The Tail of Lucy Addis
Chapter One
The rain
annoyed him. It
meant many things, all of them
irritating to a man
who walked with a cane. No riding the bike to work for
one—aside from the
added risk that wet pavement and puddles created there was
the hassle of
wet seats and poor visibility.
So no
bike tomorrow.
Rain
also meant more
accidents, which in turn meant more
stupid cases in
the clinic. More falls, more head colds, more general whining
on every level,
from patients to nurses and staff. Rain meant everyone would be
cooped up in
the hospital, cranky and getting on each other’s nerves. Very
frustrating.
Rain
also left him
feeling . . . melancholy. Rain was just
depressing. It had
ruined perfectly good days back when he could walk normally;
ended
Lacrosse games, cut into runs, given him chills. Now rain made his
damaged
leg ache more, adding an underlying grind to the ongoing throb, a
shadow of
extra hurt that the Vicodin never could touch.
Rain
reminded him of the
day Stacy left.
And the
day she left
again.
Rain was
just in general,
a pisser. The only good thing
about it at the moment
was that he wasn’t out IN it. Instead he was home warm
and dry, about to
suck down some chowder from a can of soup and scope out the
naughtier Pay
per View offerings while sprawled out on the couch. His kind of
night.
Someone
rang the bell;
House looked at his front door
suspiciously. If it was
Wilson or any of the Brady Bunch they would have
knocked—House had
trained them well. No, a ringing bell meant someone else.
Someone untrained
in the secret signals. House yelled. “Who is it?”
No
answer. After a few
seconds, the bell rang again, an
insistent chime
demanding a reply. House hated the sound of his own doorbell,
fighting the Pavlovian response welling up in him. He scowled more
deeply now,
reluctantly leaving his microwaved soup on the kitchen counter and
limping
forward.
“If
you’re a
Jehovah’s Witness I’m a devout Pagan, and if
you’re a Girl Scout
I’m a cannibal—“ he shouted more loudly
now.
No
reply. Feeling his
annoyance rise, House made it to the
door and checked
the spy hole, seeing no one. Unfortunately, the door to the
hallway was open,
and rain was gusting into the building foyer. House gritted
his teeth, his ire increasing exponentially. Clearly the asshole had
left the
outer door open, and
now House would have to go close it. Normally he wouldn’t
care, but the cold seeping in was annoying, and the danger posed by the
water
on the foyer hall
was bad enough for folks with two good working legs, never
mind a man with liabilities in that department.
House
unlocked his door
and cautiously stepped out, a low
ongoing string of profanity leaking out of him as he did so. The chill
gusting
in did nothing to
improve his temper, and he hastily reached for the knob of
the door. Just as
he began to pull it shut, a small streak of wet grey fur shot
in and through his
feet, startling the hell out of him. He wobbled a little,
catching himself on the doorjamb and peered back in time to see the
thing dart
through the gap he’d
left in the door to his place.
House
growled.
He
slammed the building
door and turned, stalking back to
his apartment and carefully looking around, but the little thing had
scooted
out of sight, and in
any case the room was dim. House flicked the switches next
to the wall, filling
the living room with light. He winced a little at the
brightness.
“Okay,
home
invader, let’s dance—“ he groused.
Carefully he
began a
systematic search, moving left around the bookcases. Nothing. Under
the
writing table. Nothing. Over and under the piano and bench. Nothing.
Feeling
frustrated, House glanced along the sofa and towards the
kitchen—
He
froze. The kitten was
on the table, front paws on the
edge of his soup mug, daintily lapping at his chowder.
“Hey!
Get away from
my FOOD!” he yelled. The kitten shot him
a wary look
and turned back to the chowder. She managed three more quick licks
before prudently skittering off the table as House wrathfully lumbered
towards
her.
When he’d reached the kitchen and his defiled soup, he
gritted
his teeth
and
picked it up.
“Don’t
make
the mistake of thinking I’m some kind-hearted
SOB, cat. This is
MY soup and MY house. When I catch you, I’m going to throw
your fuzzy little
butt back out into the rain,” he announced loudly before
slurping a mouthful of
soup.
No
answer.
