Amendment Part III

[geelady.livejournal.com]

AMENDMENT
Part III
By GeeLady
cane...yadda, yadda...
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Wilson sat across the laminated table in the double booth while Gregory ate a child's sized

breakfast. A scrambled egg, one pancake, one piece of ham, a glass of orange juice, and a small

oatmeal cookie for dessert.

 

The child ate the scrambled eggs, the pancake, and the ham (after Wilson poured syrup on it), and

was now nibbling the cookie. Gregory hardly ever looked at him. Instead he examined the remnants

of his meal or the cookie in his hand. Look out the window at people walking by, or a bird when

it landed on the hood of a parked car.

When he did turn his round eyes to Wilson, they looked up with a indefinable expression. The

expression one might see a dog give a stranger who comes upon him after his loving family stopped

at the side of the highway and, without any reason a poor dog can fathom, kicked him out the back

door before driving away.

 

After only twenty-four hours as a single parent, Wilson had run out of things to talk to Gregory

about. He found himself neck deep in a pile of moral and what was sure to be financial

responsibility that he hadn't the faintest idea how to handle. He knew nothing about raising a

child.

What was he to do with Gregory when he finally went back to work (assuming he could)? How would

he handle pre-school or the teachers? And records. The school would want birth certificates and

other proof that Gregory was who Wilson said he was. Wilson had none of that and had no idea,

beyond knowing he would have to obtain them illegally, how to get it.

When ever he chanced to glance his monster of a problem in the eye, Wilson found himself on the

edge of tears. That monster he himself had created by rescuing his three year old friend; this

child who did not know him at all.

Years of comforting cancer kids had not equipped him (as he had previously believed) for

parenthood. He was shaken to his foundations that he had no idea how to talk to a little boy. And

beyond nourishment, sleep and toys, he had no natural instincts as to what a child thought, felt,

or needed at any given time.

Gregory House, this Gregory House, was a stranger to him. This small version was quiet, cowering

and looked at him with bewildered eyes. This Gregory was...foreign. "All done?"

Gregory nodded, Wilson paid the bill and they walked back to the dingy motel room. Gregory ran to

the bathroom and shut the door. Wilson was thankful that the boy was old enough to know how to do

that. When he was done, the child climbed up on the bed where his stuffed horse lay forgotten

from the night before, and took it in his hands.

Wilson washed his face, trying to clean off his own terrified uncertainties, and make some sort

of plan. What was he to do now? Wilson caught himself staring at Gregory in the mirror. He had an

idea. Some fun might take the edge off their first few daylight hours together. "Hey, I was

thinking, why don't we go to a Fair-"

"Where's Mommy?"

So quiet. So softly it had been spoken yet so obese with need that Wilson's heart jumped like a

nervous bird, its rate doubling in seconds. "Uh..." He had not had the presence of mind to

prepare himself for the questions that any child would for certain ask. Incredibly obtuse of him

not to spend a moment to consider it, and he had no brilliant answers either.

Then a plausible explanation popped in out of no-where. It was an awful lie, of course, but it

would have to suffice for now. "Your Mom isn't feeling well, Gregory, and she wanted me to take

you on a nice holiday so she can get well again."

That appeared to frighten rather than console him. "But,..but did she say w-when I can come

home?" Frightened hope. "I wanna' go home." A child's longing.

Wilson sat beside him on the bed. "You will." With each cruel lie, Wilson felt another black mark

against him in heaven. "I promise." There went yet another. God had his pen out and it was

dripping ink, and Gabriel was notching up his staff but good. I have become a child abductor and

a liar!

Gregory seemed on the verge of tears but he didn't cry. Not even a single one slipped out between

his eye lids. But he did make a great sigh, a huge intake of air into a deep place somewhere

inside him, and then an exhale that showed how vast and hollow that place was. Dried up and left

to either stand or crumble. A forgotten water well.

That single exhausted gesture lent to Wilson the impression that Gregory, at even as young an age

as three and a half, was used to being denied the things he wanted most. He had already learned

what it was to be abandoned to sleep by yourself in the dark and cold. Wilson wondered at what

age John House had begun to "teach" his son about the physically and emotionally destructive

properties of water and ice.

"So?" Wilson tried to sound up and chipper, but his words emerged like over-tightened piano wire;

strained and out of tune.

