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namasteTitle: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Ten: When John Retired
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Even when some things change, emotions never do.
Excerpt:
The party was at the officers’ club. “Dad’s idea,” House said. “One last hurrah with the boys.”
House stopped, still a few feet outside the main door. He stared at the dark wood, the opaque glass and the brass handle, and Wilson wondered if he was trying to ignore some old memory, or just working up enough willpower to walk inside.
After a few seconds he shuddered slightly, as if shaking himself free of something Wilson couldn’t see, and stepped forward.
You can find links to other chapters inside.
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
When Blythe Didn’t Meet Julie
When Days Were Bad
When Greg Got His Department
When Days Were Good
When John Retired
“Why is your mother calling me to get you to go to your father’s retirement party?” Wilson stood in front of House’s desk, his hands spread apart in front of him as if he could actually grasp the question.
House barely looked up from his magazine. “Probably because I told her I wasn’t going.”
“And this would have been just before I’d told her I’d ride down with you,” Wilson said. “You can see where there might be a little confusion.”
“Call her back and tell her you’re coming down alone,” House said. “No more confusion.”
Wilson sat in one of the chairs across from House’s desk. “I’m not going to,” he said.
“And I’m not going.” House flipped a page.
“Yes,” said Wilson. “You are.”
House just shook his head and turned another page.
“Why not? It’s a party. It’s a few hours out of your life.”
“Because I don’t want to be there. My Dad probably doesn’t care if I’m there. Hell, he doesn’t even want to be there. The only reason he’s retiring is the Corps’ mandatory retirement age.”
Wilson sighed. He wondered if it was possible to convince House that John really did care -- then wondered when exactly it was that he’d begun to think of the man as something other than “the Colonel.”
House flipped another page. He’d never believe him, Wilson thought. Sometimes, despite the things the man said, he still didn’t know how John felt about his son. He was certain John loved him, but he was just as certain that House somehow always disappointed his father.
Wilson decided to change tactics. “Your mother wants you there,” he said. “And you’re not going to have many more chances to see her before they move.”
House looked up. “You do everything your mother wants you to do?”
“House, this isn’t about eating your vegetables or buttoning your coat or wearing the sweater your Great Aunt Rachel knitted for you.”
“You have a Great Aunt Rachel who knits?”
“That’s not the point.”
House ignored him. “Because that would explain the sweater vests.”
“The point is this,” Wilson said. “Your father is retiring after forty some years in the Marines. He’s having a party. You’re going.”
“Nope.”
Wilson leaned back in his chair and smiled slightly. “Yes you will, because your mother wants you there.”
House looked down at his magazine again. “I don’t care,” he said, but Wilson heard the slight hesitation in his voice.
“Yes, you do.” Wilson stood and turned to leave. “And you’re going.”
House turned up in Wilson’s office two days later and told him they’d be driving to Quantico.
“No train?”
“The last train with a Princeton connection is at seven,” House said. “I don’t plan on sticking around until the next morning.”
“But you do plan on spending half the day driving.”
“You’re driving,” House said, and walked out.
The party was at the officers’ club. “Dad’s idea,” House said. “One last hurrah with the boys.”
House stopped, still a few feet outside the main door. He stared at the dark wood, the opaque glass and the brass handle, and Wilson wondered if he was trying to ignore some old memory, or just working up enough willpower to walk inside.
After a few seconds he shuddered slightly, as if shaking himself free of something Wilson couldn’t see, and stepped forward.
Blythe was standing just inside the private room at the back of the building, and she smiled when she saw them.
She hugged House. “I’m glad you came,” she said, then turned toward Wilson and embraced him. “Both of you.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” House said. Wilson saw Blythe shake her head, but she was smiling.
John was on the far side of the room in the full dress uniform Wilson had seen on so many recruiting posters. “Dress blues,” House said, and headed for the bar.
John caught Wilson’s eye and nodded to him, then searched the room until he saw the back of his son’s head. He smiled, but House didn’t see him. By the time House turned around -- a glass of beer in his hand -- John was talking to someone else nearby.
