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Fic: Family, Friends and Other Complications, Part Five
Title: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Five: When John and Blythe Moved
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Wilson and Blythe both begin to realize that they don’t know everything.
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
House didn’t knock, just pushed open the door to Wilson's office and stood there, leaning against the door frame.
Wilson kept reading the lab reports in Sarah Peters' file. “I could have been with a patient,” he said.
“But you weren’t,” House pointed out.
“But I could have been.”
“But you weren’t.”
Wilson put a finger on the page to mark his place and looked up. “Did I somehow miss the start of this conversation or are you just wandering around opening random doors?”
“Just yours,” House said. “And I finished off the lasagna last night.”
Wilson blinked, looked down at his desk, then back at House again. "Am I going to need a map to follow this conversation?"
"Depends," House said. "When my Mom calls, you can tell her that I told you I ate the last of her lasagna from the freezer.”
“Did you?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“There’s a point?” Wilson closed his eyes and rubbed them. When he opened them again, House was still there.
“My mother bugs me about what I’ve been eating, and I avoid the question. Then she calls you and you tell her that I told you that I had the lasagna. That way neither of us tells a lie, she doesn’t figure out that anyone’s telling a lie and everyone's happy. See how that works?”
“Not even remotely,” Wilson said.
“I'll explain the details later,” House said. He closed the door as the phone rang, then leaned back in. “Oh, and tell her that the fifteenth will be fine.”
The door closed again and Wilson stared at the oak paneling. The phone rang a third time and he picked it up.
“This is James Wilson.”
“Hello, James, it’s Blythe, am I calling at a bad time?”
Wilson shook his head and wondered if House had told his mother when to call, or just guessed when she would.
“James?”
“Sorry, I’m here,” he said. “I was just ... finishing up something.”
“I can call back.”
“No, no, you’re fine. How are you?”
“Fine, we’re both fine.”
Each conversation began the same way, sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. Her calls would usually come through on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, with the occasional Monday if House hadn’t felt like answering the phone over the weekend. The phone would ring, Blythe would apologize for interrupting him, and he'd assure her everything was fine.
Some days she would seem at ease, happy, laughing at some joke House had made at his expense. Other days she was anxious, skipping directly from the opening pleasantries to voicing some concern. Usually she was right, and there was something wrong.
“How did you know?” Wilson asked one spring day as a cold front and thunderstorms were fighting their way across the state, and House had called in sick, in too much pain to even deal with the walk to his car.
“He was quiet when I talked to him,” Blythe had said. “Greg is never quiet.”
Wilson thought that she must be wrong. He’d seen House stew for hours when he was working out some puzzle, but he watched more closely after that. Blythe was right. There was an entirely different kind of silence as well, one that was its own early warning system to whatever was going on inside him.
And that silence didn’t just signal pain. House had been telling a story in the cafeteria one day, mocking some patient, when a nurse stopped at his table. She’d smiled, told House he was looking better, and that she was happy for him. Wilson remembered seeing her in the ICU, monitoring House’s vitals.
House looked down at his tray. “Thanks,” was all he said. Wilson never heard the end of the story.
“He does the same thing when he’s upset with his father,” Blythe had said. “He just ... won’t say a thing.”
Wilson realized Blythe had asked him a question, and he snapped himself out of his memories.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I really have caught you at a bad time, haven’t I?”
“No, really. I’m done with everything now. You have my undivided attention.”
Blythe laughed. “It was nothing important. I was just wondering if you had dinner with Greg last night.”
“No,” Wilson said. “But he told me he had the lasagna.”
She laughed again. He was glad to hear her in a good mood. Too often lately she had seemed anxious when she called. “I still don’t know whether to believe him, but I’m sure that’s what he told you.”
Wilson smiled. “So are you two still coming for a visit next week?”
“Actually, no. We’ll be busy packing. John got his transfer.”
“To Quantico?”
“We’ll be there by the fifth,” she said.
Wilson remembered House’s comment about the fifteenth. “So were you planning on coming up for a visit after you get settled in?”