Gregory just nodded to the suggestion of a Fair, and Wilson sighed with relief. Maybe they could

both have some fun for a few hours and forget their shaken tray of fears.
-
-
The buildings of a new town whipped by as Wilson drove his rental car into Atlanta. He was

voiding his insurance on the car - and technically voiding his contract with the rental company -

 for crossing the state line, but that was the least of his concerns. Eventually he'd drop the

car off somewhere and he and Gregory would make alternate travel arrangements. Perhaps back to

New Jersey. Perhaps not.

Wilson still found himself in a whirlwind of uncertainty and fear as to his situation. Did he

still work for Lisa Cuddy? Did House?

Wilson figured, as soon as he got up the nerve to call Princeton, he'd find out the answers to

those questions and more. For now, for right now, he needed to come to terms with his own

criminal actions and his, he believed, noble motive behind those actions - that of saving a

little boy from a decade of abuse at the hands of his father. Surely that was worth the sacrifice

of a job? Surely a mere man's conscience can survive that?

Wilson parked the car beside a Holiday Inn near the crowded and anonymous center of the city of

Atlanta, Georgia.

"Here we are. This room will be nicer."

Gregory nodded and fingered his new stuffed bear Wilson had bought him at the playground back in

a North Carolina town.

"Did you like the playground?" Wilson asked him. He had been unable to locate any Fair within

driving distance of the shabby motel, so he had settled on driving to a waterside park with a few

children's rides, hot-dog booths, and portable stands hung with stuffed toys and other

nick-knacks for sale at a heavily marked-up price. Wilson knew he was bribing the child with toys

and fun to get him to accept what was happening, finding it particularly ironic that he himself

was having difficulty accepting it.

Gregory had obligingly gone on the swings, ate the ice-cream and thanked him for the new stuffed

animal. It was easy to see, though, that the boy hadn't much enjoyed himself. He appeared in fact

to be pretending to have fun, like he was playing his own little game of bribe, perhaps to get

his kidnapper to like him, or maybe so this dark-haired stranger would even take pity on him and

let him go home to his mom.

Wilson checked them in to a large, two-bed suite. It was just another hotel-room but it gave him

a sense of a lighter, if temporary, soul. He didn't feel quite so mad with guilt and crazy with

the need to see the whole thing through to, he hoped, a better end. The bright clean hotel room

slaked off a little more of the accumulated dirt on his troubled spirit.

Once Gregory hit the bed, his eyes began to drift closed, and Wilson left him sleeping, himself

slipping out to a local Internet Cafe. He wouldn't be gone too long.

Everything around him appeared normal enough, the place he was living seemed the same, though the

location he and Gregory were residing was less than what he was used to. Before he could initiate

any kind of change, there were other things he thought he needed to know. Did his job still

exist? Did he still exist? Was this a dream? Some kind of potion that had found its way onto his

skin and into his bloodstream from Aunt Ronnie's letter?

That last wasn't too likely.

Wilson purchased a small cappuccino and took a seat on a high stool in front of a computer

station set against a wall that was all windows. Outside people strolled and talked, carrying

their shopping bags and briefcases.

Wilson paid his two dollars for a half hour and logged in to Princeton Plainsboro's internal

network. To his relief, he got in. Wilson read as much as he could locate on himself. Apparently,

he was still an oncologist at Plainsboro, Lisa Cuddy was still the Dean of Medicine, and some of

the other nursing staff were still present and accounted for. He recognized a few names.

But not a Doctor Cameron, or a Chase or a Foreman. There was no Thirteen either, and no record of

a Doctor Taub or Kutner - no Fellows at all. Wilson took a steadying breath, having saved the

most important name for last. He typed "Gregory House" into the search box of the hospitals

employee manifest. The search engine's response was swift.

"No record found."

His House was gone.
-
-
The next day, he drove them to New Jersey and headed straight to Plainsboro Hospital. Wilson felt

too freaked out to drive to his own apartment and, assuming House's apartment would now be lived

in by a stranger, avoided that part of town altogether. He was afraid that if he even swung by

the place he might lose his false feeling of self control and calm, and bawl like a baby or -

worse - go up to the door and knock. A stranger would answer and that would make House being

no-more real, and right now he didn't think he could handle that corner of reality.

