New Fic: What You Need: The Second One
Jul. 15th, 2008 01:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: What You Need: The Second One
Author: Namaste
Summary: "So where do you buy these things? Do they have cane stores?" -- John Henry Giles, "DNR" Stories of how House came by his canes over the years, told through a series of short fics. PG. This one is about 500 words. Part two of thirteen.
The second one is polished mahogany with a gently curving handle. Stacy smiles as she holds it out to him.
"What's that for?"
"I thought you might like it," she says. The smile fades, and she puts the cane's tip on the floor, the handle facing toward him. House ignores it. "I know you hate using one, but you might as well have one that looks good."
"Tired of being seen with a cripple?" he asks. "Maybe you should have thought of that earlier."
Stacy lets the cane fall against the edge of the couch and heads into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She doesn't bother slamming it. House thinks that maybe she's decided he's not worth the effort.
He turns back to the TV, tries to lose himself in the simple soap opera plot, but the parade of perfect bodies in nurses' uniforms and surgical scrubs annoys him, and he changes the channel. He flicks past ESPN long enough to see a wide receiver leap up to catch a perfect spiral pass, then changes the channel again. He finds some old movie -- a gangster flick that Wilson would probably recognize in a heartbeat -- and tosses the remote onto the coffee table.
He leans back, reaches over for his beer and his fingers brush against Stacy's cane. The wood is warm to the touch, rather than the cold sterile surface of the aluminum one, and his fingers linger there for a second before he grabs the beer.
On the TV, Jimmy Cagney lets out a scream in a prison cafeteria, but House finds himself staring at the cane. He lets his fingers wrap around the handle, and feels how it fits into the curve of his palm.
He waits for a moment, expects to hear Stacy from the other room saying that she told him so, but there's nothing. He picks up the cane, holds it out. It's heavier than he expected, but its weight is even, smooth. House finds the midpoint on the shaft, holds it there.
He closes his eyes, and it feels almost natural in his hand, its balanced weight like a pool cue or a lacrosse stick just waiting to be used. House puts it down again. If he uses it, she'll think she was right, like she thinks she made the right decision before.
House stares at the TV screen, black and white images of Cagney's face lit by fire, lit by madness. He turns it off, sees his own reflection in the glass, sees the couch, the table, the cane.
He wants to hate the cane, like he wants to hate Stacy for what she's done. But he can't, just like he can't shake free of her. It doesn't matter what he wants anymore. This is all he has now: Stacy and this slender piece of wood to hold him up, keep him moving forward. He grabs the cane, pushes himself up onto his feet and takes a step.
The third one is nearly in his grasp ...
Author: Namaste
Summary: "So where do you buy these things? Do they have cane stores?" -- John Henry Giles, "DNR" Stories of how House came by his canes over the years, told through a series of short fics. PG. This one is about 500 words. Part two of thirteen.
The second one is polished mahogany with a gently curving handle. Stacy smiles as she holds it out to him.
"What's that for?"
"I thought you might like it," she says. The smile fades, and she puts the cane's tip on the floor, the handle facing toward him. House ignores it. "I know you hate using one, but you might as well have one that looks good."
"Tired of being seen with a cripple?" he asks. "Maybe you should have thought of that earlier."
Stacy lets the cane fall against the edge of the couch and heads into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She doesn't bother slamming it. House thinks that maybe she's decided he's not worth the effort.
He turns back to the TV, tries to lose himself in the simple soap opera plot, but the parade of perfect bodies in nurses' uniforms and surgical scrubs annoys him, and he changes the channel. He flicks past ESPN long enough to see a wide receiver leap up to catch a perfect spiral pass, then changes the channel again. He finds some old movie -- a gangster flick that Wilson would probably recognize in a heartbeat -- and tosses the remote onto the coffee table.
He leans back, reaches over for his beer and his fingers brush against Stacy's cane. The wood is warm to the touch, rather than the cold sterile surface of the aluminum one, and his fingers linger there for a second before he grabs the beer.
On the TV, Jimmy Cagney lets out a scream in a prison cafeteria, but House finds himself staring at the cane. He lets his fingers wrap around the handle, and feels how it fits into the curve of his palm.
He waits for a moment, expects to hear Stacy from the other room saying that she told him so, but there's nothing. He picks up the cane, holds it out. It's heavier than he expected, but its weight is even, smooth. House finds the midpoint on the shaft, holds it there.
He closes his eyes, and it feels almost natural in his hand, its balanced weight like a pool cue or a lacrosse stick just waiting to be used. House puts it down again. If he uses it, she'll think she was right, like she thinks she made the right decision before.
House stares at the TV screen, black and white images of Cagney's face lit by fire, lit by madness. He turns it off, sees his own reflection in the glass, sees the couch, the table, the cane.
He wants to hate the cane, like he wants to hate Stacy for what she's done. But he can't, just like he can't shake free of her. It doesn't matter what he wants anymore. This is all he has now: Stacy and this slender piece of wood to hold him up, keep him moving forward. He grabs the cane, pushes himself up onto his feet and takes a step.
The third one is nearly in his grasp ...