Sorry for the dry spell, people. Was preoccupied with life, universe and everything.
I'm a master of science! I'm a bloody master of computer science! Graduated to-day!
I'm da boss of Genetic Algorithms AI!
Sorry, guys and gals, just had to do that. :o) Enjoy…
Big Apple
In the cabin's low pressure, he leans his forehead on the round frame of the window and breathes deep to dull the edge of pain. Gathering slow, scattered thoughts, he forces himself to remember that he is on a small plane and a short trip, making this a low altitude flight. What little added ache it causes is abated by good weather. Pulling away and focusing on the pain from a safe mental distance he finds it to be of a stiff kind, and the negative aspect of it looses intensity, going from disorienting to distracting and, at last, merely discomforting.
Only than does he open his eyes, and the lush, green shore of New England drifts miles below him. Sight recovering gradually, he can only see clearly at great distances, which is fortunate in this case, as it enables him to appreciate the view. Training the eye muscles, he shifts focus from the hair thin infrastructure below to the nearby wing tip. Without warning, blue meets blue on the blurry window-pane reflection, and he squints to form a cammera obscura from eyelids in order to better see his face.
It surprises House how good he actually looks, now that the shock of twenty years added biological age has lost its edge. There are a few shallow lines on his face that deepen to obvious at particular expressions, some parallel to the natural lines and looking like intense wrinkles, others perpendicular and out of place. Long nose zigzags with a few cartilage malformations, but it can all be safely dismissed as reminders of brawls and stumbles of a reckless, adventurous youth. A sardonic ghost of a grin flashes on this face as he realizes that he was once reckless and adventurous, and that the cuts and fractures were earned in stumbles and fistfights, technically. A three day stubble does the job of hiding the worst dents and scars that cover the lower jaw.
Strange, he thinks, how Thompson's insistence on keeping him alive, has now the benefit of keeping his damage well hidden from passers by. By forbidding he be beaten on the head and in the gut, for fear of lethal concussions or hard to notice internal bleeding, Thompson has limited the abuse to torso and limbs, which are easy to hide under clothes and inside shoes. Even the deformed legs will be out of sight till they are fixed, since the lingering low weight necessitates blanket cover. Only hands are simultaneously messed up and exposed, but those sticking around long enough to notice are mostly medical professionals who know how to deal with the matter. To a passing stranger he is indistinguishable from any other frail geriatric, and so no cause for dumb staring. At least he hopes so.
Comforted by such thoughts, he fails to notice they are on approach of New York, drawn to it only by the unexpected easing of ache as they begin the slow descent. With a little help from Wilson, House disembarks form the VIP plane in privacy, knitted beret and photoreactive multi-focal glasses helping his cover. Once in the terminal, an unusually tall oriental man in dark jeans and short-sleeved shirt pulls out a badge and chats to the local security, facilitating the doctors' hasty processing.
"Doctors." He nods politely.
Aside the half bow, House notices the triangular face and straight brows that distinguish the man as Japanese. "Konnichi wa, mawari-san." Comes the fitting greeting and attempt to show off to the younger man.
The fed smiles lively. "Hajimemashite. Hashimoto desu." In surprisingly fluent Japanese he returns with a question on Greg's wellbeing and a personal introduction.
"Yoroshiku onegai shimasu." House states he is glad to meet him, unable to not notice the literal meaning of the words - 'please be kind to me.'
Apparently Hashimoto sees it too, as he next speaks in a reassuring tone. "Kochira koso, o-san."
The doubly respectful title leaves House a little taken, a little humbled.
"Shall we?" Wilson ends the silence before it can turn awkward.
"This way." The fed leads them out to the vast parking lot, the bigger of Greg's bags on his shoulder as Wilson pushes the wheelchair.
Nearing a big, black van with darkened windows and polished chrome caps, House grips the steel rings of the chair desperately, slowing their progress.
Oh, shit, he's back. They're gonna take me to-.
His mind goes frantic, breath shallow and quick as it takes all of his willpower not to plummet into the numbness of defensive withdrawal.
