First, a caveat. This is still a very alternate character interpretation. This is fourth in a series. Fourth! Never thought I'd stick with this for so long. As always, this can be read as an AU.
This story keeps to late season 7 canon. This chapter follows the events in episode 7x18 "The Dig" and precedes the events in episode 7x21 "The Fix". Despite the writing, the Huddy, all the OOC angst of the show's canon, and the alternative-ness of this interpretation I have managed to keep this whole storyline compatible with season 7 canon. It's been a challenge. I am not doing this with season 8. While I might use aspects of season 8 I will not be keeping strictly to their canon. After all, their House is a guy!
This is a work of fanfiction. No money is being made from these pieces. If after the first three stories you're still weirded out by this concept then why are you reading?
This chapter rated T for themes on gender, poker metaphors, etc.
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Introspection was never her specialty. Introspection was something that could only be done properly in unfamiliar circumstances, in strip clubs, in seedy bars on the wrong edge of town. Introspection was too real unless it was periodically interrupted by a bartender or a prospective hook-up.
Gillian House was never very good at introspection. That fact might help to explain why she'd been a man for over 50 years. Either way, being bad at it didn't keep her out of the corner bar, not tonight.
It was like everyone who knew she was, well, a she were all expecting her to go through some big mental change. House snorted and took a swig of scotch. As if she'd wake up one morning and decide that from then on she was going to be a proper woman. It didn't work that way. Worse, there was no way to convince people that it didn't work that way. People just couldn't understand, couldn't comprehend what it was like…
Scotch wasn't enough tonight. If she was going to get some quality introspection going then that damned karaoke machine needed to be on and she needed something other than scotch. Scotch was just too familiar. "Dark rum, straight," House ordered when the bartender passed by. "And when are you turning that damned machine on?"
The bartender raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. The Sunday night crowd consisted of three regulars and this guy. He shrugged and figured 'why not'.
Rum in hand, House swaggered up to the karaoke machine. Someone needed to get this train wreck going. The screen wasn't working right and the microphone kept cutting out but the music was there and the words just came.
Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum
You came along and everything started to hum
Still it's a real good bet, the best is yet to come
The best is yet to come, and won't that be fine
You think you've seen the sun, but you ain't seen it shine
Flat words with scant meaning. There was no 'best' to things, at least not for her. Life dealt you a hand and you played your cards. She'd played hers, nearly folded so many times but she always called like a sucker. She just always needed to see what cards came up next.
Wait till the warm-up is underway
Wait till out lips have met
Wait till you see that sunshine day
You ain't seen nothin' yet
The best is yet to come, and won't that be fine
The best is yet to come, come the day that you're mine
She's stuck here at that poker table called 'life', all-in with nothing but a pair of deuces in her hand. Everyone around her played their hands better, bet saner, drew better cards… They just had better hands. All of them. And she was stuck with this pair of deuces. A pair of deuces and a joker.
Come the day that your mine
I'm gonna teach you to fly
We've only tasted the wine
We're gonna drain that cup dry
Wait till your charms are right, for the arms to surround
You think you've flown before, but you ain't left the ground
The joker was a new card. To expand the metaphor, the joker was Thirteen and this strange understanding she had with House. It was an unknown, something new. Something not yet quantified. House didn't want to make the mistake she made with Dominika, to make a careless bet on a long shot and have it turn out mediocre at best. She wasn't sure this was friendship; House wasn't ready to declare Thirteen another deuce and expand her hand. House wasn't good with friendships. Thus Thirteen remained a joker, an unknown. And that unknown kept House from knowing how to bet.
Wait till you're locked in my embrace
Wait till I hold you near
Wait till you see that sunshine place
There ain't nothin' like it here
The best is yet to come, and won't that be fine
The best is yet to come, come the day that you're mine
No, Thirteen wasn't a deuce. She couldn't be. Wilson was her deuce, the perfect match to pair with her own inherent low value. Thirteen was an ace, she strengthened any hand.
House left the stage to the sound of silence. The bar was empty of any patron who might be moved by a heartfelt performance. The bartender mixed her a jagertee without a word.
"Empty words," House mumbled. "There is no 'best'."
"I hear ya," said the bartender. "Work or wife?"
House inwardly cringed. Both, if she were honest, and more. "Work," she said, settling on the more recent issue. "One of my employees asked me to kill her." Her reward for speaking openly was a cautious and disturbed stare. "I'm a doctor," House explained. "So's she. And she's facing a long, slow death from an incurable disease. She made me promise to euthanize her when it gets too bad."
"What did you say?" the bartender asked, caution turning to empathy.
House shrugged. "I said I would." She drained her glass.
"And you're okay with that?"
House stared at her empty glass. "I've seen the alternative. No one should live like that." She looked up to see the disturbed look on the bartender's face. "Oh, she's not asking me to kill her today. Probably not for years. Who knows, maybe in those years mercy-killing will be legalized and I won't end up in jail for it."
"And maybe in those years there'll be a cure," he said, leaving a bottle of dark rum in front of House.
"Maybe," House said, staring into red-brown liquid as she poured it into her glass. A cure was unlikely. Cures took time to go through testing, development, trials, everything. So many experimental drugs never reached the market because of some minor problem in statistically poor studies and overly cautious lawyers.
A cure…
It would be like an ace up the sleeve, a way to cheat out of the poor hand dealt by life. Thirteen had no such ace but…
House knew of one such ace. Some technician who owed her a favor was researching some protein, Compound CS-804. Supposed to rebuild muscle. Sure she could never replace the muscle torn from her leg but she could strengthen the remaining three quads, lessen her pain, maybe even dance again…
Her leg screamed at her as she got to her feet again. She ignored it. She had an ace up her sleeve. If no one caught her cheating she might finally have a hand worth playing.
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Yes, this does mean House gets to sing more.
Jagertee: mixed drink made of very strong rum and black tea, served warm. Makes you feel better.
Song credit:
The Best is Yet to Come by Frank Sinatra