He
didn’t really
expect one, but part of him was amused at
the kitten’s sheer audacity. Carrying the mug out to the
living
room, House
dropped himself onto
the sofa and picked up the remote. He was determined to
ignore the kitten; lull
her into a sense of false security. It had worked with
every other female he’d
ever known, and he had no reason to doubt it would work
now. Carefully
House clicked the television on and looked over the selections
available for
his viewing pleasure.
He
passed up
18 Blondes. As the action began
to
build on the screen, House surreptitiously checked out of the corner of
his eye
to see if his little squatter would make an appearance.
It took
a while; nearly
three orgies before she wandered
into view, circling
around one of the piano bench legs. House let his attention
flick back and
forth between the screen and the kitten for a while, trying not
to alert her to
the fact he was studying her. After several minutes she moved
towards the
fireplace and sat down, giving her front paw a wash.
Her fur
had dried out
now, and House noted she was a
short-haired grey
striped tabby. Since she was roughly the size of two peanut
butter sandwiches
laid end to end, House assumed she couldn’t be very
old—maybe
seven or
eight weeks at most. Just over weaning and still small enough to have
some
rough textured kitten fur on her. As for her sex---House managed a
sardonic
smirk, knowing he had an instinct about such things. Any animal
brazen
enough to scoot into HIS home and eat HIS food could only BE female.
The
kitten looked up at
him in a coolly appraising way, all
big ears and eyes; unafraid, but wary. House snorted at her.
“Don’t
give
ME the eye, Mooch. Looking for a handout, are
you? Well too bad.
I had the entire can of soup and I feel JUST fine about it.”
The
kitten returned to
washing her paw, supremely
unimpressed, and House overlaid a memory of Cuddy just that morning,
returning
to writing a report,
equally bland. He glared at the little cat.
“Just
like . . .
never mind. You’ll be hungry soon enough,
and then I’ll have
you. So go ahead and work on your tongue bath while I get
back to the
blondes—“ But looking up he noticed the movie was
over, the
credits
rolling. Annoyed afresh, House clicked the TV off and tossed the remote
down.
The
kitten looked up at him and ventured a little bit closer, padding over
until she
was only a foot or so from his left sneaker. House eyed her again.
“So.
Somebody
dumped you out in the rain. Somebody who
thought I’d be
sucker enough to take you in. But it didn’t quite work out,
did
it? I’m not
interested in a pet. I have no TIME for a
pet—Steve’s been
released
to the
wild, you know. And I hate cats—“ House bent down
slowly
and untied his
shoelace, tugging it through the eyelets until it was free of the
sneaker.
Temptingly he dangled it; the kitten watched the white cotton string
sway with
big, interested eyes. House gave it a twitch and the little cat dropped
into a
wiggly crouch, eyes locked on the shoelace.
“That’s
right, go with your scatterbrained instincts. Chase
a stupid piece of
string you can’t eat—“ he taunted her,
and she
pounced,
little needle claws
pinning the shoelace onto the hardwood floor. House slowly
reeled it in,
tugging it free of her grip only to toss the end out again. The
kitten pounced
once more, her entire concentration on the moving dancing
elusive shoelace.
House toyed with her for several minutes, noting how quick
she was, how
nimble despite some clutzy moves.
The
kitten was closer
now, and the gray of her fur reminded
him of the slate
blue of Cuddy’s eyes. Carefully House reached out a finger
and
the kitten
batted it, her paw soft, claws retracted.
Against
his will he
smiled, and realizing it, House scowled
once more. He sat
up again and leaned back against his couch, thinking hard
about what exactly
to do.
He
couldn’t leave
his door open in hopes she’d wander out;
it would take too
long and the cold would leak in. He wouldn’t call anyone to
help; not even
Wilson
annoying
little furball. No, the best bet was to lure her into a small space,
like
the
bathroom, and trap her there. Once caught, he could drop her off at
the
SPCA or
give her away to someone. Cameron maybe, or Cuddy—
The
thought of handing a
kitten to Cuddy left House feeling
a pang deep in his stomach. He could picture Cuddy’s graceful
hands cradling
the kitten, her
fingers stroking the little head, could easily visualize her
cooing into the tiny
face.
The
damned kitten
reminded him of Cuddy. Independent.
Focused. Feminine--
Sudden sharp pain made House yelp; the kitten had leaped to
hang on the
shin of his jeans and was industriously clawing her way up his good
leg.
House tensed, moving to bat the cat away.
“Bitch!
