Housefic: Will It Go Round in Circles
Title: Will It Go Round in Circles
Author: nightdog_barks, with a significant contribution from third_owl
Characters: Wilson, Lisa Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy, House
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: Yes, for the Season 8 series finale arc.
Summary: Out of all the gin joints, in all the world. 2,409 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is set in the Riververse -- a ficverse set after the end of Season 8 and in which House and Wilson's road trip has continued longer than either of them would've ever thought. This fic takes place a few weeks after the events of Come Around Again to Find. The title is from the Billy Preston song by the same name, cut-text is from Paul Simons' "Graceland."
Beta: Our intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to srsly_yes and joe_pike_junior. All errors remaining are our own.
Will It Go Round in Circles
He's just standing there, innocently, wondering if he should pay attention to the voice in his head whispering "Put the strawberry Sno-Balls back on the shelf, otherwise it will only encourage him," and so he doesn't really hear what the little girl pelting down the aisle toward him is saying until it's too late and she's wrapped herself around his legs.
"Uncle Moose!" she's saying, "Uncle Moose! Uncle Moose!" and there might be a "I missed you" in there too but Wilson is too busy being struck completely dumb to tell.
"What?" he says, and "wait," and "I'm not," and oh god other shoppers are turning to look around, and of course that's when the little girl's mother shows up.
"Wilson?" she says, and then "James?" and the next thing Wilson knows she's hugging him too, those familiar arms tight around his shoulders, that familiar perfume, the scent of lotus and white lilies tickling his nose.
"Um," Wilson says.
And that's how he ends up in a group hug with Lisa and Rachel Cuddy, in the candy and cookies aisle of a Stater Bros. grocery store in Loma Linda, California.
"So you're in remission," Cuddy says, and for a moment Wilson can't answer, he's still reeling at the odds of this happening any time, anywhere. She looks at him over the rim of her coffee cup and raises an eyebrow.
"Yes," Wilson says, on autopilot, actually speaking the words he'd so carefully rehearsed -- just in case -- in hotel and motel bathrooms across America. "A little over a year now." He takes a sip of his own coffee, and yes, okay, his hands are steady. "I'm very lucky."
Rachel sits next to her mother; she has a dish of ice cream and a coloring book, but every now and then she looks at Wilson, fixes him with those dark eyes as if she still can't quite believe he's real.
Wilson can't believe it either.
Other shoppers swirl about them, going about their business, picking up loaves of bread, hamburger buns, boxes of donuts and prepared birthday cakes from the store's little café bakery. Everyone smells like smoke, ashes borne on the wind from the new fires up by Big Bear. Wilson's grocery basket rests by his feet, the neon-pink Sno-Balls glowing guiltily from atop the packets of nacho-flavor beef jerky. He tries as surreptitiously as possible to nudge the basket a bit further under the table. Cuddy still hasn't mentioned the elephant in the room -- the dead elephant, Wilson reminds himself, who's back at the hotel and is probably wondering right now what's taking Wilson so long. As if on cue, his phone chooses that moment to ring. Wilson glances at the caller ID and takes preemptive action.
"Jon!" Wilson says loudly, and half-covers the mic with one hand in such a way that it will block out absolutely nothing. "It's MY BROTHER," he stage-whispers to Cuddy.
"What?" House says, and Wilson hurriedly thumbs down the volume and presses the phone hard against his ear. "Wilson, are you on drugs?"
"Yeah, I'm running late," Wilson says, "but Brooke called and added dog biscuits to the list."
"Who's Brooke?" House says, his voice now barely above a whisper. "What dog? Are you sure you're not on something?"
Cuddy has turned away and is murmuring something to Rachel, pointing out a green frog with not enough green. She looks up and smiles at Wilson.
"That's what I said," Wilson says. "Milk Bones. Meaty Bones. Something."
"Did you fall and hit your head?"
"No, it'll be fine," Wilson says. "I'll finish up here. Gotta go. Yeah. Bye."
"Wha-- "
Wilson ends the call and immediately pictures an irritated House punching up redial. He turns off the phone.
"My brother," he says. "Jon ... uh, Jonathan."
"So I heard," Cuddy says, and she's still smiling. Wilson stuffs his phone into his jacket pocket and allows himself to relax -- but only a little.