Little Gregory sat strapped into his seat beside him, oblivious to his kidnappers mental and

emotional struggles, but curious enough about the new town to be peering out the window at

everything that rushed by. Wilson looked over frequently, startled to hear Gregory's comments on

the things he saw. And not only a child's remarks, though there were a few of those (like when he

saw a policeman on a police horse standing on a busy street corner, he simple pointed a finger

and blurted: "Hey- a man on a horse!"), but also some very astute observations for a child of not

yet four. For example he had asked Wilson "How come you don't go to work like Daddy? Are you a

bum?"

A derogatory word he had no doubt heard from his military father on more than one occasion.

Wilson could well imagine John House curling his lip up at whom-ever he viewed as lazy,

non-military riff-raff. 

Wilson had replied that he had a job, yes but that he - that they, were on vacation. The question

pleased him, though. Gregory had grown curious enough about him to begin seeking answers, and

that couldn't be a bad thing. Wilson was startled to learn first hand how young Gregory's

intelligence had blossomed (and was blossoming), and how strongly at that age personal

perceptions and opinions can be forged in one so young.

In House's case, Wilson knew that he and his father had often clashed over his unusual intellect,

his rooted opinions on everything from food to the military, and his penchant for expressing

himself without reservation or apology (those father-son conversations must have been fireworks).

And Wilson found himself occasionally flustered by his rapid education at Gregory's hands, on how

uncomfortably honest young children could be. Gregory often combined his child's naked-eyes

observations with unflinching boldness. Like when he remarked on Wilson's excessive need to

primp, though that was not how the boy had worded it. "You stand in front of the mirror a lot

like my Mommy. Are you secretly a girl?"

After that Wilson vowed to do his daily grooming with the bathroom door closed. He of course

wasn't secretly a girl, and didn't feel like a girl (though he was in lov - had been in love with

a man), he just felt unsure of himself if he wasn't properly dressed and groomed. He knew it was

psychological, a defense mechanism to ward off the negative opinions of others: give them no

quarter to dislike you and you'll never be friendless. Most of the time, it worked.

The only person he had ever been around where he felt relaxed enough to drop the facade of Mister

Perfect, had been House. House told you exactly what he thought of you whether your hair was

combed or not. 

"Gregory." Wilson said once they'd settled in so far hotel number three during their short

acquaintance, "I need to go into work for a while. Do you think you'll be all right here, alone

for a while?"

Gregory was eating dry cereal from a snack-sized box of Captain Crunch. Since discovering the

hotel room was equipped with a small fridge, Wilson had run for a few groceries and stocked up on

a few things, like cereal and milk, sandwiches and juice. The child didn't stopped chewing but

nodded his head. He was set up in front of the TV and a cartoon was on. Wilson recognized it as

Sponge-Bob.

"Good." Wilson knew leaving a child so young alone in a hotel room probably violated a guardian

law or two, but he had no choice. Once they were settled some where, he could figure out what to

do with Gregory while he was at work. A baby-sitter perhaps. More likely a day-care. But there

were no records of this Gregory, were there? He would have to deal with all of these problems

soon.
-
-
She looked just the same. Fewer lines around her eyes perhaps, though it was difficult to tell

from outside her office. Wilson wondered if that had anything to do with there being no Greg

House on her payroll, or in her hair, on a weekly basis. Wilson opened the door and entered.

"Doctor Cuddy." A simple, more formal greeting than was his norm. It was best.

Cuddy glanced up from her paper work, not surprised at all to see him in her office. "Morning.

How was your week off?"

Wilson had come in all ready with a half plausible explanation as to why he had been absent from

work for four days. "Uh - good. Just fine. Just wanted to let you know I'm back."

Cuddy gave him an odd look. "But you're not due in until Monday."

"Yes,...just thought I'd let you know I was back in town, and I'll be in my office for an hour or

so."

Cuddy nodded, not particularly interested in her employee's time-off activities. "I had no idea

you'd left town, but sure, fine. Thanks."

Wilson almost left right then, but now he had courage enough to do it. Time to have it asked and

behind him forever. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

She nodded, but kept her eyes on the work in front of her. "Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of a physician named House? Gregory House?"

Cuddy shook her head immediately. "No, sorry, I haven't."

Wilson nodded. An affirmation of something he already suspected was, though impossible,

never-the-less true. "Thanks. I didn't think so." 

