(no subject)
Nov. 30th, 2005 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemTitle: Framework
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
3pipeproblem
Rating: G...maybe PG for drug use.
Pairing: House & Alan Shore (not even platonic. antagonistic.)
Prompt: 31; Why we hurt ourselves defies the MRI
that shows us only where the bullet lodged.
- Rafael Campo
Disclaimer: House is the property of Shore. Shore is the property of David E. Kelley.One day I will own them all.
Summary: Words are exchanged. (Crossover with Boston Legal.)
Notes: Thanks tomoofoot for the beta and the encouragement, bohemiancachetfor the same and for being my ho, and _redcorvette for lending me her snark.
(x-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
houserareathon)
Doctor House, Shore had said, Doctor Gregory House, head of diagnostic medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. That's an envy-inspiring title for those of us who fetishize business cards.
House had said, I also answer to 'Our Lord and Savior.' He hadn't liked the smirk Shore'd flashed at the joke.
Doctor House, Shore had repeated, pausing approximately the length of time it took the average person to say 'our lord and savior,' excuse me; I'm afflicted with chronic curiosity. How many drugs are you on right now?
Objection.
Oh, it's okay, Shore had said, oblivious to the interruption. You can round to the nearest ten.
"We could risk it," said Shore.
"No. I know better than to engage in any sort of behavior that could result in my being stranded in some godforsaken Trenton suburb with a lawyer as my only company. Hands off the car."
The cane descended with a whoosh, yielded a satisfying thwack upon collision with the other man's knuckles. House thought of tennis.
"Ace."
Shore gingerly removed the offending hand from the armrest, cradled it, streamed air in its direction for good measure. "Battery," he said and, warming to the subject, began ticking off potential charges on the fingers of his good hand. "Assault. Intentional infliction of emotional distress. False imprisonment. There would be more, but you've left me with only so many functional fingers."
"There would be more emotional distress," House replied, "but your presence is sapping my will to live, be fruitful, and torment others."
This speaks directly to his mental state, Shore had said. I also want to know if he's willing to share.
It's pain medication, House had said, with a roll of his eyes and an impatient thump of his cane. I have a problem with pain.
Anything else? Shore had asked.
A Corvette, House had said, an apartment. Irresistible charm. A harem of wenches I sometimes refer to as my staff. Is it perjury if the defense's questions are just stupid?
The gas station was well out of range of the highway, a handful of antiquated pumps sequestered on a concrete island. The place bore the look of a desolate trading outpost; one hastily constructed and abandoned even more hastily in the face of angry natives.
Shore found himself thinking this of nearly every structure he saw in New Jersey.
"What are we waiting for?" he asked, refraining from tapping the gas gauge with an impatient index finger.
House looked at him like he was stupid. That was to say, House looked at him the same way he looked at anybody else. "This is Jersey," he said with such an air of weighted wisdom that Shore almost expected him to begin quoting Obi-Wan Kenobi. Instead, House rolled down the window and lazily swung the cane to indicate a sign perched above the triplicate nozzles clutching at the pump. "All gas stations are full service."
Run-down wasn't the right word for the tiny box of brick, glass, and dirty tile posing as the station's commercial hub. It was practically a ruin, windows dark with filth greeting travelers with all the welcome of a slammed door in the face. Shore squinted out the car window for any hint of activity. Finding none, his eyes shifted to House, resplendent in black suit jacket and tuxedo t-shirt (Shore knew the joke that had accompanied that one: "Do you think I'm overdressed?"), week-old stubble peppering his jaw as though proximity to so many lawyers had inspired an allergic reaction. With calm deliberation, House shifted the car into park.
"Are you--"
"Am I what? Insane? Stoned? Single? Come on, counselor. That was one hell of a cross-examination you gave earlier. I know you can finish a sentence."
Are you a drug addict, Shore had said. Do you have an addiction to drugs.
Objection.
Overruled.
Shore had said, You're under oath.
Shore gave the window another discreet sidelong glance. Slowly, not so much choosing his words with care as allowing them to linger as though in expectation of an echo, he said, "Have you spirited me away with the intention of forcing me to participate in America's number one illicit business endeavor?"
House snorted, reached into his pocket for a neatly labeled bottle he rattled like a maraca before popping the cap. "I use," he said, words muffled by the hand obscuring his mouth as he deposited two pills. "I don't deal. Never could master the lingo."