"So," he says, and smiles back. "What's new?"
"So you're visiting your brother," Cuddy says. "That's nice."
"Yes," Wilson says, "family and friends, seeing some new country," the lies coming easily, the way they always did. He watches her eyes, watches as they take in his longer hair, the weathered bike jacket, the sunglasses tucked into the neck of his faded t-shirt. He waits for her to joke about "House-lite" but she doesn't. "I decided ... not to go back. To Princeton."
"Probably a wise choice," she says. "I thought about it, but ... " She glances down at Rachel, smooths back her daughter's hair and slips an arm around her in a gentle hug. Rachel sighs and wriggles away, more interested in her book than her mom's embrace. "Our life is here," Cuddy finishes. "I'm happy. We're happy."
She falters only once, describing her job and the people she works with, saying "There's certainly no one like -- " before cutting herself off and moving on to Rachel's schoolwork and how she's doing so well in her piano lessons.
When they run out of things to talk about, it's with a kind of relief and an eagerness to be parted. He promises to send Rachel a postcard from someplace special -- the Seattle Space Needle, the Grand Canyon, Disney World, when Cuddy reaches out and pulls him close.
"Don't be a stranger," she whispers in his ear as she hugs him again, and Wilson loves her for it.
He watches her leave -- Rachel turns around once to wave, and Wilson waves back -- and then he drifts around aimlessly, following some nameless impulse until he finds himself in front of the rack of cheap little toys. Silly Putty, balsa gliders, a glittery thing called a Splat Ball that promises hours of disgusting Houselike fun. Throw it, watch it flatten like a broken egg, pick it up and it springs back to its original shape, good as new. Wilson isn't sure why he wants it, but it's still in his hand when he reaches the checkout.
Outside in the parking lot, he watches dark clouds move in as he buckles his helmet and realizes how careful Cuddy had been to never mention House's name. Which makes a kind of sense if he thinks about it, since the whole conversation was something she should have been having with the dead guy instead.
House is watching TV, pretending to be absorbed in a Little League World Series game on ESPN, which Wilson knows is bullshit because House couldn't give a rat's ass about Little League. He doesn't turn around as Wilson shuts the door. It's started to rain, heavy drops out of a leaden sky, and Wilson got wet in the parking lot between his bike and the safety of the hotel. He takes off his helmet and shucks his leather jacket after setting the groceries on the kitchenette table, next to the toy soldiers pointing their rifles at the refrigerator. When he goes back to put away the groceries, he picks up one of the soldiers and turns it around to aim at House.
"You mind telling me what that was all about?" House says.
Wilson starts unpacking the bag -- jerky, apples, more ChapStick, the Splat Ball still in its plastic blister-pack, a package of alphabet pasta he's positive House will use to spell out dirty words the next time Wilson makes soup, the box of dog biscuits he'd grabbed just in case Cuddy stepped back into the store. He stops in dismay. One of the strawberry Sno-Balls has ruptured, probably from a sharp corner of the biscuit box. Chocolate cake, pink icing, and fake cream filling are smeared around inside the cellophane wrapping like some alien roadkill. He turns the toy soldier back around to aim at himself. All the while a little voice in his head is yammering on about plausible deniability, but in the end he simply says, "I ran into Lisa Cuddy at the store." He tosses his bike keys beside the ruined Sno-Ball and braces himself for the explosion.
House changes channels; ESPN Classic is showing the 2011 Rose Bowl and he stops on that.
"I hope you got beer," he says.
House listens to the rain until he can't not say it.
"I smelled her on you," he says. The rain, undeterred, continues to beat against the windows.
"I didn't tell her," Wilson says. The mattress bounces a little as he moves, a shadow shifting in the dark, but he's only rearranging his pillow.
"I know you didn't," House says.
"You ... know?"
"I know everything," House says. "Well, everything worth knowing."
Wilson makes a soft snorting sound that might be a laugh, but he doesn't disagree. And that should really be the end of it, there's nothing else House wants to say but he finds himself saying it anyway.
"How is she?"
"She's fine. She's Director of the Patient Care Services Administration at Loma Linda University Health Care. Lives off one of the canyon roads, near an elementary school."
"You've talked to her before."