“That’s one of the reasons I called,” Blythe said. “Feel free to tell me if it’s not a good idea, but I was wondering if it might be possible for you and Greg to come down to Virginia for a day.”
“Um,” Wilson opened his calendar.
“It’s silly, I know, but there’s a restaurant that I loved when we were there before, and our anniversary is coming up ....”
“Congratulations,” Wilson said. “How many years?”
“It’ll be forty-three -- and please, James, I’m not angling for a gift.”
“I didn’t think you were,” he said.
She laughed again. “No, of course not. I’m just asking you to give up an entire day to make an old woman happy.”
Wilson flipped his calendar to the middle of the next month. He wasn’t surprised to see which day was free. “How about the fifteenth?”
They took the train south to Washington, then picked up a rental car.
“It’ll be easier that way,” House said. “Besides, it’s harder to storm out after an argument with my Dad when I have to wait for a bus.”
Wilson was pretty sure that House had fumed at a bus stop more than once.
They were still ten miles outside of Quantico when House ordered Wilson to pull over at a rest stop. Wilson watched him slowly ease his leg out onto the ground and heard the rattle of pills before House finally pushed himself up and out of the small car. Wilson watched as he took slow, silent laps around the parking lot. He wondered how bad the trip back to Princeton would be.
He was quiet as Wilson followed the signs leading to the base.
"It's different in there," House finally said as they waited for traffic outside the main gate. “He'll be different,” he said. He turned toward Wilson. "He's not who he'd like you to think he is."
Wilson shrugged. "Who is?"
He pulled forward and waited for the guard to clear them. "So why did you agree to come?"
"So you'd know," House said, and the guard waved them through.
House directed him to take a right at the statue of the flag raising on Iwo Jima, then down past rows of buildings. They could have been offices or storage buildings or barracks for all Wilson could tell. They all looked the same: the same red brick, the same number of windows, the same door at the center of each building.
The landscape eased a bit as they turned from the main road toward family housing -- the concrete making way for green lawns and shrubs, even the occasional playground.
He trusted House’s directions. He would have been lost. The houses all looked the same, just different colored variations on the same bland theme.
Blythe stepped out onto the porch as they pulled up in front of a blue house and met them halfway across the yard.
"Sorry we're late," House said, and gave her a hug. "It's Wilson's fault."
"A likely story," Blythe said, and she gave Wilson a quick hug too.
They walked slowly up to the door, and Wilson saw House hesitate as they approached the front steps, but only for a moment. He wondered if Blythe noticed, but then saw in her eyes that she had.
House wasn’t watching for her reaction. He had one hand on his cane, the other on the railing and his eyes focused on the concrete as he pulled himself up each of the two steps. Blythe stood next to the screen door, holding it open for him. Wilson followed them inside.
The furniture was plain, but looked comfortable. There were a few photos on the wall -- one of House and his father when House was maybe ten years old, another a portrait of all three of them taken a few years later, Blythe smiling, her husband serious and her son with an expression that Wilson recognized as frustration.
“I don’t have very many photos with all of us together,” Blythe said, and Wilson looked over to see her looking at the photo as well.
Wilson heard a noise from somewhere in the back of the house, recognized John House's voice.
"John had to take a call," she said, turning away to look at him then her son. "Something about setting up some meetings next week."
Wilson nodded and looked around some more. “You’re all unpacked?”
“It’s easy after the first fifteen moves,” House said, and Blythe smiled and nodded.
There was an afghan spread across the back of the couch, and he wondered if Blythe had knitted it. The bookshelves held volumes on military history, travel writings and a few novels, mostly classics: Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Jane Austen... Wilson tried to imagine House as a boy, reading the volume of Poe’s short stories or following Holmes onto the moors.
He heard steps in the hallway and turned as the Colonel walked into the living room.
“You finally made it, I see,” he said.
Wilson found himself staring at the man. He'd met John House plenty of times, seen him in restaurants, in the hospital, in hotels and at House’s place. This man somehow seemed to be different, and Wilson realized he’d never seen him in uniform. Each button stood out against the olive-green fabric, the metal buckle gleamed and his shoes had a perfect coat of polish. There were rows of ribbons on his jacket -- the only splash of color -- and he stood tall. He seemed to take up more space, seemed to absorb more light.