"Vicodin." Perhaps in some vain hope that they might be departing from the gas station within the next hour, Shore still hadn't unfastened his seatbelt. It stretched across his chest, biting into a suit that looked like it had cost as much as the car they were seated in. The lawyer held out his hand; House cocked his head, touched a hand lightly to the other man's, turning it to examine the fingernails.
I have a prescription for drugs, House had said. I also have the best reputation of any doctor on the Eastern seaboard. What the hell does this have to do with anything?
How often? Shore had asked. Side effects? Complaints from patients? Concern from friends? Excuse me. Concern from colleagues.
"You," he said, "are a very fastidious person. I haven't seen a manicure like that since my ex last clawed me. She left these perfect little ridges up and down my back. Another lawyer." He gave what Shore took to be a parody of a meaningful look. Over the course of the car ride, House's testimony, House's deposition, Shore had been exposed to a vast repertoire of caricatured expressions. At first, he'd taken the furrows in House's brow, the lines that seemed to have been dug into his face as part of some excavatory process, as indicators of the stress of his profession, signs of a man haunted by demons that had driven him to drug addiction. Now Shore saw nothing in these thousand little facial dents but some component of a mocking expression: faux concern, faux happiness, faux interest.
House released Shore's hand, tossed the bottle of pills in the lawyer's direction. "Look, don't taste. As I was saying, you're a fastidious person. Look at your clothes--no, not the left sleeve, I think there might be a loose thread--"
Interesting, Shore had said, that a man in a profession where clarity of mind is essential could allow his mental process to become dependent on a drug.
That's right, House had said, I allowed my leg to get like this. How careless of me.
Shore had dropped the line of questioning. No use antagonizing a cripple.
Rising to the bait, Shore plucked at the designated sleeve. House smirked. "Very thorough. I really did like your cross, by the way. I might even consider myself a fan if I hadn't been on the receiving end of it. But now...you're strangely quiet." Shore, holding the container of Vicodin pinched between thumb and forefinger and spinning it in some unfortunate approximation of a top, raised his eyebrows. Arched them, really, with a delicate lack of anything approaching concern.
House continued, "You're in my car--"
"Because you punctured my tires."
"Nonsense. What a waste of time that would be when I have an elite team of medical experts eager to do my bidding."
Shore laughed, politely turning his head before doing so. House thought of him in the courtroom--it was a struggle to think of him otherwise--eyes clear and sharp, mouth ever threatening to twist into a victor's scornful half-smile, his flurry of words and gestures offset by measured footsteps.
You're appearing today as an expert witness, Shore had said.
And you, House had said, are appearing today as a pain in my ass. I see the judge allowed that. I think he agrees with me.
How much are you being paid for your court appearance today?
Right now, House couldn't help but make the mental comparison between Shore and one of his punctured tires.
"I like to do my dirty work in person," Shore said, snapping the bottle of Vicodin into the glove compartment.
"Even if it means a trip to Jersey, the armpit of America."
Shore laughed again and House watched his eyes. They were slate grey, he decided, the stare flat and smooth as precisely cut wedges of stone. "Why did you become a lawyer?"
"Money," Shore replied lazily, with a hint of reproach. He blinked, asked the question after a moment's delay. "Why did you become a doctor?"
"I like to help people," House said. "You didn't read up on me, did you? God, what sort of minions do you have?"
"I took what I needed."
"You took. So now we get to the heart of why you're sitting next to the man who vicariously slashed your tires rather than in a nice warm bar sharing a drink with your lawyer buddies. For someone so fastidious, you did a remarkable job of overlooking the fact that your client is a money-grubbing corporation that takes great joy in sucking innocent people dry. And when that's not enough, they file a lawsuit. A nice, swift kick--"
Nothing, House had said.
Nothing, Shore had echoed. Now, I'm not sure of the exact figure, but your average expert witness receives substantially more than nothing. Did they at least bus you over here?
Objection, House had said. Counsel is a moron.
What induced you to appear in court today? What reason could you have for sitting here and quietly attempting to refrain from hitting me?
Your client, House had said, deserves to lose. At the very least. He hadn't noticed himself reaching for the vial until his hand was at his pocket.
Shore had been silent.
"They deserve to win." Shore felt for the seatbelt's release button, watched the strap slacken and flop to the side. He raised his eyes to meet House's. "They hired me." He reached across House and administered two taps to the car's horn. It blared into the afternoon, swallowed quickly by Jersey clouds, lost in intricate and meandering roads linking rest stop to fast food restaurant to entrance ramp.