Yeah
thanks! Like the other one’s not shredded
enough as it IS!” he
yelled at her. The kitten blinked at him, and twisted away
to land next to him
on the sofa. Her tail twitched and she glared at him with
bland resentment for
his tone of voice. House sneered back at her, feeling the
sting of her claw
holes along his shin.
“You
are definitely
OUT of here, “ he snapped, “Cattus non
gratus. Shoo—“
He waved his hand at the kitten. She promptly lay down on the
sofa cushion,
tail flicking once more, her small side rising with each breath.
House picked
up the shoelace and threw it at her; she snagged it and jumped
down,
carrying it away proudly, her back end swaying a little.
Just
like Cuddy’s
ass---although fuzzier and smaller, House
amended. He
rose up and headed for the kitchen, looking for bait.
The
first victory was
hers, House sourly conceded as he hung
up his phone;
the conversation with his grocery delivery service had NOT gone
well.
“Okay,
so you want
three cans of cat food, a litter box and
cat litter delivered
tonight. Get a cat, Doctor House?”
“No,
I’m
trying to get rid of one.”
“Uh,
okay.
You’re ditching a cat, but you still need food
and a litter box?”
“I
don’t want
her to crap under my bed or on my bathroom rug
while I’m
getting rid of her okay? And I need the food for bait so the sooner
you get it
here the happier we’ll all be,
“Yeah,
okay. Do you
need any cat toys?”
“What
would I need
cat toys for? I’m getting RID of her!”
“Maybe
they could
be going away presents?”
At that
point House had
been tempted to throw the phone at
the kitten and let
HER finish the call, but he’d fought the urge and managed to
get through the
rest of the order, which now included a few six packs, just for
the extra
aggravation.
He
headed for the
bathroom with the last beer in the fridge,
figuring he had
just enough time for a soak before
For the
first time in a
long time, House was acutely
self-conscious of his every action; aware that he was being watched. He
reached
the bathroom and
dropped the plug into the tub then ran the water, adjusting it
to a nice level of
heat. He looked around, and spotted the kitten peering
around the doorsill,
her ears flicking forward in curiosity. House took a step
towards her and she retreated. He began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Hence
the name
‘fraidy’, eh?” came his mocking tone.
“Fear
me, I am the
alpha male of this domain.”
The
kitten plonked her
little butt down to watch, and
suddenly House fought
the urge to smile once again; she had chutzpah, he’d give
her that. With exaggeratedly blatant maneuvers, he stripped down,
dropping his
clothes on
the bathroom rug. “Normally I get a few twenties for these
sorts
of
moves, but
I can see you’ve left your wallet at
home—“ he told
her.
She
yawned.
“Lesbian.”
House accused, and grabbed the safety bar along
the wall,
stepping into the scalding water with a wince. He settled himself in,
popped
open the beer and gave a gusty sigh, resting his arms along the sides
of
the
tub. The heat felt blissfully good, countering the strain in his thigh.
He
sipped
his beer and scratched under his chin, wondering if it was time to
shave
yet.
The steam rose up, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
House
liked baths.
Showers were fine, but there was
something far more
primitive about a bath. The combination of weightlessness
and heat did a lot
to take the stress out of a day, and lazily he wondered if
Cuddy took long
bubble baths. The imagery intrigued him and House indulged his
libido-driven
imagination for a moment, picturing her sliding her naked self into a
foam-filled
tub.
Oh yeah.
His grin widened
a bit in appreciation.
Cuddy
would be sleek and
curvy, most assuredly lickable--
Something
rasped against
his wrist.
House
opened one eye; the
kitten was on the edge of the tub,
her tongue
scraping across the edge of his hand. He glared at her. She turned
to present
her minute ass to him and licked again. Sorely tempted as he was to
sweep
her into the water, House thought better of it and instead slowly
withdrew his
hand, still clutching his beer. The kitten followed his move with
big golden
eyes, keeping perfect balance on the narrow ledge of the tub edge.
“You
are getting on
my nerves.”
The
kitten paced forward,
and stared down at the water.
House sighed,
draping a washcloth over himself. “You HAD your chance to see
the
python.
Too late now.”