“I’m glad we didn’t make early reservations,” he said, and Wilson thought that even his words had a harsher edge. Wilson wondered if the man really did carry himself differently, or if it was just his own perception of him that had changed.
This was a man who was at home in a world with rules and regulations, he realized, always knowing the way things should be -- the way they had to be. He tried to picture House living in that world, but came up short. Wilson wondered if the man he had met every other time was the real John House, or if that had been a civilian disguise, and this was the real one. He looked over at House, who caught his eye and nodded slightly.
“John, don’t complain after they’ve come all this way,” Blythe said.
“I’m not complaining,” the Colonel said. “Just stating facts.”
Wilson tried to remember everything that House had ever told him about his father, and then pictured this version of John House in those stories, rather than the one he’d known before. Somehow every image he’d had shifted, became something different, even if none of the words changed.
“You were complaining,” Blythe teased, and touched his arm. It was only when she stood next to him that he relaxed, softened. It was the only time Wilson recognized the man he thought he’d known.
“You got some new jewelry,” House said, and Wilson turned as he saw House motion toward his father’s uniform.
Blythe brushed her fingers across the silver eagles on his collar. “The promotion came with the transfer,” she said, and smiled. “He thought you wouldn’t notice, but I told him you would.” Wilson wasn’t sure whether she was more proud of her husband or her son. He looked back and forth between all three of them.
“I thought you already were a colonel,” Wilson said.
“Lieutenant colonel,” House explained. “He’s a bird colonel now.”
“A suitable rank for a man being pushed toward retirement,” the Colonel mumbled, and Blythe touched his arm.
“Nobody’s pushing you,” she said. “Whenever you’re ready is fine by me.” She smiled, and the Colonel took her hand, seemed to ease once more toward into the civilian that Wilson recognized.
-------------
John and Greg sat side-by-side in the front seat of the car as John drove them off the base and to the restaurant. Neither of them spoke to each other. James was quiet too, just staring ahead of him, though all he could see was the back of John’s head. Blythe wondered what he was thinking about.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I know you must have had other things to do.”
James looked over at her and nodded. “It’s all right. It’s been an ... interesting trip.” He went back to watching the road over John’s shoulder.
John pointed out his office as they drove by and James turned to look at it, three stories high and brick with white trim, looking like so many of the other buildings on this part of the base. Blythe noticed his foot was tapping on the floorboards as they drove.
"So, when is the wedding?" she asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you have more than one coming up?"
James finally smiled. "In three weeks," he said.
“You’re nervous,” she said, though it was just a guess at what was on his mind.
“Not about the wedding,” James said, though he still seemed distracted. “We’re keeping it small. Just ...” He stared out the front window again for a moment, then turned back to her, ignoring whatever had been on his mind before. “I’m sure Greg has told you that I’ve been married before.”
Blythe nodded, remembering a few comments. “I thought he was joking,” she said.
“Afraid not,” James smiled. “This will be my third. Third time’s a charm, right?”
Blythe tried to hide her surprise. It didn’t work. James chuckled when she stared at him.
“I know,” he said. “I’m surprised Julie ever agreed to go out with me in the first place.”
“You must have been just a child when you first got married,” Blythe said. She wondered if he’d gotten married too young, maybe he hadn’t been ready.
“I was twenty-two,” he said. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-one,” Blythe said. “John was twenty-three. But things were different then.”
James shook his head. “I thought I was ready. We both did. I guess I wasn’t.”
Blythe thought about how young James must have been then. How young she had been then. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”
James shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “It was.”
He turned and looked out the window again, watching as they passed out of the gates, out onto the main road. Blythe took the opportunity to study him. Sometimes she had imagined that James was the second child she’d never been able to have, the brother Greg needed.
Even John liked him, had asked about him after their calls, calling him “Wilson,” because that’s what Greg called him. “He must like it,” he’d said after Blythe tried to correct him.
She wondered now if all the time he’d spent with Greg during the past year had nothing to do with being a good friend. Maybe it was just because he was lonely. Maybe, once the wedding was over, now that Greg was doing better, he’d drift away.