“If we’re lucky, we can still make it back home in time for the start of the game,” House said.
Wilson stepped up to the bar next to him and pointed toward a beer for himself. “What game?”
“Any game,” House said.
The bartender handed over Wilson’s drink. House stayed where he was, watching the crowd.
“Senior officers,” he said, nodding toward the two men standing to John’s right. He pointed to the left. “Junior officers.” Then he half-turned toward a table with three other men, dressed in a slightly different uniform than the dress blues of the officers. “Noncoms,” House said.
Wilson nodded at the men in front of John. They wore civilian suits, but held themselves with a familiar rigid posture.
“Retirees, like my Dad.” House took a drink of his beer. “Sixty-four and out.”
Wilson saw John pointing toward them, then waving to them to come over. House groaned but stepped away from the bar. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
“This is my son, Greg,” John was saying, and three of the men turned in their direction.
“Nice to meet you.” One of the senior officers held out his hand to House. There was a silver oak leaf insignia on his collar, and Wilson tried to remember what rank that signified: major, maybe, or lieutenant colonel.
House had his beer in his left hand, his right held tight to the cane. He stared at the man’s outstretched hand. Wilson wondered if he’d planned on having both hands occupied to avoid handshakes -- to make the Marines as uncomfortable as he must have been. Wilson shifted his beer into his left hand and took the man’s hand in his right.
“I’m James Wilson,” he said, and the man smiled a little and gave his hand two quick pumps up and down. “I work with Greg.”
“Bill Peters,” the man said.
“Wilson’s a doctor too,” John said.
“In Princeton, right?”
House’s eyebrows raised slightly, and Wilson wasn’t sure if he was surprised the man knew where they worked, or surprised his father had mentioned it.
“Every time I see Blythe she has to brag about you,” the man continued, and House’s eyes narrowed. He nodded.
“You know how mothers are,” House said, and took a drink.
“We’re going to miss the old man,” another one of the men said. Wilson glanced over and saw two bars on his collar -- captain. Even he could remember that one. “He kept us all in line.”
House nodded, but didn’t say anything. He shifted slightly and leaned more heavily on the cane. He glanced over at one of the tables. Wilson knew better than to ask how he felt -- at least here and now.
The conversation hit a lull, then the captain spoke up again. “He’s got some great stories,” he said. “He ever tell you about the time he had to eject at 20,000 feet?”
“Twenty-two thousand,” House and his father said at the same time. House smiled slightly and looked over to catch his father’s eye. John smiled back.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” John said. “I broke my shoulder when the canopy blew. It hurt like a bitch when the chute deployed.” He shook his head. “Fighter jets are for the young.”
John took a sip of whatever whiskey he had, and the ice cubes rattled against the glass. House glanced over at the tables again.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” he said. He took a half-step away, then turned back. He transferred his cane to his left hand, managing to hang onto both it and the beer. He held out his right hand to his father. “Congratulations.”
John smiled, took his son’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. This means a lot to me.”
House waited for a moment, then withdrew his hand and took the cane again. He nodded slightly, then turned away.
--------
Blythe found Greg sitting alone at a table. The plate off to his right was covered with the bones from some chicken wings, a few toothpicks and a splatter of red sauces. She leaned down over his shoulder and kissed his cheek.
“Your father is so glad that you’re here,” she said.
“I can tell,” Greg said. He watched John as he told a story. Blythe couldn’t tell what it was, but the other men he was with were laughing. James was standing with them, but kept looking back at Greg.
“I’m glad you’re here too,” she said, and Greg turned to look at her.
He reached over to pull out the chair to his left. “Have a seat,” he said, then watched her as she did. “You look tired.”
“I think I must be getting old,” she said, and laughed. “It used to be easier to pack.”
“It was never easy,” he said. “It was just ... fast.”
