New Fic: What You Need: The Fourth One
Jul. 17th, 2008 04:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: What You Need: The Fourth 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 four of thirteen.
The fourth one is leaning against the filing cabinet while House studies the third cane on top of his desk. In the bright light from the lamp he studies the spot where the rubber tip has worn through, leaving a narrow strip of exposed wood.
The wood had made contact with the tile floor this morning, and the cane had skittered out from beneath his hand, sliding toward the wall as his leg buckled beneath him. He hadn't hit the floor. Wilson had been there, moving faster than House thought he possibly could, caught him beneath his left shoulder, held him tight.
House still hasn't decided if he's grateful that Wilson was there, or pissed off that he was.
Wilson is always there to see him at his worst: when he needs help in the bathroom, when the pain's so bad he can barely get out of bed, when two shots of bourbon lead to two more and he can't stop the bitter truth from spilling out in a dark, miserable and long night.
It was Wilson who first spotted the damaged tip, offered to find him a replacement.
House nodded. "Make sure it's attached to a new cane."
"Why ..."
"You know how it is with these high performance vehicles," House said. "First it's a new set of tires, then the transmission blows and the next thing you know, you've got a cracked cylinder head on your hands. I don't want to wait to see what'll wear out next."
Wilson had shown up at House's office an hour later with a new cane -- a dark brown one this time, with a flat handle that Wilson claimed would be more comfortable for long term use.
House had put it next to his desk, then waited until he was alone to pick up the old cane and examine it under bright lights.
He can see it clearly now. The wear pattern on the tip is heavier on one side, showing how he angles the cane close to his body, how it follows his uneven stride. His fingers run along the edge of the cane, feeling the grooves gouged down into the surface, recording every feeble step he's taken.
Once upon a time, he'd studied the wear patterns on his running shoes, diagnosed the under pronation in his left foot from the worn tread, and adjusted his stride until the pattern in both shoes was even.
Now he sits back, kicks off his shoes and brings them up to the light. He turns them over. The tread on the left is worn down more than the right, while the right is a mirror image to the damaged cane tip, showing how he favors one side, how his body angles itself toward the cane, how it depends on it.
He puts the shoes next to the cane on his desk, leans down, and reads the story of his life as it is now, clearly written in pieces of worn rubber and wood.
The fifth one is dark and slender ...
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 four of thirteen.
The fourth one is leaning against the filing cabinet while House studies the third cane on top of his desk. In the bright light from the lamp he studies the spot where the rubber tip has worn through, leaving a narrow strip of exposed wood.
The wood had made contact with the tile floor this morning, and the cane had skittered out from beneath his hand, sliding toward the wall as his leg buckled beneath him. He hadn't hit the floor. Wilson had been there, moving faster than House thought he possibly could, caught him beneath his left shoulder, held him tight.
House still hasn't decided if he's grateful that Wilson was there, or pissed off that he was.
Wilson is always there to see him at his worst: when he needs help in the bathroom, when the pain's so bad he can barely get out of bed, when two shots of bourbon lead to two more and he can't stop the bitter truth from spilling out in a dark, miserable and long night.
It was Wilson who first spotted the damaged tip, offered to find him a replacement.
House nodded. "Make sure it's attached to a new cane."
"Why ..."
"You know how it is with these high performance vehicles," House said. "First it's a new set of tires, then the transmission blows and the next thing you know, you've got a cracked cylinder head on your hands. I don't want to wait to see what'll wear out next."
Wilson had shown up at House's office an hour later with a new cane -- a dark brown one this time, with a flat handle that Wilson claimed would be more comfortable for long term use.
House had put it next to his desk, then waited until he was alone to pick up the old cane and examine it under bright lights.
He can see it clearly now. The wear pattern on the tip is heavier on one side, showing how he angles the cane close to his body, how it follows his uneven stride. His fingers run along the edge of the cane, feeling the grooves gouged down into the surface, recording every feeble step he's taken.
Once upon a time, he'd studied the wear patterns on his running shoes, diagnosed the under pronation in his left foot from the worn tread, and adjusted his stride until the pattern in both shoes was even.
Now he sits back, kicks off his shoes and brings them up to the light. He turns them over. The tread on the left is worn down more than the right, while the right is a mirror image to the damaged cane tip, showing how he favors one side, how his body angles itself toward the cane, how it depends on it.
He puts the shoes next to the cane on his desk, leans down, and reads the story of his life as it is now, clearly written in pieces of worn rubber and wood.
The fifth one is dark and slender ...