New Fic: What You Need: The Tenth One

[namaste]

Title: What You Need: The Tenth 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 440 words. Part ten of thirteen.



The tenth one is broken down into four pieces in House's hand. His fingers wrap around the separate parts and the cord that holds them together. He lets go, flicks his wrist and the top three sections assemble themselves into one piece. The bottom one doesn't lock into place and he gives the cane a shake until he hears it click.

House reaches down, takes the cane apart again. Holds it. Shakes the sections loose and watches them snap into place.

His office is dark -- the only light coming from the lamp on his desk and through the blinds along the glass wall and door separating the room from the hallway. He can hear rain beating against his window, though it's not as heavy as it was this afternoon. If he waits it out, maybe he can still ride the bike home tonight without getting soaked. Maybe the pavement will dry enough so his tires won't skid out from beneath him.

He folds the cane again. Tightens his grip around it.

He's never trusted the collapsible canes, always pictured them folding in on themselves whenever he needed them most.

He loosens his fingers, flicks his wrist, feels the parts lock into place. He takes it apart again, tries to get the feel of when it'll support him, and when it won't.

He hadn't even realized it was a collapsible cane until he was back in his office, until he was alone with it to finally study the thing. All he'd known when he grabbed it from the old man in the hallway was that it looked like the right size, and that he couldn't take another step with that orthopedic piece of crap the therapist had forced on him. It was too much like the first one he'd had, the one he thought he'd finally left behind.

House knows he could have gone back to the physical therapy offices, demanded his old cane back, but he doesn't want that one anymore either. It's another one he'd almost begun to believe he could leave behind, the one he'd thought would be the last one. But when the Ketamine treatment failed, it was the one still waiting for him. Taunting him when he opened the closet door.

Let the therapist keep it. Let her burn it. Let her give it to some other poor sap who will stupidly believe that a cane is a step forward, rather than a step back.

House doesn't trust it anymore. He's not sure if he can trust anything. Or anyone.

He folds the cane, shakes it open again, and listens to the rain.

The eleventh one is a flight of fancy ...

Comments

[pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com]

The subtle contrast between those dexterous hands and that halting stride, as represented by the cane, really got to me, too. This is such lovely writing.