Blythe looked over at him. No, she thought. That wouldn’t happen.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, keeping her voice soft. She didn’t want John to overhear, because she wasn’t sure what he would think. There would be time to tell him later, when she had time to explain. After she understood it herself. “I’m sure whatever you did, it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was bad enough,” he said. “I haven’t always been who I’d like people to think I am.” He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then turned toward her with a sad smile. “Maybe I should ask you for advice.”
Blythe placed a hand on his arm. “Every marriage is different,” she said. “Every marriage has its own problems and its own solutions, but I’m sure you already know that.”
“So there’s no magic formula.”
“All I can tell you is that I believe that years from now, you’ll be having your own anniversary, and you’ll wonder why it was you were so nervous.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“It won’t be,” Blythe said, “but I believe it’ll happen.”
James shook his head. “How can you? You don’t know how much I’ve screwed things up before.”
Blythe smiled at him. “No, I don’t,” she said. “And I don’t need to know. I know you, James.”
He looked at her for a moment, then out the window. She barely heard him over the sound of the road passing under the car tires. “Maybe nobody knows anyone.”
Chapter Five: When John and Blythe Moved
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Wilson and Blythe both begin to realize that they don’t know everything.
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
House didn’t knock, just pushed open the door to Wilson's office and stood there, leaning against the door frame.
Wilson kept reading the lab reports in Sarah Peters' file. “I could have been with a patient,” he said.
“But you weren’t,” House pointed out.
“But I could have been.”
“But you weren’t.”
Wilson put a finger on the page to mark his place and looked up. “Did I somehow miss the start of this conversation or are you just wandering around opening random doors?”
“Just yours,” House said. “And I finished off the lasagna last night.”
Wilson blinked, looked down at his desk, then back at House again. "Am I going to need a map to follow this conversation?"
"Depends," House said. "When my Mom calls, you can tell her that I told you I ate the last of her lasagna from the freezer.”
“Did you?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“There’s a point?” Wilson closed his eyes and rubbed them. When he opened them again, House was still there.
“My mother bugs me about what I’ve been eating, and I avoid the question. Then she calls you and you tell her that I told you that I had the lasagna. That way neither of us tells a lie, she doesn’t figure out that anyone’s telling a lie and everyone's happy. See how that works?”
“Not even remotely,” Wilson said.
“I'll explain the details later,” House said. He closed the door as the phone rang, then leaned back in. “Oh, and tell her that the fifteenth will be fine.”
The door closed again and Wilson stared at the oak paneling. The phone rang a third time and he picked it up.
“This is James Wilson.”
“Hello, James, it’s Blythe, am I calling at a bad time?”
Wilson shook his head and wondered if House had told his mother when to call, or just guessed when she would.
“James?”
“Sorry, I’m here,” he said. “I was just ... finishing up something.”
“I can call back.”
“No, no, you’re fine. How are you?”
“Fine, we’re both fine.”
Each conversation began the same way, sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. Her calls would usually come through on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, with the occasional Monday if House hadn’t felt like answering the phone over the weekend. The phone would ring, Blythe would apologize for interrupting him, and he'd assure her everything was fine.
Some days she would seem at ease, happy, laughing at some joke House had made at his expense. Other days she was anxious, skipping directly from the opening pleasantries to voicing some concern. Usually she was right, and there was something wrong.
“How did you know?” Wilson asked one spring day as a cold front and thunderstorms were fighting their way across the state, and House had called in sick, in too much pain to even deal with the walk to his car.
“He was quiet when I talked to him,” Blythe had said. “Greg is never quiet.”
Wilson thought that she must be wrong. He’d seen House stew for hours when he was working out some puzzle, but he watched more closely after that. Blythe was right. There was an entirely different kind of silence as well, one that was its own early warning system to whatever was going on inside him.
And that silence didn’t just signal pain. House had been telling a story in the cafeteria one day, mocking some patient, when a nurse stopped at his table. She’d smiled, told House he was looking better, and that she was happy for him. Wilson remembered seeing her in the ICU, monitoring House’s vitals.
