Fic: "Kayser-Fleischer Rings," PG
Title: Kayser-Fleischer Rings
Author: drworm
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson, sorta kinda
Summary: The relationship Dr. Wilson has with his wife is represented by a circle. The relationship he has with Dr. House is represented by a Möbius strip.
Note: Takes place after "The Socratic Method." This was the first episode in which I happened to figure out the problem 'before' the doctors. (I totally nailed "Histories" too.) The reason I was able to do so was because I'd recently undergone tests for Wilson's Disease and abnormal copper metabolism. It doesn't appear to be my problem, but I got some interesting trivia out of the experience. Kayser-Fleischer rings are, yes, the rings of copper accumulation around the cornea.
Kayser-Fleischer Rings
Whoop-dee-doo, another year. It feels like the world is winding down, like every lap around the sun takes more effort. So why not give the damn thing a celebration if it wheezes its way successfully around the track?
Because that would be the self-deluding little lie of a mildly cynical man. And there is, simply put, nothing mild about Gregory House’s cynicism; it would have sparkled, had he ever found the time or energy to give it a decent polishing. But that is, in fact, the problem: he is the one finding it harder and harder to move in his own self-designated orbit, to find the energy to care about the things he had cared about years before. And there is no use blaming his problems on that vast lump of rock they all call home; it won’t argue back, for one, which he finds very inconsiderate. It’s no fun blaming something that doesn’t try to defend itself.
A birthday celebration seems more and more a way for smug young people to say, “Congratulations! You made it through another year of horrible chronic pain!” Which is missing the point, really. Some kind of reward is the last thing he wants from other people. Honestly, there are days when he really wishes someone-either Cuddy or Cameron, most likely-will just slap his face so he can be honestly and unequivocally angry for once.
But, no, instead he has decided to engender his own little lie, pretend that the Earth hurtles straight on through space instead of on an elliptical path that brings it back, again and again, to the place where it had started. Why not? Most people keep up some variation of the delusion, albeit unintentionally, and rely on a system of numbers to remind them when things had gone full circle. Take away the numbers, and it’s just one day happening after another, which he can almost manage. It’s simple, deliberate, and it keeps people away.
Usually. Unless some well-meaning little bitch gets it into her head to wish him a happy birthday and then has the audacity to spread the word about his special day. Why didn’t they just kick away his cane while they were at it? That would be the logical next step, after all, following the surgical removal of his dignity, his autonomy, and the well-preserved personal point of view he has fought so hard with himself to create.
Funny how one misplaced “Happy Birthday!” can do so much damage.
Oh, but he’s just being petty, blaming it all on the delicate and ever-so-slightly-and-attractively-flustered Dr. Cameron’s attempts at poking him meaningfully in the ass with kindness. Still, he understands pettiness and is good at it; trying to tackle anything serious without a well-constructed shield of self-protection is ego-suicide, and everyone has their own way of coping with the world. It isn’t as if he’s the only person to ever become disgruntled with the laws of physics. Try to see things from my perspective, he had said. But the world hadn’t listened.
People put a lot of stock in circles because people like things that project the illusion of having no end; it lets them pretend that they’ll never have to deal with change. How long is a racetrack? Well, logic says that you can make a mark where you start, measure around back to that mark, and have your answer. But reality says that that’s just bullshit. The mark is arbitrary. The beginning doesn’t exist. That racetrack is infinite, buddy, and that’s why I don’t bet on horses.
But circles happen everywhere, if for no other reason than their apparent neatness gives nature some sort of self-righteous satisfaction. So geometry waves the white flag of π and scholarly historians trapped forever in second-rate university jobs go on at some length about how history is doomed to repeat itself, while House resolutely tries to ignore the fact that the leaves on the trees fall off at about the same time every year.
Repetitive history, now that’s a funny concept. People take it so seriously, trying solemnly to explain the similarities between Napoleon and Hitler’s failed plans for Russian conquest or the apparent reincarnation of Rome in the United States of America, but clearly all it really shows is something he’s been aware of for most of his life: people just don’t learn. And he has never had to look back in time for examples of conquering figureheads or mighty empires to prove this point; all he’s ever had to do is point at the people around him.
Dr. James Wilson, though, is an exceptional case, and House badgers him with all of the entitlement and tenacity of a virologist who has unexpectedly come across a particularly intriguing-and, secretly, incredibly loathsome-specimen within the tiny universe beneath the lenses of his microscope.
