Housefic: The Word for World Is Mountain
May. 18th, 2012 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksTitle: The Word for World Is Mountain
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No.
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.21 ("Holding On") and a promo/sneak peek for episode 8.22.
Summary: Every journey begins with the first step. 1,026 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: All of the landmarks mentioned in this story are real, although I may have taken a little creative license with the geography. Cut-text is from the American naturalist John Muir. The title owes its origins to Ursula K. LeGuin, for her novel The Word for World Is Forest.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers.
The Word for World Is Mountain
"How high is this peak?" the older man says, tilting his head back. His woolen watch cap is pulled low, hiding his close-shorn hair. My Bastille cut, he calls it, and sometimes laughs, although there's no humor in it.
"Eight thousand feet ... more or less."
"How much more?"
"How do you know it's not less?"
"Because it's never less."
The younger man sighs, and runs a hand through his equally-short hair. It's just coming back in, a soft animal pelt covering his scalp. He'd been afraid it would come in curly, or red, or some other unhappy surprise, but so far it's just his hair. "Four hundred and thirty-six feet more."
"Wilson!"
"House, we're already forty-three hundred feet up! It's only a couple of miles of hiking, there's a fire lookout at the top. They wouldn't have built a fire lookout that nobody could get to." Wilson rubs at his eyes and puts his sunglasses back on; his eyes are still a little sensitive to the light. "If you think about it," he says, "we haven't done any real walking at all -- we spent the night at the motel, we drove to the trailhead. We both picked this peak because it's so easy."
"Yeah," House grunts. "That was before this." He taps at his right ankle with the butt of his climbing staff; the aluminum alloy dings! in response.
"It was before a lot of stuff," Wilson says. "And if you're gonna play the cripple card, you know I have to play -- "
"Oh, no," House says. "No, you don't."
" -- the chemo card." Wilson holds his hands up. "Or I could play the dying-guy card, which, oh look, makes two of a kind and trumps everything."
"You don't play fair," House says.
"I never did," Wilson admits. "But neither do you."
A hawk soars overhead, its call a thin, high keening. It's the only sound aside from the wind and an occasional horn blat from the winding switchback road far below. No one else is climbing today and they have the trail, such as it is, to themselves. In the distance, other peaks of the Lewis Range march across the horizon; to the east, Windmaker Lake shimmers, an impossible blue mirror with a few puffy white clouds scudding over the surface.
"Remind me why we're doing this?" House says at last.
"Because after everything that's happened, we're both still alive?"
House hitches his shoulders, realigns the cushioned straps of his backpack.
"You could say that about the chipmunk I saw this morning," he says. "Hadn't been eaten by a bear yet." He looks at Wilson, as if struck by a sudden thought. "You did remember to bring the bear spray, right?"
"House, the bears aren't going to be interested in us."
"You say that now. Just wait till we're enjoying a nice, fresh helping of victory Oreos at the summit. The bears'll tear us apart and scoop out our sweet, creamy insides."
Wilson makes a funny expression, like he's trying to decide whether to laugh or to gag, but in the end he does neither.
"You do realize," he says instead, "that aside from that disgusting image you've just put in my head, you've admitted we're going to do this?"
"You noticed that, huh?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, that's one good thing. You're still smarter than me."
Wilson smiles. "Come on, House," he says, but House doesn't move.
"You know," House says, "there are still some ... things. We haven't talked about."
"I know." Wilson shifts his feet, wiggles his toes inside his boots. His toes, and the soles of his feet, are still a little numb. Side effects, along with the photophobia. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. He supposes one day he'll find out if that's true.
"There's stuff I haven't told you," House continues. "I ... did some things. And ... didn't do some others."
"House," Wilson says, and waits until House looks at him. "That day. I know you stopped the chemo before it was finished." He lowers his voice, as if sharing a secret. "I'm an oncologist, remember?" He hefts his pack, trying not to think how heavy it's going to feel by the end of the day. He hopes their tent isn't too hard to put together. He hopes the tiny Coleman stove works. He hopes a lot of things, most of them small but some of them big.
House still hasn't said anything.
"House," Wilson says again. "Come on. Carpe diem."
