woman walking across the hallway from one room to another. It is simply the way that his eyes focus on something other than the clothes a person wears or the fashion of their hair.
He takes a step towards me and I refuse to look away as his five o'clock stubble comes incredibly close to grazing my neck. He does not place a hand on my shoulder and he takes care not to stand closer than he needs to for his whisper to remain a secret. He is a master of leaning towards people. I've noticed.
"Now remember, I am looking for a soul mate. We had this discussion, remember? So, if you find anyone in England that's looking for a man with a cane and motorcycle, just pass them along to me. And take care not to get too attached to the tattoo. I have a feeling you'll be wanting it gone soon."
He walks away, just like that, and I am left standing in the entryway, holding a small plastic bag with my wand and a small vial in it. The air is cool on my skin as the doors slide open and I walk out. Each step takes me more away from the one person who has judged me and judged right. I realize, as the sensation of a hook grabs my body and jerks me across an entire ocean, that I had a moment of understanding from a complete stranger. I've lost it.
My books are where I've left them. My tea sits cold on the counter. Time has not stopped or waited for me in this house. I do not have women fawning over me. I do not have men gliding needles under my skin. There are no surprised faces after noticing no flinch or sucking of air as they miss the vein that darts left and right, away from the needle.
That night I will learn that I have missed the end of a war. I am no hero, no saint. I am not a warrior nor a peace maker. I am simply not. I am a man who lied in a bed of white sheets in a room of white walls, where I was found out by a man who didn't even know my name.
The owl will frighten him, I'm sure, but the letter will do us both good. I have a feeling about it.
Recipient: tripperfunster
Title: Tattoo
Rating: PG
Crossover Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: Severus Snape / Gregory House, if you squint
Notes: I really hope you like this. I didn't get into the smut like I had planned on (these two decided against it, I suppose). I hope I got the sort of thing you were looking for and thank you for the great prompts. Thanks to A. for the beta and to the mod for running such a great exchange.
The room is warm and I can't seem to focus on anything, save for the man leaning against the wall, his hand clutching a cane against his hip.
.
There is a pulsing in my arm. It burns and the ice pack the brunette straps on doesn't seem to help. The room sounds like it's rushing around me. I can't sit up without feeling nausea rise in my throat.
.
"It's not lupus."
"I'm glad you've finally joined us, and with such wit and wisdom, too. Now, run everything. And don't wake me up until you‘ve gotten all the results."
"But-"
The cane makes a soft sound on the tile.
.
The room is spinning. I lie back down. There is a hand pressing against my chest. It grips at my shirt as I fall back against my pillow.
.
The room smells sour. There is a taste on my tongue that won't go away even after four glasses of water. Everything is too quiet. Everything is too still. I wonder if they are aware of the war going on across the ocean. I wonder if they know it's about them. I wonder if they've looked at my arm.
.
Everything is too bright.
.
The food is a mixture of an attempt to amaze and failure to focus. I can feel the grit of the pancake mix between my teeth on Tuesday. Wednesday I can smell the smoke from the kitchen on the salad.
.
I wonder what they've done with my things.
.
For three days I see only the assistants. They keep talking about a house, but I wonder why they've kept me here for so long if this house can work such miracles. I want to be moved to the house.
.
The man is my age, but crippled with a drastic limp that he drags with him through the hallways. He is bitter and he cannot block his mind from my quick and furious searches. He is wandering. He only glances at the chart before backing out of the room.
.
We are alone in the room for a moment, between nurses shoving needles through flesh and the brunette asking me question after question. In that moment I feel changed. I feel just as those around myself must feel. Uneasy.
.
"I'm not one for the tattoos."
He stares at me with his hands folded over the handle his cane. I've decided that I miss my privacy. I wake up and people are always there, always walking around my room, adjusting switches and poking me again and again. I want my books. I want my tea.
I lean up and prop myself against the pillow. "Excuse me?" I say, not quite sure how my voice should sound after eight days of remaining silent.
"Oh, so the tall, dark, and handsome one speaks. I am amazed." He pauses and tilts his head just a fraction before opening his mouth again. His voice holds something familiar. "I said I'm not one for the tattoos. You know, the ink staining your flesh. I hate needles." He shivers and makes an awkward expression cross over his face. "Nope, no needles for me."
I remain silent, studying him, prying him apart at the seams. The medicine makes me weak and after one glimpse into his mind I lie down and rest again.
.