But the
kitten was far
more interested in dabbing a paw at a
patch of beaded
water on the tub edge, poking it playfully. House sipped more
beer, fascinated
by her concentration. She circled the water carefully,
jabbing, finally sticking
her nose into it and wetting her whiskers. Annoyed,
she shook her face, trying
to clean the drops off, and House finally brushed
her off the tub edge and
down onto the fluffy bath rug. She stalked off in a
huff and he laughed.
God she
was so like
Cuddy.
House
sloshed back into
the bath and thought for a while. By
the time he got
out and had climbed into a teeshirt and drawstring pants,
he’d
decided.
“Lucy
Addis,”
he called out, moving cheerfully into the
living room. “A perfectly recombined name for a stuck-up,
pushy,
self-centered
bit of pussy. What do
you think?”
She
wasn’t anywhere
in sight. House glanced around his
living room, gaze
moving from low to high, and finally he spotted her on the
very top of the
bookcase, tail flicking in agitation.
“Lucy,
Lucy,
Lucy—“ he chided, not moving any closer.
“Brilliant maneuver,
fuzzball. Now what are you going to do?”
Lucy
glanced down at him,
then paced along the top of the
case, carefully
eyeing the picture frames on the other side. House wondered for
a moment
how she’d managed to get up in the first place, then realized
she’d
climbed the
coat rack and he was impressed against his will. As he reached for
her, the
doorbell rang; House left her and went to open it.
rain. “Doctor House?”
“You
ask that every
time, and the answer is still the same,”
House snapped,
but absently. He shuffled to let the boy in.
and waited
as House counted out the money. He spotted the kitten and
grinned.
“That’s
the
one you’re trying to get rid of?”
“Yes,
so far
she’s avoided all the more obvious deathtraps.
I’m hoping to goad
her into jumping.”
“I
heard cats
always land on their feet,”
head.
“They
might land on
their feet, but they still end up bloody
little coasters if the
drop is high enough.”
After
zeroing in on the
six packs first.
“Ah,
my aggravation
medicine—“ he announced, setting it down
before getting
to the job of the litter box. It took only a few minutes, and as
he poured the
last trickles in, he heard a rustling and thudding behind him.
House grinned knowingly.
“When
all else
fails, the call of nature succeeds—“
He
carried the box into
the bathroom, setting it off to the
side of the toilet, and
Lucy darted to it, definitely interested. She dug,
squatted and buried in dainty
little actions that House watched with no shame
whatsoever. Finished, she sauntered up to him and circled one leg,
brushing
against his sweats. House
arched an eyebrow.
“Aha.
Ignoring me
hasn’t worked, so now you’re resorting to
feline feminine
wiles in hopes that I’ll spring for dinner.” He
limped out
towards the kitchen.
“Let’s see what
House
fished through the
remaining bag, pulling out the three
cans, and
examining them closely. His expression soured. “Good GOD what
sort of
slop
are they dredging up for pets these days? Liver Lumps? Sounds like a
biopsy,
not a dinner—“ House checked another can.
“Tuna Toes?
Okay, that’s just
wrong—any tuna that has toes has been swimming too close to
Bikini Atoll, if
you get my drift. What monstrosity of alliteration is on this last
one—Chicken
Chunks. Okay, some semblance of normality. Chicken Chunks it
is—“
He
opened the can and
found a bowl to dump the contents
into, then moved
to set it on the floor. Lucy skittered over to it, sniffed,
looked at him and then
settled into eating. House stepped around her and went
back to his sofa,
thinking hard again.
He
couldn’t keep
her; he knew that. It simply wasn’t practical
for him to keep a
pet. House had enough trouble remembering to do his laundry
and fill his gas
tank; the added nuisance of cleaning a littler box and opening
cans left him
wary. At the same time, he barely wanted to admit it, but
she’d
made the
evening interesting—more so than the movie had—and
he was
curious as
to
what she would choose to do next.
House
stretched out,
reached for the latest copy of the CDC
bulletin and
opened it. He was halfway through a report on Lyme disease when he
felt
small feet walking across his chest. He lifted the report to see Lucy
standing
on his sternum. She seemed to be over her wariness, and stared down at
him. House noted the delicacy of her long white whiskers; the pinkness
of the
insides of her big ears. She circled around and settled down onto his
chest.
“Just
like you own
the place—“ he grumbled, but softly.
House lowered his
journal went back to reading, very aware of a small patch of
warmth that
hadn’t been there before.
