New Fic: Blythe's Story Chapter 30 of 32
Mar. 15th, 2009 04:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Blythe's Story, Chapter 30 of 32
Author: Namaste
Summary: "Blythe was reminded of Lexington, of visiting horse farms and seeing thoroughbreds in their stalls, staring out the barn doors at the open fields beyond, waiting to be turned loose, to be set free, to run."
PG, 844 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. And yes, it'll be 32 chapters in total. Two more to go.
To start at the beginning: Chapter One
They were alone for their last night together. It felt familiar – the three of them, saying a silent goodbye, not knowing when they'd all be together again. Every other time, it had been John who was leaving. This time, it was Greg.
Blythe offered to make enough for food for all of Greg's friends, but he shook his head.
"What friends?"
Blythe sighed. If they were still at Quantico there would have been boys from his team, boys from class. But here in Arizona, there was no one.
Sometimes it seemed like the ultimate insult from the Marines, John's transfer coming just weeks into Greg's final semester, his senior year spent divided between what he'd had and what he'd lost, spent alone.
Blythe had begged John on Greg's behalf to delay the transfer, even knowing he'd never turn down an order. She'd considered finding enough money to rent an apartment for her and Greg alone in Virginia, just for a few months so he could finish out the year. She couldn't make the numbers work.
By February they had packed up and moved southwest to the dry desert town on the Mexican border.
Greg claimed he didn't care.
"It's not like I'm going to see anyone after graduation anyway," he said, but Blythe had seen him staring at their house as they pulled out of the driveway in Quantico for the last time, watching it fade into the background in the mirror.
She and John sat side-by-side at Greg's graduation. They didn't recognize any of the other families, and they were the only ones to cheer when they called his name, the scatterings of polite applause only seeming to echo even more in the gymnasium.
Greg spent the summer counting down the days until his flight to Baltimore, working odd jobs to fill the hours and making lists of everything he'd need.
As the days ticked down to hours, he paced through the house, checking everything he'd packed into the two suitcases that he would take on the flight with him along with the battered guitar case that held the acoustic guitar he'd bought second hand in South Carolina years ago.
He stood at the kitchen doorway now, staring out the window, his fingers tapping out the rhythm to some song in his head.
Blythe was reminded of Lexington, of visiting horse farms and seeing thoroughbreds in their stalls, staring out the barn doors at the open fields beyond, waiting to be turned loose, to be set free, to run.
She brought up the old stories as they ate supper together, trying to fill Greg's memory with happy moments – days in Egypt, in Japan, in San Diego and Virginia.
That night, she went through their photo albums, her fingers pausing briefly over the image of Greg as a baby, and as a toddler, sitting on John's shoulders with both of them waving at the camera.
"You should take some of these with you," she said.
Greg shook his head. "I can remember what you look like," he said.
After he went to bed, Blythe eased a photo out from the album's pages. Greg was five years old and they were Athens. John had just returned from a three-week tour out in the Adriatic and Greg had run out to meet him. In the picture, John was in uniform, holding Greg in one arm, the other wrapped around Blythe's shoulder.
Blythe eased open the zipper on one of Greg's suitcases and slid the photo between the folds of one of his shirts.
John told her not to cry the next morning as they drove Greg to the airport. "He's only going to college," he reminded her.
"I'm not making any promises," she said.
She didn't cry, though. Not then. Not as she hugged him goodbye, and told him to write.
"I'm so proud of you," she said. "I love you."
"I love you too," he whispered in her ear.
"I'll see you at Christmas," she said, and he nodded.
She didn't cry as she watched him walk out to the plane. She didn't cry as they watched the plane taxi out to the runway, pick up speed and lift off the ground, gain altitude and climb up to the clouds.
She didn't cry on the drive home, John silently making the turns back to the base, back to their house.
She didn't cry when John kissed her on the cheek and told her he was going in to the office to finish up some paperwork.
She didn't feel the tears until she'd walked into the house alone and closed the door behind her, the door latch echoing in the empty house.
Blythe walked to Greg's room, and pushed open the door. The desk had been cleared of its books. There were no shoes in the corner of the room. The hangers in the closet were empty.
She sat on the edge of his bed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and took a deep breath.
"Now what?"
Chapter 31
Author: Namaste
Summary: "Blythe was reminded of Lexington, of visiting horse farms and seeing thoroughbreds in their stalls, staring out the barn doors at the open fields beyond, waiting to be turned loose, to be set free, to run."
PG, 844 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. And yes, it'll be 32 chapters in total. Two more to go.
To start at the beginning: Chapter One
They were alone for their last night together. It felt familiar – the three of them, saying a silent goodbye, not knowing when they'd all be together again. Every other time, it had been John who was leaving. This time, it was Greg.
Blythe offered to make enough for food for all of Greg's friends, but he shook his head.
