| |
The Stars At Your Feet
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Takes place a couple of days after 3 x 18, "Airborne," with references to earlier episodes in the third season. The end line riffed from "Bobcaygeon" by The Tragically Hip.
~~~~~
Most nights, the sun has already set by the time you leave the hospital, and tonight is no exception as you finally close the last file and stand up from your desk. You like administrative work and you're good at it. Committees and reviews don't run themselves. You just wish it didn't require twelve hours of your day; fourteen or more when you're behind, like tonight, two days after returning from Singapore. You've been here since six, before the sun rose.
Going to work and coming home in darkness so often, you believe you're becoming part owl, or possibly part mole. You pull your wool coat tighter around you as you step outside to walk to the car. The air is crisp for April, with an acrid undertone of car exhaust. You stop and inhale deeply anyway, savoring the cold; then you look up, past the lights and the trees and the buildings. There are no clouds, so the sky above should be pitch-black, but the city lights have diluted it to charcoal-gray. And there should be more stars in the sky, but most are too feeble to shine through the smog of the city. Only a few, the brightest, still twinkle bravely through the evening haze overhead.
The moon draws your unwilling gaze, so you stare at her instead, though she's no longer your friend. She stopped being your friend after one too many betrayals. Not that it matters, really, because the moon has always been two-faced. Tonight she shows a waning sliver of her benign countenance. But the agonized one is never too far away.
"Won't see anything from here," a loud voice says from behind. You jump at its unexpected presence. "Gotta go where there's no light pollution and no smog."
You gird yourself and turn to see House smirking down at you.
Right now, he's the last person you want to see, but he's here, so you have to deal. An answering smirk plasters on your own face, and you force the brightness in your voice. "Why, Dr. House, isn't this a little late for you? What are you still doing here?"
"Catching up."
You can almost believe that, since you both returned from Singapore only a couple days ago. The streetlights accentuate his jet-lagged haggardness.
Then again, it's House. "Catching up" can mean a million things, none of them exactly kosher.
"You've been avoiding me since we got back." He fixes you with his uncanny glare, his head cocking to one side. Normally you can withstand his scrutiny with aplomb, but this time, you take one step back, your hands suddenly growing clammy. "Usually it's the other way around. What's up?"
The best description of your feelings towards House is fond exasperation, or maybe exasperated fondness--frequently dropping the "fond" part altogether. Since returning from Singapore, though, you've added "embarrassed to see him" to the mix.
Suddenly, all the backlog has been a blessing.
"It's only been two days. And as you said, House, I've been catching up. That's what happens when you've been away from work several days, but you wouldn't know that."
"Why do you think I have lackeys?"
You shake your head. "Because someone has to do your work."
"You wound me, Cuddy," he says with a mock-hurt frown, clutching his chest. His eyebrows raise. "How about a late dinner?"
You start walking again. "Sorry. Have an early breakfast meeting." A weak excuse, but you are tired, and it's all you got. And there is a hot bath waiting to be drawn at home.
House sticks by your side, matching your gait. "A late dinner under the stars?"
At this you do stop, puzzled. "No restaurants will have their patios open this time of year. It's April."
His face is completely serious. "I hear there's this new one open. Called 'The Great Outdoors.' It's supposed to be fabulous."
You are tired, and you haven't caught up with the jet lag either, because it doesn't click at first. Dinner with someone else, even if it is House, is better than having a salad and microwaved eggplant parmigiana at home. "Fine. Let's go."
He nods toward your briefcase. "You'll want to drop that off at home first. I'll pick you up there." He heads off towards his bike, parked in the handicapped space.
You head to your own car, slide in and buckle up, turn the ignition and pull out. Having driven the same route for years, you do it on autopilot while you mull over this latest development. You haven't heard anything yet through the hospital grapevine about what happened on the flight back--which is a relief. On the other hand, you don't know what to think about the relative silence. House must be saving up for a rainy day. He's very good at that. He's even better at using it.
It's almost eight-thirty when you arrive home, and the bastard is already standing at your front door and holding it open for you. "You really should change the hiding place for your key."
You stop at the threshold and drop your briefcase just inside. If you get this over with now, the quicker it'll be before you can go to bed. "OK, I'm ready. Let's go."
His face is completely straight, but there's smugness in his answer. "You'll want to change first. Dress is completely casual for where we're going."
A spark of warning ignites, but you still bite. "Fine!" You kick off your heels and head upstairs.
In the bedroom you grab an old Michigan sweatshirt, a pair of jeans and your sneakers, then head to the bathroom to change. In the bathroom you pull your hair into a ponytail. For a moment you stare longingly at your bathtub, clean and sparkling with its jacuzzi jets. The small stoppered bottle of lavender and chamomile foamy bath beads, the stack of fluffy maroon towels, and your navy chenille bathrobe, sit invitingly on the edge of the white porcelain. A couple of hours, tops, then you can have that bath.
Then you hear House banging around downstairs, and you don't want to think about what havoc he's wreaking. You turn out the bathroom light and hurry down, just in time to see him step out of your kitchen with his pack suspiciously fuller than before.