Blythe laughed again, remembering how quickly she had learned to gather all the important pieces of her life -- her grandmother’s jewelry, her father’s books, her mother’s recipes. She had learned to cushion them with newspaper and blankets and quilts to keep them safe. Sometimes they had little more than a few days warning before she’d fill boxes and duffle bags: heaviest things at the bottom, the lightest at the top.
They had never owned much, never owned their own home, they even rented all but a few pieces of furniture, but now that they were leaving behind the only life she and John had known together, it seemed harder to pack the few things that they did own. Everything seemed to have some extra meaning, something she couldn’t bear to put away: the shoes she bought John at the NEX, the welcome packet with its list of base emergency numbers she’d never need again, the train schedule.
It was even harder than it had been when Greg was small, before he could pack his own things, before he knew how to separate the things he needed from the things he wanted.
Blythe looked over at him. She reached out and took his hand, smiling as he turned his palm toward her, allowing his fingers to intertwine with hers. She tried not to notice the lines in his face, the circles under his eyes, the way he had seemed to age so quickly in the past few years. “How are you feeling, honey? Are you OK?”
“Never better,” he said.
She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. There would be time for that later, time for another trip to Princeton before they moved, time to assure herself one more time that he would be all right without her there.
“It’s a long drive down here,” she said. “I wish you weren’t going back so soon. You should stay the night, and get some rest.”
“Wilson’s got a meeting with a patient in the morning,” Greg said.
Blythe knew that wasn’t true. James had already told her he’d cleared his calendar. When she looked Greg in the eye, he turned away and she decided to ignore the lie. He was here, she told herself. That was enough.
She’d realized long ago that Greg would never have the kind of relationship with John that she would have liked for them to have -- but she never stopped hoping that she was wrong, that they would still find some peace.
But he was here now, and that was a good thing. Blythe gave his hand a gentle squeeze and felt his grip tighten in response.
“I’m glad James could come too,” she said. “I hope he doesn’t hate me for dragging him all the way down here again.”
“I could never hate you.” James’ voice came from behind her, and Blythe turned to see him there with a plate in his hand. Greg reached for it, but James pulled it back. “This one’s mine,” he said. “Get your own.”
He sat to Blythe’s left. She heard the chair scraping to her right, and turned to see Greg pushing himself up, taking his cane from where it had been hanging on the edge of the table.
“My mother taught me to share,” he said, and nabbed a cookie from the edge of James’ plate.
“But yet you never actually do,” James said. He watched for a moment as Greg walked away, then turned back to his plate.
Blythe was turned halfway in her seat. She saw how Greg skirted around the edge of the crowd, then watched as he filled his plate at the dessert table. He seemed to be a little stiff, but James didn’t seem concerned, so she tried to quiet her worries.
“You really didn’t have to come,” she said, turning to James.
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to see John again before you moved.” He took a bite of cake. “You’re still coming for another visit next week on your own, right?”
Blythe nodded.
“I guess we won’t be seeing so much of each other once you’re in Florida.”
“We’ll still come to visit,” Blythe said.
“But not as often.”
She nodded. She and John had thought about staying somewhere close to Greg, but her family was still in Florida. They had friends there -- other officers and their wives who had also retired. Pensacola was familiar, and after years of different bases and different towns and different friends, that would be a good change.
And she’d have a chance to meet new people too, and make new friends. Blythe looked over at James. Sometimes, she thought to herself, you couldn’t predict just how important someone new could be in your life.
“Did I show you the photos of our condo?” James looked up from his plate and nodded.
“Twice.” Greg put a plate on the table and sat again. He took two forks out of his pocket and handed one to Blythe. He pushed the plate toward her. He took a bite of chocolate cake. “It’s not as good as yours.”
Blythe put her hand on Greg’s arm. He looked down at it, then looked into her eyes. She saw the humor in his eyes, the quick wit, the intelligence, and the warmth that he liked to pretend didn’t exist.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said.
“I’m going to miss you too,” Greg said. He blinked once, twice, three times. He turned away and looked around the room, finally settling his gaze on John. “And Wilson can miss Dad.”
