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namasteTitle: The Past Is the Present (It’s the Future Too) Chapter Two
Author: Namaste
Summary: House always pushes people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Chapter two of five chapters. No spoilers. Gen, PG, about 2,800 words. House/Stacy, House and Wilson friendship, House and Crandall friendship.
Chapter Two:
“You can’t shut me out forever,” Stacy said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.
Find previous parts here: Chapter One
He was ten years old and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him how to grip it. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.
He was ten years old and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him how to grip it. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.
He cocked his arm back and threw, groaning when his muscles coiled and released. He watched as the ball dropped off course, landing short of the target.
“Harder Greg, like I showed you,” Dad said, then picked up the ball and walked back to the mound.
Greg took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wanted to tell Dad that it was too hot to practice, but Dad would only say that he should be grateful that he was taking the time to coach him.
“Most fathers don’t care about helping their sons,” Dad would say, “but I do.”
Dad stepped up next to him and showed him again how to hold the ball, his fingers wrapping around the leather. “Now, do it again.”
Greg held the ball, cocked his arm and threw, his muscles aching with the motion. The ball fell even shorter this time.
Dad handed him another ball.
“How many more?” Greg asked.
“You complaining?”
“No, sir. It’s just ...” he couldn’t bring himself to look up at his father. Instead he looked down, noticed that Dad’s dress shoes had gotten dusty. He wondered if he’d have to shine them tonight. “My arm hurts,” he said.
“Of course it does,” Dad said. “You’re working your muscles. You’ve got to hurt if you’re going to get better, right?”
Greg nodded.
Dad held out the ball. “You ready?”
Greg stared at it.
“You ready?” It wasn’t Dad’s voice anymore.
House blinked and the ball disappeared. He blinked again and the baseball diamond faded away.
“Dr. House?”
He blinked again and saw his foot on a circular balance board, the grass and dirt replaced by gray linoleum.
“Maybe we should take a break.” House looked up at the therapist. Laura something, or Laurie, or Lauren. Wilson probably knew.
He shook his head. “I was daydreaming,” he said. He’d taken more Percocet before the session, so he’d be ready. Maybe that was a mistake. “Let ‘s get this over with.”
She stared at him for a moment before she finally nodded. “OK, let’s go counter clockwise this time.”
House knew what he was supposed to do: gently rotate the disc in a steady circle as its edges touched the floor. He even knew why: to retrain his lower leg muscles to compensate for movement he’d lost forever from the missing quad muscles.
Knowing didn’t help. He moved smoothly along the inner edge, working his way from his toes back toward his heel. Then the motion stuttered to a stop, his muscles unable and unwilling to follow his commands.
“Take your time,” she said.
House gripped the edge of the table where he sat, feeling the rough pad under his palm, the steel frame under his fingers. He took a deep breath and pushed. What was left of his quad let out a sharp twinge, and he felt the board jump forward, moving in a jerking spasm before coming to rest again.
She pasted on a smile. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s getting better.”
House didn’t say anything about the lie they both knew she’d told.
“One more time,” she said.
House was looking at the floor, at the blue board, willing his nerves and muscles to complete the circle when he heard her steps, the rhythm he’d noticed that first night she’d come to him, crossing the room in seven steps -- steady, sure, certain, uncompromising -- the way she walked telling him she knew what she wanted, and how to get it.
Stacy.
The tips of her navy blue pumps came into his line of vision, and he looked away, concentrated on the edge of the board. He pushed, felt the pain, but the board didn’t move. He tried again, his breath catching in his throat. The disc gave a slight jump forward, then stopped again.
“That’s enough for now,” Lauren or Laura or Laurie said. She bent down and reached forward, one hand on the balance board, the other held just off to the left of his ankle. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
House glanced over, saw Stacy watching him. He looked down, still feeling her gaze on the back of his neck, like a guillotine hanging there, ready to fall. He was certain she saw through him. “I can do it,” he said.
