New Fic: Blythe's Story Chapter Nineteen
Jan. 1st, 2009 10:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Blythe's Story, Chapter Nineteen
Author: Namaste
Summary: "But today was good. Today, everyone was happy. Today, she told herself, was the kind of story she'd tell her own grandchildren someday."
PG, 995 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
Blythe's grandmother grew up hungry and poor. She used to tell stories of days of hunger, of seasons when drought stole the family's crop. But then she'd laugh, and tell a story of how one of her brothers had been caught spiking the salt shaker with sand as a joke, and the look on his face when he'd been forced to eat the grit-filled eggs that had been fried up on the stove top.
Blythe had asked her once how she could laugh, when things were so bad.
"That's the best time to laugh," she'd said. "When things are so bad you can't stand to cry anymore, you've got to find something that makes you happy."
Blythe thought of her words as she watched Greg and John out in the surf.
It was Greg's spring break, and John wouldn't be on duty for another three days. The weather had turned hot and humid, promising a long summer to come, and Blythe had suggested that they pretend they were tourists, just for the day, and give themselves a day at the beach.
No housework, no paperwork, no homework.
"It'll be nice," she'd said.
Blythe made fried chicken and a three-bean salad – the vinegar in the dressing mixing with the smell of the salt air and the sticky feel of her skin. There were cookies in a tin, and she filled a cooler with cherry Kool-Aid and ice and stuffed a bag with towels and swimsuits, and sandals, and a blanket.
The remains of their dinner was still spread out over the blanket, but Blythe ignored the mess. Instead, she sat watching John teach Greg how to body surf through the waves, and gave in to her own giggles when Greg emerged from the water, laughing and shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes.
It had been too long with the two of them barely operating at truce, and still on edge – too long that she'd worried that every report card or parent teacher meeting would drop them back in the middle of their war, and leave her caught in a mine field, uncertain which way she should take to lead them out.
But today was good. Today, everyone was happy. Today, she told herself, was the kind of story she'd tell her own grandchildren someday.
John built a bonfire on the beach just before sunset, and Greg brought him armfuls of driftwood he collected along the shore, then fed each one to the flames as the red embers matched the red of the western sky, then became a beacon in the night and the sun sank beyond them, and darkness closed in around them.
John pointed to the night birds that had come out and circled above them, telling Greg to watch how they rode the wind currents.
"When you're flying, you can feel the change in the wind," John said. "You can feel the pressure change when you climb higher and the air is cold because of the way the air passes over the wings."
"Bernoulli's Principle," Greg said. "The curve of the wing decreases air pressure, creating lift." He turned to John, and Blythe saw the way the flames shone in his eyes. "He came up with that equation almost two hundred years before the Wright Brothers. How did he do that?"
"I don't know, but I'm glad he did." John chuckled. "Otherwise, I might be out of a job."
Greg put another stick on the fire, then sat cross-legged on the blanket between John and Blythe. She could see the curve of his spine as he leaned forward, toward the flames.
It was quiet for a few moments. Just the sound of the crackling embers, the waves on the beach, and the squeals of birds and bats overhead. Blythe closed her eyes, tried to memorize everything: the sound, the feel of the sand beneath her, the smell of the ocean. She wanted to tell the story the right way when the day came. She wanted to make it last. No, she thought, this could be more than just a story, more than just a moment in the past. This could be something new, something to build some new future on – a way to change the story she'd tell.
"Greg, I'll bet your Dad has all kinds of information he could give you about flying and planes, and the weather, and air pressure." She turned to John. "Don't you?"
"I can read about that anywhere," Greg said.
Blythe leaned toward him. "But he can tell you more than the books can," she said. "You can conduct your own research with him all about the way the plane feels when it goes higher and lower."
"Sure can," John said. "It's different when you're out there than it is in the books. There are cold fronts and warm fronts and air pockets and turbulence." John took her hand. Maybe he'd been looking for the same chance that she'd wanted, some way to connect with Greg in a language they could both speak. "Sometimes even a cloud bank can make the plane act differently. I could show you some old charts and some old flight records."
