fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 4

[readingrat]

Part I
Chapter 4: Memories and Manias

Christmas 2015

Rachel hums the Harry Potter theme all the way to Oxford. Cuddy considers dampening her expectations – reality can never keep up with the fairy tale that Rachel paints for herself in anticipation – but decides to enjoy these last blissful moments of peace before Rachel reverts to her usual cantankerous self.

They start off with Christ Church, featuring, as Wilson's travel guide assures them, 'locations used in the movies' and the Great Hall, 'replicated to create the Hall at Hogwarts'.

Rachel is suitably impressed by the quadrangles. She resolutely counters all of Wilson's attempts to widen her horizon with random facts about Lewis Carroll by describing in detail every scene from Harry Potter that was shot in the cloisters. When they enter the Meadows Buildings disillusionment sets in.

"There are supposed to be stairs," she says, irritated.

"Huh?" Wilson says.

"Big stairs, going up to the Hall," Rachel explains.

"There are stairs," Wilson points out.

Yes, there are – unfortunately. There are enough steps to pose a serious impediment to a wheelchair-bound child, but they aren't even remotely as grand as the flight connecting the rest of Hogwarts to its entrance hall. Not for the first time Cuddy thanks her lucky stars that Wilson has come along with them instead of choosing to stay with Pete (who opted to skip the joys of a day out with a child). They've already developed a routine: Cuddy plucks Rachel out of the wheelchair and goes ahead with her; Wilson folds the wheelchair with a practiced movement, carries it up the stairs overtaking Rachel and Cuddy with his quick strides, and unfolds it again at the top.

"Forget it," Cuddy, peering into the Hall past a group of Chinese tourists, says to Wilson as he places the wheelchair strategically in front of her. "There isn't enough room for the wheelchair in there."

So Wilson takes Rachel, who is pissed at being carried around like a baby and even more pissed when she realises that the Christ Church Hall is not only much smaller than its cinematic counterpart, but also has a perfectly normal ceiling.

"That's stupid! They're cheating!"

"We'll go to the Library next," Wilson says bracingly.

Cuddy's heart sinks when they get to the Bodleian Library and she reads the notice at the gate: children under the age of ten are not permitted in Duke Humfrey's Library, the part of the Bodleian Library in which the Hogwarts Library scenes were shot. She's used to checking up on wheelchair accessibility, but she didn't reckon with attractions where Rachel's age might be an impediment.

"But she can see the Divinity School," the lady at the ticket counter says, smiling kindly at Rachel. "That's the Infirmary in the Harry Potter films."

As Cuddy envisions what Rachel will say about an Infirmary with no beds and no Madam Pomfrey, Wilson pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to the lady. She takes out the letter inside, reads it with a puzzled frown and then reaches for the telephone, saying, "Excuse me."

A few moments later she smiles at them and says almost obsequiously, "The librarian who'll take you up to Duke Humfrey's Reading Room will be here in a few minutes. If you like, you can look around the quadrangle until he comes." She hands them a set of audio guides, waving away the credit card that Wilson proffers.

About fifteen minutes later an elderly gentleman comes up to them. "Drs Cuddy and Wilson?" he asks. "Ah, and there's the young lady. Miss Rachel Cuddy, I believe? I'm Trevor Owen. I'm told you'd like to see Duke Humfrey's Reading Room."

He gives Rachel a little mock bow; his whole air reminiscent of the faun in the Narnia Chronicles. Cuddy catches herself squinting at his feet to see whether he has hoofs.

Mr Owen rather rushes them through the Divinity School saying that he needs to get them up into the Reading Room before noon, but Cuddy is much too flummoxed to follow any of his erudite explanations, to appreciate the elaborate vaulting, or to care who got to use which entrance on what occasion. Rachel, however, has regained some of her former good spirits: the Divinity School may be sadly lacking in the trappings that would make it a bona fide Infirmary, but it has a 'cool' fifteenth century money chest which 'looks exactly like Professor Moody's trunk'. Besides, she and Mr Owen hit it off from the start; it seems that fauns and little girls are soul mates in any world. Mr Owen, whose grandchildren also like Harry Potter, shows great interest in Professor Moody's trunk and quite sees the parallels to the object on exhibit.

But even Rachel's running commentary ebbs into an awestruck silence when they finally make it up to the Reading Room. There's a tourist group in the ante-room, being instructed to maintain strict silence and to keep their fingers off the exhibits, but Mr Owen waves them past the group and magically opens the gate that separates the actual reading room from the small section open to the general public. For once Rachel doesn't object to being hoisted up in Wilson's arms; her eyes have gone large and round, and it doesn't take much imagination to figure out what she'll talk about the next few days.