He braced his left leg against the floor and let go of the table, sliding both hands under his right leg and lifted. He felt his hamstring tighten, but the rest of his leg was useless and limp. He hated the way it hung there in his grip, the dead thing that it had become. The therapist slid the board out from beneath his foot, then helped him lower it to the floor. She smiled up at him. “Good job,” she said.
House grabbed the table again for support. He hated the therapist, with her fake smiles and useless cheer. He hated the room with its soft surfaces and insipid inspirational posters on the wall. He hated himself, for being weak and being here, and he hated her, for making him like this.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Laurie or Lauren or Laura said, and was gone.
House finally looked over at Stacy. She mistook his look as an invitation and sat next to him. “Hey,” she said.
House glanced over at her, at the way she crossed one leg casually over the other, the way she was able to sit there, without thinking about it, without planning each move.
He looked back down at his own body, thinking he could see the damage to his leg even through the thick cotton of his sweat pants, the way the heel of his right foot didn’t quite touch the ground, the way he was afraid that if he let go of the table, he’d lose his balance.
“Why are you here?” He looked over at Stacy. She was wearing the dark blue suit she usually wore when she had a court date and wanted to impress someone, her makeup was perfect, her nails with a fresh coat of dark red polish.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t,” he said, and looked away again, out across the room instead, with its padded tables and balance bars and exercise equipment tucked into every corner. “I already told you that. I don’t want you coming to my sessions.”
Stacy shook her head slightly. “One of your therapists told me I should come. He said it was important that I learn more about what you’ll need once you get home.”
“If it’s important, I’ll tell you what you need to know.” House wished he could leave, but his crutches were against the wall, with Stacy between him and them. “I’ve told you already. I don’t want you talking to my doctors any more.”
House saw Stacy flinch. She looked down for a moment, and he wondered if she’d walk away. He wondered if he’d be happy if she did.
She looked back at him. “You let James come.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it different because he’s James? Or because he’s not me?”
“You already know the answer to that,” he said.
Stacy uncrossed her legs, leaned toward him. “I’m not going to let you do this.”
“Do what?” House knew he’d raised his voice, and saw one of the therapists take a few steps toward them, then stop. He wondered how many fights they’d seen in that room, how many arguments.
“I won’t be ignored,” Stacy said.
House didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her. She wanted a fight. She loved to argue, to push her point, to force others to concede to her will. It was what made her a good lawyer, and he’d seen the way her eyes would shine when she had a court date, just the anticipation of what she’d say, how she’d refute the words tossed out by the other side.
They always had their best sex after they fought.
But if she wanted a fight now, he wouldn’t give it to her.
“You can’t shut me out forever,” she said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.
“What did you say to Stacy?” Wilson asked that night when he showed up in House’s room with a bag of White Castle sliders and fries.
“Nothing.” House reached inside the bag, took out two more burgers.
“You made her cry.”
House shrugged. “It wasn’t anything I said.”
Wilson unwrapped a burger, and sat staring at it. “This is disgusting,” he said. “My arteries are clogging just looking at it.” Wilson hated White Castle. The only time he’d ever go was when House dragged him there after the bars closed. And the only time he stayed at the bars until closing time was when he’d cheated on Bonnie, and he didn’t want to go home, afraid to face her and angry with himself.
“So don’t eat it,” House said, and grabbed Wilson’s burger. He wasn’t hungry, but it was better than listening to another lecture.
Wilson watched him chew and swallow. He looked in the bag but didn’t take out another burger. Instead he wadded up his empty wrapper and tossed it in the garbage can.
House swallowed the last bite. He knew there were more in the bag, but he let them sit. Somehow they didn’t taste quite right without the buzz of beer and whiskey on his tongue. He caught the look in Wilson’s eye that he was disappointed he hadn’t eaten more, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he leaned back too, both of them slouched back on the sofa that House suspected Cuddy had wrangled from a residents’ break room.