"What friends?"
Blythe sighed. If they were still at Quantico there would have been boys from his team, boys from class. But here in Arizona, there was no one.
Sometimes it seemed like the ultimate insult from the Marines, John's transfer coming just weeks into Greg's final semester, his senior year spent divided between what he'd had and what he'd lost, spent alone.
Blythe had begged John on Greg's behalf to delay the transfer, even knowing he'd never turn down an order. She'd considered finding enough money to rent an apartment for her and Greg alone in Virginia, just for a few months so he could finish out the year. She couldn't make the numbers work.
By February they had packed up and moved southwest to the dry desert town on the Mexican border.
Greg claimed he didn't care.
"It's not like I'm going to see anyone after graduation anyway," he said, but Blythe had seen him staring at their house as they pulled out of the driveway in Quantico for the last time, watching it fade into the background in the mirror.
She and John sat side-by-side at Greg's graduation. They didn't recognize any of the other families, and they were the only ones to cheer when they called his name, the scatterings of polite applause only seeming to echo even more in the gymnasium.
Greg spent the summer counting down the days until his flight to Baltimore, working odd jobs to fill the hours and making lists of everything he'd need.
As the days ticked down to hours, he paced through the house, checking everything he'd packed into the two suitcases that he would take on the flight with him along with the battered guitar case that held the acoustic guitar he'd bought second hand in South Carolina years ago.
He stood at the kitchen doorway now, staring out the window, his fingers tapping out the rhythm to some song in his head.
Blythe was reminded of Lexington, of visiting horse farms and seeing thoroughbreds in their stalls, staring out the barn doors at the open fields beyond, waiting to be turned loose, to be set free, to run.
She brought up the old stories as they ate supper together, trying to fill Greg's memory with happy moments – days in Egypt, in Japan, in San Diego and Virginia.
That night, she went through their photo albums, her fingers pausing briefly over the image of Greg as a baby, and as a toddler, sitting on John's shoulders with both of them waving at the camera.
"You should take some of these with you," she said.
Greg shook his head. "I can remember what you look like," he said.
After he went to bed, Blythe eased a photo out from the album's pages. Greg was five years old and they were Athens. John had just returned from a three-week tour out in the Adriatic and Greg had run out to meet him. In the picture, John was in uniform, holding Greg in one arm, the other wrapped around Blythe's shoulder.
Blythe eased open the zipper on one of Greg's suitcases and slid the photo between the folds of one of his shirts.
John told her not to cry the next morning as they drove Greg to the airport. "He's only going to college," he reminded her.
"I'm not making any promises," she said.
She didn't cry, though. Not then. Not as she hugged him goodbye, and told him to write.
"I'm so proud of you," she said. "I love you."
"I love you too," he whispered in her ear.
"I'll see you at Christmas," she said, and he nodded.
She didn't cry as she watched him walk out to the plane. She didn't cry as they watched the plane taxi out to the runway, pick up speed and lift off the ground, gain altitude and climb up to the clouds.
She didn't cry on the drive home, John silently making the turns back to the base, back to their house.
She didn't cry when John kissed her on the cheek and told her he was going in to the office to finish up some paperwork.
She didn't feel the tears until she'd walked into the house alone and closed the door behind her, the door latch echoing in the empty house.
Blythe walked to Greg's room, and pushed open the door. The desk had been cleared of its books. There were no shoes in the corner of the room. The hangers in the closet were empty.
She sat on the edge of his bed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and took a deep breath.
"Now what?"
Chapter 31
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-15 09:28 pm (UTC)Fav moment 2: Greg watching their home getting smaller in the mirror.
Thank you. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 01:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-15 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 01:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-15 11:18 pm (UTC)But the whispered "I love you too" is what got me as well.
There is a part of me that wants to see a House episode with Blythe and H without John because of this story.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 01:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 03:41 am (UTC)http://hamonwry.livejournal.com/7047.html
For context: This is a flashback scene in a fic set 30 years in the future when House, married (to Cameron -- don't shoot!) with a son and granddaughter, is diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. The scene is set shortly after the son is born, and I wrote it as John and Blythe meet their grandson but revised it after canon killed John.
Namaste, lovely chapter as always. Once again, I want to give your Blythe a big hug. You, too.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 05:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 06:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 01:27 am (UTC)Poor Blythe.
I love how it felt like Greg was already gone. Something about the writing make him feel more like a wraith than a person.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 01:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 03:00 am (UTC)Drat. I failed. *resists urge to throw things at you in recompense for my BURNING eyes*
The tears...they burn...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 05:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 11:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 04:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-16 05:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-17 07:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-17 11:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-18 11:11 am (UTC)This is such a vivid fic - you create very clear pictures of what's happening.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-18 12:54 pm (UTC)Oh...
Very lovely. Touching, in fact.