Chapter Ten: When John Retired
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Even when some things change, emotions never do.
Excerpt:
The party was at the officers’ club. “Dad’s idea,” House said. “One last hurrah with the boys.”
House stopped, still a few feet outside the main door. He stared at the dark wood, the opaque glass and the brass handle, and Wilson wondered if he was trying to ignore some old memory, or just working up enough willpower to walk inside.
After a few seconds he shuddered slightly, as if shaking himself free of something Wilson couldn’t see, and stepped forward.
You can find links to other chapters inside.
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
When Blythe Didn’t Meet Julie
When Days Were Bad
When Greg Got His Department
When Days Were Good
When John Retired
“Why is your mother calling me to get you to go to your father’s retirement party?” Wilson stood in front of House’s desk, his hands spread apart in front of him as if he could actually grasp the question.
House barely looked up from his magazine. “Probably because I told her I wasn’t going.”
“And this would have been just before I’d told her I’d ride down with you,” Wilson said. “You can see where there might be a little confusion.”
“Call her back and tell her you’re coming down alone,” House said. “No more confusion.”
Wilson sat in one of the chairs across from House’s desk. “I’m not going to,” he said.
“And I’m not going.” House flipped a page.
“Yes,” said Wilson. “You are.”
House just shook his head and turned another page.
“Why not? It’s a party. It’s a few hours out of your life.”
“Because I don’t want to be there. My Dad probably doesn’t care if I’m there. Hell, he doesn’t even want to be there. The only reason he’s retiring is the Corps’ mandatory retirement age.”
Wilson sighed. He wondered if it was possible to convince House that John really did care -- then wondered when exactly it was that he’d begun to think of the man as something other than “the Colonel.”
House flipped another page. He’d never believe him, Wilson thought. Sometimes, despite the things the man said, he still didn’t know how John felt about his son. He was certain John loved him, but he was just as certain that House somehow always disappointed his father.
Wilson decided to change tactics. “Your mother wants you there,” he said. “And you’re not going to have many more chances to see her before they move.”
House looked up. “You do everything your mother wants you to do?”
“House, this isn’t about eating your vegetables or buttoning your coat or wearing the sweater your Great Aunt Rachel knitted for you.”
“You have a Great Aunt Rachel who knits?”
“That’s not the point.”
House ignored him. “Because that would explain the sweater vests.”
“The point is this,” Wilson said. “Your father is retiring after forty some years in the Marines. He’s having a party. You’re going.”
“Nope.”
Wilson leaned back in his chair and smiled slightly. “Yes you will, because your mother wants you there.”
House looked down at his magazine again. “I don’t care,” he said, but Wilson heard the slight hesitation in his voice.
“Yes, you do.” Wilson stood and turned to leave. “And you’re going.”
House turned up in Wilson’s office two days later and told him they’d be driving to Quantico.
“No train?”
“The last train with a Princeton connection is at seven,” House said. “I don’t plan on sticking around until the next morning.”
“But you do plan on spending half the day driving.”
“You’re driving,” House said, and walked out.
The party was at the officers’ club. “Dad’s idea,” House said. “One last hurrah with the boys.”
House stopped, still a few feet outside the main door. He stared at the dark wood, the opaque glass and the brass handle, and Wilson wondered if he was trying to ignore some old memory, or just working up enough willpower to walk inside.
After a few seconds he shuddered slightly, as if shaking himself free of something Wilson couldn’t see, and stepped forward.
Blythe was standing just inside the private room at the back of the building, and she smiled when she saw them.
She hugged House. “I’m glad you came,” she said, then turned toward Wilson and embraced him. “Both of you.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” House said. Wilson saw Blythe shake her head, but she was smiling.
John was on the far side of the room in the full dress uniform Wilson had seen on so many recruiting posters. “Dress blues,” House said, and headed for the bar.
John caught Wilson’s eye and nodded to him, then searched the room until he saw the back of his son’s head. He smiled, but House didn’t see him. By the time House turned around -- a glass of beer in his hand -- John was talking to someone else nearby.