“Stacy’s only trying to help, you know,” Wilson said.
House turned to look at him. “I think she’s helped enough.”
Wilson shook his head slightly, but didn’t argue.
“So what’s going to happen when you go home, you planning on not speaking to her then too?”
House shrugged. “Maybe.”
Sometimes he could almost convince himself that it would work out when he got home. When he was home, everything would be normal again -- or almost everything. Maybe they could ignore how everything else had gone to hell.
“Talking won’t change anything,” House said.
Wilson turned to look at him. “And if you don’t say anything, then nothing’s going to change either.”
House leaned forward and put both hands under his leg. He lifted it up and managed to slide his foot off the coffee table and onto the floor. “Maybe there’s been enough change,” he said.
House dreamed he was on stage. He recognized the piano under his fingers, the crappy upright at the bar on 12th with a B flat key above middle C that always stuck when it was hot and humid outside. Like tonight.
Crandall was behind the beat, like he always was when he’d been drinking too much and it was late in the last set. House felt like leaving him hanging there, seeing how much worse he’d get before everything fell apart, but Jamerson stepped in to take his solo and let Crandall off the hook. House eased into the key change and followed Jamerson down Green Dolphin street.
House wiped the sweat off his face when they finally ended. Crandall walked over, his sax in one hand, the case in the other. He plopped the case down on the bench beside House.
“Listen to that,” he said, and pointed out toward the dark room where House could hear a few scattering bits of applause. “That’s like a drug. Don’t tell me you’re going to give that up.”
“It’s pretty lousy quality if it’s a drug. Reminds me of the weed you tried to grow in your basement.”
“That was good stuff.”
“It was crap, and you’re a lightweight.” House stood and took his jacket from the chair at the back of the stage.
He stepped away from the piano, away from the stage, away from Crandall. One last night, he’d told him. One last time.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
House turned to see Crandall following him, leaving his sax and the case on the bench. “I leave in the morning, you know that.”
“Come on. One more show -- or two. We’ve got the Firefly next week.”
House spun around, nearly hitting Crandall. “Next week I’ll be buying books and kissing up to a whole new set of professors, since you screwed up everything here.”
“Hey, I didn’t screw up anything.”
“You’re the one who came up with the great plan that I should cheat.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to get caught,” Crandall said. “Besides, you could have studied before you came out for the gig.”
House didn’t want to admit Crandall was right, but he’d been busy making up for missed lab hours before the trip south. He’d planned on catching up sometime before the trip back, but Crandall had dragged him out to one bar, then another. “You’ll love this place,” he’d said, sometime after 3 a.m. “It’s the real thing. They said that Robert Johnson even played here back in the day.”
He’d been wrong. It was just another crappy hole in the wall with another crappy story they piled on thick to lure in idiots like Crandall.
Everything went to hell after that. The internship was gone, his grades and credits for a year yanked out from him. All he had now was the promise of a fresh start at Michigan.
And Crandall.
“Quit now, and you’ll be sorry,” Crandall said, holding House back when he tried to leave. “The Firefly, G-Man. They want us. They know talent. They know we’re going places.”
“It’s a 20-minute opening spot in the middle of the week,” House said. “The only reason you got the call is that their regulars are out of town.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once they hear us, we’re in.” Crandall leaned toward him. “We need you, G. We’ll never find another piano player in time.”
“But I don’t need you,” House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve.
He made it seven steps toward the door before Crandall caught up with him.
“I suppose we could grab Jules for Tuesday. He’s not that bad,” he said. “How about we grab lunch before you go? We’ll make it a going away party. I’ll buy.”
House shook his head. “I’m leaving first thing.” He’d wanted to leave two days ago, but let Crandall talk him into sticking around long enough for the Saturday gig. He’d already packed what he’d need, leaving everything else behind.
“So let’s grab something now.”
