This Place (1/2)
Title: This Place
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: House/Rachel, mentions of House/Cuddy and House/Wilson friendship
Spoilers: Post Moving On/Season 8
Summary: Set in the distant future. "This road you're on…" he says slowly. "It's a road leading to nowhere good." She doesn't remember him, nor does she know why he's doing this.
When she opens her eyes, she's in a park. She's lying on top of a picnic table, and above her is the blue, blue sky. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves around her. She can smell grass. The air is cool and refreshing, the kind of air that when you inhale, seems to refresh the insides of your lungs.
She smiles and closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. It's a nice place to be. Peaceful. Quiet.
Except she can't remember how she got here. Somehow, she knows that should worry her. But the thought fades away as soon as she thinks about it, leaving behind a sense of peace and calm.
Wham!
Something whizzes through the air, and lands right next to her head. The table shakes with its sheer force, and the sound it makes reverberates through the air.
"Ahem."
She peels open her left eye, and sees a man standing next to her.
He looks about fifty. He's wearing a black blazer, sky blue shirt, dark jeans and a wicked pair of black and red Nikes. He has unruly salt and pepper hair, a scruffy five o'clock shadow, and blue, blue eyes. Bluer than the skies, if that's possible.
"Wakey wakey."
He lifts his cane off the table and sets it on the ground, leaning on it as he takes the weight off his right side.
"Who are you?" She blurts out before she can stop herself.
She's like that - her mouth moves faster than her mind, and the words always tumble out before she can even begin to consider the consequences. It gets her into a lot of trouble.
He doesn't answer. He only cocks his head at her, and studies her. His gaze is intense, and makes her skin crawl. It's like he can see into her.
"Are you checking me out?" She sits up and wraps her arms around herself, uncomfortably aware that she is wearing a tank top and skinny jeans that cling to every inch of her body. She's used to attracting stares at the mall and at school, and it makes her feel good. But not here, with him. "Pervert!"
He rolls his eyes at her, and out of nowhere, a leather jacket appears in his left hand. He chucks it at her unceremoniously.
"Cover yourself up," he says gruffly.
That's the first sentence he says to her.
She hesitates, but slips on the leather jacket. It fits her perfectly.
When she finishes putting on the jacket, she looks up to find him lying on another picnic table that has appeared right next to hers. His arms stretched wide open and dangling off the table, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He spins his cane in his right hand idly as he looks up into the sky.
"Who are you? Where am I? And why are you here?"
He turns his head to look at her. "You have impeccable manners."
"I need answers."
At that, he chuckles, and turns to look at the sky again.
"This," he says wistfully, "is my favourite place."
"How is that even relevant to me -"
"You're here. Talking to me."
"So?"
"So?"
"Who are you?"
"You don't need to know who I am. I'm just… here. I'm not even sure I know why."
She persists. "How do I know I can trust you?"
He doesn't even look at her this time. "Is there anyone else here for you to trust?"
Yeah, they're completely alone. There is no other sign of life around them. It's just them, in the middle of the park. There aren't even birds or butterflies fluttering around. It's rather unnerving.
The first tendrils of fear begin to creep up her spine. "Where am I?"
"I told you. My favourite place."
"Am I in heaven?"
He smirks. "Do you believe in a heaven?"
She's huffs in frustration. She's nowhere closer to getting an answer, and he's being infuriating.
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
"Answer my question first."
"You're an asshole," she spits at him, crossing her arms.
"You're real mature," he shoots back calmly. He sees the panicked look on her face, and relents. "You're not dead."
"Then how did I get here? And why are you here?"
"Okay. Boring." He gets up, and begins walking off. "Come on. We don't have all day."
"Where are we going?" She finds herself walking alongside him. He limps, though not ungracefully. There is a rhythm to his choppy gait, and she finds it easy to walk alongside him. "What happened to your leg?"
"Infarction. Muscle died, they removed it. Used to hurt a lot."
"Used to?"
He stops walking, and frowns down at the cane in his hand. "Good point."
And just like that, the cane fades away into nothing. When he starts walking again, he takes long strides, and there is a graceful athleticism clinging to every fiber of his body.
"Niiiiice," he breathes to himself.
"How come…"
"This is all yours. Not mine."
()()()()()
They leave the park behind. Almost immediately, they arrive at a junkyard. The rickety gates swing open in front of them. They wade through the piles of scrap metal and junk, and he brings her to a rusty old public bus.
Beckoning to her, he climbs up the steps of the bus. She crinkles her nose at him in disgust. The bus is in awful shape - windows shattered, metal crumpled and… is that blood?
"Don't be a wuss," he yells back at her.
When she climbs in, the interior of the bus is spotless. He's seated right in the middle of the very last row, his legs outstretched into the aisle.
She sits down two seats away from him. As if on cue, the bus starts to move. It's nighttime now, and they travel down empty streets illuminated by streetlamps. There is no one driving the bus, and no other cars on the road.
"This… was my nightmare," he says, almost to himself.
"Then why did you bring me here?" She can't find it in herself to be pissed at him anymore, not when he looks so lost right now. Something in her aches for him. The emotions roll off him, like water off a duck, and it splashes on her. She can feel, in her very bones, his grief.
He seems to gather himself together. He straightens up, and makes eye contact with her.
"This isn't heaven."
"You told me that already."
"You're… somewhere."
"You know where I am!" Her head snaps up at the unconvincing tone of his voice. Her tone of voice turns accusing. "Just tell me."
"I can't…" he smiles rather resignedly at her. "Because I don't believe in this."
"Then why are you here?"
"Ever read the book The Five People You Meet in Heaven?"
"You just said that this isn't heaven!"
"Do you think it is?"
"Please," she almost begs. She's frightened now. She doesn't want to be dead. "Please just get to the point."
"So you have read the book. That's why you're scared."
"We did it in sixth grade… So I'm dead. I'm really dead, aren't I?"
"No, you're not."
"Then why are you here."
"It's just like the book. Except this isn't heaven. And it's going to be just me."
"Tell me more."
"I can't," he repeats firmly. "Because I don't believe in this."
"You don't make sense," she stands up and shouts at him. "You don't make any sense! How can you not believe in this, but still be here in this? Get me out of here."
He isn't rattled by her outburst. "I believe that this…" he gestures at his surroundings, "is all just chemical reactions that take place in the brain when the brain shuts down."
"So this is all in my head? I'm dreaming?"
He frowns at her. "You really don't pick up the most salient points, do you? I did say, when the brain shuts down."
"So I'm not dead. I'm dying."
He looks at her, and very quietly says, "You're in a coma."
Before she can react, she sees a pair of headlights hurtling towards them at breakneck speed. She is riveted to the spot, her eyes glued to the sight of the garbage truck speeding towards them.
His gaze follows hers. She turns to look at him, to plead with him to do something, do anything, but he too, can only stare, frozen, as the lights grow brighter and brighter as the truck comes closer and closer.
She prepares herself for the inevitable crash.
I don't want to die.
But everything just winks out.
Part 2