Greg glanced at him, turn turned back to stare at the fire.
"If you want," John added.
Greg was silent a moment longer, then finally he shrugged. "OK."
Blythe felt John squeeze her hand. "Great," he said. "I'll get you some old charts – maybe some from the missions I was flying off Japan before you were born. It'll be fun to take a look at those again."
Blythe kissed John on the cheek, then leaned against him, feeling the heat of his body, the heat from the sand, the heat from the fire. She studied the outline of Greg against the dancing flames, then closed her eyes and listened to the ocean, and the sound of wood crackling in the fire. "That'll be nice," she said.
Chapter Twenty
Author: Namaste
Summary: "But today was good. Today, everyone was happy. Today, she told herself, was the kind of story she'd tell her own grandchildren someday."
PG, 995 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
Blythe's grandmother grew up hungry and poor. She used to tell stories of days of hunger, of seasons when drought stole the family's crop. But then she'd laugh, and tell a story of how one of her brothers had been caught spiking the salt shaker with sand as a joke, and the look on his face when he'd been forced to eat the grit-filled eggs that had been fried up on the stove top.
Blythe had asked her once how she could laugh, when things were so bad.
"That's the best time to laugh," she'd said. "When things are so bad you can't stand to cry anymore, you've got to find something that makes you happy."
Blythe thought of her words as she watched Greg and John out in the surf.
It was Greg's spring break, and John wouldn't be on duty for another three days. The weather had turned hot and humid, promising a long summer to come, and Blythe had suggested that they pretend they were tourists, just for the day, and give themselves a day at the beach.
No housework, no paperwork, no homework.
"It'll be nice," she'd said.
Blythe made fried chicken and a three-bean salad – the vinegar in the dressing mixing with the smell of the salt air and the sticky feel of her skin. There were cookies in a tin, and she filled a cooler with cherry Kool-Aid and ice and stuffed a bag with towels and swimsuits, and sandals, and a blanket.
The remains of their dinner was still spread out over the blanket, but Blythe ignored the mess. Instead, she sat watching John teach Greg how to body surf through the waves, and gave in to her own giggles when Greg emerged from the water, laughing and shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes.
It had been too long with the two of them barely operating at truce, and still on edge – too long that she'd worried that every report card or parent teacher meeting would drop them back in the middle of their war, and leave her caught in a mine field, uncertain which way she should take to lead them out.
But today was good. Today, everyone was happy. Today, she told herself, was the kind of story she'd tell her own grandchildren someday.
John built a bonfire on the beach just before sunset, and Greg brought him armfuls of driftwood he collected along the shore, then fed each one to the flames as the red embers matched the red of the western sky, then became a beacon in the night and the sun sank beyond them, and darkness closed in around them.
John pointed to the night birds that had come out and circled above them, telling Greg to watch how they rode the wind currents.
"When you're flying, you can feel the change in the wind," John said. "You can feel the pressure change when you climb higher and the air is cold because of the way the air passes over the wings."
"Bernoulli's Principle," Greg said. "The curve of the wing decreases air pressure, creating lift." He turned to John, and Blythe saw the way the flames shone in his eyes. "He came up with that equation almost two hundred years before the Wright Brothers. How did he do that?"
"I don't know, but I'm glad he did." John chuckled. "Otherwise, I might be out of a job."
Greg put another stick on the fire, then sat cross-legged on the blanket between John and Blythe. She could see the curve of his spine as he leaned forward, toward the flames.
It was quiet for a few moments. Just the sound of the crackling embers, the waves on the beach, and the squeals of birds and bats overhead. Blythe closed her eyes, tried to memorize everything: the sound, the feel of the sand beneath her, the smell of the ocean. She wanted to tell the story the right way when the day came. She wanted to make it last. No, she thought, this could be more than just a story, more than just a moment in the past. This could be something new, something to build some new future on – a way to change the story she'd tell.
"Greg, I'll bet your Dad has all kinds of information he could give you about flying and planes, and the weather, and air pressure." She turned to John. "Don't you?"
"I can read about that anywhere," Greg said.