House shook his head and kept walking, making his way past the small tables. The house lights had been turned up and the last few stragglers were making their way out of the room.
Crandall grabbed his arm again, pulling him around. “At least give me your address,” he said.
“Why?”
Crandall couldn’t hide the confusion on his face. He never could. “Why? So I can track you down when I’m up there. We’re still friends, right?”
House stared at him. The only thing they’d ever had in common was the music. And now that was gone. He turned and walked away.
“Admit it, G-man, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” Crandall shouted after him.
House turned to take one last look back: the tiny room with its low ceilings turned a pale yellow by years of cigarette smoke, the mismatched seats, the tables stained by whiskey, beer and wine.
And Crandall, standing in the center of it all.
House blinked, and he was gone. Instead she was there -- dark red fingernails, a navy blue suit and pumps.
“You’re going to miss her too,” Crandall’s voice whispered in his ear.
House startled awake, opening his eyes to the semidarkness of the hospital room. He couldn’t tell what time it was, or how long he’d been sleeping. He could still smell the grease from Wilson’s burgers and heard the low murmur from nurses as they passed by his door.
He rolled onto his back. He hadn’t seen Crandall for more than ten years, hadn’t thought of him for nearly that long. Now Crandall wouldn’t leave House alone. It didn’t make sense.
He reached down with one hand to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position. The pain wasn’t too bad yet. He might be able to make it through the night without another pill.
House lay back against the thin pillows. Dreams, he thought. Nightmares. Side effects.
It wasn’t Crandall, it was the pills.
He’d talk to Cuddy in the morning, get her to switch out the Percocet for something else. Something that worked. Something that would let him sleep. He took a deep breath, tried to quiet his mind. Something different. That’s all he needed. Something new.
Chapter Three
Author: Namaste
Summary: House always pushes people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Chapter two of five chapters. No spoilers. Gen, PG, about 2,800 words. House/Stacy, House and Wilson friendship, House and Crandall friendship.
Chapter Two:
“You can’t shut me out forever,” Stacy said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.
Find previous parts here: Chapter One
He was ten years old and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him how to grip it. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.
He was ten years old and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him how to grip it. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.
He cocked his arm back and threw, groaning when his muscles coiled and released. He watched as the ball dropped off course, landing short of the target.
“Harder Greg, like I showed you,” Dad said, then picked up the ball and walked back to the mound.
Greg took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wanted to tell Dad that it was too hot to practice, but Dad would only say that he should be grateful that he was taking the time to coach him.
“Most fathers don’t care about helping their sons,” Dad would say, “but I do.”
Dad stepped up next to him and showed him again how to hold the ball, his fingers wrapping around the leather. “Now, do it again.”
Greg held the ball, cocked his arm and threw, his muscles aching with the motion. The ball fell even shorter this time.
Dad handed him another ball.
“How many more?” Greg asked.
“You complaining?”
“No, sir. It’s just ...” he couldn’t bring himself to look up at his father. Instead he looked down, noticed that Dad’s dress shoes had gotten dusty. He wondered if he’d have to shine them tonight. “My arm hurts,” he said.
“Of course it does,” Dad said. “You’re working your muscles. You’ve got to hurt if you’re going to get better, right?”
Greg nodded.
Dad held out the ball. “You ready?”
Greg stared at it.
“You ready?” It wasn’t Dad’s voice anymore.
House blinked and the ball disappeared. He blinked again and the baseball diamond faded away.
“Dr. House?”
He blinked again and saw his foot on a circular balance board, the grass and dirt replaced by gray linoleum.
“Maybe we should take a break.” House looked up at the therapist. Laura something, or Laurie, or Lauren. Wilson probably knew.
He shook his head. “I was daydreaming,” he said. He’d taken more Percocet before the session, so he’d be ready. Maybe that was a mistake. “Let ‘s get this over with.”
She stared at him for a moment before she finally nodded. “OK, let’s go counter clockwise this time.”