He had to at least stroll by it. Now that Wilson knew for certain that he would not be there, it

didn't scare him so much. The mourning of him had not yet come. Difficult to do when one was

helping that very lover (though much shorter and far, far younger) dress himself in the morning

and wipe his nose; now no more a lover but a son.

The office was bustling with staff. No one he recognized. In fact, Cuddy appeared to be the only

person he did recognize at Plainsboro. Wilson felt a terrible nostalgia and sense of loss

standing there seeing unfamiliar faces. The whole place felt wrong. He felt wrong.

Wilson left and did not look back. He visited a local library on the way back to the hotel and

spent a few minutes typing out, first, his CV, and then his letter of resignation, faxing  the

resignation off to Cuddy and his CV to several hospitals in and around San Francisco, Las Angeles

and San Diego.

Staying at Plainsboro was unthinkable. Raising a child while pretending everything around him was

normal (or that he and the boy were normal within everything), was more fakery than he thought he

could stand. What they needed was a clean break. A big change.

They would move. Four thousand miles, maybe more; across the country, and start again somewhere

else.

Wilson left the library with a small spring in his step. He felt lighter of heart now since the

on-the-spot decision. It was impulsive - unlike him, but felt correct. Wilson drove himself back

to the hotel, getting worried about little Gregory being all alone for almost two hours. It was

incredible - startling really - how fast his heart had become tied up in the child. How intensely

protective of him he had become over only a few days.

Did he love this child? Wilson honestly did not know. Perhaps, he was on the way to loving him.

He had loved House more than anyone. This small, small House needed him even more than his House

had. His house, broken so young, but a survivor, had managed fairly well in life.

This time it would be different. Gregory, this time around, would not just survive, he would

thrive and conquer. He would fulfill the full potential of that man, and be happy in his doing

it.

Wilson heart had ached for House when he had discovered his lover's hidden history of abuse.

Now his heart was flying with the knowledge that the abuse had been cut short by his own hand,

and Gregory he would send off on a different path, a better one, with love to guide him.
-
-
Wilson stepped onto the American Airlines jet and handed his boarding passes to the flight

attendant.

"Seats 14 A and B. Half way down on your left." She said, directing them to the middle

coach-class seats.

Wilson thanked her and settled Gregory down in the aisle seat, buckling him in. Presently a

pre-flight server came around with drinks and snacks. "Would you like something?" She addressed

the small boy who looked back with eyes round and nervous.

Wilson explained. "He's never been in a plane before."

The woman with the brunette bob and upturned nose was all sympathy and adoring eyes. "He's a

sweetie." She said, and then whispering to Wilson as though it were some kind of secret discovery

- "And what wonderfully bright blue eyes." Then she asked. "Your son?"

Again the inquiry. Again the questioning look from a stranger's eyes passing back and forth

between his own face and that of Gregory's. They looked nothing alike at all, he knew. Hair,

complexion, eyes - nothing. But, of course, especially the eyes. Two browns don't often make a blue.

Even a brown plus blue may not equal a blue. That had to be the reason behind it the ever

repeated question. His own were not just brown but dark brown, and Gregory's as blue as the

mid-morning sky they would be flying through.

Wilson looked down at the child. Gregory felt like his more and more. Wilson felt, in fact, a

powerful sense of love come over him, leaving him almost dizzy with it. Yes, he thought, yes I

think I do love this child. He's mine now. It makes sense that I would love him. He'll be safe

with me. Happy. No one can take him away, or hurt him ever again.

This time Wilson didn't try to explain the eyes away. This time he let his face, turned toward

the boy with affection, tell her the story.

Wilson smiled down at Gregory who was busy trying to see up the aisles and craning his neck to

look out the other windows. Wilson ran fingers through the small head of mousy curls. By the

clear and deep affection on his face, no one would have doubted the sincerity in Wilson's words.

At that moment he would have in fact passed every daddy question put to him.

Wilson turned up a smile to her that indicated he not only appreciated her asking, but that he

recognized and understood her unspoken thought: Yes, isn't my son beautiful? Yes, isn't he

special?

Wilson sipped his coffee and leaned back in his seat.

"Yes, Gregory is my son."
-
-
Wilson was tiring of the lie, so this time he adjusted it a bit. Too many lies can cause ulcers.