House looked down at his tray. “Thanks,” was all he said. Wilson never heard the end of the story.
“He does the same thing when he’s upset with his father,” Blythe had said. “He just ... won’t say a thing.”
Wilson realized Blythe had asked him a question, and he snapped himself out of his memories.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I really have caught you at a bad time, haven’t I?”
“No, really. I’m done with everything now. You have my undivided attention.”
Blythe laughed. “It was nothing important. I was just wondering if you had dinner with Greg last night.”
“No,” Wilson said. “But he told me he had the lasagna.”
She laughed again. He was glad to hear her in a good mood. Too often lately she had seemed anxious when she called. “I still don’t know whether to believe him, but I’m sure that’s what he told you.”
Wilson smiled. “So are you two still coming for a visit next week?”
“Actually, no. We’ll be busy packing. John got his transfer.”
“To Quantico?”
“We’ll be there by the fifth,” she said.
Wilson remembered House’s comment about the fifteenth. “So were you planning on coming up for a visit after you get settled in?”
“That’s one of the reasons I called,” Blythe said. “Feel free to tell me if it’s not a good idea, but I was wondering if it might be possible for you and Greg to come down to Virginia for a day.”
“Um,” Wilson opened his calendar.
“It’s silly, I know, but there’s a restaurant that I loved when we were there before, and our anniversary is coming up ....”
“Congratulations,” Wilson said. “How many years?”
“It’ll be forty-three -- and please, James, I’m not angling for a gift.”
“I didn’t think you were,” he said.
She laughed again. “No, of course not. I’m just asking you to give up an entire day to make an old woman happy.”
Wilson flipped his calendar to the middle of the next month. He wasn’t surprised to see which day was free. “How about the fifteenth?”
They took the train south to Washington, then picked up a rental car.
“It’ll be easier that way,” House said. “Besides, it’s harder to storm out after an argument with my Dad when I have to wait for a bus.”
Wilson was pretty sure that House had fumed at a bus stop more than once.
They were still ten miles outside of Quantico when House ordered Wilson to pull over at a rest stop. Wilson watched him slowly ease his leg out onto the ground and heard the rattle of pills before House finally pushed himself up and out of the small car. Wilson watched as he took slow, silent laps around the parking lot. He wondered how bad the trip back to Princeton would be.
He was quiet as Wilson followed the signs leading to the base.
"It's different in there," House finally said as they waited for traffic outside the main gate. “He'll be different,” he said. He turned toward Wilson. "He's not who he'd like you to think he is."
Wilson shrugged. "Who is?"
He pulled forward and waited for the guard to clear them. "So why did you agree to come?"
"So you'd know," House said, and the guard waved them through.
House directed him to take a right at the statue of the flag raising on Iwo Jima, then down past rows of buildings. They could have been offices or storage buildings or barracks for all Wilson could tell. They all looked the same: the same red brick, the same number of windows, the same door at the center of each building.
The landscape eased a bit as they turned from the main road toward family housing -- the concrete making way for green lawns and shrubs, even the occasional playground.
He trusted House’s directions. He would have been lost. The houses all looked the same, just different colored variations on the same bland theme.
Blythe stepped out onto the porch as they pulled up in front of a blue house and met them halfway across the yard.
"Sorry we're late," House said, and gave her a hug. "It's Wilson's fault."
"A likely story," Blythe said, and she gave Wilson a quick hug too.
They walked slowly up to the door, and Wilson saw House hesitate as they approached the front steps, but only for a moment. He wondered if Blythe noticed, but then saw in her eyes that she had.
House wasn’t watching for her reaction. He had one hand on his cane, the other on the railing and his eyes focused on the concrete as he pulled himself up each of the two steps. Blythe stood next to the screen door, holding it open for him. Wilson followed them inside.
The furniture was plain, but looked comfortable. There were a few photos on the wall -- one of House and his father when House was maybe ten years old, another a portrait of all three of them taken a few years later, Blythe smiling, her husband serious and her son with an expression that Wilson recognized as frustration.
“I don’t have very many photos with all of us together,” Blythe said, and Wilson looked over to see her looking at the photo as well.
