Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.
A light breeze finally swept across the black tar pavement and through the greying-brown curls near the top of House's forehead. The breeze was dry, and so befitting: a naive attempt to heal a dry and dying neighborhood. The strange hue of the land was dulled into early dusk, and the blanket of oppression was lifted ever so slightly with it.
House stood leaning against his car - cane held tightly in the grasp of one fist, hollow air in the grasp of the other - and observed the vigorous game of street ball from a short, but safe, distance. He could see who he thought was Rachel - she was the only girl out there: head scarf tied like that of a pirate with a backwards (yet slightly cocked-to-the-side) baseball cap. Her apparel was far from the cowboy boots and crisp, white shirt she'd donned to the hospital only yesterday.
She handled the ball flawlessly - her silver chain swinging circles around her neck in conjunction with her dangerous moves. Between her legs, around her back . . . up one arm, over the shoulders, and back down the other. In lightning-rapid motion, she stuffed the ball in her shirt, swung it around her stomach 'til it fell out the back, caught it, tossed it over some unsuspecting guy's head, and ran around him to retrieve it. Beautiful. Better than the Globetrotters. A crowd of black kids stood banging on the chain link fence - ghetto accents cheering as the players pushed, shoved, and rolled across the ground. Front row seating to the most exciting event in the neighborhood.
"The rich, white developments don't know what they're missing," House mused. Really, it was meant to sound sarcastic, but it hung on in the air as a quiet truth. He found it hard to believe that amidst all the cop cars and gunshots and dying yellow grass, a group of inner city kids (who could hold their own against a Shaq or Iverson any day) were battling it out in excitement so contradictory to their surroundings. And smack dab in the middle of it was Rachel. It pained him to think about it. Playing basketball one minute . . . the next . . .
He shook his head from the thought, willing to escape it. He had to tell her, there was no getting around it. Sure, he could hop back into his classy car and weave his way through the thugs and pushers back to the highway, where he could escape and never look back. He could leave it, yes, but he could not forget it. No matter how many killers and drug dealers this world may ignore, may condemn, the struggle continues; the dying continues. Rachel was going to die, and it was beyond his humanly powers to do anything but watch - either that or turn his back.
And that, that, was the great unsolvable mystery - of chance and fate and perception. House was ultimately powerless.
This wasn't the first time he'd delivered bad news . . . Hell, he'd made a career of delivering bad news. Something about this time was different. With any sixteen-year-old died the idea of hope, but with this sixteen-year-old would die the idea of redemption. And House's unrevived youth would die with her. A death sentence for the two of them.
The sky was passive with its purple-painted glow and fading splash of orange on the horizon. The game was coming to an end and the street-ballers were grabbing sweaty, white T-shirts from the ground and heading home - or wherever it is they go at this time of night. House grabbed the x-ray sheet from the passenger side, and just as he was about to shut the door, he noticed a white New Jersey Nets cap tucked on the floorboard in the back. "Wilson . . ." House mumbled, fixing the hat stylishly backwards over his greying, curly hair. Manually locking his doors, he stepped away and bid his car good luck in fending for itself on the street. "Lay low," he warned the bright red Corvette, innocence falsely stained across its grill - like the deceiving smile of a trouble-bound kid. He knew this was a bad idea. He quickly patted the hood and hobbled across the dampened pavement to the emptying outdoor court.
Almost like it was meant to be, Rachel was the last on the court. She had stayed behind - intentionally, it seemed. Bouncing the faded, leather ball between her legs and around her back, she kept her face to the ground as Dr. House stepped through an opening of the rusty, caged metal fence. He knew she knew he was there, and being that he hated when people stated the obvious, he kept his mouth shut. He leaned against the fence and crossed his arms lightly over his chest, to shut out the sudden chill. He could do this. He had to.
Rachel stood at the invisible free-throw line and arched a shot beautifully into the air. A sweet-sounding 'cling' resounded into the night as the ball stripped through the broken chain on the rim. She glanced casually at Dr. House and then her attention was back to the goal. "Closet gangster?" she offered explanation as to his backwards Nets hat, a hint of amusement playing across her features.
"Weekend street ball enthusiast," he justified. Already, the conversation was disguised as light and harmless; lying undertones dominated even death. It made House sick to his stomach. But he didn't know what else to do. He noticed as Rachel snuck in another glance at the x-ray clamped between nervous fingers in House's left hand. Yet still, he ignored it, and looked to her choice of foot apparel: white, high-topped Nike Dunks - so he'd heard them called - mostly covered by baggy, camouflage jeans. "The cowboy boots?" he countered her question, feigning disappointment at the obvious revelation of yesterday's prep-girl disguise.
"A tad too pointy for basketball." She sunk another shot and the ball bounced back after hitting the pole. "But great ass-kickers."
"I think you were doing enough ass-kicking today without them." He truly never would understand how someone could roll under another player's legs and still manage to keep the ball.
Rachel gave a light smile and a quick nod, slicing another shot through the air. She appreciated his compliment and acknowledged it, but clearly didn't need it. She was secure enough without it, and House liked her all the more for that fact. Rachel ran to fetch the ball, her necklace jangling and flashing over her sleeveless, black T-shirt. Etched on the back of her upper right arm was a tatoo of some sort - Russian letters, it looked like.
"You just shot up, didn't you?" House's voice was low and serious. Rachel's eyes grew curious and penetrating, and House gestured to her arm. "Dermagraphitis," he explained, "remember?" The skin at the fold of her arm was still slightly red and puffy from the damage. Rachel didn't answer; she hated stating the obvious as well. She dribbled the ball on the ground in front of her, offering him just a nod.
"So," she glanced back at the x-ray, "minor surgery, bed rest, and a good glass of orange juice?" she predicted lightheartedly. House was quiet, dead quiet, and she stopped dribbling the ball. His blue eyes locked into her hazel ones as she slowly turned her head to find some solace in his silence. But there was none, and thirty seconds turned to sixty, his apologetic stare stuck on her stunned one. House didn't have to say it; she understood the unspoken.
Rachel nodded her head and turned back to the goal, picking at a loose thread on the basketball in her hands. "I see," was all she said. There wasn't a tremble in her voice; it was clear and factual. She finally shattered the thickened silence with a well-set bounce on the pavement, sending abrupt reverberations into the now-darkened neighborhood. A yellow light poured sparingly from a streetlight off to the left of the court. "How long?" she asked, setting her feet to shoot another basket.
House had wished she wouldn't ask. He could only find comfort, or something resembling it, in the silence. His abrasive voice had no place in such a sacred conversation. "A week . . ." he predicted.
Rachel missed the shot. She air-balled it - completely missed the goal. And when it bounced forbiddingly onto the pavement and into the chain-link fence, she made no move to retrieve it.
T.B.C.
