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Catalyst
by naughtybookworm
Catalyst
"Get out of here, you little bastard," the boy's mother seethed, shoving five wrinkled bills into his hand. "Go to the movies, or some damn place, and don't show your face until tonight... LATE tonight." She glanced around outside, and shoved him out the front door.
He ran down to the end of the block, turned the corner. Occasionally, he sneaked a glance down the block at the front door of 221B just to see if it was safe to go back inside. Lately, he'd been hanging out in the hallway once he knew his mother was occupied with a man. All he had to do was listen for what sounded like keys near the door to their apartment, and then duck outside before she saw him. About half an hour later, after the man was long gone, he would stroll in casually, as if he'd just come back from wherever she thought she was sending him. She never asked, anyway.
Five dollars. As if a person, even a kid, could get into a movie for that price! Well, at least he wouldn't be hungry. There was an all-night convenience store about 5 blocks away. He could get a hot dog and maybe some chips.
An old guy in a sports car with an expensive blue suit was standing on the doorstep, ringing the doorbell. That would be the man his mom was waiting for. It was a different man almost every time, all because of him, his mother would say. Once they realized that he was around, they usually disappeared. Nobody wanted a snot-nosed kid that wasn't their own around. He'd made a point of keeping his nose clean, carrying a Kleenex all the time and everything, but it didn't seem to change things one bit. No way a rich man would leave his wife and family for a kid like him, no matter how beautiful and nice his mother was.
There was another man at the door now, the one who lived across their hall, the one with the motorcycle, and the cane, and... and the horrible limp. The grouchy, cranky man who glared at him with scary, piercing blue eyes the one time their paths had actually crossed.
The boy's spirits lifted a little. In a little while, maybe, after the limping man had eaten the take-out meal he had brought with him, after the TV show he'd watched to keep him company while he ate, he might start playing his piano. The boy had heard him playing for the first time while they were moving in 2 weeks before. He was enthralled at once that one person could make such sounds. He'd always taken music for granted, had no idea how it was made; it just happened on TV or the radio, or in the movies. He'd never been to a concert, or even had a music lesson in his eight short years, but he'd always loved making sounds. Now he saw that making sounds like that had an order, a structure, and he was intrigued. These weren't the kiddy tunes he had memorized from school, and had taught himself to play over and over again on his toy harmonica. He wanted to hear more. And he wished with all his heart that he could figure out how to make sounds like the tall, limping man did.
He'd even make a fledgling attempt at copying the sounds using a tiny keyboard one of his mother's men had given him a Christmas or two ago. Going up and down and matching notes that went together wasn't terribly hard at first. He made all kinds of observations as he went along that he didn't have the experience to label. For example, if he followed the patterns that the man made when he was warming up, he could play eight notes before he ended up with a new note with a similar sound to the very first note. This was useful, but he wasn't sure how, yet. In the two short weeks, the boy had hit a number of brick walls, mainly because he didn't have enough information to teach himself how to do what he wanted. Sometimes, he would sit in the hallway, listening to the man playing with one ear, and listening to himself through one side of his headset, attempting to match at least some of the combinations of notes with his tiny electronic keyboard. Sometimes, the man struck a completely unexpected note. Then the boy would return to the apartment, lock his bedroom door, and throw himself across his bed. There he would weep bitter tears of frustration.
House had barely noticed the new neighbors. When he saw the boy, staring at him the way people sometimes did, he assumed it was because of the cane, the limp. He glared back, hoping to put the fear of House into him, and ignored both the boy and the mother from that point on. It wasn't that he didn't notice that the kid spent an awful lot of time out on the front stoop, or hanging around in the hallway. House just didn't care to appear to take notice of it. He wondered briefly if the mother was a hooker or something. She had a lot of men coming and going. Probably why the urchin was out so much.