He is in my room constantly, now. I want to walk. I want to be able to stretch my legs and I want my possessions back. I wonder if they've tested the bottle I had in my pocket. And I wonder why I'm still here. Where are my leaders? Where are the people I've betrayed? They must be searching for me in this strange place, away from the war. They knew where I was going.
.
He sits with a book propped against his knee. He is a quiet man, sour and sharp when he speaks. I've counted; he's spoken four times. He never asks questions that demand answering. I can feel him searching my eyes for a clue. This is his game.
"Everybody lies, you know."
I want to tell him I know. I want to tell him this is my life. Lies, secrets, deceit. Everybody lies because everybody has secrets. Instead, I hold my tongue. I am waiting until this medicine leaves my system. I need clarity in my thoughts before I speak again.
.
"I just love sitting in your room. I have my music and my book and no one bothers me. You scare them away, you know."
He has bashful eyes, blue and contrasting with his thoughts. He thinks dark things. He remembers obscure moments meant to be missed by a hurried eye. The hem of a dress brushing against a slim leg. A pen falling to the floor. A child's tears streaking flushed cheeks. These are his memories. He does not belong here, in this hospital that thrives on light and life.
.
"My mother used to call tattoos trashy."
He eats a sandwich and wipes at the corner of his mouth with a crumpled napkin. When he speaks again his voice is high, much like a mother's voice would sound to a teenage boy.
"Don't get a tattoo, Greg! For the sake of Peter, don't get a tattoo. They'll kill you. Mark my words. They'll kill you." He sets the napkin down on the tray he's stolen from the cafeteria. "I trust you had yours done by a professional?"
If only he knew.
.
"Yes, I am looking for a soul mate," he says as he enters my room. "How did you know? You must be one of those mind readers, right? You study me and I study you, only you can sense a change in pulse without a stethoscope. Am I right? I better be right. I have a bet going with the dark one. Oh, right, they have names now. Foreman."
.
He watches me as he sits in the chair beside my bed. Today is different. The chair is no longer shoved in a corner away from the lamps and the monitors. His knee brushes the sheets on my bed. I remain still as he leans forward, looking at me while making a pen dance between his fingers.
"You go home tomorrow."
And with that he leans back and simply closes his eyes to the world and me.
I watch him. I watch the way his chest rises and falls in even beats. His fingers clench impulsively, as if searching for something to do other than sit folded on his knee. His shirt is red and is bright against the black of his jacket. As he sits there, isolated in his own mind, I study him. I do not feel for his heartbeat. I do not wait for his finger to shift nervously as I ask questions. I see his memories and I understand him as best any human being can be understood.
.
I cringe away from the nurse who brings in a wheelchair. My clothes are the same I was wearing when the boy left me at the doorway of this hospital, save for the shirt that has been switched for some blue tee with a face and music notes streaming across the front. I feel alien without a black shirt tucked into the waist of my jeans.
He waits for me by the desk, elbow propped against the ledge as if he is waiting for his soul mate to walk through the door I am about to exit through. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in his eyes as he watches me. It is nothing special, nothing different from how he studies the child with a cold in the corner or the woman walking across the hallway from one room to another. It is simply the way that his eyes focus on something other than the clothes a person wears or the fashion of their hair.
He takes a step towards me and I refuse to look away as his five o'clock stubble comes incredibly close to grazing my neck. He does not place a hand on my shoulder and he takes care not to stand closer than he needs to for his whisper to remain a secret. He is a master of leaning towards people. I've noticed.
"Now remember, I am looking for a soul mate. We had this discussion, remember? So, if you find anyone in England that's looking for a man with a cane and motorcycle, just pass them along to me. And take care not to get too attached to the tattoo. I have a feeling you'll be wanting it gone soon."
He walks away, just like that, and I am left standing in the entryway, holding a small plastic bag with my wand and a small vial in it. The air is cool on my skin as the doors slide open and I walk out. Each step takes me more away from the one person who has judged me and judged right. I realize, as the sensation of a hook grabs my body and jerks me across an entire ocean, that I had a moment of understanding from a complete stranger. I've lost it.
My books are where I've left them. My tea sits cold on the counter. Time has not stopped or waited for me in this house. I do not have women fawning over me. I do not have men gliding needles under my skin. There are no surprised faces after noticing no flinch or sucking of air as they miss the vein that darts left and right, away from the needle.
That night I will learn that I have missed the end of a war. I am no hero, no saint. I am not a warrior nor a peace maker. I am simply not. I am a man who lied in a bed of white sheets in a room of white walls, where I was found out by a man who didn't even know my name.
The owl will frighten him, I'm sure, but the letter will do us both good. I have a feeling about it.