"Gregory is my adopted son." He explained to the school principle of Gregory's new elementary

school. Day one of Grade one was to start in one week. It was an expensive private school who

believed in an early start to education. Most children began classes between ages four and

one-half to five years, and Wilson had managed to secure some fake records to assure Gregory's

placement. Those and the fact that he himself was a local physician sealed his son's spot in the

roster. Prestigious parents and students. No riff-raff allowed due to the simple truth than most

local riff-raff could never have afforded the outrageous tuition.

The lady with the blonde-gray coiffure and plump figure poured into her form-fitting skirt and

jacket, leaned down to shake five year old Gregory's hand. "Nice to meet you, Gregory. I'm Misses

Fuleston. I'm certain that we're all going to love having you here."

Gregory shook her hand and smiled as he had been taught, though somewhat stiffly. A good little

soldier. "Hi." He said.

The kind principle asked Wilson. "When may we meet his mother?"

Always assumptions first. Then explanations, then apologies. Wilson was growing weary of that,

too. "Um, there is no...wife... anymore." Wilson added (with just a touch of irritation to stall

any further inquiries on the absent mom) - "I'm sorry, I thought that had already been made note

of?"

Gregory piped in with his four and one-half year old child's crystal thoughts - "He's my new

daddy now, 'cause they threw me away."

At her shocked expression, Wilson stepped closer to her and said quietly. "Gregory's had some

awfully rough times before he came to me. Some children...don't always come with an ideal set of

parents the first time around." It was specific enough that she probably wouldn't feel the need

to ask any more uncomfortable questions, but vague enough that she got very little real

information at all. What it said was: Gregory's real parents were pricks.

"Of course. My apologies. I completely understand." She said.

Wilson thought - No you don't, Misses Nosey, and that's the way I'm going to keep it.

He and his son returned home to dinner and some television. Wilson had been doing a lot of that

the last couple of years - eating in front of the television, and had put on weight because of

it. He now had a small pot belly. Being a dad meant spending a lot of time simply baby-sitting.

More trips to the park were in order. Starting next week, he vowed.

For now, Gregory was fine, and he himself felt quite content with things the way there were.

Their life together was almost the way he had envisioned it back during those first blind,

unsteady few months. It hadn't been an easy road, but they were finally traveling along smoothly,

and with only one or two pot holes of note so far.
-
-
"Doctor Wilson..." Misses Fuleston sat forward very earnestly, her hands folded neatly on the

desk in front of her. She was attempting to give every appearance of being relaxed but her top

teeth kept worrying her bottom lip, hinting at tension. "We are all enjoying having Gregory here.

He is a very bright boy."

Wilson felt a surge of parental pride rush through him. Yes, his son was smart. They had no idea

yet how smart he was, or would be. Gregory was not his biological son, but still the pride over

him swelled in his heart, like a tide.

"However we have encountered some difficulties with his behavior."

Wilson felt fear replace the pride. A rip tide. "Oh? What sort of difficulties?"

"Well, as I said he is very bright, but he seems to display a high level of competitiveness, so

much so that he doesn't get along with the other children."

Now it was hurt pride. He was insulted. "Maybe it's the other children who aren't getting along

with him."

Misses Fuleston smiled wanly. "I wish this were easier to say but Gregory is aggressive toward

the other students here. He has damaged some of their work, seemingly for no reason other than

spite, and he has on two occasions that I am aware of, struck another student."

Wilson felt panic now. His son had thus far been a well behaved child. Very cooperative at home

and obedient in almost every way. What had changed? "Well, we're both going through a rough time.

He lost his mother several years ago, and we've had to move more than once."

"If it's a bad patch he's suffering I am sorry, but the aggressive behavior has been getting

worse. Last week he pushed another boy to the ground and punched him in the nose. Gave him a

bloody nose."

Wilson felt his stable little world of father and son wobble. "Are you certain? He must have been

provoked."

"Perhaps, but the other children say he wasn't. He simply lashed out."

"Maybe the other boy said something..." Wilson hoped.

"Possibly. But still, to attack another because of a few words..."

Yes. True. An over-reaction. The type of reaction that could get Gregory into some real trouble

some day if the behavior was not kicked to the curb right now. "I'll speak with him."

"May I suggest - perhaps an after-school activity? Little League, music, swimming...sometimes

boys need an outlet for their energies."