House had a distinct feeling of being watched, but he dismissed it, once again. He'd had the feeling off and on for the past couple weeks. Perhaps it was a new, hopefully transient side effect of the Vicodin. No need to investigate. He'd already wasted a few paranoid minutes a few days ago, checking his windows. Stupid. He refused to give in to it. Focus on Chopin--no, he was in a mood for blues. Simpler, and closer to how he felt. It always seemed as though fall closed life down, made everything even less accessible to him for the next 2 seasons. Darkness at five pm, cold, windy, rainy. The kind of weather that made him want to go to bed with a bottle of scotch in one hand, and a bottle of Vicodin in the other, to emerge only when the sun came out again, sometime in late April. He sighed, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, bad habit, one of his many, and played a few scales.
House paused. A sneeze outside his door? Nah, or maybe someone really quiet was passing through. Chill out, House. He started toying with 'Lectric Chair Blues, which, technically, sounded like thirty or forty other blues tunes without the words. He toyed with placing his own embellishments, imagined a raucous, rowdy, knife-wielding, hard-drinking, honky tonk female singer vocalizing along with him. House immediately tried to imagine what her liver would look like, and chuckled to himself.
Like a shot, well, like a pretty slow bullet, House grabbed his cane and launched himself at his door. Jerking it open, he found he immediately had to lower his gaze. The kid who hung around in hallways stood there, face pale as a ghost, eyes bigger than those paint-by-numbers puppies and kittens that weird old ladies found to be darling. Dark hair, too much of it, framed the thin face. His clothes, which were much tighter and shorter than they should have been, considering the current trend towards extreme bagginess in boys' clothing, showed that he was way too skinny, perhaps even a little malnourished.
The kid got over his initial shock pretty quickly, but not fast enough for House to prevent his escape. It was a simple matter of entangling his cane in the boy's legs, deftly tripping him. From the floor, the boy's eyes snapped to House's face, shocked, disbelieving.
"Why are you skulking around outside my door?"
"I wasn't... doing ...that. I was just walking by."
"With your ear pressed to the door? And if you don't know what skulking means, how do you know you weren't doing it?"
Stunned into silence, the boy didn't answer.
"Didn't your mother teach you that eavesdropping is impolite?"
"I'm sorry!" The boy looked as if he might cry. The man was scary, menacing. He got his feet under himself, and started to edge away slowly. "...I didn't mean to."
House had a momentary flashback of his own father, grilling and cross-examining his younger self over some trivial matter, and immediately relented. "Go home, kid."
The boy bolted to the opposite door in a panic, wrenching at the doorknob. He stopped abruptly. He couldn't go back in yet. If his mother had heard the commotion outside their door, he was already toast. On top of that, if she actually had to come to the door, interrupt her date for him, he'd really be in for it. Quickly, he made a show of fumbling around in his pockets for his key, meanwhile measuring the distance to the front door, and gauging whether or not he'd be able to make a successful run for it before the crippled man could stop him. Suddenly, he was totally off the hook - the man slammed his own door. He'd gone inside. The boy heard the tap-step, tap-step of the man crossing the wood floor, a pause, then the piano again. Scales first, then suddenly the same cool tune again. He leaned against the wall outside his own apartment, slid down it until he was sitting, knees-to-chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his head on his knees, and concentrated on not sneezing again as he memorized the song to play later, when he was alone with his little keyboard, or his harmonica.
Sometimes, the boy noticed, the crippled man was at home before he even returned from school. Other times, he didn't notice the man's presence for days. When he returned from school and got a sliver of a glimpse of the man through his window, seated at his piano, the boy merely watched. What was it that made a person different enough to be able to make music like that? What was different about the man? Was there something he could copy? Did you have to have piecing eyes, or be really tall, or have a limp to be good at music? Sometimes he would stare at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes weren't piercing. They weren't even any particular color. Somewhere between brown and green. He wasn't tall, and even though he'd tried it a couple times, he couldn't limp for very long before it started to actually hurt. Plus, it attracted attention, and the one thing the boy wanted more than anything else was NOT to attract attention of any kind.
It was then that the boy realized that hurting was what caused the man's limp. Something bad had happened to the man's leg. He'd been hurt, and now he had that awful way of walking. The boy wondered if his leg hurt a lot or a little, and if it hurt all the time or just sometimes. Maybe this was why the man never smiled, why he looked so grouchy all the time.