House smiles then, but it's quickly replaced by a frown. "That's the stupidest saying ever," he growls.
"Forget I said it, then," Wilson says. "I'll sing instead." The words of a camping song he learned as a Cub Scout, decades ago, stir to life, half-remembered.
"I love to go a-wandering, along the mountain track -- "
"No!" House exclaims, horrified. Wilson sings louder.
"And as I go, I love to sing, my knapsack on my back!" He throws his arms wide. "Chorus! Val-dereeee, val-derahhh, val-dereeeee, val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, my knapsack on my back." He thinks he's left out a couple of val-derees there, but it doesn't matter.
House stares at him. "On second thought," he says, "keep singing. It'll scare the bears away." And then they're both laughing, laughing so hard that when they finally stop, they have to snuffle and honk and wipe their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs and sleeves.
"All right," House says. "All right," and then he doesn't say anything else.
Wilson coughs a little, pulls the topo map from his breast pocket and unfolds it as he spits, clearing the last of the saliva from his mouth. The neighboring peaks are yellow-ringed circles -- Mount Grinnell, Haystack Butte, Bishops Cap -- the Swiftcurrent River, the thinnest of blue ribbons tracing through the lines of elevation. He replaces the map, gives House his hand for the first step onto the loose, rocky scree. The grip is warm and strong through their gloves. They'll be able to see more when they're a little higher up.
There's always more to see from the top of a mountain than from the valley below.
~ fin
Author:
nightdog_barksCharacters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No.
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.21 ("Holding On") and a promo/sneak peek for episode 8.22.
Summary: Every journey begins with the first step. 1,026 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: All of the landmarks mentioned in this story are real, although I may have taken a little creative license with the geography. Cut-text is from the American naturalist John Muir. The title owes its origins to Ursula K. LeGuin, for her novel The Word for World Is Forest.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers.
The Word for World Is Mountain
"How high is this peak?" the older man says, tilting his head back. His woolen watch cap is pulled low, hiding his close-shorn hair. My Bastille cut, he calls it, and sometimes laughs, although there's no humor in it.
"Eight thousand feet ... more or less."
"How much more?"
"How do you know it's not less?"
"Because it's never less."
The younger man sighs, and runs a hand through his equally-short hair. It's just coming back in, a soft animal pelt covering his scalp. He'd been afraid it would come in curly, or red, or some other unhappy surprise, but so far it's just his hair. "Four hundred and thirty-six feet more."
"Wilson!"
"House, we're already forty-three hundred feet up! It's only a couple of miles of hiking, there's a fire lookout at the top. They wouldn't have built a fire lookout that nobody could get to." Wilson rubs at his eyes and puts his sunglasses back on; his eyes are still a little sensitive to the light. "If you think about it," he says, "we haven't done any real walking at all -- we spent the night at the motel, we drove to the trailhead. We both picked this peak because it's so easy."
"Yeah," House grunts. "That was before this." He taps at his right ankle with the butt of his climbing staff; the aluminum alloy dings! in response.
"It was before a lot of stuff," Wilson says. "And if you're gonna play the cripple card, you know I have to play -- "
"Oh, no," House says. "No, you don't."
" -- the chemo card." Wilson holds his hands up. "Or I could play the dying-guy card, which, oh look, makes two of a kind and trumps everything."
"You don't play fair," House says.
"I never did," Wilson admits. "But neither do you."
A hawk soars overhead, its call a thin, high keening. It's the only sound aside from the wind and an occasional horn blat from the winding switchback road far below. No one else is climbing today and they have the trail, such as it is, to themselves. In the distance, other peaks of the Lewis Range march across the horizon; to the east, Windmaker Lake shimmers, an impossible blue mirror with a few puffy white clouds scudding over the surface.
"Remind me why we're doing this?" House says at last.
"Because after everything that's happened, we're both still alive?"
House hitches his shoulders, realigns the cushioned straps of his backpack.
"You could say that about the chipmunk I saw this morning," he says. "Hadn't been eaten by a bear yet." He looks at Wilson, as if struck by a sudden thought. "You did remember to bring the bear spray, right?"