"What did you steal?" you ask, the spark flaring.
"Provisions for our long journey." He looks at you, up and down, with a faintly feral grin. "You should wear jeans more often with your killer stilettos. Brings out your inner cougar."
The spark flames. "I'm not going, House! I'm tired, and it's cold, and--"
"Of course, it'd be better if those jeans were leather pants. Both practical and sexy," House continues with an outright leer.
"HOUSE!"
"Your carriage awaits, my mistress," he says with a deferent nod toward the door.
And pointedly ignoring you. You weigh the options of killing him, cutting him up and composting his body; kicking him out and calling a 24-hour locksmith immediately to change the locks; or just going along. House always has an angle, however obtuse; despite your growing exasperation (dropping the fondness), you really do want to see where it's going. Though you don't need to enjoy it. With a scowl, you acquiesce, grab your ski jacket and head outside, making sure he's ahead of you.
"The carriage," of course, is his motorbike, and he tosses a helmet at you. "It's the law," he intones as he fastens his own straps.
You suppress a quip about donorcycles. It's been years, but you do remember how to adjust and fasten the straps, though you end up re-adjusting your ponytail so it doesn't crush the back of your head. House climbs on and pats the seat behind him.
Climbing on, you gingerly place your hands on his waist.
"I don't bite," he says. "Hard." He readjusts your gloved hands so they're firmly around him. Revving the engine, you set off, roaring down the street. You catch a glimpse of curtains pulling open, of neighbors frowning at the noise.
A few minutes later and you're out of Princeton on a secondary highway, two-lane, framed with oak and maple trees just getting ready to bud. It's like a tunnel, with the bike headlights the only lanterns along the way. House seems to know this road well, leaning expertly to navigate various potholes that you can't see. In summer and full leaf, it would be gorgeous. On this cold April night, the bare branches are like fingers clutching at you.
Your hands are chapped beneath your gloves, and you just start wondering how much longer you'll be riding, when House slows down to turn right onto a dirt road. A few hundred yards later, you arrive at a steel gate. It's closed, but not locked. House pulls up along the gate and shoves it open.
Signs are posted on either side on the fence. You can barely read them by the light of the headlights. When you do, irritation spikes.
"House! This is a state park! Can't you read the signs?"
House looks back and grins. It's not reassuring.
"It says NO TRESPASSING!" you add.
"Relax. Trespassing isn't a felony in this state, only a misdemeanor. Community service, tops." He revs the engine and they drive slowly through the gate.
"Which I'll exact from you in clinic hours if we're caught," you mutter under your breath.
A few long minutes later, enduring a bumpy ride on an increasingly winding dirt path, you reach your destination at the top of a small grassy hill overlooking neighboring farmland. House stops and kills the engine, and lets you clamber off before he sets the kick-stand and dismounts.
You stand with your hands in your jacket pockets and look around. The thin blanket of dew, glistening on the grass under your feet, will turn to frost by morning. Shadows mark bushes and a fence in the field below. A light breeze rustles the branches of the grove of trees behind the bike. You can smell the bike exhaust out here, but it's fading. The smell of freshly turned earth fills the air, adding its mossy tone to the cold crispness. A lighted trail of cars, like fireflies buzzing in straight lines, marks the interstate five miles away.
House stands beside you and you feel his warmth emanating. He pops a pill, then pulls plastic garbage bags from his pack and spreads them on the ground. Only when he lowers himself down with a grunt do you realize that the dampness of the grass cannot be good for his leg, so you can forgive the Vicodin. You sit down, too, following his lead, and stare up at the sky.
"It's beautiful," you murmur, and it is. It's been years since you've seen so many stars. House was right--the view is more than spectacular from the hill. You draw your knees to your chest, curl your arms around and stare in wonder. The sky is crowded, just crowded with stars, compared to the sky above PPTH. You never had an interest in the heavens, but from long-ago Girl Scout camping trips, you soon remember how to pick out the Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Cassiopeia and the Milky Way in the northern sky.
House reclines on one elbow, and picks out several more constellations and stars. "Draco curls around the Little Dipper," he says, and you follow the path of his finger. "Hercules is just to the right, by the northeastern horizon." In his voice you can see Hercules raise his sword to fight the Dragon.
He then points to Venus rising from the northwestern horizon, and Saturn along its transit. "If you look really closely, you can see the distortion caused by the rings." Arcturus, at the apex of the Bootes constellation; Vega, in Lyra low in the northeast; and Regulus, in Leo, are also easily seen with House's assistance, along with dozens of other, smaller stars and celestial objects.
"Doesn't one of the constellations contain a galaxy?" you ask.
"Andromeda," he replies. " But most of it's already set, and the Andromeda Galaxy has already moved below the horizon. We really only see that early in the evening." He points up again, towards Saturn. "To the left of Saturn and Leo is Cancer, Wilson's favorite."
He snickers, and you chuckle along with him. Wilson left early today to attend the AACR conference in Los Angeles, and won't be back for six days. You refuse to wonder if it's Wilson's absence that brought you here.
