New Fic: Blythe's Story Chapter Seventeen
Dec. 27th, 2008 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Blythe’s Story, Chapter Seventeen
Author: Namaste
Summary: "Blythe heard the splash of more whiskey going into his glass. "John?" She followed him, turned on the overhead light. "What happened?" she repeated. "Where's Greg?"
PG, about 900 words.
Author’s Note: 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
John and Greg stopped speaking to each other for nearly a week the first autumn that they spent in Florida. It started when Blythe wasn't there, when she was trapped for hours trying to untangle the bureaucratic red tape that had claimed one of their trunks they'd last seen in Egypt, and that never made it through once they'd arrived in Pensacola.
Not quite two weeks after they'd moved into their new base housing, the trunk was still caught up in a processing web somewhere – on base but it was still not in their hands. It was the box that held Greg's new collection of fossils and test tubes and books he'd gathered from dusty shops all over Cairo. It had the quilt that Blythe's grandmother had made, that had traveled with them from town to town and country to country. It had John's family photos.
Blythe got a call asking her to come and straighten out the paperwork late one afternoon, and she'd headed straight to the freight office, stopping only long enough to leave a note for Greg and John in case it took longer than she'd expected.
It did.
It was nearly eight o'clock by the time she walked in the house, wheeling the trunk behind her on a borrowed dolly. She'd expected to see Greg running down the front steps when he saw her with it, and John insisting on taking the load from her.
Instead, it was silent in the house. The lights weren't on yet, and the dusky twilight from outside was bleeding inside, shadows filling every corner.
John came out from the kitchen when she opened the door, grunted slightly and took a sip from his glass. Blythe could smell the sharp tang of alcohol and hear ice cubes rattling against the side of the glass.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "What happened?"
John didn't answer her at first, just put down the glass and picked up the trunk, carried it inside and let it fall heavily against the floor. He kicked it up against the couch and picked up his glass, swallowed down the rest of the whiskey.
"Where's Greg?" Blythe asked.
She hadn't seen a light on in Greg's room when she pulled into the driveway. It would have been too dark to read in there without one.
John went into the kitchen. She heard the splash of more whiskey going into his glass. "John?" She followed him, turned on the overhead light. "What happened?" she repeated. "Where's Greg?"
John blinked for a moment in the bright light. "I sent him to his room," he finally said. He didn't look at her and stared at his glass instead, rocking it back and forth so the whiskey slid over the ice cubes.
With the light on, Blythe could see the hard set of John's eyes, the clenched jaw, the way he gripped the glass so tightly she was surprised it didn't break. She took a deep breath. "Why?" she asked.
He still didn't look at her, just pushed a piece of paper toward her. Blythe picked it up and scanned the few lines. It was from the science teacher, complaining of what he called "insolence" from Greg and telling them to meet with him the next day before class.
"One week," John said. "He's been here one week and he's already fucked up."
John usually couched his language with softer terms when he was with her, slipping only when he was stressed or angry.
"What did Greg have to say about it?" Blythe asked.
John took another drink. "Didn't ask," he said. He pushed past her into the living room, sat in the overstuffed club chair in the darkest corner of the room. "Doesn't matter," he added.
"Of course it matters." Blythe turned on the light next to John. "Something must have happened."
"The teacher's in charge," John said. "It's his job to teach the class. It's Greg's job to shut up and learn something."
Blythe wanted to tell John that he was wrong, but saw the look on his face that it wouldn't do any good to try and get him to change his mind about anything. Not now. That would wait for a better time.
"So you didn't try to talk to him at all?"
John finally looked at her. "If I thought I could have managed to talk, rather than yell at him, I would have," he said. "I'd still be yelling if I had, but then you'd just be pissed at me for that instead."
Blythe felt her jaw tighten. "Don't take this out on me," she said.
"Who am I supposed to take it out on, me?" John's voice was raised, and Blythe started to think that he was right, that the silent treatment was better than yelling. "This isn't my fault," he said.
She turned away from John and looked out the window. The street lights had come on, and she could hear a whippoorwill's call from somewhere nearby. Ice rattled in John's glass as he took another drink. She took a deep breath. John would calm down. He'd apologize soon, she told herself, if she just gave him some time.
But time wouldn't help Greg. She thought of him there, sitting alone in the dark for hours, his imagination building with each minute.
She turned and headed to the back of the house. "I'm going to talk to Greg," she said. She didn't bother looking back to see John's reaction.
Chapter Eighteen
Author: Namaste
Summary: "Blythe heard the splash of more whiskey going into his glass. "John?" She followed him, turned on the overhead light. "What happened?" she repeated. "Where's Greg?"
PG, about 900 words.
Author’s Note: 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
John and Greg stopped speaking to each other for nearly a week the first autumn that they spent in Florida. It started when Blythe wasn't there, when she was trapped for hours trying to untangle the bureaucratic red tape that had claimed one of their trunks they'd last seen in Egypt, and that never made it through once they'd arrived in Pensacola.
Not quite two weeks after they'd moved into their new base housing, the trunk was still caught up in a processing web somewhere – on base but it was still not in their hands. It was the box that held Greg's new collection of fossils and test tubes and books he'd gathered from dusty shops all over Cairo. It had the quilt that Blythe's grandmother had made, that had traveled with them from town to town and country to country. It had John's family photos.