He didn't seem to have any friends. The boy didn't have any friends, either. No one at school ever wanted to be his partner for anything. But he knew why - because he was a dorky nerd, a loser. He understood that. But a guy who could make music like that, why didn't he have lots and lots of friends? Actually, there was one friend. Another man, shorter, with dark hair, and a kind, kind face. He looked like he was always smiling. That man only came twice in the time the boy had lived in the building. The boy wished that the crippled music guy smiled like that. Maybe he could be friends with him. He spent a moment fantasizing about what it would be like to be friends with a smiling, piano-playing, older person who liked kids. But then, he probably would like the kind of kids that other people liked, not him. The kind of kids who gave great oral reports in school, and wore cool clothes and had slick haircuts. The kind of kids that old guys like him would call "buddy," and slip him a stick of gum or a playful punch on the shoulder every now and then. The kind of kid he could never be.
He checked out on that note. No point in sticking around where he didn't fit in, or wishing for something that could never happen. He let himself slip into the music totally, memorizing it, but also sticking in mental notes of his own as to how he could make it different, make it sound the way he thought it should.
*******************************
Through the front window that he'd cracked open, House heard the "'Lectric Chair Blues," or something sort of like it, coming from one of those little toy harmonicas that didn't cover enough octaves. When the player ran out of upper or lower notes, he simply shifted to a lower or higher octave to make up the difference. Annoying, but interesting. The player was adding embellishments that weren't part of the actual song - but that was to be expected in a blues tune. It was obvious that the player wasn't really familiar with blues, per se - he was emphasizing all the wrong parts of the song, and embellishing in very awkward, unexpected places. This made the song almost, but not quite, unrecognizable. At once, House was intrigued. He hobbled over to the window without his cane, and moved the blind an imperceptible millimeter or two. He was stunned to see the neighbor kid, all 4 feet of him, wailing away on this...toy, like a virtuoso, albeit a clueless one. As usual for him, House understood a tremendous lot in a very short period of time. The kid was totally untrained in music, but obviously a prodigy - or perhaps a savant. But he'd looked into those eyes, and seen that there weren't any flies on this boy. He spent a lot of time hanging out in the hallway, but perhaps he was hanging around, hoping to hear House play. House certainly would have done so, had he not been encouraged and taught to play from childhood.
House raised the window a few more inches, and sat down at the baby grand. He began to accompany the harmonica, playing just the chords at first, allowing the boy to play however he wished, to experiment with different rhythms. Then he initiated key and tone changes, challenges to which the boy responded, at first hesitantly, then with the vigor of a hungry student. An interesting kid, House mused. Who would have thought it?
The harmonica stopped abruptly. House heard first the opening and closing of the main door, then the slamming of the opposite apartment door. Suppertime, perhaps, or, more likely, bedtime. They had played together for nearly three hours.
Running footsteps, then several sickening thuds. "Kiss his shoe, you son of a bitch!" Laughter. More thuds. "Kiss it!"
"No!"
"You kiss it, or you'll get more of this!" THUD. "Hey! You little son of a whore!"
"He BIT you!"
"Go away and leave me alone!" Thin, weak kid voice. Not the kind of command any bully would listen to."
"Now you're gonna kiss the BOTTOM of my shoe, and you're gonna admit you mom's a hooker!"
Laughter. About five kids. Bigger, older, and mean.
"Hooker, Hooker!"
"Say it, or you lose teeth today, loser."
"I won't! YOUR mom's a hooker!"
"Oh, you're getting it..."
House burst out of the front door, roaring like a crazy man, and striking out with his cane at the largest of the nine and ten-year-old bullies. Predictably, they scattered like mice in all directions, without ever looking back. A wild man with a crazy look and a cane, who wasn't afraid to hit them worked like a charm. Had they been just 2 years older, perhaps they might have challenged, or returned later for their own amusement.