Not a soul stirred within the gas station. It might have been closed for three years, for all Shore knew, for all House cared.
In your professional opinion, Shore had said, giving the queasy smile of someone who'd just regained consciousness after having been bashed over the head with a blunt object.
He'd buttoned his jacket.
"You know what I've always wondered," Shore said, leather whimpering as he settled back into his seat.
"Yes. How do they cram all that graham into Golden Grahams?"
"Sherlock Holmes. Not, understand, as an adult,"--Shore's version of a meaningful look possessed some painful strain of earnestness running through it like a line of ore--"but what child would envision for himself a future so lonely as that of the world's only consulting detective." He let out a breath, as though the last two sentences had taken something out of them, as though he'd shouted them at the top of his lungs.
"Sherlock Holmes," House said, whirling the key ring around his fingers for a brief instant before starting the car, "was a much more agile fellow than me."
A smile flickered over Shore's face. "You're sitting next to the man whose tires you slashed."
"Who said I had an alternative?"
"You could buy him a drink."
"Substance abuse," House said approvingly, slamming foot to accelerator. The car lurched forward eagerly. "First we'll need to refill her tank."
Thank you, Shore had said. No further questions.
Author:
3pipeproblemRating: G...maybe PG for drug use.
Pairing: House & Alan Shore (not even platonic. antagonistic.)
Prompt: 31; Why we hurt ourselves defies the MRI
that shows us only where the bullet lodged.
- Rafael Campo
Disclaimer: House is the property of Shore. Shore is the property of David E. Kelley.
Summary: Words are exchanged. (Crossover with Boston Legal.)
Notes: Thanks to
moofoot for the beta and the encouragement, bohemiancachetfor the same and for being my ho, and _redcorvette for lending me her snark.(x-posted to
houserareathon)Doctor House, Shore had said, Doctor Gregory House, head of diagnostic medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. That's an envy-inspiring title for those of us who fetishize business cards.
House had said, I also answer to 'Our Lord and Savior.' He hadn't liked the smirk Shore'd flashed at the joke.
Doctor House, Shore had repeated, pausing approximately the length of time it took the average person to say 'our lord and savior,' excuse me; I'm afflicted with chronic curiosity. How many drugs are you on right now?
Objection.
Oh, it's okay, Shore had said, oblivious to the interruption. You can round to the nearest ten.
"We could risk it," said Shore.
"No. I know better than to engage in any sort of behavior that could result in my being stranded in some godforsaken Trenton suburb with a lawyer as my only company. Hands off the car."
The cane descended with a whoosh, yielded a satisfying thwack upon collision with the other man's knuckles. House thought of tennis.
"Ace."
Shore gingerly removed the offending hand from the armrest, cradled it, streamed air in its direction for good measure. "Battery," he said and, warming to the subject, began ticking off potential charges on the fingers of his good hand. "Assault. Intentional infliction of emotional distress. False imprisonment. There would be more, but you've left me with only so many functional fingers."
"There would be more emotional distress," House replied, "but your presence is sapping my will to live, be fruitful, and torment others."
This speaks directly to his mental state, Shore had said. I also want to know if he's willing to share.
It's pain medication, House had said, with a roll of his eyes and an impatient thump of his cane. I have a problem with pain.
Anything else? Shore had asked.
A Corvette, House had said, an apartment. Irresistible charm. A harem of wenches I sometimes refer to as my staff. Is it perjury if the defense's questions are just stupid?
The gas station was well out of range of the highway, a handful of antiquated pumps sequestered on a concrete island. The place bore the look of a desolate trading outpost; one hastily constructed and abandoned even more hastily in the face of angry natives.
Shore found himself thinking this of nearly every structure he saw in New Jersey.
"What are we waiting for?" he asked, refraining from tapping the gas gauge with an impatient index finger.
House looked at him like he was stupid. That was to say, House looked at him the same way he looked at anybody else. "This is Jersey," he said with such an air of weighted wisdom that Shore almost expected him to begin quoting Obi-Wan Kenobi. Instead, House rolled down the window and lazily swung the cane to indicate a sign perched above the triplicate nozzles clutching at the pump. "All gas stations are full service."