Miles betrayed me, can't trust strangers.
Agent Hashimoto turns around. "Sir?"
"What's wrong, House?" Wilson speaks softly in Greg's ear, one hand on his arm.
House stares frozen at the vehicle, trying hard to stifle flinches that come with the unwanted memory of being bound in the back of one such truck, its trajectory an insane jumble off sudden twists.
Please don't take me back. I'll lay low. I'll stay out of medicine. Just please don't let them take me.
"Would it be all right if we take a cab?" Wilson asks.
It only takes a split second for the man to put two and two together. "Damn... Should have though about the car." He sounds apologetic. "We could, but I don't know if you'll be comfortable squashed in the back with the two of us" The man talks to House, drawing attention from the car and breaking the spell. "Of course…" He comes over, growing bigger in House's field of view, the constant background fear intensifying.
Hashimoto crouches low besides his charge, which soothes House immensely. "You could get a coffee in the airport lounge while I get my private car. I'm sure there's a corner lounge for you to keep an eye out from while having your back safe. If there isn't I could always clear one for you." The suggestion earns him House's shy smile. "That'll be more comfortable. But if you're in a hurry you can sit in the front of the van, direct me where to drive. I've never been at that hospital of yours."
"Clinic." House says.
"See, I don't even know what it is. Bet I'd get lost without you."
House looks up at the van, riding shotgun to the big American samurai doesn't sound bad. A buraku and a samurai, now that's an interesting team. Against fear, he nods.
"Let's get your seated." Hashimoto stands up, walking side by side with the old doctor.
Spying from below, House sees the agent subtly gesture ay-okay to Wilson.
House is more than happy to use the GPS navigator, the sense of control guarding against flashbacks like a sturdy barricade. He pretends to be a rally wing man, the director of their race. But as straight roads on the outskirts turns to meandering, crowded burrows, the flare of colors leaves him ever more overwhelmed, confused and anxious.
Spotting his growing discomfort, Hashimoto nods at the device. "There's a sound button in the lower corner."
House presses it, and a pleasing female voice takes over, allowing him to close his eyes, stopping the disorientation and nausea. He is reminded of beasts, caught in the wild to be relocated in cages, the way their heads are covered so as not to stress them needlessly. It is soothing to know in advance every turn, and not to be surprised by unexpected changes in direction.
When House opens his eyes on sensing their deceleration, he does so to a piece of Princeton in the heart of the Bronx anthill. The five stories tall, brick and mortar facade they are nearing is the tallest thing in sight, surrounded by densely packed townhouses of the affluent that lined the streets.
The car tunnels into the underground face of the building, pulling over in the patient section. House allows Wilson to help him form car to wheelchair, their moves so well coordinated from countless repetitions that words are not necessary. Hashimoto makes himself useful by playing the role of mule without being asked to. Wilson's phone is already lodged between shoulder and chin, younger doctor ringing up their host.
Soon enough the cargo elevator arrives, delivering a short, balding man with a big nose. House recognizes him from AMA's biography database, noting less hair than form the aged picture.
"Doctor House" Chris Taub holds out a hand.
After an uncertain beat, House swallows his insecurities about the second male stranger today and slips his right cautiously in its hold. He does not regret it, as the man, obviously in the loop, takes care not to squeeze too much.
"Gentlemen." Taub nods at the other two, than steps back, arm swung back in invitation.
The ride up is quiet, pod feeling crowded with their presence despite its size. House notes just how much his always wide personal space has grown since release.
By accident he catches Taub staring at his hands with thoughtful concentration, a look House recognizes easily for he often wore it before, when facing a challenging case with confidence. He knows it is not confidence born of knowing what to do, but knowing he has the skill to figure it out. Suddenly the short man grows ten feet tall respect wise, a calm presence not at all dangerous. The look alone nurtures Houses frail yet tenacious hope of playing once more.
As the door opens to an airy, homey clinic reception, in amber shades of big windows and white stucco walls framing lacquered wood floors and furniture, House feels confidence spill over into him, eager for the next tiny step in his recovery.