“So… do you buy a new ring for yourself every time you get remarried?” He’s known the man for years, and yet it hasn’t occurred to him to ask this intrusive question until just this moment, with the sun filtering through the venetian blinds and twinkling off the little band of gold that circles Wilson’s long finger. “Or have you just been reusing the first one and saving some money?”
“What?” Wilson looks up, slightly startled by the non-sequitur attack. “I… I’ve bought a new one every time.” He squints across the table at House, suddenly suspicious for no reason. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” House answers, traipsing breezily over the lie. “I’m just wondering whether I have to point out the irony there, or whether it’s already occurred to you.”
Wilson’s look turns sour. “I’m aware of it, thanks.” House takes no notice of this comment, however, choosing instead to soldier bravely forward with his own editorial opinions.
“Isn’t a wedding ring supposed to symbolize togetherness? The way things are going, you’d really be better off palming the ring and pretending it was new every time you walked up the aisle.” He taps the handle of his cane against his chin, a sign of thoughtful contemplation. “That way you’d at least come out a little bit ahead of the game.”
“Low blow,” Wilson murmurs, stroking his thumb over the cap of his ballpoint pen and shifting his paperwork slightly. House’s observations clearly do not appeal to him.
But House can’t leave this touchy subject to rest and recuperate; it pains him like a toothache, drills a hole in some obscure or insignificant corner of his brain, and reminds him of something altogether too familiar for comfort. The sarcasm and nasty humor drains from his expression. “Why do people make the same mistakes over and over?” He wonders aloud, not entirely aware of the rhetorical question he is asking.
Wilson looks up with the dewy, appealing eyes of a puppy who has just been smacked with a rolled up newspaper and, in that moment, the connection solidifies in House’s mind: the glinting of his ring recalls the shining circles around the corneas of the woman with the copper metabolism problem, those bright little loops that glitter so prettily in the bright light of the slit-lamp but represent a malignancy despite their disconcerting beauty.
“People make the same mistakes,” Wilson says with a serene patience that suggests some kind of psychic knowledge of House’s minor epiphany, “Because they are afraid of the ones that are different.”
House turns away without acknowledging this explanation and sees that, despite the cold weather outside his office window, the abysmally tacky poinsettia someone placed upon his window sill is developing new buds. The Earth has decided to compromise and so, perhaps, will he.
All right, he thinks, here is where I’ll put the mark.
And maybe there will turn out to be just three hundred and sixty-five days in a year after all.
Author: drworm
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson, sorta kinda
Summary: The relationship Dr. Wilson has with his wife is represented by a circle. The relationship he has with Dr. House is represented by a Möbius strip.
Note: Takes place after "The Socratic Method." This was the first episode in which I happened to figure out the problem 'before' the doctors. (I totally nailed "Histories" too.) The reason I was able to do so was because I'd recently undergone tests for Wilson's Disease and abnormal copper metabolism. It doesn't appear to be my problem, but I got some interesting trivia out of the experience. Kayser-Fleischer rings are, yes, the rings of copper accumulation around the cornea.
Kayser-Fleischer Rings
Whoop-dee-doo, another year. It feels like the world is winding down, like every lap around the sun takes more effort. So why not give the damn thing a celebration if it wheezes its way successfully around the track?
Because that would be the self-deluding little lie of a mildly cynical man. And there is, simply put, nothing mild about Gregory House’s cynicism; it would have sparkled, had he ever found the time or energy to give it a decent polishing. But that is, in fact, the problem: he is the one finding it harder and harder to move in his own self-designated orbit, to find the energy to care about the things he had cared about years before. And there is no use blaming his problems on that vast lump of rock they all call home; it won’t argue back, for one, which he finds very inconsiderate. It’s no fun blaming something that doesn’t try to defend itself.
A birthday celebration seems more and more a way for smug young people to say, “Congratulations! You made it through another year of horrible chronic pain!” Which is missing the point, really. Some kind of reward is the last thing he wants from other people. Honestly, there are days when he really wishes someone-either Cuddy or Cameron, most likely-will just slap his face so he can be honestly and unequivocally angry for once.
But, no, instead he has decided to engender his own little lie, pretend that the Earth hurtles straight on through space instead of on an elliptical path that brings it back, again and again, to the place where it had started. Why not? Most people keep up some variation of the delusion, albeit unintentionally, and rely on a system of numbers to remind them when things had gone full circle. Take away the numbers, and it’s just one day happening after another, which he can almost manage. It’s simple, deliberate, and it keeps people away.
Usually. Unless some well-meaning little bitch gets it into her head to wish him a happy birthday and then has the audacity to spread the word about his special day. Why didn’t they just kick away his cane while they were at it? That would be the logical next step, after all, following the surgical removal of his dignity, his autonomy, and the well-preserved personal point of view he has fought so hard with himself to create.
