New Fic: Blythe's Story Chapter Twelve
Dec. 10th, 2008 07:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Blythe’s Story, Chapter Twelve
Author: Namaste
Summary: “I hate him," Greg had said, ignoring the drumstick held between his fingers."
PG, about 1,000 words.
Author’s Note: Part eleven 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 1,000 words.
To start at the beginning: Chapter One
Blythe had a newspaper in front of her, but wasn't reading. For ten minutes, she'd scanned the headlines, but she couldn't remember what she'd read. Instead, she listened in as John and Phil watched a baseball game.
John was rooting for the Indians, Phil had the Yankees. Greg lay on the floor between the two of them with his math homework. John leaned forward, tapped Greg on the shoulder and pointed to a man on the field.
"See how the batter's watching the pitcher?" John asked him. "He can guess what pitch he's going to get just by the way the pitcher holds the ball. Pay attention, and maybe you'll get a home run at your next game."
"How many home runs have you ever hit?" Phil asked.
John grunted, leaned back in his chair again. "That's not the point."
Phil laughed, and drank his beer.
Phil had been spending more time with them the past few weeks, showing up in time for dinner, helping John change the oil in the car, watching the games with him, cheering at Greg's Little League games.
"He shouldn't have to sit around the house all by himself," John would say every time she asked about it.
Blythe thought Phil should devote his time to wooing Jenny again. If he had, maybe she'd be here already. At least the two of them were still talking, and he claimed Jenny was thinking of moving in another month or so.
Phil cheered as the Yankees scored a run, and Blythe put down her paper and took time to really look at the two men, side by side.
She wondered now how it was the Phil had ever reminded her of John. It wasn't just about the difference in their bodies as they aged. It was bigger. It was more important.
Phil never wanted to go home. John, she was starting to see, could think of nowhere better than home.
John had his favorite coffee cup, and his favorite place to drink his coffee – on the rocking chair near the front window.
He had an old pair of worn out shoes he stashed next to the door, and slipped on the minute he came home, leaving his flight boots or dress shoes in their place.
He had a favorite spot on the couch – the left side, near the reading lamp – and would shoo Greg out of the seat if he was there. He had his magazines piled up in descending order on the end table next to the lamp.
She teased him once that he was getting old and set in his ways. Now she was realizing that when he was home, John wanted to shape the world around him until it was just the way he liked it. Sometimes that was a good thing. Usually, Blythe told herself. Usually it was good. It was good that John's world was built around her, and around Greg and not on some easy distraction.
But sometimes he forgot that his world had to be flexible enough for other people to live in too.
John liked to have supper on the table at seven o'clock, right after Walter Cronkite signed off for the night. One day when Greg wasn't there, he refused to wait and ordered Greg to go to his room when he got home five minutes later, calling after him that he needed to learn responsibility.
Blythe had saved Greg a plate, and took it to him when John went outside to talk to the neighbors.
"I hate him," Greg had said, ignoring the drumstick he held between his fingers.
"No you don't," Blythe had told him. "You're just upset with him for a few minutes."
"Yes I do," Greg had insisted. "He's mean."
Blythe had sat beside Greg on the bed, put her hand on his shoulder. "He's just --" she'd paused, and tried to think of some way to explain things in a way a nine-year-old would understand. "It's complicated."
She knew he hadn't believed her. She also knew that John thought he was doing his best for Greg, but sometimes it was hard to tell where to draw the line with John when he pushed too hard.
But now, seeing them together and happy, it was easier to remember that he really did want the best for Greg, and he really did care. John knew every grade on Greg's report card, and would sit with him as he practiced his multiplication tables, and quiz him on state capitals.
Phil hadn't been able to tell her Susie's favorite color, or Karen's first word.
Blythe knew there had to be some middle ground out there, something between the way Phil seemed to run away from his family and the way John held his too tightly.
John suddenly looked up from the TV, saw her watching them.
"What?" he asked. "You look like you've got something on your mind."
Phil and Greg were looking at her now too, but Blythe shook her head. "It's nothing," she said. "I was just thinking."
John shrugged after a few seconds and turned back to the game. So did Phil. Only Greg kept watching her, his eyes drawn together as if he was working out some puzzle. Blythe smiled at him and looked back at the paper. When she glanced up a moment later, he was still studying her.
"It's nothing," she whispered to him, and winked.
He finally turned back to the TV and Blythe took one more look at him and John and Phil.
If the only choices she'd ever have in life were between a man who cared too much, and one who cared too little, she knew she'd make the same choice she already had. Maybe John pushed too hard sometimes. Maybe he didn't always see the lines he was about to cross. So then she could be the one to point those lines out to John, and to create that middle ground Greg needed, even if John couldn't.