House knew what he was supposed to do: gently rotate the disc in a steady circle as its edges touched the floor. He even knew why: to retrain his lower leg muscles to compensate for movement he’d lost forever from the missing quad muscles.
Knowing didn’t help. He moved smoothly along the inner edge, working his way from his toes back toward his heel. Then the motion stuttered to a stop, his muscles unable and unwilling to follow his commands.
“Take your time,” she said.
House gripped the edge of the table where he sat, feeling the rough pad under his palm, the steel frame under his fingers. He took a deep breath and pushed. What was left of his quad let out a sharp twinge, and he felt the board jump forward, moving in a jerking spasm before coming to rest again.
She pasted on a smile. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s getting better.”
House didn’t say anything about the lie they both knew she’d told.
“One more time,” she said.
House was looking at the floor, at the blue board, willing his nerves and muscles to complete the circle when he heard her steps, the rhythm he’d noticed that first night she’d come to him, crossing the room in seven steps -- steady, sure, certain, uncompromising -- the way she walked telling him she knew what she wanted, and how to get it.
Stacy.
The tips of her navy blue pumps came into his line of vision, and he looked away, concentrated on the edge of the board. He pushed, felt the pain, but the board didn’t move. He tried again, his breath catching in his throat. The disc gave a slight jump forward, then stopped again.
“That’s enough for now,” Lauren or Laura or Laurie said. She bent down and reached forward, one hand on the balance board, the other held just off to the left of his ankle. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
House glanced over, saw Stacy watching him. He looked down, still feeling her gaze on the back of his neck, like a guillotine hanging there, ready to fall. He was certain she saw through him. “I can do it,” he said.
He braced his left leg against the floor and let go of the table, sliding both hands under his right leg and lifted. He felt his hamstring tighten, but the rest of his leg was useless and limp. He hated the way it hung there in his grip, the dead thing that it had become. The therapist slid the board out from beneath his foot, then helped him lower it to the floor. She smiled up at him. “Good job,” she said.
House grabbed the table again for support. He hated the therapist, with her fake smiles and useless cheer. He hated the room with its soft surfaces and insipid inspirational posters on the wall. He hated himself, for being weak and being here, and he hated her, for making him like this.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Laurie or Lauren or Laura said, and was gone.
House finally looked over at Stacy. She mistook his look as an invitation and sat next to him. “Hey,” she said.
House glanced over at her, at the way she crossed one leg casually over the other, the way she was able to sit there, without thinking about it, without planning each move.
He looked back down at his own body, thinking he could see the damage to his leg even through the thick cotton of his sweat pants, the way the heel of his right foot didn’t quite touch the ground, the way he was afraid that if he let go of the table, he’d lose his balance.
“Why are you here?” He looked over at Stacy. She was wearing the dark blue suit she usually wore when she had a court date and wanted to impress someone, her makeup was perfect, her nails with a fresh coat of dark red polish.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t,” he said, and looked away again, out across the room instead, with its padded tables and balance bars and exercise equipment tucked into every corner. “I already told you that. I don’t want you coming to my sessions.”
Stacy shook her head slightly. “One of your therapists told me I should come. He said it was important that I learn more about what you’ll need once you get home.”
“If it’s important, I’ll tell you what you need to know.” House wished he could leave, but his crutches were against the wall, with Stacy between him and them. “I’ve told you already. I don’t want you talking to my doctors any more.”
House saw Stacy flinch. She looked down for a moment, and he wondered if she’d walk away. He wondered if he’d be happy if she did.
She looked back at him. “You let James come.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it different because he’s James? Or because he’s not me?”
“You already know the answer to that,” he said.
Stacy uncrossed her legs, leaned toward him. “I’m not going to let you do this.”
“Do what?” House knew he’d raised his voice, and saw one of the therapists take a few steps toward them, then stop. He wondered how many fights they’d seen in that room, how many arguments.