"Once. No, twice. About the cancer, and then, after you ... " Wilson lifts one hand, makes a wavy motion in the air. "The morning of your memorial service. She was still in Chicago then. Said she had a lead on a new job. I didn't know it was here."
"What did she say?"
"When?"
"When she was in Chicago. When you told her I was -- "
"Dead? Nothing." Wilson's voice is very soft. "She put the phone down and walked away, and after a while I hung up."
House is silent for a long moment. "Of all the gin joints in all the world," he murmurs at last.
Wilson doesn't say anything. Instead he turns over; it's clear he wants to go to sleep and expects House to do the same. House, very much not asleep, stares into the dark. He'd known when Wilson walked in the door, thought the perfume and that look were pure l'eau de Guilty Conscience. But it hadn't been guilt -- it had been bad memories, a whole well of them, bad memories of a bad time, the stupid act that had gotten them in this whole mess. And if it hadn't been for that stupid act -- Cuddy, and the insanity and violence and prison term and everything that came after -- House wouldn't have been forced into such a desperate corner. There'd have been no faked death, no idiotic Bucket List Bike Tour; and if not for the idiotic road trip, no juvenile day out at an overpriced amusement park full of snot-nosed kids.
No strep infection, no scarlet fever. No Wilson here beside him.
Let's face it -- House would be bored to death.
"Don't die of shock," House says, "but I actually am ashamed of what I did to her."
"Not surprising," Wilson mumbles. He turns over so that he's lying on his back again, sighs and scrubs at his face with both hands, apparently resigned to this conversation. "You sent yourself to prison for it."
"Don't regret it, though."
Dark as it is, he can feel Wilson scowling at him. It might take a minute; it sometimes does, but Wilson almost always eventually gets it.
"House, I don't think I will ever under-- " He cuts himself off. "Oh."
"I miss that life. The way it was before I completely fucked it up."
"I know."
"No advice, Doctor Wilson? No cheery encouragement?"
"Not tonight. Maybe over breakfast. I'll make eggs sunny-side-up and lecture you about positive thinking and ... personal empowerment."
House knows Wilson is joking. There won't be time for breakfast tomorrow, not until they're out of town. They can't take the chance -- next time it would be him running into Cuddy, at a grocery store, a bookstore, a bar. Hell, with this kind of luck, they'll be bumping into Taub in Tulsa and Masters in Missoula.
Wilson, before he turned out the nightstand lamp, closed all his browser tabs for rentals in the area and deleted all his bookmarked listings for apartments with the best cable packages. House watched him do it, and said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Next town, House thinks. Next place we like, we can stop for a while. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off, that gutter-ball in a bowling alley sound, but the smell of smoke dragged in over the last few days through the hotel air conditioning is dissipating.
"Waffles," House says, "with whipped cream. And blueberries. And then we hit the road."
Wilson draws a soft breath, but he doesn't object. "Yeah," he says instead. "That's what I was thinking. Blueberries."
"We could go north," House offers. "San Francisco area. Point Reyes."
"North," Wilson agrees, and then he's quiet.
After a while, House says "Good night, Wilson."
"Good night, House," Wilson mumbles, and House listens as his breathing slows and evens out. When it's safe (and he knows it's safe by the rhythm and pitch of Wilson's breaths, and by the subtle way his body shifts and settles), House turns onto his side, then flops onto his belly. His back's been hurting from these damn hotel beds, and if there had been any normal-sized pillows in the room, House would have shoved one under there, but like most of the "better" hotels he and Wilson have stayed at over the last few months, the designers are evidently convinced their guests were spawned from a race of giants and decorated accordingly. And if one arm happens to come to rest across Wilson's ribs, well, it's not like he can stop himself from stretching, and he needs to sleep and this is the only way it'll happen. And if it doesn't, he'll be a danger to himself tomorrow, unfit to ride, his reaction time on a wet road slowed by fatigue.
He already knows what tomorrow morning will really be like -- they'll get up early, too early, and stumble around packing. Wilson will make a quick pot of coffee and they'll drink it standing up, and then they'll load the saddlebags onto the bikes and head out, towards Los Angeles, the coast, the Pacific Highway. They've got it down to an art, the packing, the leaving.
House watches the shadows of the raindrops before he too drifts off. It takes a while, and when he finally sleeps, he dreams of sands and tides, of a dark-haired woman telling him good-bye.