The boy was bloody, and even more unkempt than usual. House assessed the damage quickly: nosebleed, an about-to-turn-black eye. Probably no broken bones. He hobbled back up the concrete steps. Looking back, the kid was still standing on the sidewalk, head down, backpack askew. He looked about 7 or 8 but small for his age. Too skinny. Very thick brown hair that was desperately in need of a wash and cut. Stained, outgrown clothes with holes - if the rest of the kid wasn't so unkempt, House would have supposed he was just trying to be in style. A broken and too-small pair of cheap plastic glasses perched on a small straight nose. His eyes were the kind of green that sometimes looks grey, sometimes blue, depending on the light. Intelligent, sad eyes.
"Coming?"
The boy looked up at him dully.
"Or would you prefer to just bleed on the sidewalk?"
The boy followed.
His name was David. That was about all House got out of him. In House's kitchen, he stopped the nosebleed, cleaned up the eye, his face, disinfected and bandaged a couple of abrasions. "Well, you'll look like a prize fighter for a couple weeks." Closing the knapsack that he used as a medical bag, he added. "I hear that some chicks like the rugged look." The boy didn't respond. House smiled slightly to himself. He would probably have responded in the same way at that age.
"I didn't know you were a doctor."
"It SPEAKS!" House nodded. "I didn't know you were a musician."
Alarmed, David's eyes snapped to House's. "I'm not."
"Then your harmonica lies."
"I just play around with it." Automatically, David's hand went to the right pocket of his jacket. The boy paled suddenly, opened the flap of the pocket and shoved his hand inside. "No...," he gasped. He pulled out a small broken mass of wood and metal. House watched as the child placed it on the table between them. The stoic non-expression dissolved into one of deep hurt. "Bastards...bastards!" Then bitter, angry tears.
Oh crap, thought House at first. Then, how can I get these FEELINGS out of my kitchen? Then, Where's Wilson when I need him? Wilson would probably have given the kid a hug. Or maybe tried to fix the harmonica. But it was a goner. Too many internal injuries. House did find it interesting that the boy never cried over the pain of being beaten up pretty badly, only over losing a worthless toy instrument. "What if it had been your own piano, House?" the Wilson inside him asked. Oh, man. Empathy was a mother. House understood a few other facts. This kid had no idea how talented he was, yet he was about as passionate about music as any seasoned performer in a symphony orchestra.
House removed David's jacket for him, and sat him down at the kitchen table with a handful of paper towels to dry up the waterworks, and a glass of water. Then he went off into his bedroom and rummaged around in his closet awhile. When he returned, David was resting his head on the table, water untouched, idly fingering the pieces of his beloved toy.
House pushed his old professional harmonica onto the table next to the broken mess. House had spent a few months, years ago, teaching himself to play, and coming to the conclusion that he preferred the piano. "Try that on for size." He braced himself, expecting a lot of unnecessary gushing. There was no need. David was too intrigued with the larger size and enhanced features of the instrument to gush. He merely touched the silver casing with one finger, stroked it gently. An awe-striken, "Whoa..." was all the boy could say.
"I haven't used this harmonica in years." House told him. "Why don't you take it off my hands?"
Unbelieving green eyes turned upward to meet House's gaze.
**************************
House needed to think. In order to think, he needed some rhythmic, repetitious distraction. So, he tossed his ball to a precise spot on the floor, using a very carefully measure dose of power and spin. The result was that the ball bounced on the floor, hit the exact same spot on the wall each time, and popped exactly back into his hand, give or take half an inch or so. House corrected the half-inch margin of error by moving his hand ever so slightly.
Meanwhile, as he waited for his staff to return with the results of all the tests he had ordered, House allowed his thoughts to flow through all the facts he knew about the case. Not much, so far, but just in case there were some ideas he hadn't yet thought of. Of course, he'd already come up with everything he was going to come up with, but House never could leave a puzzle alone, even when it really was time to let the dough rise.
Cameron returned first, but before she could begin to speak, Cuddy sidled in, looking like the cat who ate the canary. "A word, Dr. House?" She nodded towards his door.
House, irritated as usual, caught the ball, and placed it on his desk. "Just one word? I doubt it." He sat back in his chair. "Is it necessary for us to exit the room just to exchange one measly little word? We're trying to do medicine here, in case you didn't notice."