Cuddy, who can only follow Mr Owen's tripping steps in a daze, finally asks Wilson in a whispered aside – the silence here is very hallowed indeed! – "How'd you do that?"

Wilson shrugs. "No idea. House told me to show that letter at the gate, so that's what I did."

Mr Owen, overhearing them, gives them a quizzical smile. "It seems that you have friends in high places. I got an email yesterday from the head of the Medical Sciences Division asking me for this little favour, which, so he assures me, will ensure that the university's global appeal will continue to rise."

Cuddy and Wilson frown at each other in puzzlement, but soon the delight of roaming around a room filled with a sense of history, surrounded by rare folios, and bathed in light from the gothic window at the end of the room, supersedes their need to know. As Cuddy tells herself, in Pete-alias-House's case it is often better not to know.

Pete, however, is rather amused when he's confronted with the accusation of blackmailing some Oxford bigwig. "They were happy to do me a favour," he avers, "from colleague to colleague, so to say."

He rubs his chin meditatively. "Okay, so I may have hinted that I might agree to give a series of guest lectures at the university if they let Rachel into their fusty old attic."

---

April 2016

"Remind me again why we came here," House said, peeling the batter off his haddock and stuffing it into his mouth. "The two ugliest cathedrals in the whole of Europe, two houses that look exactly the same as any you could have seen in London, docks in a drizzle of rain, and a museum overrun with pesky school brats."

"I grew up with the Beatles," Wilson said with a reminiscent smile. "When I was eleven my uncle gave us a portable audio cassette player for Hanukkah and a Beatles cassette each. Till then we'd listened to other stuff: Michael – my older brother – used to decide what radio station we listened to, and Michael liked country music. But now we had a cassette player and three cassettes – our only three cassettes – and none of them were country music. So Michael said, 'We're gonna to listen to these cassettes until we like the music,' and we did. We listened to the Beatles non-stop for six weeks. It drove Mom crazy." He hummed Love Me Do happily as he speared a greasy potato fry. (Why on earth did the Brits put vinegar on them? It was disgusting!)

"Your uncle should have given you Rolling Stones cassettes," House said moodily. "Jagger and Richards come from Kent, just round the corner from London. We would have been spared a three-hour drive, and your taste in music would have been vastly improved."

"It could have been worse," Wilson said. "Danny, my younger brother, likes Abba."

It was odd, having to explain his family to House. It was even odder giving him these snippets of information in the knowledge that they meant nothing to him, whereas some ten years ago House's eyebrows would have quirked up in delight as he connected the dots between the way Wilson reacted to Abba songs on the radio and his family history. Wilson recalled the time he and House had been driving together and 'Dancing Queen' had come on the radio. He hadn't been able to suppress his reaction to the song, one of Danny's favourites. (Danny had played the Abba record again and again, dancing around the room and singing along off-key, his hair flying.) Noting Wilson's reaction House had promptly downloaded the corresponding ringtone and assigned it to Wilson's number. Wilson hadn't disabused House of the notion that he liked Abba; rather than tell him about Danny he had preferred to be thought a closet Abba fan.

Back in the present House sang in a loud high falsetto, "Mamma mia, here I go again, My, my, how could I resist you?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Wilson, who blushed as other guests turned to stare at them.

"Mamma mia, does it show again, my, my, just how much I missed you?" Leaning his chin on his hand House lifted a lascivious eyebrow.

If House thought the public attention would faze Wilson, he had another think coming. As long as House didn't hit on Danny's true favourite, 'I Have a Dream', he might just be able to keep his act together. Wilson frowned at the memory of Danny standing in the middle of their bedroom, arms stretched out wide, head thrown back, singing with full conviction, "I believe in angels!" Danny had really believed in angels.

Wilson pushed his plate away and rose. "Let's go," he said. "We have a long drive back."

"Three hours," House said. "What's the hurry? I haven't got a patient."

"Four hours, because I'm driving back," Wilson said. "And I want to stop somewhere on the way."

"You've got to be joking!" House said an hour later, and his tone implied that he meant it. He'd been liberal with ridicule at the idea of visiting the Beatles' birthplace, but Wilson suspected that secretly he hadn't been all that unwilling to go. There was no doubt, however, about his opinion on the sanity of visiting the 'National Trust property of Lyme Park, house and garden', as the sign they had just passed advertised.

"It's one of the largest houses in Britain, it's got an interesting mix of architectural styles – an Elizabethan front, a mix of Baroque and Palladian styles – and the gardens are said to be splendid," Wilson said neutrally, pulling up in the parking lot.