Blythe got a call asking her to come and straighten out the paperwork late one afternoon, and she'd headed straight to the freight office, stopping only long enough to leave a note for Greg and John in case it took longer than she'd expected.
It did.
It was nearly eight o'clock by the time she walked in the house, wheeling the trunk behind her on a borrowed dolly. She'd expected to see Greg running down the front steps when he saw her with it, and John insisting on taking the load from her.
Instead, it was silent in the house. The lights weren't on yet, and the dusky twilight from outside was bleeding inside, shadows filling every corner.
John came out from the kitchen when she opened the door, grunted slightly and took a sip from his glass. Blythe could smell the sharp tang of alcohol and hear ice cubes rattling against the side of the glass.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "What happened?"
John didn't answer her at first, just put down the glass and picked up the trunk, carried it inside and let it fall heavily against the floor. He kicked it up against the couch and picked up his glass, swallowed down the rest of the whiskey.
"Where's Greg?" Blythe asked.
She hadn't seen a light on in Greg's room when she pulled into the driveway. It would have been too dark to read in there without one.
John went into the kitchen. She heard the splash of more whiskey going into his glass. "John?" She followed him, turned on the overhead light. "What happened?" she repeated. "Where's Greg?"
John blinked for a moment in the bright light. "I sent him to his room," he finally said. He didn't look at her and stared at his glass instead, rocking it back and forth so the whiskey slid over the ice cubes.
With the light on, Blythe could see the hard set of John's eyes, the clenched jaw, the way he gripped the glass so tightly she was surprised it didn't break. She took a deep breath. "Why?" she asked.
He still didn't look at her, just pushed a piece of paper toward her. Blythe picked it up and scanned the few lines. It was from the science teacher, complaining of what he called "insolence" from Greg and telling them to meet with him the next day before class.
"One week," John said. "He's been here one week and he's already fucked up."
John usually couched his language with softer terms when he was with her, slipping only when he was stressed or angry.
"What did Greg have to say about it?" Blythe asked.
John took another drink. "Didn't ask," he said. He pushed past her into the living room, sat in the overstuffed club chair in the darkest corner of the room. "Doesn't matter," he added.
"Of course it matters." Blythe turned on the light next to John. "Something must have happened."
"The teacher's in charge," John said. "It's his job to teach the class. It's Greg's job to shut up and learn something."
Blythe wanted to tell John that he was wrong, but saw the look on his face that it wouldn't do any good to try and get him to change his mind about anything. Not now. That would wait for a better time.
"So you didn't try to talk to him at all?"
John finally looked at her. "If I thought I could have managed to talk, rather than yell at him, I would have," he said. "I'd still be yelling if I had, but then you'd just be pissed at me for that instead."
Blythe felt her jaw tighten. "Don't take this out on me," she said.
"Who am I supposed to take it out on, me?" John's voice was raised, and Blythe started to think that he was right, that the silent treatment was better than yelling. "This isn't my fault," he said.
She turned away from John and looked out the window. The street lights had come on, and she could hear a whippoorwill's call from somewhere nearby. Ice rattled in John's glass as he took another drink. She took a deep breath. John would calm down. He'd apologize soon, she told herself, if she just gave him some time.
But time wouldn't help Greg. She thought of him there, sitting alone in the dark for hours, his imagination building with each minute.
She turned and headed to the back of the house. "I'm going to talk to Greg," she said. She didn't bother looking back to see John's reaction.
Chapter Eighteen
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 03:36 am (UTC)I just love this.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 05:55 am (UTC)I love it that we're with Blythe in not knowing what Greg really did or what John really did to him. What a terrible thing for her, to be caught between two people she loves and understands but who are never going to understand one another.
One tiny typo here: on base but it still not in their hands.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 11:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 12:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 12:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 12:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:39 pm (UTC)Still absolutely loving this.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 01:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 04:33 pm (UTC)Blythe's realization that time to cool off would not work for Greg (who as an adult stews endlessly about the past's hurts) is such a wonderful observation.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 08:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 04:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-28 08:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-29 06:05 pm (UTC)No, no, the world already ended because I realized while writing interaction between John and Blythe recently that I...might...actually ship them. That...feels wrong. Just wrong, you know?
*giggles* It's just that they reminded me of Hector and Monique from Life Is Funny by E.R. Frank while writing a chapter dealing with John trying to comfort her and things just snowballed.
How the hell can I ship two people who might as well be my grandparents? *aghast*
Anyway, rambling aside, off to read the other chapter I missed. *nods*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-30 12:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-30 12:50 am (UTC)*laughs some more*
Have you seen Juno, because I feel like Leah right now and she gives me the absolute creeps with her older men fetish. Her bedroom is wallpapered with cutouts of guys and their heads are replaced with Bill Clinton and her geometry instructor (whom she calls 'Keith' to Juno's (and everyone sane)'s intense dismay.
"Do not call Mr. Conyers 'Keith', okay -- my barf reflex is really enheightened these days!"
Yes, 'enheightened' is not a word, but I had to quote her properly. *sighs*
edited because closing your quotations is just courteous.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-30 10:51 am (UTC)You can't help but be exasperated by him...But at least this way we're getting a view ito why this may be so.
Well done, as always :)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 09:05 am (UTC)Between that and having John House for a father, Greg is caught between a rock and a hard place.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-11 06:04 am (UTC)