A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed. Again, much appreciated. For those who don't know (and I hope we all do) Huey, Dewey, and Louie were Donald Duck's nephews. So there's the information behind that reference. Well, this is the third-to-last chapter. Enjoy

Disclaimer: I don't own anything

Ticket crumbled in hand, you teeter into your middle seat towards the rear of the airplane, sandwiched between two incredibly fidgety midgets. Or maybe they were children...

The tyke on the aisle seat pokes you.

Children.

Lucky you.

You remind yourself to thank Cameron for the wonderful seat selection.

A tight lipped stewardess tip-toes to check the aircraft. As she heads your way, you slam your cane, creating a blockade (and simultaneously waking up the person on the opposite row).

"Yes sir?" she queries, all to robotically.

"I have a smidgen of a leg problem," you begin, inhaling massive amounts of air, "Could I scooch up to first class. Aisle seat. Preferably on the right side."

"Sir, I believe the policy is clear. I apologize."

"Lady...I'm crippled." You sound it out. Yeah, she's that dumb.

"No one may change classes. I'm sorry."

"This isn't the caste system...Or Seinfeld." You slam your cane once more, creating giggles from children and glares from adults. You know who you fit in with now.

"Can I bring you a complimentary drink?"

"No," you harrumph.

The aircraft lifts off, and your fingers begin tap-tapping on either armrest. The children on either side of you are mouthing words to one another.

The girl is by the window, gold hair spun into tight braids compliment her jade eyes. She'd be the hottie of the family, you know, when she gets past puberty...or at least when she reaches it.

The boy rocks back and forth in the aisle seat. Your aisle seat. His gelled N*SYNC styled hair tickles the chair, and his wide chocolate eyes scan the people in the airplane. Immediately, he notices your hand on the armrest.

"Hey mister, that's my armrest." He points with an almost unnoticeable lisp coating his words.

"Nuh-uh," you respond, "middle person gets both armrests. It's airplane etiquette."

"Whatever. I'm the kid, you have to be nice to me."

"Age before beauty." You reply, running your fingers through your hair. The kid is quick. He snatches that spot instantly and darts his tongue out at you. You make a twisted face, and he creates a carbon copy using his own, "Ok, see how long you can hold it for."

"Hey I wasn't born yesterday" the boy guffaws, "My face'll stick."

"Ryan, stop it," a meek voice criticizes, "I'm really sorry. He doesn't know how to control himself sometimes."

She looks not a day over nine, and she speaks with such intelligence.

"What's your name?" you ask.

"Anne. Like Anne Boleyn. My mom named me after her."

"She got her head chopped off," you note.

She nods ferociously, "I know. But she changed all of England because she was determined to get what she wanted. My mom says she had a fire in her. I wanna change something."

"What do you want to change?" A genuine question, something you're not used to.

"I dunno yet. But something big." You nod as if that's the most inspirational thing you've ever heard. Like fucking Ghandi or Buddha just spoke to you. For some reason, it feels unquestionably honest.

"Where's your wife?" Anne asks.

"Don't have one."

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen"

"What happened to your leg?"

"A magic trick went wrong."

"You look sad."

"Pfffh, no I don't," you scoff.

"Mmhm," she replies, smiling, "You can tell me. I won't say a peep. I'll keep Ryan quiet too. I pinky swear."

Her tiny finger wraps around his larger one, their thumbs meet.

It's sealed forever.

"There's just a girl-who's really annoying- who used to work for me. I just ran into her here on a business trip."

"You like her!" Anne concludes with a concealed squeal, "My mom always says that the boys who are mean to me really like me! I bet you're a real butt-face to her."

"...Big time." you mumble.

"Oh, sorry. Go on." She folds her hands in her lap, and grins widely-with whatever teeth are there.

"Well, I made her mad. And she made me leave. So now I'm going home, and I won't see her again," you then realized that it's you that sounds pathetic, "I don't care though. She was just fun to mess with."

"You kissed her. A lot. I can tell. I bet she's really pretty. And smart. This is so cute."

"No. No it's not."

"Just tell her you love her. It's that easy."

You chuckle at her naivete.

"Ew, gross." Ryan groans with a finger shoved up his nose.

You nod.

"Yeah, gross."

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Home is not your first stop.

You wind up cruising down a street that leads to your life. Past, present, and future in its entirety.

With a dramatic "varoom", you swerve into your designated spot.

Your cane does your talking as you thump-da-dump into the lobby. Visions of your past whiz in and out of your brain.

You recall standing there with Huey, Dewey and Louie trailing after you. Each of them pulling and breaking off little pieces of you to stuff in their back pocket.

The reason for that? You don't know yet. Either to mock, take anger out on, learn from or love. You suppose you'll never know.

Once more, your cane does your work and sets a numbered button aglow.

"House," a disturbingly low female voice barks.

"Cuddles!" you sing with synthetic joy.

"The conference isn't over for two more days. Why the hell are you here?"

"Oh, I hurt my leg."

"New choice," she prompts with a cross of her arms

"My fish got sick"

"New choice"

"I don't like this game." You whine, thrusting your cane into the floor for sheer emphasis.

Clearly perturbed, Cuddy looks upwards towards the ceiling. Her eyes search higher, attempting to see eye to eye with her higher power.

"Go see Wilson and then go home. I don't even want to know what happened during this trip. You're back early? Fine, there has got to be a good reason for it. I don't want it on my plate. Talk to Wilson, think about what he has to say, then ignore it, and then move on. Save some lives, or solve some puzzles. Whatever it is that you do. Just do it."

You nod.

"Welcome back, House."

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Back so soon?" Wilson prompts before you can even get in a dry crack.

"Yeah."

"What went wrong?"

"Everything that was expected. I'm surprised it went on as long as it did," you comment, your voice sliding out more nonchalant than you mean to. You recline in Wilson's chair behind his desk and slurp on his morning coffee.

"A couple days?"

"I was expecting maybe a couple hours."

Wilson exaggerates his sigh, and places the entirety of his weight on the window sill.

After too many minutes of silence, Wilson sighs again.

"She loves you."

"No she doesn't," you retort immediately.

"You love her."

"It was three days, Wilson."

Wilson shrugs.

There is nothing left to say.

Surreptitiously, he shuffles over to you, palms spread wide open.

"Do you have it?"

You nod. Dipped in the depths of your back pocket, your hands feel an all too familiar-too soothing- fabric. That of lace, and delicacy.

The deep red seems almost glorious.

The thong from the drawer is reconquered, though the battle seems pointless.

"Oh ho ho!" Wilson exclaims, with the greatest intent to lighten the mood.

"Keep it," you offer out of defeat. Though it is never a feeling of self-pity! You would never forgive yourself for that.

Again, you retreat back to what you know.

Your house.

Your piano.

Your television.

Your alcohol.

Your pills.

You vacuum in another Vicodin.

It seems to be the only constant in your life.