New Fic: What You Need: The Eleventh One

[namaste]

Title: What You Need: The Eleventh 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 eleven of thirteen. (To start at the beginning, go here.)



The eleventh one is a flight of fancy, a whim. House blames the jet lag and the intoxication that comes from gin, beer and Vicodin along with the jumble of Chinese, Indian and Malay voices that prompt him out of the taxi and into the Singapore night.

His leg aches from too many hours on the flight, and he grabs a hard plastic seat at a roadside food stand, orders a beer and points at a bowl of soup the guy next to him is slurping down.

"Laksa," the guy behind the counter says, and puts a bowl in front of him.

It's hot, hotter than House imagined from inside the air conditioned hotel, and he wipes away the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. He swallows a spoonful of the soup, and feels the heat from chili peppers on his tongue. He smells ginger from the plate of chicken and rice a woman is eating at another table, diesel smoke from passing trucks, the flowers from a roadside stand just beyond the kitchens, and fish from the stall two doors away.

He finishes the food, ignores his leg and wanders deeper into the market. He remembers when he was a kid, exploring every rock in Egypt and every alley in Japan. He doesn't explore anywhere anymore. Traveling hurts. Walking hurts. Life hurts. If it weren't for Cuddy he wouldn't be here now. He never would have left home.

House stops, leans against a wall and digs out his Vicodin. He can see the winding lanes leading further and further back into the market, but he's not a kid anymore. He can't explore like he did back then. He probably never will again. This market is all he'll see, except for the bland hotel with its bland conference rooms.

He sees the antiques shop across from him, filled with English writing desks, tea sets, old bits of regimental armor -- reminders of Singapore's colonial past, of the people who used to travel here, but don't anymore.

The cane is propped up on a table, silver and gold and black lacquer finish. The shop owner shows him the corkscrew hidden inside the handle, the rubies and jade embedded in the wood, the delicate carvings that run the entire length of it.

House doesn't remember the exchange rate. He doesn't care. He'll never be here again, but wants a reminder now that once upon a time, he was here. He was everywhere. That once he used to travel, even if he doesn't anymore. He hands the man his credit card and lets his fingers explore the length of the cane while he waits.

He unscrews the handle, studies the silver spiral of the corkscrew. He imagines it sliding through the cork of a French bordeaux. The hotel has a good wine list, and House smiles and thinks that once he gets back there, it's time for room service. After all, he'll never be here again. He should celebrate.

The twelfth one is perfect ...

Comments

[lazy-nightowl.livejournal.com]

You know, until I read this chapter, it never even occurred to me that House bought the cane while in Singapore. I always just figured that he had bought it at an antique store somewhere in Jersey and happened to bring it along with him to Singapore. Of course, that means it probably would have been confiscated from him while going through security at the U.S. airport as well—I guess I assumed that they "missed" it or just let it go. But your theory about him buying it in Singapore makes more sense and is probably accurate. :-)