Wilson heard a noise from somewhere in the back of the house, recognized John House's voice.
"John had to take a call," she said, turning away to look at him then her son. "Something about setting up some meetings next week."
Wilson nodded and looked around some more. “You’re all unpacked?”
“It’s easy after the first fifteen moves,” House said, and Blythe smiled and nodded.
There was an afghan spread across the back of the couch, and he wondered if Blythe had knitted it. The bookshelves held volumes on military history, travel writings and a few novels, mostly classics: Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Jane Austen... Wilson tried to imagine House as a boy, reading the volume of Poe’s short stories or following Holmes onto the moors.
He heard steps in the hallway and turned as the Colonel walked into the living room.
“You finally made it, I see,” he said.
Wilson found himself staring at the man. He'd met John House plenty of times, seen him in restaurants, in the hospital, in hotels and at House’s place. This man somehow seemed to be different, and Wilson realized he’d never seen him in uniform. Each button stood out against the olive-green fabric, the metal buckle gleamed and his shoes had a perfect coat of polish. There were rows of ribbons on his jacket -- the only splash of color -- and he stood tall. He seemed to take up more space, seemed to absorb more light.
“I’m glad we didn’t make early reservations,” he said, and Wilson thought that even his words had a harsher edge. Wilson wondered if the man really did carry himself differently, or if it was just his own perception of him that had changed.
This was a man who was at home in a world with rules and regulations, he realized, always knowing the way things should be -- the way they had to be. He tried to picture House living in that world, but came up short. Wilson wondered if the man he had met every other time was the real John House, or if that had been a civilian disguise, and this was the real one. He looked over at House, who caught his eye and nodded slightly.
“John, don’t complain after they’ve come all this way,” Blythe said.
“I’m not complaining,” the Colonel said. “Just stating facts.”
Wilson tried to remember everything that House had ever told him about his father, and then pictured this version of John House in those stories, rather than the one he’d known before. Somehow every image he’d had shifted, became something different, even if none of the words changed.
“You were complaining,” Blythe teased, and touched his arm. It was only when she stood next to him that he relaxed, softened. It was the only time Wilson recognized the man he thought he’d known.
“You got some new jewelry,” House said, and Wilson turned as he saw House motion toward his father’s uniform.
Blythe brushed her fingers across the silver eagles on his collar. “The promotion came with the transfer,” she said, and smiled. “He thought you wouldn’t notice, but I told him you would.” Wilson wasn’t sure whether she was more proud of her husband or her son. He looked back and forth between all three of them.
“I thought you already were a colonel,” Wilson said.
“Lieutenant colonel,” House explained. “He’s a bird colonel now.”
“A suitable rank for a man being pushed toward retirement,” the Colonel mumbled, and Blythe touched his arm.
“Nobody’s pushing you,” she said. “Whenever you’re ready is fine by me.” She smiled, and the Colonel took her hand, seemed to ease once more toward into the civilian that Wilson recognized.
-------------
John and Greg sat side-by-side in the front seat of the car as John drove them off the base and to the restaurant. Neither of them spoke to each other. James was quiet too, just staring ahead of him, though all he could see was the back of John’s head. Blythe wondered what he was thinking about.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I know you must have had other things to do.”
James looked over at her and nodded. “It’s all right. It’s been an ... interesting trip.” He went back to watching the road over John’s shoulder.
John pointed out his office as they drove by and James turned to look at it, three stories high and brick with white trim, looking like so many of the other buildings on this part of the base. Blythe noticed his foot was tapping on the floorboards as they drove.
"So, when is the wedding?" she asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you have more than one coming up?"
James finally smiled. "In three weeks," he said.
“You’re nervous,” she said, though it was just a guess at what was on his mind.
“Not about the wedding,” James said, though he still seemed distracted. “We’re keeping it small. Just ...” He stared out the front window again for a moment, then turned back to her, ignoring whatever had been on his mind before. “I’m sure Greg has told you that I’ve been married before.”
Blythe nodded, remembering a few comments. “I thought he was joking,” she said.
“Afraid not,” James smiled. “This will be my third. Third time’s a charm, right?”