"Says your travel guide. Does it also say that it's frequented by busloads of gerontosauruses and slit-eyed tourists?" Amnesia hadn't improved House's grasp of political correctness.

Wilson got out of the car.

"I'm hungry," House whined behind him.

"Two tickets for the grounds and the house, please," Wilson said to the lady at the ticket counter, sliding his credit card through the hole in the glass pane.

"It's gonna start raining any moment, and you have a cough already."

Brushing aside this heartfelt concern for his wellbeing, Wilson showed the tickets to the man at the turnstile, who waved them through. "The house is straight ahead, but you get the best view from over there by the lake," the man said helpfully.

"Thanks," Wilson said.

"I'm too tired to walk …. o-o-o-o-oh!" House said, as they rounded a copse, giving them an unimpeded view of the mansion they were visiting. "Pemberley! Wilson, you sly girl, you never told me that you'd cast your eye on Mr Darcy." The tiredness was wiped off his face as he inspected Wilson with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Let me guess: you and your girl-friends get together for long P&P nights with glasses of Chardonnay and lots of chocolate, and then you keep hitting the back button when Colin Firth rises from the garden pond like Venus from the waves."

House's surmise wasn't all that far off. "My second wife, Bonnie, and her friends used to do that. I'd cook for them and make snacks."

That had been during the first years of their marriage, before he'd started staying late at work or dropping in on House to 'see how he was coping' or meeting up with colleagues after work to 'keep in touch', and all those other excuses he'd thought up to get away from the unmitigated boredom at home.

"They'd break out in squeals of delight during the lake scene. And yes, they kept replaying it. Keep replaying it," he corrected himself. "I imagine they still have their P&P nights, but I don't get invited anymore."

"You dragged me here because your ex has the hots for Colin Firth?" House mocked. He leaned over from behind, resting his chin on Wilson's shoulder so he could murmur in his ear. "Oh, come on, Wilson, admit it – you thought he looked sexy in that wet shirt with his nipples showing. There's no shame in that: a tall, broody guy, with dark curls and those intense eyes that make you feel like only you can allay the loneliness that lurks within."

Wilson shook his head to clear away the image House was evoking. "Actually," he said rather primly, "my wife's friends used to say that I look like Colin Firth."

House drew back. "You're kidding."

"Well, I was a bit younger and slimmer, and I have dark hair," Wilson said defensively.

House looked him up and down, his lips pursed. "Could be, I suppose. But we'd have to do the ultimate test to be sure. Go jump in." He waved his hand in the direction of the lake and started stomping towards it.

"Now you're kidding," Wilson said.

House, heading down to the lake at a remarkable pace, threw back over his shoulder, "We can only see if you resemble Colin Firth if you're as wet as he was. I dare you to jump in."

"Don't be ridiculous," Wilson said weakly.

"Wuss!"

"There's a sign saying that swimming in the lake is strictly prohibited," Wilson said, pointing to the offending object.

House drew up at the edge of the lake, his eyes gleaming. "I double dare you!"

"Where are we – in kindergarten?"

But House just stood there smirking knowingly. Wilson cast a quick glance around. The park was fairly empty, and no one was heading their way. There was a group of tourists about fifty yards away, but they were moving away from them, towards the house.

"Oh, okay," Wilson said. "Hang onto my coat and my shoes." He slipped out of his shoes and socks and flung his coat down on the pile.

"You have to dive in over there," House said, pointing to a spot halfway round the circumference of the lake, "and come up just about here."

"Forget it!" Wilson said. "If this is about how I look in a wet t-shirt, then it doesn't matter how far I swim. I'm jumping in from here." And he moved over to a spot only twenty yards away, where he gingerly dipped a toe into the water. "It's cold!" he said, pulling his foot back with a yelp of surprise.

"What did you expect – the weather's been crappy. Come on! Colin Firth also had to jump in the day they had the location; he didn't get to choose the sunniest day of the year either."

"He got paid for it," Wilson muttered, crouching down in preparation for the dive.

"You get honour and glory …," he heard House say as the water leapt towards him.

The first thing he saw when he surfaced was House's Smartphone aimed at him. "… And a new picture on Facebook."

The second thing he saw was three security guards heading their way. Crap!

"Sir, I must ask you to leave the water immediately!" one of them barked.

"Gladly," Wilson answered glowering at House, who was grinning manically. He waded towards the shore, water streaming off him. He felt like a waterlogged rat and he probably looked like one too. So much for the sexy, broody Darcy aura!