A good idea. Wilson smiled, assured her that Gregory's behavior would rapidly improve and thanked

her for her concern. But as he walked out to his car, he didn't feel quite as confident as he

knew he had sounded.

Gregory was already seated in the car, buckled in, his six year old scowl set on his face and his

arms crossed in defiance.

Wilson climbed in and started the engine. Began to drive the few miles to their apartment. "You

want to tell me what happened today in school?" Misses Fuleston had called him at work to come

and pick up his son early. Fortunately his last patient of the day had left and he was free to

cut out early. He was working regular hours at a local free clinic. Not as interesting as

oncology nor as well paying, but it gave him a relatively normal Monday to Friday, seven to five

job, so he could come home to his son each night.

Gregory shook his head.

"Your teacher said you punched another boy in the face. Is that true?"

He nodded.

Well, that's honesty at least. A good start. "How's your fist?"

"D'znt hurt."

"Why did you hit him?"

"'Cause he's a jerk."

Wilson felt shivers run up and down his spine. The words, the inflection, their bullet-like

delivery,...so like his old friend now long gone. "That's not a good reason to hit someone,

Gregory. He must have done or said something."

Gregory was kicking his feet against the under-dash, easily reaching the hard plastic with his

sneaker clad feet. Some of his eventually height was already coming into play and he was taller

than almost all of the other boys. Perhaps that was why the fight had occurred. They might have

been taunting him for being tall; for being different. Children were frightened of different.

Gregory blurted "He said I was a stupid brainiac who was just a bastard 'cause I don't have no

mother."

"Don't have a mother." Wilson corrected automatically. He sighed. Name calling. Every child's un

welcomed rite of passage. "Do you think you're a bastard?"

"I don't have a mother anymore."

"That doesn't mean you're a bastard. Do you even know what a bastard is?"

"Someone who was an accident."

"No, it's...you were not an accident, Gregory. You, that is - never mind. That's not important.

Look, if this other kid is such a jerk, stay away from him. Just hang around with your nice

friends."

Gregory said nothing.

Wilson encouraged. "You must have good friends? Friends who won't call you names? Someone you

like?"

The boy said it - laid it on the table as blunt fact - "Nobody likes me there." But

never-the-less the hurt in his words was obvious.

Wilson felt a little bit of his heart crumble. Unfair that a six year old should be ostracized

because of his smarts. "Is it because you're smarter than they are? Is it because they're

jealous?"

He shrugged. "They just don't like me. I'dunno' why."

"How about we invite two or three of them over after school. We could all go swimming, or to the

baseball park. Is that a good idea?"

Gregory shrugged again. "Won't work."

"How do you know if we don't try?"

Gregory looked out the window for a minute, his eyes moving back and forth as though mentally

searching among his school mates who might be the least likely to say no. "Hal' might come. He's

religious - from Arabia or something, no one bothers him 'cause he doesn't speak much English.

And Michael maybe. The kids hate him even more than they hate me."

"Why do they hate him?" Most of his son's school mates sounded like a gang of mini Gotti's,

everyone running around hating one another.

"'Cause he's stupid. I mean real stupid, not just the school-stupid type."

Eerie how much Gregory sounded like his middle-aged counter-part. From another life. Over and

done with. "You mean he's challenged? Mentally slow."

"Yeah." Gregory saw a McDonald's double arch zip by, and asked for burgers and fries. Wilson knew

it was resorting to the bribe thing but - "Sure. But you have to promise no more school yard

fights. Okay?"

"Okay." Automatic agreement. There was cheeseburgers to be had.

"I mean it."

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"Ok-a-a-y - " An exasperated whine. " - Dad. I promise."

Wilson heard the word, when for the first time it fell off Gregory's lips, and it sounded

wonderful. Scary and wonderful and weird. A good, satisfying weird. Wilson wondered if the boy

had heard himself, or realized he had even said it, but for the very, very first time, Gregory

had called him dad.

Wilson was thrilled and suddenly fearful all at once. Had Gregory forgotten about his parents now

- over two years later? That would be healthiest, Wilson reasoned. Best to put them behind him;

an old dream of strangers he had once had, now best left forgotten.

Wilson was suddenly so happy. Gregory thought of him as dad, and not "Jim", or even worse

"Mister" - his usual moniker for this tall man who took care of him in lieu of his parents.