~ fin
Author: nightdog_barks, with a significant contribution from third_owl
Characters: Wilson, Lisa Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy, House
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: Yes, for the Season 8 series finale arc.
Summary: Out of all the gin joints, in all the world. 2,409 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is set in the Riververse -- a ficverse set after the end of Season 8 and in which House and Wilson's road trip has continued longer than either of them would've ever thought. This fic takes place a few weeks after the events of Come Around Again to Find. The title is from the Billy Preston song by the same name, cut-text is from Paul Simons' "Graceland."
Beta: Our intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to srsly_yes and joe_pike_junior. All errors remaining are our own.
Will It Go Round in Circles
He's just standing there, innocently, wondering if he should pay attention to the voice in his head whispering "Put the strawberry Sno-Balls back on the shelf, otherwise it will only encourage him," and so he doesn't really hear what the little girl pelting down the aisle toward him is saying until it's too late and she's wrapped herself around his legs.
"Uncle Moose!" she's saying, "Uncle Moose! Uncle Moose!" and there might be a "I missed you" in there too but Wilson is too busy being struck completely dumb to tell.
"What?" he says, and "wait," and "I'm not," and oh god other shoppers are turning to look around, and of course that's when the little girl's mother shows up.
"Wilson?" she says, and then "James?" and the next thing Wilson knows she's hugging him too, those familiar arms tight around his shoulders, that familiar perfume, the scent of lotus and white lilies tickling his nose.
"Um," Wilson says.
And that's how he ends up in a group hug with Lisa and Rachel Cuddy, in the candy and cookies aisle of a Stater Bros. grocery store in Loma Linda, California.
"So you're in remission," Cuddy says, and for a moment Wilson can't answer, he's still reeling at the odds of this happening any time, anywhere. She looks at him over the rim of her coffee cup and raises an eyebrow.
"Yes," Wilson says, on autopilot, actually speaking the words he'd so carefully rehearsed -- just in case -- in hotel and motel bathrooms across America. "A little over a year now." He takes a sip of his own coffee, and yes, okay, his hands are steady. "I'm very lucky."
Rachel sits next to her mother; she has a dish of ice cream and a coloring book, but every now and then she looks at Wilson, fixes him with those dark eyes as if she still can't quite believe he's real.
Wilson can't believe it either.
Other shoppers swirl about them, going about their business, picking up loaves of bread, hamburger buns, boxes of donuts and prepared birthday cakes from the store's little café bakery. Everyone smells like smoke, ashes borne on the wind from the new fires up by Big Bear. Wilson's grocery basket rests by his feet, the neon-pink Sno-Balls glowing guiltily from atop the packets of nacho-flavor beef jerky. He tries as surreptitiously as possible to nudge the basket a bit further under the table. Cuddy still hasn't mentioned the elephant in the room -- the dead elephant, Wilson reminds himself, who's back at the hotel and is probably wondering right now what's taking Wilson so long. As if on cue, his phone chooses that moment to ring. Wilson glances at the caller ID and takes preemptive action.
"Jon!" Wilson says loudly, and half-covers the mic with one hand in such a way that it will block out absolutely nothing. "It's MY BROTHER," he stage-whispers to Cuddy.
"What?" House says, and Wilson hurriedly thumbs down the volume and presses the phone hard against his ear. "Wilson, are you on drugs?"
"Yeah, I'm running late," Wilson says, "but Brooke called and added dog biscuits to the list."
"Who's Brooke?" House says, his voice now barely above a whisper. "What dog? Are you sure you're not on something?"
Cuddy has turned away and is murmuring something to Rachel, pointing out a green frog with not enough green. She looks up and smiles at Wilson.
"That's what I said," Wilson says. "Milk Bones. Meaty Bones. Something."
"Did you fall and hit your head?"
"No, it'll be fine," Wilson says. "I'll finish up here. Gotta go. Yeah. Bye."
"Wha-- "
Wilson ends the call and immediately pictures an irritated House punching up redial. He turns off the phone.
"My brother," he says. "Jon ... uh, Jonathan."
"So I heard," Cuddy says, and she's still smiling. Wilson stuffs his phone into his jacket pocket and allows himself to relax -- but only a little.
"So," he says, and smiles back. "What's new?"