Run-down wasn't the right word for the tiny box of brick, glass, and dirty tile posing as the station's commercial hub. It was practically a ruin, windows dark with filth greeting travelers with all the welcome of a slammed door in the face. Shore squinted out the car window for any hint of activity. Finding none, his eyes shifted to House, resplendent in black suit jacket and tuxedo t-shirt (Shore knew the joke that had accompanied that one: "Do you think I'm overdressed?"), week-old stubble peppering his jaw as though proximity to so many lawyers had inspired an allergic reaction. With calm deliberation, House shifted the car into park.
"Are you--"
"Am I what? Insane? Stoned? Single? Come on, counselor. That was one hell of a cross-examination you gave earlier. I know you can finish a sentence."
Are you a drug addict, Shore had said. Do you have an addiction to drugs.
Objection.
Overruled.
Shore had said, You're under oath.
Shore gave the window another discreet sidelong glance. Slowly, not so much choosing his words with care as allowing them to linger as though in expectation of an echo, he said, "Have you spirited me away with the intention of forcing me to participate in America's number one illicit business endeavor?"
House snorted, reached into his pocket for a neatly labeled bottle he rattled like a maraca before popping the cap. "I use," he said, words muffled by the hand obscuring his mouth as he deposited two pills. "I don't deal. Never could master the lingo."
"Vicodin." Perhaps in some vain hope that they might be departing from the gas station within the next hour, Shore still hadn't unfastened his seatbelt. It stretched across his chest, biting into a suit that looked like it had cost as much as the car they were seated in. The lawyer held out his hand; House cocked his head, touched a hand lightly to the other man's, turning it to examine the fingernails.
I have a prescription for drugs, House had said. I also have the best reputation of any doctor on the Eastern seaboard. What the hell does this have to do with anything?
How often? Shore had asked. Side effects? Complaints from patients? Concern from friends? Excuse me. Concern from colleagues.
"You," he said, "are a very fastidious person. I haven't seen a manicure like that since my ex last clawed me. She left these perfect little ridges up and down my back. Another lawyer." He gave what Shore took to be a parody of a meaningful look. Over the course of the car ride, House's testimony, House's deposition, Shore had been exposed to a vast repertoire of caricatured expressions. At first, he'd taken the furrows in House's brow, the lines that seemed to have been dug into his face as part of some excavatory process, as indicators of the stress of his profession, signs of a man haunted by demons that had driven him to drug addiction. Now Shore saw nothing in these thousand little facial dents but some component of a mocking expression: faux concern, faux happiness, faux interest.
House released Shore's hand, tossed the bottle of pills in the lawyer's direction. "Look, don't taste. As I was saying, you're a fastidious person. Look at your clothes--no, not the left sleeve, I think there might be a loose thread--"
Interesting, Shore had said, that a man in a profession where clarity of mind is essential could allow his mental process to become dependent on a drug.
That's right, House had said, I allowed my leg to get like this. How careless of me.
Shore had dropped the line of questioning. No use antagonizing a cripple.
Rising to the bait, Shore plucked at the designated sleeve. House smirked. "Very thorough. I really did like your cross, by the way. I might even consider myself a fan if I hadn't been on the receiving end of it. But now...you're strangely quiet." Shore, holding the container of Vicodin pinched between thumb and forefinger and spinning it in some unfortunate approximation of a top, raised his eyebrows. Arched them, really, with a delicate lack of anything approaching concern.
House continued, "You're in my car--"
"Because you punctured my tires."
"Nonsense. What a waste of time that would be when I have an elite team of medical experts eager to do my bidding."
Shore laughed, politely turning his head before doing so. House thought of him in the courtroom--it was a struggle to think of him otherwise--eyes clear and sharp, mouth ever threatening to twist into a victor's scornful half-smile, his flurry of words and gestures offset by measured footsteps.
You're appearing today as an expert witness, Shore had said.
And you, House had said, are appearing today as a pain in my ass. I see the judge allowed that. I think he agrees with me.
How much are you being paid for your court appearance today?
Right now, House couldn't help but make the mental comparison between Shore and one of his punctured tires.
"I like to do my dirty work in person," Shore said, snapping the bottle of Vicodin into the glove compartment.
"Even if it means a trip to Jersey, the armpit of America."
Shore laughed again and House watched his eyes. They were slate grey, he decided, the stare flat and smooth as precisely cut wedges of stone. "Why did you become a lawyer?"
"Money," Shore replied lazily, with a hint of reproach. He blinked, asked the question after a moment's delay. "Why did you become a doctor?"
"I like to help people," House said. "You didn't read up on me, did you? God, what sort of minions do you have?"
"I took what I needed."