“If we’re lucky, we can still make it back home in time for the start of the game,” House said.
Wilson stepped up to the bar next to him and pointed toward a beer for himself. “What game?”
“Any game,” House said.
The bartender handed over Wilson’s drink. House stayed where he was, watching the crowd.
“Senior officers,” he said, nodding toward the two men standing to John’s right. He pointed to the left. “Junior officers.” Then he half-turned toward a table with three other men, dressed in a slightly different uniform than the dress blues of the officers. “Noncoms,” House said.
Wilson nodded at the men in front of John. They wore civilian suits, but held themselves with a familiar rigid posture.
“Retirees, like my Dad.” House took a drink of his beer. “Sixty-four and out.”
Wilson saw John pointing toward them, then waving to them to come over. House groaned but stepped away from the bar. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
“This is my son, Greg,” John was saying, and three of the men turned in their direction.
“Nice to meet you.” One of the senior officers held out his hand to House. There was a silver oak leaf insignia on his collar, and Wilson tried to remember what rank that signified: major, maybe, or lieutenant colonel.
House had his beer in his left hand, his right held tight to the cane. He stared at the man’s outstretched hand. Wilson wondered if he’d planned on having both hands occupied to avoid handshakes -- to make the Marines as uncomfortable as he must have been. Wilson shifted his beer into his left hand and took the man’s hand in his right.
“I’m James Wilson,” he said, and the man smiled a little and gave his hand two quick pumps up and down. “I work with Greg.”
“Bill Peters,” the man said.
“Wilson’s a doctor too,” John said.
“In Princeton, right?”
House’s eyebrows raised slightly, and Wilson wasn’t sure if he was surprised the man knew where they worked, or surprised his father had mentioned it.
“Every time I see Blythe she has to brag about you,” the man continued, and House’s eyes narrowed. He nodded.
“You know how mothers are,” House said, and took a drink.
“We’re going to miss the old man,” another one of the men said. Wilson glanced over and saw two bars on his collar -- captain. Even he could remember that one. “He kept us all in line.”
House nodded, but didn’t say anything. He shifted slightly and leaned more heavily on the cane. He glanced over at one of the tables. Wilson knew better than to ask how he felt -- at least here and now.
The conversation hit a lull, then the captain spoke up again. “He’s got some great stories,” he said. “He ever tell you about the time he had to eject at 20,000 feet?”
“Twenty-two thousand,” House and his father said at the same time. House smiled slightly and looked over to catch his father’s eye. John smiled back.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” John said. “I broke my shoulder when the canopy blew. It hurt like a bitch when the chute deployed.” He shook his head. “Fighter jets are for the young.”
John took a sip of whatever whiskey he had, and the ice cubes rattled against the glass. House glanced over at the tables again.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” he said. He took a half-step away, then turned back. He transferred his cane to his left hand, managing to hang onto both it and the beer. He held out his right hand to his father. “Congratulations.”
John smiled, took his son’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. This means a lot to me.”
House waited for a moment, then withdrew his hand and took the cane again. He nodded slightly, then turned away.
--------
Blythe found Greg sitting alone at a table. The plate off to his right was covered with the bones from some chicken wings, a few toothpicks and a splatter of red sauces. She leaned down over his shoulder and kissed his cheek.
“Your father is so glad that you’re here,” she said.
“I can tell,” Greg said. He watched John as he told a story. Blythe couldn’t tell what it was, but the other men he was with were laughing. James was standing with them, but kept looking back at Greg.
“I’m glad you’re here too,” she said, and Greg turned to look at her.
He reached over to pull out the chair to his left. “Have a seat,” he said, then watched her as she did. “You look tired.”
“I think I must be getting old,” she said, and laughed. “It used to be easier to pack.”
“It was never easy,” he said. “It was just ... fast.”
