New Fic: Blythe's Story, Chapter Two
Nov. 13th, 2008 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Blythe's Story, Chapter Two
Author: Namaste
Summary: "Maybe the doctor was wrong that first time he gave her a date. Maybe Greg really was John's child."
PG, about 850 words.
Author's Note: Part Two of a look at House's early life, based on the new background we received in the fifth season episode "Birthmarks," using chapters of about 800 words. To start at the beginning: Chapter One
The baby was two weeks late by one estimate -- a week early by the one she'd given John. Blythe kept quiet during those final weeks, swallowed back every complaint she had about the time, about swollen ankles and sleepless nights.
At the base chapel, she'd sit on an empty bench and repeat silent prayers that the baby would be safe, but arrive late. She'd never been a church goer, wasn't much of a believer, and she couldn't quiet that voice that kept telling her that after everything she'd done, she had no right she had to ask God for another favor.
But she did.
"Do this for John," she'd whisper.
He'd seemed so happy when she'd told him. He bought a box of cigars to pass out to his buddies, and told her he wanted to name the baby after his brother, if it was a boy.
That night, he lay next to her, talking about how his own father taught his sons to hunt and fish and fight, and how he'd been tough, but fair. She wondered if he was telling bedtime stories to the child growing inside her. After he fell asleep, she lay there, wondering what he would say if he knew the truth.
"Do this for the baby," she prayed, as she leaned against the hard wooden pews.
The baby had done nothing wrong. She -- or he, Blythe reminded herself -- shouldn't have to pay for her mistake.
When the first due date went by, she cried, and told John she was just tired.
Greg was finally born at 3:07 on an early June morning. Even through the haze of the drugs they'd given her, Blythe could hear the baby's cries, then the nurse leaned down over her, smiled and told her it was a boy.
He'd been wrapped in a blanket by the time they finally gave him to her, and he stopped crying at the sound of her voice.
"There now," she said. "Shhhh."
His eyes opened and she thought for a moment that he'd focused his gaze on her face, but then the nurses took him away to be weighed and measured.
When John first held him, he looked down into Greg's face. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and Blythe wondered what he saw, whose face he saw looking back at him. "He looks like your father," he finally said, but decided Greg had his nose. Blythe didn't argue.
"He definitely has your lungs," she said, and held out her arms for the baby as he began to cry.
She held him close, whispered to him, and he quieted again. John was right. He had her father's long features, and as she looked down at him, thought maybe he really did have John's nose.
Maybe the doctor really was wrong that first time he gave her a date. Maybe Greg really was John's child.
"You're crying," John said, and gave her his handkerchief.
"I'm happy."
The nurses shooed John out after visiting hours, but left Greg with Blythe.
She unwrapped the blanket, and his feet kicked at the air once they were free. He began to fuss a bit, and she held him tight against her breast, hummed an old song that she'd learned from her mother.
Blythe let her fingers run gently over his head, feeling the fine bones under his skin, the warmth of his small body. Greg had a small, bright red birthmark on his head, just over his left temple, visible through the fine wisps of blond hair that covered his scalp.
"Who'd he get this from?" Blythe hadn't noticed when the nurse entered the room. "Mom or Dad?"
"I don't know," she said. "Are birthmarks hereditary?"
"Sometimes," the nurse said. "Not usually."
Blythe held Greg a little tighter as the nurse came around to the side of the bed with the bassinet. He'd nearly fallen asleep, and her arms would feel empty once the nurse took him back to the nursery. She pulled the blanket back around his legs, tucked it in around him, and kissed the top of his head.
"My father has a birthmark like that," the nurse added, when Blythe finally let him go. "So does my grandfather. It just reminded me of them." She looked back with a shrug and a half-smile before pushing the bassinet away from the bed and out the door. "It probably doesn't mean anything."
Blythe lay awake that night, listening to the sounds of the hospital, thinking she'd be able to pick out the sound of Greg's cry from the nursery if he called out for her, but it was silent.
She'd studied herself in the mirror before she went to bed, combing her hair, looking for a red birthmark she knew wasn't there. Now she concentrated on images of John's head, of the days when he'd just had his hair cut and it was cropped so close she could see his scalp. If he had a birthmark, she couldn't remember it.
She closed her eyes, and found a different face haunting her thoughts, the man she'd last seen in San Diego. All she could remember about him was the way he'd smiled, the way he'd moved, the way he'd apologized.
Blythe rolled over, stared out at the hallway, at the light from the nursery. "It probably doesn't mean anything," she told herself. She felt a tear run down her cheek and she wiped it away with her hand. "It doesn't mean anything."