Cuddy pursed her lips, savoring the moment for as long as she could. "Well, you're giving me an interesting choice, House." She held her hands in front of her. "On the one hand, you'd like me to say what I came to tell you, and get out of your hair as quickly as possible. On the other hand, I'd like very much to respect your privacy. Now which course of action should I choose?"
"Uh-oh," House thought. She looks way too much like a cat who swallowed the canary. But what he said was, "All that at stake with one measly word?"
Cameron stood quickly, "I'm going to get water." As she walked through the door, before it closed, she heard Cuddy's one word, "Daddy?" For perhaps the 20th time since she'd started working for House, she wished to be a fly on some wall in House's environment.
"Yours or mine?"
Cuddy didn't go for the bait. "There was a busload of injured kids down in the ER. Mostly minor injuries. Everyone's parents have come and gone. Except that one of those kids, is a little boy who nobody's come to get. David. David has given about four different stories to explain the whereabouts of his parents, before he finally told the staff, 'Dr. House is my Dad.' Just thought you'd like to know."
House spent four seconds schooling his expression to one of puzzlement. He felt an overwhelming urge to bolt for the door, race down to the ER. He managed only to grip his cane a bit more tightly. He was sure Cuddy wouldn't notice.
Cuddy noticed. What she noticed mostly was how the color briefly drained from House's face, then returned in about four seconds. "The real clincher was when I asked him why he didn't tell the truth before, he stated, and I quote, 'Everybody lies, you know.'" She crossed her arms. "So... was it a one-night-stand, or just unprotected sex with a really stupid hooker?"
"Technically, it would have been unprotected sex regardless..."
"House, the kid has a concussion, we'd like to admit him and finish his treatment."
Tall, lanky, and awkward was how Cuddy would describe House at the moment. He catapulted himself out of his chair, cane in hand, and bolted out of the room at a fast limp, slamming into Wilson at the door.
Wilson hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "House, there's a kid down in the ER..."
House shoved him out of the way.
By the time Cuddy and Wilson had caught up with him, House had found the correct observation room. They watched through the open blinds.
"House!" The boy tried to sit up.
"Shh.. Hold still." House examined David quickly, saw that he really was okay, just a minor concussion, some bruises, a slightly chipped incisor. Seated, House paused a moment, closed his eyes, and took a deep, relieved breath.
"I'm seeing absolutely no resemblance there," Cuddy observed.
"Nada." Wilson agreed. "Something else is up. There's no way he'd have a kid - one he actually knew about - and not have a relationship with him; not ever say anything about him."
"This is so Twilight Zone." Cuddy said, bowing her head in House's direction. House appeared to be talking to the child, doctor-to-patient. But up close, she noticed a rapport between them. The child's eyes alight, House's ... twinkly. "Greg House, caring for a person? I thought he drew the line at lower life forms, like bacteria, and rats."
"...And a kid on top of that..." Wilson mused.
Employing a series of evasive verbal maneuvers, House managed to avoid explaining anything about David that night. That didn't prevent quite a lot of logical deductions on the parts of Wilson, Cuddy, and several other staff who couldn't help noticing House's behavior with the child.
************************
It was well past David's usual bedtime. They had watched an old spaghetti western DVD. Both nearly wound down for the day; they were just lingering and watching mindless TV now because getting up from the sofa would require effort. Even though it wasn't a school night, David knew that, any minute now, House would tell him to go to bed. Most kids would hate that, but David loved having somebody of his own who told him to change his socks, take a bath. He felt like a real person, now. Somebody knew he was alive. Somebody maybe cared a little if he was comfortable, or miserable, or hungry, or happy. His Dad cared. David thought of House as his dad, even thought of House as "Dad" in his most secret thoughts.
He would never consciously share exactly how he felt with anyone, especially not with House. That would be awful, if House knew this most secret wish. David deeply believed that if he went too far; if he asked too much of House, the man would leave him or send him away just like all the other grown-ups in his life. True, House had been kinder to him than any other human being, but David had no faith in humankind. People always turned away, in time. Things that made life good for David were always taken away, eventually. This time of living with House, of House taking care of him, of the music, and all the fun they had together; this was going to run out sometime. The longer this time lasted, the more nervous David felt about the bottom falling out. He knew that this time it was really going to hurt, because, against his own better judgment, he began to let his guard down and let himself love House, little by little. These few months had lasted longer than any other life he had had, other than the times when he lived with his mother, but that was always awful, because his mother had despised him. Bad times always last.