"So you're visiting your brother," Cuddy says. "That's nice."
"Yes," Wilson says, "family and friends, seeing some new country," the lies coming easily, the way they always did. He watches her eyes, watches as they take in his longer hair, the weathered bike jacket, the sunglasses tucked into the neck of his faded t-shirt. He waits for her to joke about "House-lite" but she doesn't. "I decided ... not to go back. To Princeton."
"Probably a wise choice," she says. "I thought about it, but ... " She glances down at Rachel, smooths back her daughter's hair and slips an arm around her in a gentle hug. Rachel sighs and wriggles away, more interested in her book than her mom's embrace. "Our life is here," Cuddy finishes. "I'm happy. We're happy."
She falters only once, describing her job and the people she works with, saying "There's certainly no one like -- " before cutting herself off and moving on to Rachel's schoolwork and how she's doing so well in her piano lessons.
When they run out of things to talk about, it's with a kind of relief and an eagerness to be parted. He promises to send Rachel a postcard from someplace special -- the Seattle Space Needle, the Grand Canyon, Disney World, when Cuddy reaches out and pulls him close.
"Don't be a stranger," she whispers in his ear as she hugs him again, and Wilson loves her for it.
He watches her leave -- Rachel turns around once to wave, and Wilson waves back -- and then he drifts around aimlessly, following some nameless impulse until he finds himself in front of the rack of cheap little toys. Silly Putty, balsa gliders, a glittery thing called a Splat Ball that promises hours of disgusting Houselike fun. Throw it, watch it flatten like a broken egg, pick it up and it springs back to its original shape, good as new. Wilson isn't sure why he wants it, but it's still in his hand when he reaches the checkout.
Outside in the parking lot, he watches dark clouds move in as he buckles his helmet and realizes how careful Cuddy had been to never mention House's name. Which makes a kind of sense if he thinks about it, since the whole conversation was something she should have been having with the dead guy instead.
House is watching TV, pretending to be absorbed in a Little League World Series game on ESPN, which Wilson knows is bullshit because House couldn't give a rat's ass about Little League. He doesn't turn around as Wilson shuts the door. It's started to rain, heavy drops out of a leaden sky, and Wilson got wet in the parking lot between his bike and the safety of the hotel. He takes off his helmet and shucks his leather jacket after setting the groceries on the kitchenette table, next to the toy soldiers pointing their rifles at the refrigerator. When he goes back to put away the groceries, he picks up one of the soldiers and turns it around to aim at House.
"You mind telling me what that was all about?" House says.
Wilson starts unpacking the bag -- jerky, apples, more ChapStick, the Splat Ball still in its plastic blister-pack, a package of alphabet pasta he's positive House will use to spell out dirty words the next time Wilson makes soup, the box of dog biscuits he'd grabbed just in case Cuddy stepped back into the store. He stops in dismay. One of the strawberry Sno-Balls has ruptured, probably from a sharp corner of the biscuit box. Chocolate cake, pink icing, and fake cream filling are smeared around inside the cellophane wrapping like some alien roadkill. He turns the toy soldier back around to aim at himself. All the while a little voice in his head is yammering on about plausible deniability, but in the end he simply says, "I ran into Lisa Cuddy at the store." He tosses his bike keys beside the ruined Sno-Ball and braces himself for the explosion.
House changes channels; ESPN Classic is showing the 2011 Rose Bowl and he stops on that.
"I hope you got beer," he says.
House listens to the rain until he can't not say it.
"I smelled her on you," he says. The rain, undeterred, continues to beat against the windows.
"I didn't tell her," Wilson says. The mattress bounces a little as he moves, a shadow shifting in the dark, but he's only rearranging his pillow.
"I know you didn't," House says.
"You ... know?"
"I know everything," House says. "Well, everything worth knowing."
Wilson makes a soft snorting sound that might be a laugh, but he doesn't disagree. And that should really be the end of it, there's nothing else House wants to say but he finds himself saying it anyway.
"How is she?"
"She's fine. She's Director of the Patient Care Services Administration at Loma Linda University Health Care. Lives off one of the canyon roads, near an elementary school."
"You've talked to her before."
"Once. No, twice. About the cancer, and then, after you ... " Wilson lifts one hand, makes a wavy motion in the air. "The morning of your memorial service. She was still in Chicago then. Said she had a lead on a new job. I didn't know it was here."