“I won’t be ignored,” Stacy said.
House didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her. She wanted a fight. She loved to argue, to push her point, to force others to concede to her will. It was what made her a good lawyer, and he’d seen the way her eyes would shine when she had a court date, just the anticipation of what she’d say, how she’d refute the words tossed out by the other side.
They always had their best sex after they fought.
But if she wanted a fight now, he wouldn’t give it to her.
“You can’t shut me out forever,” she said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.
“What did you say to Stacy?” Wilson asked that night when he showed up in House’s room with a bag of White Castle sliders and fries.
“Nothing.” House reached inside the bag, took out two more burgers.
“You made her cry.”
House shrugged. “It wasn’t anything I said.”
Wilson unwrapped a burger, and sat staring at it. “This is disgusting,” he said. “My arteries are clogging just looking at it.” Wilson hated White Castle. The only time he’d ever go was when House dragged him there after the bars closed. And the only time he stayed at the bars until closing time was when he’d cheated on Bonnie, and he didn’t want to go home, afraid to face her and angry with himself.
“So don’t eat it,” House said, and grabbed Wilson’s burger. He wasn’t hungry, but it was better than listening to another lecture.
Wilson watched him chew and swallow. He looked in the bag but didn’t take out another burger. Instead he wadded up his empty wrapper and tossed it in the garbage can.
House swallowed the last bite. He knew there were more in the bag, but he let them sit. Somehow they didn’t taste quite right without the buzz of beer and whiskey on his tongue. He caught the look in Wilson’s eye that he was disappointed he hadn’t eaten more, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he leaned back too, both of them slouched back on the sofa that House suspected Cuddy had wrangled from a residents’ break room.
“Stacy’s only trying to help, you know,” Wilson said.
House turned to look at him. “I think she’s helped enough.”
Wilson shook his head slightly, but didn’t argue.
“So what’s going to happen when you go home, you planning on not speaking to her then too?”
House shrugged. “Maybe.”
Sometimes he could almost convince himself that it would work out when he got home. When he was home, everything would be normal again -- or almost everything. Maybe they could ignore how everything else had gone to hell.
“Talking won’t change anything,” House said.
Wilson turned to look at him. “And if you don’t say anything, then nothing’s going to change either.”
House leaned forward and put both hands under his leg. He lifted it up and managed to slide his foot off the coffee table and onto the floor. “Maybe there’s been enough change,” he said.
House dreamed he was on stage. He recognized the piano under his fingers, the crappy upright at the bar on 12th with a B flat key above middle C that always stuck when it was hot and humid outside. Like tonight.
Crandall was behind the beat, like he always was when he’d been drinking too much and it was late in the last set. House felt like leaving him hanging there, seeing how much worse he’d get before everything fell apart, but Jamerson stepped in to take his solo and let Crandall off the hook. House eased into the key change and followed Jamerson down Green Dolphin street.
House wiped the sweat off his face when they finally ended. Crandall walked over, his sax in one hand, the case in the other. He plopped the case down on the bench beside House.
“Listen to that,” he said, and pointed out toward the dark room where House could hear a few scattering bits of applause. “That’s like a drug. Don’t tell me you’re going to give that up.”
“It’s pretty lousy quality if it’s a drug. Reminds me of the weed you tried to grow in your basement.”
“That was good stuff.”
“It was crap, and you’re a lightweight.” House stood and took his jacket from the chair at the back of the stage.
He stepped away from the piano, away from the stage, away from Crandall. One last night, he’d told him. One last time.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
House turned to see Crandall following him, leaving his sax and the case on the bench. “I leave in the morning, you know that.”
“Come on. One more show -- or two. We’ve got the Firefly next week.”
House spun around, nearly hitting Crandall. “Next week I’ll be buying books and kissing up to a whole new set of professors, since you screwed up everything here.”
“Hey, I didn’t screw up anything.”