It was a matter of time, then. The end of David's "House" life was doomed to come someday. The longer he was happy, the more nervous it made him feel. He inspected his nails; found that his left ring finger still had a little white space remaining. He stuck his fingertip in his mouth, and began to chew on his last nail.
House woke from a light doze. The film had ended, and the TV was glaring silently at them with a blank blue screen. He glanced groggily down at David, who had curled up on the sofa, his head resting on House's left leg. House noticed that he'd been chewing on his nails again. David's ring finger was actually a little bloody, even. The tall doctor debated about waking him. He would have liked to have just carried the little boy to his room and put him to bed, but House's right arm was occupied with his cane. Rising gently, House limped to the boy's room, retrieved a pillow and a light blanket, and tucked David in on the sofa.
David had left his sneakers scattered where he'd stepped out of them, one next to the coffee table, the other in front of the sofa. House gathered the shoes together, intending to carry them to David's room. He perched on the edge of the sofa next to David, balancing his cane between his knees, the shoes cradled in his lap. There was something terribly sweet about David's little sneakers, something that loosened the tightness that lived in House's chest since the day that Stacey had left him. "Damn, but you're going soft, House," he thought. "Wilson would love this." His ducklings would have a field day, as well. Cameron would just spontaneously morph into a Care Bear.
He turned to the sleeping child, removed his new wire-rimmed glasses, and placed them on the coffee table where he would see them when he woke. Then House completed the ritual he performed every night, just after the boy had fallen asleep. Bending low so that his mouth was close to David's ear, he placed one hand tenderly on the boy's head, and whispered, "You're a wonderful kid, David." He sat upright, still watching the sleeping form, his hand still resting there, caressing the thick brown hair. Before he could stop himself, House bent forward again. "I love you, David. House loves you." He sat there a few moments longer, listening to the rapid respirations of a child. He placed the shoes together on the floor, rose, and limped as quietly as he could to his bedroom.
*******************
House startled out of a deep, Vicodin-enriched slumber. He did this more easily these days; he'd somehow managed to train his mind to attend to another person's needs. David's nightmares sometimes required him to be alert enough to go to the boy's room, help him change into less sweaty pajamas, and get him settled back to sleep.
He had that feeling of being watched. House shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked around. He thought he saw a dark form sitting on the floor near his door.
"David?" the man called softly.
"Yeah," came a whispered reply.
The doctor raised himself up on his elbows. "What's up?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
"Bad dream."
David seemed unusually in control for a kid who had just experienced a nightmare. But then again, David wasn't the usual kid. It also wasn't out of character for David to lie to House when the truth would unearth one of his deeper insecurities. House accepted this; understood and indulged the boy, mostly because he could usually see straight through him when David did lie. David never tried to be convincing, or cover all his tracks. He merely fibbed to get through the moment. In the beginning, when House called him on some statement that sounded untrue, the boy would merely look at him blankly and shrug. Translation: Don't make me say. I won't tell you. I can't. This hurts.
The gist at the moment was that David needed House to be with him, for whatever reason. Damn. House's Vicodin fog was a bit thick at the moment. The tall doctor sat up and dragged himself to the edge of his bed, gingerly swinging his damaged right leg over onto the floor. He took up his cane, and launched himself into a standing position before shuffling towards the bedroom door. "C'mon," he called over his shoulder to David.
Soft light from the hallway was cast on a section across the foot of David's bed. House tucked the covers up around David's shoulders. Panicking, the boy wrestled his arms free, and positioned them on top of the covers.
"Oh yeah, arms out." House smiled. "Forgot." For the hundredth time, House cursed the boy's mother for nearly destroying this brilliant, wonderful kid, for leaving him with little hang-ups like this.