"What did she say?"
"When?"
"When she was in Chicago. When you told her I was -- "
"Dead? Nothing." Wilson's voice is very soft. "She put the phone down and walked away, and after a while I hung up."
House is silent for a long moment. "Of all the gin joints in all the world," he murmurs at last.
Wilson doesn't say anything. Instead he turns over; it's clear he wants to go to sleep and expects House to do the same. House, very much not asleep, stares into the dark. He'd known when Wilson walked in the door, thought the perfume and that look were pure l'eau de Guilty Conscience. But it hadn't been guilt -- it had been bad memories, a whole well of them, bad memories of a bad time, the stupid act that had gotten them in this whole mess. And if it hadn't been for that stupid act -- Cuddy, and the insanity and violence and prison term and everything that came after -- House wouldn't have been forced into such a desperate corner. There'd have been no faked death, no idiotic Bucket List Bike Tour; and if not for the idiotic road trip, no juvenile day out at an overpriced amusement park full of snot-nosed kids.
No strep infection, no scarlet fever. No Wilson here beside him.
Let's face it -- House would be bored to death.
"Don't die of shock," House says, "but I actually am ashamed of what I did to her."
"Not surprising," Wilson mumbles. He turns over so that he's lying on his back again, sighs and scrubs at his face with both hands, apparently resigned to this conversation. "You sent yourself to prison for it."
"Don't regret it, though."
Dark as it is, he can feel Wilson scowling at him. It might take a minute; it sometimes does, but Wilson almost always eventually gets it.
"House, I don't think I will ever under-- " He cuts himself off. "Oh."
"I miss that life. The way it was before I completely fucked it up."
"I know."
"No advice, Doctor Wilson? No cheery encouragement?"
"Not tonight. Maybe over breakfast. I'll make eggs sunny-side-up and lecture you about positive thinking and ... personal empowerment."
House knows Wilson is joking. There won't be time for breakfast tomorrow, not until they're out of town. They can't take the chance -- next time it would be him running into Cuddy, at a grocery store, a bookstore, a bar. Hell, with this kind of luck, they'll be bumping into Taub in Tulsa and Masters in Missoula.
Wilson, before he turned out the nightstand lamp, closed all his browser tabs for rentals in the area and deleted all his bookmarked listings for apartments with the best cable packages. House watched him do it, and said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Next town, House thinks. Next place we like, we can stop for a while. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off, that gutter-ball in a bowling alley sound, but the smell of smoke dragged in over the last few days through the hotel air conditioning is dissipating.
"Waffles," House says, "with whipped cream. And blueberries. And then we hit the road."
Wilson draws a soft breath, but he doesn't object. "Yeah," he says instead. "That's what I was thinking. Blueberries."
"We could go north," House offers. "San Francisco area. Point Reyes."
"North," Wilson agrees, and then he's quiet.
After a while, House says "Good night, Wilson."
"Good night, House," Wilson mumbles, and House listens as his breathing slows and evens out. When it's safe (and he knows it's safe by the rhythm and pitch of Wilson's breaths, and by the subtle way his body shifts and settles), House turns onto his side, then flops onto his belly. His back's been hurting from these damn hotel beds, and if there had been any normal-sized pillows in the room, House would have shoved one under there, but like most of the "better" hotels he and Wilson have stayed at over the last few months, the designers are evidently convinced their guests were spawned from a race of giants and decorated accordingly. And if one arm happens to come to rest across Wilson's ribs, well, it's not like he can stop himself from stretching, and he needs to sleep and this is the only way it'll happen. And if it doesn't, he'll be a danger to himself tomorrow, unfit to ride, his reaction time on a wet road slowed by fatigue.
He already knows what tomorrow morning will really be like -- they'll get up early, too early, and stumble around packing. Wilson will make a quick pot of coffee and they'll drink it standing up, and then they'll load the saddlebags onto the bikes and head out, towards Los Angeles, the coast, the Pacific Highway. They've got it down to an art, the packing, the leaving.
House watches the shadows of the raindrops before he too drifts off. It takes a while, and when he finally sleeps, he dreams of sands and tides, of a dark-haired woman telling him good-bye.
~ fin