"You took. So now we get to the heart of why you're sitting next to the man who vicariously slashed your tires rather than in a nice warm bar sharing a drink with your lawyer buddies. For someone so fastidious, you did a remarkable job of overlooking the fact that your client is a money-grubbing corporation that takes great joy in sucking innocent people dry. And when that's not enough, they file a lawsuit. A nice, swift kick--"
Nothing, House had said.
Nothing, Shore had echoed. Now, I'm not sure of the exact figure, but your average expert witness receives substantially more than nothing. Did they at least bus you over here?
Objection, House had said. Counsel is a moron.
What induced you to appear in court today? What reason could you have for sitting here and quietly attempting to refrain from hitting me?
Your client, House had said, deserves to lose. At the very least. He hadn't noticed himself reaching for the vial until his hand was at his pocket.
Shore had been silent.
"They deserve to win." Shore felt for the seatbelt's release button, watched the strap slacken and flop to the side. He raised his eyes to meet House's. "They hired me." He reached across House and administered two taps to the car's horn. It blared into the afternoon, swallowed quickly by Jersey clouds, lost in intricate and meandering roads linking rest stop to fast food restaurant to entrance ramp.
Not a soul stirred within the gas station. It might have been closed for three years, for all Shore knew, for all House cared.
In your professional opinion, Shore had said, giving the queasy smile of someone who'd just regained consciousness after having been bashed over the head with a blunt object.
He'd buttoned his jacket.
"You know what I've always wondered," Shore said, leather whimpering as he settled back into his seat.
"Yes. How do they cram all that graham into Golden Grahams?"
"Sherlock Holmes. Not, understand, as an adult,"--Shore's version of a meaningful look possessed some painful strain of earnestness running through it like a line of ore--"but what child would envision for himself a future so lonely as that of the world's only consulting detective." He let out a breath, as though the last two sentences had taken something out of them, as though he'd shouted them at the top of his lungs.
"Sherlock Holmes," House said, whirling the key ring around his fingers for a brief instant before starting the car, "was a much more agile fellow than me."
A smile flickered over Shore's face. "You're sitting next to the man whose tires you slashed."
"Who said I had an alternative?"
"You could buy him a drink."
"Substance abuse," House said approvingly, slamming foot to accelerator. The car lurched forward eagerly. "First we'll need to refill her tank."
Thank you, Shore had said. No further questions.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 06:50 pm (UTC)House/Alan LOVE!!!! :D You need to write more fics and post them more often, if only just for me because I love them from beginning to end!
no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 04:58 am (UTC)I'm going to write some Alaaaaaaaan stuff soon. As soon as I get some sleep. And yes, I realize I'm commenting to you while we're chatting in IM.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 06:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-06 02:34 am (UTC)*happy sigh*
Slowly, not so much choosing his words with care as allowing them to linger as though in expectation of an echo...
beautiful line. absolutely. the distinction is practically visual.
and the bit about Sherlock Holmes broke my heart. not just the thought, but the fact that Alan's the one thinking it. lovely.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-10 04:40 pm (UTC)As for Sherlock Holmes, I could go on and on about him, House, and Alan (because they both so clearly idolize/d him), but I'll spare you. Suffice to say that I think Holmes embodies a sort of disconnect--on the one hand, he's the very best at what he does, but on the other he's a liberal user of cocaine, he's emotionally inaccessible--that applies to them both. But when you're a kid you're able to ignore all that and see him only as this great detective. Hahahaha, this is sort of pretentious, but I'd venture he shifts from heroic to tragic figure as you get older. If you're obsessive enough about Sherlock Holmes to consider these things.
Anyway, thanks for the feedback. There is a night terrors fic coming your way, I promise.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-11 11:40 pm (UTC)(like rereading the Narnia books for the Christian slant i missed the first time around. i keep meaning to get on that.)
There is a night terrors fic coming your way, I promise.
*does the NightTerrors Dance of Joy*
no subject
Date: 2006-03-31 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 11:03 am (UTC)House/Boston legal crossover. You are my new hero. I can't believe how perfectly you've captured their characters and the dialogue and the interaction and I could totally see this happening and...wow. Yeah. Brilliant. I can't really think of anything intelligent or coherent to say because I am so gobsmacked. I love the fragmented time line, too. There wasn't a single line of this I didn't enjoy. Yeah, you win at life. *Favourites, bookmarks, friends*
no subject
Date: 2006-06-12 01:24 am (UTC)Great fic! ^^