“You’re the one who came up with the great plan that I should cheat.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to get caught,” Crandall said. “Besides, you could have studied before you came out for the gig.”
House didn’t want to admit Crandall was right, but he’d been busy making up for missed lab hours before the trip south. He’d planned on catching up sometime before the trip back, but Crandall had dragged him out to one bar, then another. “You’ll love this place,” he’d said, sometime after 3 a.m. “It’s the real thing. They said that Robert Johnson even played here back in the day.”
He’d been wrong. It was just another crappy hole in the wall with another crappy story they piled on thick to lure in idiots like Crandall.
Everything went to hell after that. The internship was gone, his grades and credits for a year yanked out from him. All he had now was the promise of a fresh start at Michigan.
And Crandall.
“Quit now, and you’ll be sorry,” Crandall said, holding House back when he tried to leave. “The Firefly, G-Man. They want us. They know talent. They know we’re going places.”
“It’s a 20-minute opening spot in the middle of the week,” House said. “The only reason you got the call is that their regulars are out of town.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once they hear us, we’re in.” Crandall leaned toward him. “We need you, G. We’ll never find another piano player in time.”
“But I don’t need you,” House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve.
He made it seven steps toward the door before Crandall caught up with him.
“I suppose we could grab Jules for Tuesday. He’s not that bad,” he said. “How about we grab lunch before you go? We’ll make it a going away party. I’ll buy.”
House shook his head. “I’m leaving first thing.” He’d wanted to leave two days ago, but let Crandall talk him into sticking around long enough for the Saturday gig. He’d already packed what he’d need, leaving everything else behind.
“So let’s grab something now.”
House shook his head and kept walking, making his way past the small tables. The house lights had been turned up and the last few stragglers were making their way out of the room.
Crandall grabbed his arm again, pulling him around. “At least give me your address,” he said.
“Why?”
Crandall couldn’t hide the confusion on his face. He never could. “Why? So I can track you down when I’m up there. We’re still friends, right?”
House stared at him. The only thing they’d ever had in common was the music. And now that was gone. He turned and walked away.
“Admit it, G-man, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” Crandall shouted after him.
House turned to take one last look back: the tiny room with its low ceilings turned a pale yellow by years of cigarette smoke, the mismatched seats, the tables stained by whiskey, beer and wine.
And Crandall, standing in the center of it all.
House blinked, and he was gone. Instead she was there -- dark red fingernails, a navy blue suit and pumps.
“You’re going to miss her too,” Crandall’s voice whispered in his ear.
House startled awake, opening his eyes to the semidarkness of the hospital room. He couldn’t tell what time it was, or how long he’d been sleeping. He could still smell the grease from Wilson’s burgers and heard the low murmur from nurses as they passed by his door.
He rolled onto his back. He hadn’t seen Crandall for more than ten years, hadn’t thought of him for nearly that long. Now Crandall wouldn’t leave House alone. It didn’t make sense.
He reached down with one hand to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position. The pain wasn’t too bad yet. He might be able to make it through the night without another pill.
House lay back against the thin pillows. Dreams, he thought. Nightmares. Side effects.
It wasn’t Crandall, it was the pills.
He’d talk to Cuddy in the morning, get her to switch out the Percocet for something else. Something that worked. Something that would let him sleep. He took a deep breath, tried to quiet his mind. Something different. That’s all he needed. Something new.
Chapter Three
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-22 10:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-22 11:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-22 11:13 pm (UTC)It's interesting to think about John House's idea of "helping his son". I also find it interesting that they're not actually playing catch. House will throw, John will make an assessment of his performance. I'm not sure if it's because John wouldn't feel like baseball gloves were important to own and carry along from residence to residence, but, for me, it's one less thing that they're actually doing together. It's fits well with the alienation themes you have going here.
You’ve got to hurt if you’re going to get better, right? I like the fact that this can be applied to the past and present.