"House, the bears aren't going to be interested in us."
"You say that now. Just wait till we're enjoying a nice, fresh helping of victory Oreos at the summit. The bears'll tear us apart and scoop out our sweet, creamy insides."
Wilson makes a funny expression, like he's trying to decide whether to laugh or to gag, but in the end he does neither.
"You do realize," he says instead, "that aside from that disgusting image you've just put in my head, you've admitted we're going to do this?"
"You noticed that, huh?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, that's one good thing. You're still smarter than me."
Wilson smiles. "Come on, House," he says, but House doesn't move.
"You know," House says, "there are still some ... things. We haven't talked about."
"I know." Wilson shifts his feet, wiggles his toes inside his boots. His toes, and the soles of his feet, are still a little numb. Side effects, along with the photophobia. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. He supposes one day he'll find out if that's true.
"There's stuff I haven't told you," House continues. "I ... did some things. And ... didn't do some others."
"House," Wilson says, and waits until House looks at him. "That day. I know you stopped the chemo before it was finished." He lowers his voice, as if sharing a secret. "I'm an oncologist, remember?" He hefts his pack, trying not to think how heavy it's going to feel by the end of the day. He hopes their tent isn't too hard to put together. He hopes the tiny Coleman stove works. He hopes a lot of things, most of them small but some of them big.
House still hasn't said anything.
"House," Wilson says again. "Come on. Carpe diem."
House smiles then, but it's quickly replaced by a frown. "That's the stupidest saying ever," he growls.
"Forget I said it, then," Wilson says. "I'll sing instead." The words of a camping song he learned as a Cub Scout, decades ago, stir to life, half-remembered.
"I love to go a-wandering, along the mountain track -- "
"No!" House exclaims, horrified. Wilson sings louder.
"And as I go, I love to sing, my knapsack on my back!" He throws his arms wide. "Chorus! Val-dereeee, val-derahhh, val-dereeeee, val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, my knapsack on my back." He thinks he's left out a couple of val-derees there, but it doesn't matter.
House stares at him. "On second thought," he says, "keep singing. It'll scare the bears away." And then they're both laughing, laughing so hard that when they finally stop, they have to snuffle and honk and wipe their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs and sleeves.
"All right," House says. "All right," and then he doesn't say anything else.
Wilson coughs a little, pulls the topo map from his breast pocket and unfolds it as he spits, clearing the last of the saliva from his mouth. The neighboring peaks are yellow-ringed circles -- Mount Grinnell, Haystack Butte, Bishops Cap -- the Swiftcurrent River, the thinnest of blue ribbons tracing through the lines of elevation. He replaces the map, gives House his hand for the first step onto the loose, rocky scree. The grip is warm and strong through their gloves. They'll be able to see more when they're a little higher up.
There's always more to see from the top of a mountain than from the valley below.
~ fin
no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 09:34 pm (UTC)So House has a new leg... and we still don't know what it is he did and didn't tell Wilson, just what he didn't do. Or maybe I'm not as smart as Wilson.
I wonder whether you have any experience of actual mountain hiking yourself, because I found the visuals very realistic.
I did recognize UKL's book, which I disliked until a friend suggested I should read it in English (I couldn't make past the first twenty pages of LHoD in Italian, btw - some translators are really subpar).
PS: I'm going to mem it over on lj.
OT: remember the mountain/sea comparison in a previous comment? The original carpe diem is part of a conversation in front of a rough winter sea. My home sea, the Thyrrenian :). I miss it.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-19 08:11 pm (UTC)I've actually not read LeGuin's Word for World Is Forest (I've read her three other "big" books), but I knew the title, and when I thought to connect it to this story, it just clicked.
That Horace, he was a wise fellow. :-D
Thank you for reading! I appreciate it, ALWAYS.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-19 09:11 pm (UTC)What's the third big book? The Earthsea series? I imagine two must be LHoD and The Dispossessed, the latter of course a favorite among theoretical scientists.
OT I first had vacations in the mountains at twelve, but I spent my summers as a child camping in an organized camping place near the sea until about that age. Three months per year - Italy has long summer holidays.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-19 09:58 pm (UTC)