Blythe laughed again, remembering how quickly she had learned to gather all the important pieces of her life -- her grandmother’s jewelry, her father’s books, her mother’s recipes. She had learned to cushion them with newspaper and blankets and quilts to keep them safe. Sometimes they had little more than a few days warning before she’d fill boxes and duffle bags: heaviest things at the bottom, the lightest at the top.
They had never owned much, never owned their own home, they even rented all but a few pieces of furniture, but now that they were leaving behind the only life she and John had known together, it seemed harder to pack the few things that they did own. Everything seemed to have some extra meaning, something she couldn’t bear to put away: the shoes she bought John at the NEX, the welcome packet with its list of base emergency numbers she’d never need again, the train schedule.
It was even harder than it had been when Greg was small, before he could pack his own things, before he knew how to separate the things he needed from the things he wanted.
Blythe looked over at him. She reached out and took his hand, smiling as he turned his palm toward her, allowing his fingers to intertwine with hers. She tried not to notice the lines in his face, the circles under his eyes, the way he had seemed to age so quickly in the past few years. “How are you feeling, honey? Are you OK?”
“Never better,” he said.
She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. There would be time for that later, time for another trip to Princeton before they moved, time to assure herself one more time that he would be all right without her there.
“It’s a long drive down here,” she said. “I wish you weren’t going back so soon. You should stay the night, and get some rest.”
“Wilson’s got a meeting with a patient in the morning,” Greg said.
Blythe knew that wasn’t true. James had already told her he’d cleared his calendar. When she looked Greg in the eye, he turned away and she decided to ignore the lie. He was here, she told herself. That was enough.
She’d realized long ago that Greg would never have the kind of relationship with John that she would have liked for them to have -- but she never stopped hoping that she was wrong, that they would still find some peace.
But he was here now, and that was a good thing. Blythe gave his hand a gentle squeeze and felt his grip tighten in response.
“I’m glad James could come too,” she said. “I hope he doesn’t hate me for dragging him all the way down here again.”
“I could never hate you.” James’ voice came from behind her, and Blythe turned to see him there with a plate in his hand. Greg reached for it, but James pulled it back. “This one’s mine,” he said. “Get your own.”
He sat to Blythe’s left. She heard the chair scraping to her right, and turned to see Greg pushing himself up, taking his cane from where it had been hanging on the edge of the table.
“My mother taught me to share,” he said, and nabbed a cookie from the edge of James’ plate.
“But yet you never actually do,” James said. He watched for a moment as Greg walked away, then turned back to his plate.
Blythe was turned halfway in her seat. She saw how Greg skirted around the edge of the crowd, then watched as he filled his plate at the dessert table. He seemed to be a little stiff, but James didn’t seem concerned, so she tried to quiet her worries.
“You really didn’t have to come,” she said, turning to James.
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to see John again before you moved.” He took a bite of cake. “You’re still coming for another visit next week on your own, right?”
Blythe nodded.
“I guess we won’t be seeing so much of each other once you’re in Florida.”
“We’ll still come to visit,” Blythe said.
“But not as often.”
She nodded. She and John had thought about staying somewhere close to Greg, but her family was still in Florida. They had friends there -- other officers and their wives who had also retired. Pensacola was familiar, and after years of different bases and different towns and different friends, that would be a good change.
And she’d have a chance to meet new people too, and make new friends. Blythe looked over at James. Sometimes, she thought to herself, you couldn’t predict just how important someone new could be in your life.
“Did I show you the photos of our condo?” James looked up from his plate and nodded.
“Twice.” Greg put a plate on the table and sat again. He took two forks out of his pocket and handed one to Blythe. He pushed the plate toward her. He took a bite of chocolate cake. “It’s not as good as yours.”
Blythe put her hand on Greg’s arm. He looked down at it, then looked into her eyes. She saw the humor in his eyes, the quick wit, the intelligence, and the warmth that he liked to pretend didn’t exist.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said.
“I’m going to miss you too,” Greg said. He blinked once, twice, three times. He turned away and looked around the room, finally settling his gaze on John. “And Wilson can miss Dad.”