Blythe leaned toward him. "But he can tell you more than the books can," she said. "You can conduct your own research with him all about the way the plane feels when it goes higher and lower."
"Sure can," John said. "It's different when you're out there than it is in the books. There are cold fronts and warm fronts and air pockets and turbulence." John took her hand. Maybe he'd been looking for the same chance that she'd wanted, some way to connect with Greg in a language they could both speak. "Sometimes even a cloud bank can make the plane act differently. I could show you some old charts and some old flight records."
Greg glanced at him, turn turned back to stare at the fire.
"If you want," John added.
Greg was silent a moment longer, then finally he shrugged. "OK."
Blythe felt John squeeze her hand. "Great," he said. "I'll get you some old charts – maybe some from the missions I was flying off Japan before you were born. It'll be fun to take a look at those again."
Blythe kissed John on the cheek, then leaned against him, feeling the heat of his body, the heat from the sand, the heat from the fire. She studied the outline of Greg against the dancing flames, then closed her eyes and listened to the ocean, and the sound of wood crackling in the fire. "That'll be nice," she said.
Chapter Twenty
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 03:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 11:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 04:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 11:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 03:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 04:37 pm (UTC)This sentence made my heart sink. I really love this chapter.
I know I've said this before, but this chapter reminded me to say it again: I so appreciate how you haven't made John out to be a total monster. I know by this point in the story he probably has done some pretty dreadful things to Greg, and he definitely will in the future, but as we can see here, it wasn't out of malice, per se. It was out of the deepest misunderstandings of the child he's raising. It's wonderful to see him want to connect to Greg, and vice versa.
Although, this sentence: "That'll be nice," she said. If that's not a sign of evil foreboding, I don't know what is. :D
Awesome work, and Happy New Year!!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 11:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 04:48 pm (UTC)Happy New Year!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 11:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 04:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 11:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 09:12 pm (UTC)It's nice that you gave them a happy day and something for Blythe to remember for a long time.
Thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-01 11:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 02:38 am (UTC)This made me laugh out loud and you know perfectly well why:
*does so some more*
I am so mean. *cackles*
I'm glad John seems to be making an effort, as well. It's certainly a change to see him trying to make a wavelength with Greg instead of expecting his son to do all the work, or so it seemed.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 02:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 05:35 pm (UTC)*pauses and tries to articulate words to express how that scene affected me*
What the hell is that man thinking half the time? Is it that he can't bear to think of what Greg's handicap actually means so he simply doesn't? Love can make you blind to the suffering of those you care for because you simply don't want to think of them hurting, but -- honestly, John takes that to a maxim from what we saw in canon and it's very difficult to take without yelling angrily at him to open his damned eyes.
It is, however, still my favorite scene in canon -- I must admit.
Too bad the writers are making it extremely difficult for me to want to write canon House fanfiction at all right now. I'm trying and I can't seem to get up the urge to explore anything because knowing them, they'll blow whatever they've set up apart at their first chance.
It's really getting difficult to care anymore about any plot points, because they'll be completely debunked or completely dropped -- and then debunked.
I have to say I'm really angry at the writers right now (because I'm sure you can tell) and it's only fanfiction that hasn't had me dropping out of this fandom altogether. Not to mention, the fact that the season isn't over yet. If they're still doing stuff like this in season six, I'm leaving. I won't be able to do it anymore, sadly.
They're characters we're attached to and turning them into idiots and creeps we don't know or care for. And for what, really?
*pauses* *winces*
Oh, this turned into a rant, didn't it? I'm sorry -- my frustration is leaking everywhere, especially when I'm comparing canon to brilliant fanfiction writers who should be on the staff so we wouldn't have this problem. *sighs*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 06:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 06:27 pm (UTC)You'll continue to take up the slack for me? *gives you pleading, sad puppy look*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 05:20 am (UTC)--blacktop
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-02 02:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-04 09:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-06 12:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-10 02:27 am (UTC)But it's sad in a way, though, because you can see Greg slipping away of his own accord now...
Great imagery, too...I'm not usually a fan of the beach, lol, but I'd have loved to be on that one.