Chapter Thirteen
Author: Namaste
Summary: “I hate him," Greg had said, ignoring the drumstick held between his fingers."
PG, about 1,000 words.
Author’s Note: Part eleven 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 1,000 words.
To start at the beginning: Chapter One
Blythe had a newspaper in front of her, but wasn't reading. For ten minutes, she'd scanned the headlines, but she couldn't remember what she'd read. Instead, she listened in as John and Phil watched a baseball game.
John was rooting for the Indians, Phil had the Yankees. Greg lay on the floor between the two of them with his math homework. John leaned forward, tapped Greg on the shoulder and pointed to a man on the field.
"See how the batter's watching the pitcher?" John asked him. "He can guess what pitch he's going to get just by the way the pitcher holds the ball. Pay attention, and maybe you'll get a home run at your next game."
"How many home runs have you ever hit?" Phil asked.
John grunted, leaned back in his chair again. "That's not the point."
Phil laughed, and drank his beer.
Phil had been spending more time with them the past few weeks, showing up in time for dinner, helping John change the oil in the car, watching the games with him, cheering at Greg's Little League games.
"He shouldn't have to sit around the house all by himself," John would say every time she asked about it.
Blythe thought Phil should devote his time to wooing Jenny again. If he had, maybe she'd be here already. At least the two of them were still talking, and he claimed Jenny was thinking of moving in another month or so.
Phil cheered as the Yankees scored a run, and Blythe put down her paper and took time to really look at the two men, side by side.
She wondered now how it was the Phil had ever reminded her of John. It wasn't just about the difference in their bodies as they aged. It was bigger. It was more important.
Phil never wanted to go home. John, she was starting to see, could think of nowhere better than home.
John had his favorite coffee cup, and his favorite place to drink his coffee – on the rocking chair near the front window.
He had an old pair of worn out shoes he stashed next to the door, and slipped on the minute he came home, leaving his flight boots or dress shoes in their place.
He had a favorite spot on the couch – the left side, near the reading lamp – and would shoo Greg out of the seat if he was there. He had his magazines piled up in descending order on the end table next to the lamp.
She teased him once that he was getting old and set in his ways. Now she was realizing that when he was home, John wanted to shape the world around him until it was just the way he liked it. Sometimes that was a good thing. Usually, Blythe told herself. Usually it was good. It was good that John's world was built around her, and around Greg and not on some easy distraction.
But sometimes he forgot that his world had to be flexible enough for other people to live in too.
John liked to have supper on the table at seven o'clock, right after Walter Cronkite signed off for the night. One day when Greg wasn't there, he refused to wait and ordered Greg to go to his room when he got home five minutes later, calling after him that he needed to learn responsibility.
Blythe had saved Greg a plate, and took it to him when John went outside to talk to the neighbors.
"I hate him," Greg had said, ignoring the drumstick he held between his fingers.
"No you don't," Blythe had told him. "You're just upset with him for a few minutes."
"Yes I do," Greg had insisted. "He's mean."
Blythe had sat beside Greg on the bed, put her hand on his shoulder. "He's just --" she'd paused, and tried to think of some way to explain things in a way a nine-year-old would understand. "It's complicated."
She knew he hadn't believed her. She also knew that John thought he was doing his best for Greg, but sometimes it was hard to tell where to draw the line with John when he pushed too hard.
But now, seeing them together and happy, it was easier to remember that he really did want the best for Greg, and he really did care. John knew every grade on Greg's report card, and would sit with him as he practiced his multiplication tables, and quiz him on state capitals.
Phil hadn't been able to tell her Susie's favorite color, or Karen's first word.
Blythe knew there had to be some middle ground out there, something between the way Phil seemed to run away from his family and the way John held his too tightly.
John suddenly looked up from the TV, saw her watching them.
"What?" he asked. "You look like you've got something on your mind."
Phil and Greg were looking at her now too, but Blythe shook her head. "It's nothing," she said. "I was just thinking."
John shrugged after a few seconds and turned back to the game. So did Phil. Only Greg kept watching her, his eyes drawn together as if he was working out some puzzle. Blythe smiled at him and looked back at the paper. When she glanced up a moment later, he was still studying her.
"It's nothing," she whispered to him, and winked.
He finally turned back to the TV and Blythe took one more look at him and John and Phil.
If the only choices she'd ever have in life were between a man who cared too much, and one who cared too little, she knew she'd make the same choice she already had. Maybe John pushed too hard sometimes. Maybe he didn't always see the lines he was about to cross. So then she could be the one to point those lines out to John, and to create that middle ground Greg needed, even if John couldn't.
Chapter Thirteen