At that moment all was right with the world, and everything forgiven in an instant. One school

yard fight. Practically expected in a young boy. Almost of a rite of passage.

"Okay,...s-son." He stuttered it. Saying it aloud didn't feel quite natural on his lips. Not yet.

But almost. Damn everything else to hell - almost! "McDonald's it is."
-
-
-
From another life, over and done with...

Blyth sat down to watch the news and was shocked to see her own house right there on the

television.

"John!" She called out into the yard, where her husband was changing the oil on her car.

"John, we're on the news again. I think it's an update on that poor man."

"That again? I want to finish this." He answered, no interest in his voice at all.

Well, Blyth was interested and returned to her TV set.

Several years ago, a man had turned up dead on their back lawn. Official cause of death was a

heart attack though the medical examiner at the time had not stated such as established fact. The

autopsy had revealed some minor heart damage but no arterial blockages. The man also appeared to

have suffered a fairly recent skull fracture and had a wound on his leg many years old.
His blood alcohol level was not consistent with recent over-indulgence but his liver showed signs

of scarring from alcohol and drug abuse.

He had carried no identification and no money. It was theorized that he was just another homeless

drifter who had come into town on the train, as many did, and ended up passed out on the House's

back lawn, dying from exposure and heart failure.

Matching fingerprints had not been found in any law enforcement data-base and no one turned up at

the morgue to identify the photo they had released of his face, asleep in death. Dental records

turned up nothing.

"The poor man." Blyth had said to the authorities. A man dead on her lawn. How awful! She had

cried a little at the sadness, and the fright, of it; of death so close.

The police had soothed her, finished their interviews of both her and her husband and taken the

body away.

Tonight's news cast contained a small piece on cold case files, and her poor dead drifter was one

of them. Blyth paid close attention to the details.

"Once again, if you think you knew this man or have any information as to his identity, you are

asked to call your local law enforcement detachment. After today, the case is been officially

closed as Unsolved."

"That poor man." She mused and sipped her coffee, glancing around her perfect living room. No

children did or had lived in her house, thus Blyth easily kept it sparkling clean and as neat as

a pin. John had insisted on both arrangements prior to their wedding. Having no children

underfoot or to tuck in at night had been hard on her, but she loved John, so...

"I wonder who he was..."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Part IV asap

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

mod note

[spoopy.livejournal.com]

In future, could you please either cut this completely or post a much shorter excerpt of the story, as the excerpt you currently have is much too big to be outside of a cut. Thank you.

Re: mod note

[geelady.livejournal.com]

No problem. 8^)

[indigo-inferno.livejournal.com]

Woah. This is really something. I can't wait to see what happens next. I thought Wilson would do well as a dad. Especially House's. I think he should take House to museums and get him puzzles and books to no end.

I really love the theory behind this. ♥

Blue Eyes

[(Anonymous)]

Is con/crit ok? If not please ignore the following:

Two browns can make a blue and the darkness of the brown does not preclude a blue. Yes, blue is a recessive gene but it is still possible that two brown eyed parents can carry the blue gene and produce a blue eyed child.

I was a little surprised that Wilson didn't have House enrolled in a zillion enrichment courses; languages, music, sports, etc. especially since he knows that House will enjoy these pursuits in the future.

I've always enjoyed your work and look forward to seeing the rest of this intriguing story. Pulling this one person into the future creates so many interesting ramifications in the "past" as well as the "present". Once you think about it, it boggles the mind how many things will have changed (or not changed) without House shining his particular light in the shadows.

Nibis

Re: Blue Eyes

[(Anonymous)]

Thanks!
Esp' the blue-eye info' bit. I think I'll go back in a insert a "normally" & a "usually".
8^)
Genie

Re: Blue Eyes

[(Anonymous)]

If you can believe the internet, the odds of two browns producing a blue is 12%, one brown and one blue producing a blue is 37%, so not so very rare if his "spouse" was a blue and he carried the recessive blue gene. Of course if Wilson did not have the recessive blue (and there's no way to tell just looking at his eyes, or even looking at his family tree, the recessive gene can travel a looong way incognito) only then would the odds of producing a blue have been 0%.

Thank you for sharing your stories, can't wait to see the next chapter,

Nibis