Funny how one misplaced “Happy Birthday!” can do so much damage.
Oh, but he’s just being petty, blaming it all on the delicate and ever-so-slightly-and-attractively-flustered Dr. Cameron’s attempts at poking him meaningfully in the ass with kindness. Still, he understands pettiness and is good at it; trying to tackle anything serious without a well-constructed shield of self-protection is ego-suicide, and everyone has their own way of coping with the world. It isn’t as if he’s the only person to ever become disgruntled with the laws of physics. Try to see things from my perspective, he had said. But the world hadn’t listened.
People put a lot of stock in circles because people like things that project the illusion of having no end; it lets them pretend that they’ll never have to deal with change. How long is a racetrack? Well, logic says that you can make a mark where you start, measure around back to that mark, and have your answer. But reality says that that’s just bullshit. The mark is arbitrary. The beginning doesn’t exist. That racetrack is infinite, buddy, and that’s why I don’t bet on horses.
But circles happen everywhere, if for no other reason than their apparent neatness gives nature some sort of self-righteous satisfaction. So geometry waves the white flag of π and scholarly historians trapped forever in second-rate university jobs go on at some length about how history is doomed to repeat itself, while House resolutely tries to ignore the fact that the leaves on the trees fall off at about the same time every year.
Repetitive history, now that’s a funny concept. People take it so seriously, trying solemnly to explain the similarities between Napoleon and Hitler’s failed plans for Russian conquest or the apparent reincarnation of Rome in the United States of America, but clearly all it really shows is something he’s been aware of for most of his life: people just don’t learn. And he has never had to look back in time for examples of conquering figureheads or mighty empires to prove this point; all he’s ever had to do is point at the people around him.
Dr. James Wilson, though, is an exceptional case, and House badgers him with all of the entitlement and tenacity of a virologist who has unexpectedly come across a particularly intriguing-and, secretly, incredibly loathsome-specimen within the tiny universe beneath the lenses of his microscope.
“So… do you buy a new ring for yourself every time you get remarried?” He’s known the man for years, and yet it hasn’t occurred to him to ask this intrusive question until just this moment, with the sun filtering through the venetian blinds and twinkling off the little band of gold that circles Wilson’s long finger. “Or have you just been reusing the first one and saving some money?”
“What?” Wilson looks up, slightly startled by the non-sequitur attack. “I… I’ve bought a new one every time.” He squints across the table at House, suddenly suspicious for no reason. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” House answers, traipsing breezily over the lie. “I’m just wondering whether I have to point out the irony there, or whether it’s already occurred to you.”
Wilson’s look turns sour. “I’m aware of it, thanks.” House takes no notice of this comment, however, choosing instead to soldier bravely forward with his own editorial opinions.
“Isn’t a wedding ring supposed to symbolize togetherness? The way things are going, you’d really be better off palming the ring and pretending it was new every time you walked up the aisle.” He taps the handle of his cane against his chin, a sign of thoughtful contemplation. “That way you’d at least come out a little bit ahead of the game.”
“Low blow,” Wilson murmurs, stroking his thumb over the cap of his ballpoint pen and shifting his paperwork slightly. House’s observations clearly do not appeal to him.
But House can’t leave this touchy subject to rest and recuperate; it pains him like a toothache, drills a hole in some obscure or insignificant corner of his brain, and reminds him of something altogether too familiar for comfort. The sarcasm and nasty humor drains from his expression. “Why do people make the same mistakes over and over?” He wonders aloud, not entirely aware of the rhetorical question he is asking.
Wilson looks up with the dewy, appealing eyes of a puppy who has just been smacked with a rolled up newspaper and, in that moment, the connection solidifies in House’s mind: the glinting of his ring recalls the shining circles around the corneas of the woman with the copper metabolism problem, those bright little loops that glitter so prettily in the bright light of the slit-lamp but represent a malignancy despite their disconcerting beauty.
“People make the same mistakes,” Wilson says with a serene patience that suggests some kind of psychic knowledge of House’s minor epiphany, “Because they are afraid of the ones that are different.”
House turns away without acknowledging this explanation and sees that, despite the cold weather outside his office window, the abysmally tacky poinsettia someone placed upon his window sill is developing new buds. The Earth has decided to compromise and so, perhaps, will he.
All right, he thinks, here is where I’ll put the mark.
And maybe there will turn out to be just three hundred and sixty-five days in a year after all.