?

Log in

santahouse_md

(no subject)

« previous entry | next entry »
Feb. 7th, 2007 | 04:38 pm
posted by: andrealyn in santahouse_md

For littlemimm.

TITLE: and he had the rhythm
RATING: R (for sex and language)
SUMMARY: Dylan Crandall is the worst kind of writer. He believes everything you tell him.
NOTES: Title from a quote about Charlie Parker: "He had just what we needed. He had the line and he had the rhythm."



You haven't changed at all.
Everybody. Lies.

It's mostly him that's changed. it's the limp...yeah, yeah, boo hoo, but you try it. You try waking up in pain and living every day in pain, going to work in pain, drinking coffee in pain, pissing in pain, listening to music in pain, you just try it and then you try doing it with three legs instead of two and one of them doesn't even work. It's like being constantly interrupted (one two stumble three stumble four). He didn't ever like dancing but he used to like to move his feet. Foot now. Fuck it.

"So you'll try it, Crandall?" He says, looking into his half full glass (half empty). "I'll swap you."

Everybody lies but Dylan crandall hasn't really changed, not really. He's still the big loping irritating puppy that he was in college. He's never still and it's irritating, watching him move around the apartment, touching everything, playing everything with thick fingered writers hands.

"No thanks," says Crandall, with a grin that's somehow (fuck) endearing, lopsided, but it brightens his face. Cracked, but somehow it still works. It's like a metaphor for House's life; limping, sure, but at limping forward.

"No thanks," says Dylan. "I'll keep my own mess, G-man."

Your mess? You'll keep your mess? Is that your broken "daughter" or your broken heart or what, man? Come on. Fill me in. Enquiring minds are...

Oh, fuck it.

"Let's go somewhere," says House, and it means, let's keep going.

Here are the ways in which they've changed:
Dylan knows what he wants now. He's thicker through the middle. They have one "daughter" and one ex between them. They have one limp which becomes two when they've been on the bike for too long and Dylan gets off to stretch his legs. Longer hair, worse eyesight, more time to sleep. They go slower. In the motel, halfway to where their going (Nashville, which is a long way, which will take days and days this way, which is maybe how they both want it), they stretch out on the bed, House on his back, Dylan on his belly. There is a patch of white skin between jeans and shirt, a strip. It looks unwholesome and House reaches out to tug Dylan's shirt down and somehow it ends up with the pads of his fingers at the bend of Dylan's back. House have never been the sentimental sort who could bring himself to describe the human body as a work of art. What goes into people is disgusting, snot and phlegm and piss and shit and blood and pus and the brain which is the worst part of all. He leaves his hand against Dylan's skin though. Because it's easy, still, and some things ought to be. Everybody lies but nothing ever really changes.

And even this isn't as easy as it used to be. It takes some manouvering. What's nice about it is that it doesn't take any words so there isn't any chance to stammer and ruin it. Dylan tries to tug his jeans down and House won't let him. Never was a God in the bedroom (wouldn't it be easy to lie about that?). Fumbling is easier standing up, but they manage. They end up with their jeans shoved down around their hips, bare skin against bare skin, Dylan's thick writer's fingers wrapped around his cock. They don't kiss, but then again, they never did. Charlie Parker is playing on Ipod speakers, and it isn't quite Birdland, and it isn't quite Morphine and House doesn't quite float. Writers are the worst kind of liars, House knows that, and Dylan is the worst kind of writer because he believes everything that you tell him, and he writes what he knows. Afterwards, they lie together, and bodies are disgusting but Dylan's is warm. Moving isn't enough. It's keeping going that takes guts. Every journey is part escape plan. It doesn't matter that you don't know where you're going.

"Nothing hurts," says House, and Dylan might believe him, he can't tell.
On the Ipod, Charlie bears no grudges, remembers nothing and tells no lies.

Link | Leave a comment | Share

Comments {1}

Mimm

(no subject)

from: littlemimm
date: Mar. 3rd, 2007 07:48 pm (UTC)
Link

God, I've no excuse for being this late. Except that I haven't been in House mood in a while and kind of forgot. I'm so sorry about that. :/

But oh! You wrote Crandall! I was so giddy when I noticed. :D There needs to be more fic with that guy, because dammit. He and House have a history, and it's one that has a lot of potential.

I like the roughness of this, in both the prose style and the guys. It's not exactly a happy story, but it's still satisfying. And that detail about Charlie Parker really got to me, even when I'm not quite sure why.

Thank you so much for this. I didn't exactly deserve a fic after failing my own recipient, so this was a lovely surprise.

Reply | Thread