"I'm afraid there's a fifty pound fine," another guard, a woman in her mid-forties who looked as though she normally sold pastries in the food shop, said somewhat apologetically.

"Fifty pounds?" Wilson said and sneezed.

"Bless you! Yes, I'm sorry. We had to introduce a fine, because people kept hopping into the lake the first years after the series aired. Haven't had an Incident for quite a few years now, have we?" she said to the other two.

"No," one of her colleagues confirmed. "And I don't remember any involving just men," he added, giving them a suspicious look.

Wilson shuffled awkwardly. He was freezing and he'd rather have this over with. "Do you take American Express?"

House intervened. "Couldn't you waive the fine? I mean, if you don't have that many 'incidents' any more … We did this for his wife who, uh, couldn't come. She thinks he looks like Colin Firth." His tone indicated what he thought of that.

"They all think that," one of the men muttered. But the woman had tipped her head sideways, giving Wilson a kindly look.

"I think he does look a bit like Colin Firth," she said with a warm smile for Wilson.

House rolled his eyes. "He's much too short, he's got a totally different physique, and just look at those eyebrows!"

The woman frowned in thought. "Maybe I'm getting him mixed up with that other actor. You know, the one who was in that Shakespeare adaption with Kenneth Branagh. He's very good-looking too."

"Thanks," Wilson said. Why anyone would think he resembled Keanu Reeves beat him, but he hoped they could go back to the car soon, where he had dry clothes.

"I think we can waive the fine," the woman said with finality, giving her two colleagues a hard stare. They shrugged.

"Oh, and could you take a picture of us, please?" House said with his smarmiest expression, handing the woman his Smartphone. He draped an arm around Wilson's sopping shoulders and grinned at the phone. Wilson smiled weakly.

"For his 'wife', eh?" the surly guard said, glowering at them with homophobic certainty.

"There you go. And have a good time!" the woman said, returning House's Smartphone.

"So what?" they heard her say to her colleagues as they walked away. "I think they were sweet."

---

	Chapter Index

Comments

[yarroway.livejournal.com]

Fawn or not, Mr. Owen is wonderful. If the worst thing he has to do for the job is to be nice to a crippled child, he's got a fabulous life. Your descriptions are lovely. You make me want to hop a plane and see the ugly cathedrals and chilly ponds, and even the Duke's chest.

But back to the chapter--even though this is a cheerful installment, I'm actually sad for all the characters here; Rachel, who can't walk up a flight of stairs; House, who has lost his past; Wilson, who has in some sense lost his friend.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

This is where I have to admit that I've never been to Liverpool or to Lyme Park. I have, however, been to Oxford; I hope that redeems me to some extent. (And Oxford is definitely worth a visit.)

The person I empathise most with in my fics is Wilson. When I started writing The Kelpie I didn't realise to what extent it would end up being about his loss. Ultimately, he stands for everything that's wrong with what House has done to himself. He helped House to gain a new life in the knowledge that he wouldn't profit one bit from it, and now he has to fight for the friendship of a man who should feel something for him, but doesn't. I don't feel sorry for House, because he weighed the pros and cons before opting for amnesia and he's benefitting from the pros now. Rachel, although regularly cheesed off at the restrictions her disability imposes on her, is still young enough to accept it as a given. I think that'll change once she hits puberty and realises that she'll never have the kind of life that other people have.

Thank you for commenting.

[barefootpuddles.livejournal.com]

I love the HP fixation having gone deeply into HP with one of my own children (and having even written some HP fanfiction as well). I could totally see Wilson game-fully trying to throw in some Narnia as well.

Nice little bit to explain the Abba ringtone, though it made me sad for Wilson. He lost his biological brother and in a way he lost his chosen brother too. But, the whole Darcy bit made up for it - so very House and Wilson to have House get Wilson to do something that would get him in trouble, but that Wilson would secretly enjoy.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

We spent years talking of nothing except Harry Potter at the dinner table, so this is a personal catharsis in a way.

Yes, Wilson is the big loser in my AU. I'm not entirely sure how that happened -- I wasn't even thinking of Wilson when I devised the scenario, but once the scenario was there it was pretty clear that Wilson wouldn't be happy with it. The thing with Wilson is that he isn't the kind of person to cut losses and get out while the going is still good.

Thank you for commenting.

[chocolate-frapp.livejournal.com]

ooh, this is just great! I especially love the Much Ado reference.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

Thanks! I must admit that I'm inordinately proud of that reference.

[chocolate-frapp.livejournal.com]

one teeny little spelling concrit? Fauns are goat leg guys from Greek mythology, fawns are baby deer.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

Oh, thanks! Will correct at once.