Blythe tried to hide her surprise. It didn’t work. James chuckled when she stared at him.
“I know,” he said. “I’m surprised Julie ever agreed to go out with me in the first place.”
“You must have been just a child when you first got married,” Blythe said. She wondered if he’d gotten married too young, maybe he hadn’t been ready.
“I was twenty-two,” he said. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-one,” Blythe said. “John was twenty-three. But things were different then.”
James shook his head. “I thought I was ready. We both did. I guess I wasn’t.”
Blythe thought about how young James must have been then. How young she had been then. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”
James shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “It was.”
He turned and looked out the window again, watching as they passed out of the gates, out onto the main road. Blythe took the opportunity to study him. Sometimes she had imagined that James was the second child she’d never been able to have, the brother Greg needed.
Even John liked him, had asked about him after their calls, calling him “Wilson,” because that’s what Greg called him. “He must like it,” he’d said after Blythe tried to correct him.
She wondered now if all the time he’d spent with Greg during the past year had nothing to do with being a good friend. Maybe it was just because he was lonely. Maybe, once the wedding was over, now that Greg was doing better, he’d drift away.
Blythe looked over at him. No, she thought. That wouldn’t happen.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, keeping her voice soft. She didn’t want John to overhear, because she wasn’t sure what he would think. There would be time to tell him later, when she had time to explain. After she understood it herself. “I’m sure whatever you did, it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was bad enough,” he said. “I haven’t always been who I’d like people to think I am.” He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then turned toward her with a sad smile. “Maybe I should ask you for advice.”
Blythe placed a hand on his arm. “Every marriage is different,” she said. “Every marriage has its own problems and its own solutions, but I’m sure you already know that.”
“So there’s no magic formula.”
“All I can tell you is that I believe that years from now, you’ll be having your own anniversary, and you’ll wonder why it was you were so nervous.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“It won’t be,” Blythe said, “but I believe it’ll happen.”
James shook his head. “How can you? You don’t know how much I’ve screwed things up before.”
Blythe smiled at him. “No, I don’t,” she said. “And I don’t need to know. I know you, James.”
He looked at her for a moment, then out the window. She barely heard him over the sound of the road passing under the car tires. “Maybe nobody knows anyone.”
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Picturing John in his uniform, The look of the base. Everything.
Totally loving this series of yours.
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I love how perceptive Blythe is about House, more than Wilson in some cases. She knows him, and you do a good job of showing that she's not some character from his life, but his mother
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That thought of Blythe's, that Wilson is the younger brother House probably needed, echoes my own thoughts about their relationship. Wilson lost a brother; House never had one; they have something to offer one another and it creates an unusual bond.
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I'm a little bit distracted by the sudden point of view change in the middle of the fic; I had settled in to let Wilson be the narrator in this chapter. IMHO it was a little abrupt - probably just personal preference, however.
I'm already clicking the 'refresh' button, waiting for the next post ;)
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Usually I try to at least mark the change in POV, but I admit I struggled a bit with the best place to do the split. I did want to introduce new underestandings for both characters, though. And I kind of like the idea that Blythe assumed that House was joking about Wilson's marital history.
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I love how Jimmy's perception of John House has been shifted so that it's easier to understand why House feels the way he does about his father. I love that it's easier for Jimmy to come to the conclusion that he did, now that he's seen what John's like more privately.
I love this story. You have to update this as soon as possible. I was away for the weekend and had to dig to find it, but TOTALLY WORTH IT.
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And, as I noted above, the next chapter is in the works.
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"Wilson put a finger on the page to mark his place and looked up. “Did I somehow miss the start of this conversation or are you just wandering around opening random doors?”
“Just yours,” House said. “And I finished off the lasagna last night.”
Wilson blinked, looked down at his desk, then back at House again. "Am I going to need a map to follow this conversation?"" BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!! How like the two of them this sounds... gotta love it!!!
Yes, seeing someone in their natural habitat is one of the best ways to learn what and how they really are... or how they want the world to see them.
Onward,
Katrina
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And btw... YAY GREY!!! :-D
-Katrina