Chapter Three
Author: Namaste
Summary: "Maybe the doctor was wrong that first time he gave her a date. Maybe Greg really was John's child."
PG, about 850 words.
Author's Note: Part Two of a look at House's early life, based on the new background we received in the fifth season episode "Birthmarks," using chapters of about 800 words. To start at the beginning: Chapter One
The baby was two weeks late by one estimate -- a week early by the one she'd given John. Blythe kept quiet during those final weeks, swallowed back every complaint she had about the time, about swollen ankles and sleepless nights.
At the base chapel, she'd sit on an empty bench and repeat silent prayers that the baby would be safe, but arrive late. She'd never been a church goer, wasn't much of a believer, and she couldn't quiet that voice that kept telling her that after everything she'd done, she had no right she had to ask God for another favor.
But she did.
"Do this for John," she'd whisper.
He'd seemed so happy when she'd told him. He bought a box of cigars to pass out to his buddies, and told her he wanted to name the baby after his brother, if it was a boy.
That night, he lay next to her, talking about how his own father taught his sons to hunt and fish and fight, and how he'd been tough, but fair. She wondered if he was telling bedtime stories to the child growing inside her. After he fell asleep, she lay there, wondering what he would say if he knew the truth.
"Do this for the baby," she prayed, as she leaned against the hard wooden pews.
The baby had done nothing wrong. She -- or he, Blythe reminded herself -- shouldn't have to pay for her mistake.
When the first due date went by, she cried, and told John she was just tired.
Greg was finally born at 3:07 on an early June morning. Even through the haze of the drugs they'd given her, Blythe could hear the baby's cries, then the nurse leaned down over her, smiled and told her it was a boy.
He'd been wrapped in a blanket by the time they finally gave him to her, and he stopped crying at the sound of her voice.
"There now," she said. "Shhhh."
His eyes opened and she thought for a moment that he'd focused his gaze on her face, but then the nurses took him away to be weighed and measured.
When John first held him, he looked down into Greg's face. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and Blythe wondered what he saw, whose face he saw looking back at him. "He looks like your father," he finally said, but decided Greg had his nose. Blythe didn't argue.
"He definitely has your lungs," she said, and held out her arms for the baby as he began to cry.
She held him close, whispered to him, and he quieted again. John was right. He had her father's long features, and as she looked down at him, thought maybe he really did have John's nose.
Maybe the doctor really was wrong that first time he gave her a date. Maybe Greg really was John's child.
"You're crying," John said, and gave her his handkerchief.
"I'm happy."
The nurses shooed John out after visiting hours, but left Greg with Blythe.
She unwrapped the blanket, and his feet kicked at the air once they were free. He began to fuss a bit, and she held him tight against her breast, hummed an old song that she'd learned from her mother.
Blythe let her fingers run gently over his head, feeling the fine bones under his skin, the warmth of his small body. Greg had a small, bright red birthmark on his head, just over his left temple, visible through the fine wisps of blond hair that covered his scalp.
"Who'd he get this from?" Blythe hadn't noticed when the nurse entered the room. "Mom or Dad?"
"I don't know," she said. "Are birthmarks hereditary?"
"Sometimes," the nurse said. "Not usually."
Blythe held Greg a little tighter as the nurse came around to the side of the bed with the bassinet. He'd nearly fallen asleep, and her arms would feel empty once the nurse took him back to the nursery. She pulled the blanket back around his legs, tucked it in around him, and kissed the top of his head.
"My father has a birthmark like that," the nurse added, when Blythe finally let him go. "So does my grandfather. It just reminded me of them." She looked back with a shrug and a half-smile before pushing the bassinet away from the bed and out the door. "It probably doesn't mean anything."
Blythe lay awake that night, listening to the sounds of the hospital, thinking she'd be able to pick out the sound of Greg's cry from the nursery if he called out for her, but it was silent.
She'd studied herself in the mirror before she went to bed, combing her hair, looking for a red birthmark she knew wasn't there. Now she concentrated on images of John's head, of the days when he'd just had his hair cut and it was cropped so close she could see his scalp. If he had a birthmark, she couldn't remember it.
She closed her eyes, and found a different face haunting her thoughts, the man she'd last seen in San Diego. All she could remember about him was the way he'd smiled, the way he'd moved, the way he'd apologized.
Blythe rolled over, stared out at the hallway, at the light from the nursery. "It probably doesn't mean anything," she told herself. She felt a tear run down her cheek and she wiped it away with her hand. "It doesn't mean anything."
Chapter Three