"How do you know so much about the sky?" you ask. In all the time you've known him, he's never mentioned any knowledge about astronomy.
House is uncharacteristically quiet for a minute. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronomer," he says finally. Strangely, you have no problem imagining him, a long-legged and curly-headed boy, peering down a telescope and scribbling notes on the back of old school assignments. "I had a telescope and star charts and everything. Was out every night, joined the local astronomy club, got Space magazine. Had all the constellations and the known stars memorized before I was thirteen."
You watch him in profile, his craggy face caught up in memory. There is something happening here, but you can't pin it down yet, so you wait for more.
Grudgingly, he obliges, sitting up with a faint sigh. "When we moved to Japan I had to sell it all because we couldn't carry it." House sounds wistful, distant, and you suddenly have to shy away to look at the sky. "I bought a second-hand one in Okinawa. Snuck out once and tried to hitchhike to Mount Fuji to see the stars from there. My dad caught me, broke my telescope and grounded me for the rest of his tour in Japan. I still snuck out, afterwards, but--I lost interest in astronomy after that."
Something twists in your chest with those words. Their calculated emptiness hurts worse than if there were rage, or sadness, behind them.
"Astronomy's loss is medicine's gain," you say softly, still staring up at the sky. You feel, rather than see House turn his head to look at you. You do not shrink from his keen gaze.
"Secret for a secret," he replies cryptically. You turn back to him with one eyebrow raised. He's holding out his pinkie finger, bent in a crook. "Pinkie swear."
"Wha--what?" You have to think quickly, then you realize what he means.
He rolls his eyes, and puts one hand on his hip. "Oh, really, Cuddy. A pinkie promise is unbreakable. And isn't that what girlfriends do these days?"
You try, and fail, to hide your grin. "House. One, I'm not your girlfriend. Two, you are definitely not my girlfriend, much less a girl. And three, neither of us is twelve."
"Suit yourself. " He lowers his upraised hand, but you catch it before it falls, and you link your pinkie with his. House may be House, but when he makes a promise, he keeps it when it counts. You're feeling goofy for it, but then again, the look on his face says he is too, so you're even.
He ducks his head and pulls his backpack closer. "You hungry?"
You are starving, in fact, having not eaten since lunch. "Oh God, yes."
He passes you a plastic bag with a slightly crushed roll. "Here. I found your peanut butter but all you had were flaxseed rolls. Don't you believe in bread like the rest of us?"
He takes one bite and almost spits it out. "Good lord. What is this crap?"
You smile sweetly around your own bite of roll. "Peanut butter. Organic and ground at the whole food store. No additives or preservatives. Just peanuts."
He scowls at the crescent-shaped bite. "I wondered why it was in a plastic container with a plain top. It's not real peanut butter if the top's not red or green."
You laugh outright. "Serves you right for stealing my food." Revenge, of any kind, is sweet.
He makes a sound like an amused snort. You fall into a companionable silence, save for the chewing and swallowing. House then pulls out apples and a thermos (also pilfered, probably from Wilson) that is filled with your favorite raspberry leaf tea. You curl your cold-stiff fingers around the cup and sip the hot drink gratefully.
On the way back, House drives a little slower, as if drawing the remaining time out. The temperature's dropped a further ten degrees, and you catch the glimmer of frost along the roadside. Your legs are cold, but your arms around his waist feel more comfortable and relaxed. Leaning into him, you let the night tunnel flow and swirl around you.
He stops in front of your house and even walks you to the door. The motion detector kicks in and the front light shines, highlighting the creases of his face. He limps heavily, and, despite his Vicodin, you know he'll be paying for sitting on the cold damp ground for so long. He stops as you climb the two steps to your landing, your keys already in your hand.
On impulse you turn and descend one step to hug him and kiss his scraggly cheek. "Thank you, House," you murmur against his ear. "It was a lovely evening."
His arms fold around you and squeeze, and for a long moment you're enveloped in House, all warm leather and sandalwood and peanut butter breath. Then one hand wanders down and pats, accidentally on purpose, of course. You sigh with that exasperated fondness. It wouldn't be House otherwise.
"Don't think we'll be making a habit of this," he warns, but his voice is light and gruff and warm. "Wilson might get jealous."
"I'll be sure to remember." When you pull back, he's smiling, one of his rare, honest ones. "Good night, House."
He turns and you watch from your front door as he heads back down to his bike. He's moving stiffly, but also lightly, and shaking his head.
Only after the bike has roared down the street and turned the corner do you go inside. The hallway clock reads ten minutes to midnight. There's that breakfast meeting with the donors at seven in the morning, the departmental M&M reviews, the WHO accreditation to follow up on. Only five hours left to sleep, because you need to be in the office by six, so you'll forgo that bath for tonight. Somehow that doesn't matter so much. Getting ready, then climbing into bed, you can't help but think of House the stargazer. House the closet romantic. And, as you fall asleep, House the constellation, revealing itself one star at a time.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|