The tension during the session, and with Stacy, is just palpable. Captured so well. I also like the repetitiveness going on, the parallels between Crandall and Stacy, those times of his life. And I think it's neat how the internal structure of each chapter mimics that repetitiveness.
Eagerly awaiting the next part. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-22 11:28 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying the repetitiveness. I wanted to play with the idea of House making the same mistakes, again and again, without necessarily recognizing or fixing them. (But don't we all?)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-22 11:36 pm (UTC)I love the ideas being woven together here, with House's present losses summoning up the ones from the past, and the hint of what would come with House's dependence on painkillers.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-22 11:58 pm (UTC)“But I don’t need you,” House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve.
House's words echoing through the years as Foreman's last words to House, House will be left behind just as he left Crandall. Lovely stuff.
Taiga
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 01:20 am (UTC)One small typo - Crandall couldn’t hide the the confusion on his face. You have two "the"s.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 01:28 am (UTC)I liked what we saw of Crandall, and when corgigirl mentioned his name, I couldn't resist the idea of comparing and contrasting him and Stacy. The dream thing just kind of fit with the dream vignette -- which starts chapter one -- I'd first started with.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 02:39 am (UTC)The way John was spending "quality" time with his son.
How you intertwined Crandall and Von Evil together in House's early years.
So painful to visualize House trying to do his physio and the resentment he feels towards Stacy. Ow.
White Castles! I think it's been about 8 years since I actually ate one. I love them. They hate me. Enough said.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:38 pm (UTC)And it seemed like exactly the kind of food that House and Wilson would have a definite divide on.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 06:51 am (UTC)An inaccurate statement that reveals so much about the father's personality. He decreases House's expectations for the role a father should play in a son's life while simultaneously aggrandizing himself. Subtly deceptive and destructive.
"He looked down, still feeling her gaze on the back of his neck, like a guillotine hanging there, ready to fall."
I love this imagery.
"to force others to concede to her will"
This is just my personal preference, but I think that "accede" is a more apt word for this phrase.
“Maybe there’s been enough change."
Are you deliberately echoing Human Error here?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:46 pm (UTC)Are you deliberately echoing Human Error here?
Not directly, but yes, to a certain extent. After all, the House we see at the time of Human Error is eight or more years removed from the infarction, and I'd like to think that he's made some (albeit very, very minor) changes and come to accept change a little more.
As to accede v. concede ... I doublechecked my Webster's, and both work. I'm being stubborn and sticking with concede, though, since the first definition is "to admit as true, valid, certain" while accede is "to enter into the duties" with a second definition of "assent, agree to."
Of course I could just split the difference and go with "yield."
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 07:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 01:28 pm (UTC)Oh and I´m still working and I really want to go home.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 07:18 am (UTC)That, and I love that you put just the right measure of cruelty in John House.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 12:53 pm (UTC)Hmm. It just occurred to me as an interesting AU to look at what would have happened if House hadn't been caught. If he would have had the internship that Weber got. Would have have gone into research like Weber, rather than diagnostics? Did the change actually turn out better for him in the end?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 03:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 06:24 pm (UTC)You have House leaving Crandall out of anger and disgust. But I would like to imagine that also mixed in to the stew of House's emotions at the time was a large dollop of guilt over the secret infidelity of screwing Crandall's girlfriend.
Great writing and character voices all around.
-- blacktop
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-23 07:14 pm (UTC)I do think that part of House's anger at Crandall can also be explained by his anger of leaving behind whatever aspirations he'd had to be a musician -- of having to actually take fork in the road, whereas he'd been able to straddle both sides of his life until that point.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-24 12:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-24 03:25 am (UTC)And now the show will have had both Harold and Kumar in episodes. They should definitely go to White Castle at some time. (My biggest issue with White Castle isn't the sliders. It's the "chicken rings." Chicken does not come in ring form in nature.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-24 06:38 pm (UTC)