The doctor stood and walked around to the foot of David's bed. He sat himself down so that his back was to the wall, and he could rest both his legs on the bed. This way, the boy could see him clearly. House hoped that he wouldn't fall asleep here, because he'd be pretty stiff tomorrow.
"I'm sorry, House." David whispered into the semi-darkness.
"It's alright." He unthinkingly patted the boy's foot. David didn't quite snatch his foot away, but House felt his foot tense suddenly. Oops. Of course he'd be a bit more touchy if he was already upset. He removed his hand. A few moments went by. House let his eyes close, but propped his arm at an awkward angle on his cane. He couldn't possibly sleep in a position like this.
"It wasn't really a dream."
House actually had dozed a bit. Wasn't a dream - oh, the nightmare. "No?" He waited.
"No."
House had no idea from where he got this kind of patience. He wouldn't waste his time with most people, even with kids in the clinic. With David, it was different. There was something totally disarming about David, something House didn't understand about himself. House waited to hear more. A long time. There was noise in the hallway of their building. Someone was leaving. House tracked the leave taker's progress with his ears. Footsteps outside, a lone man's dress shoes. A car started, drove away, stopped at the intersection, and was absorbed by Princeton traffic sounds. Booty call, House thought. Steve McQueen got used to the quiet and started running on his wheel.
David, whose breathing had become deep and regular, the way it did just before he fell asleep and started to snore quietly, sat up abruptly. He drew his feet up underneath him and started to scream. "NO! NO! NONONONO! House!! House!"
Snapped out of his torpor, House rose as quickly as his leg would allow. Grabbing David's shoulders, he held him firmly. "It's okay! You're alright!" he shouted over David's screaming. "David, you're ok!" He reached over to the lamp, knocked it over, and swore to himself. "David...David, look at me!"
David was shaking violently. "Get it away from me!" he cried. "Please, House." The boy started to whimper pitifully. "Please," he begged.
House grabbed the lamp, set it upright, and turned it on. "Look, David." They both peered around the room. David, standing on his bed, his back against the wall, was sweating profusely, breathing erratically. House estimated that his heart and respiration were probably beating at twice his resting rates. The only sounds in the room were his ragged breath. In the silence, Steve McQueen began to run on his exercise wheel again.
"Noooo." David moaned miserably, his eyes even wider with fear.
Night terror? House knelt on the bed directly in front of the boy. He grasped the sides of his face. "David, are you awake?" He pinched his shoulder, hard.
"Ow!" David batted House's hand away.
"What IS IT?" the man bellowed. "Talk to me."
David clutched at House's t-shirt., eyes pleading. "Steve McQueen," He cried. "I'm scared, House. I'm scared of rats. I hate them." And for only the second time in their time together, David allowed himself to cry, to be comforted, to be held. All House could think about was how, for nearly four months, David had tolerated living in comfort, while simultaneously being bombarded with the very subject of his phobia. Holy crow, House thought to himself. And here he was so proud of himself for being such a good parent. He thought of all the times he'd tried to involve David with Steve McQueen. No wonder the kid almost always made a mess of feeding him. He usually scattered the food all over the cage, even getting rat chow crumbs on the exterior. And the water was always low. David hadn't been opening the cage. It was all quite obvious, now.
Once the boil had been lanced, the infection flowed out freely. Every time there was the slightest sound from Steve's cage, David tensed and gritted his teeth.
They couldn't do this for much longer, but House couldn't disentangle the kid. He stood, lifting David with him. "David, I'm going to Steve's cage," he said loudly. "Right now." David released the doctor as if he'd been on fire. Grabbing his cane, House hobbled out into the hallway and seized the cage from the table where it sat. As he passed the boy's open bedroom door, he peered in to check on him. David's face was a horror sketch.
"No, House," he whimpered.
House blanched. Did David really think he would bring the rat into his room after all this? Again, House cursed the boy's mother, and everyone else who had ever hurt him in the past. "I'll be right back." He told him, and walked out into the hallway in his socks. Moving slowly to give David a chance to watch what he was doing, House carried the cage outside, down the 3 front steps, and over to his car. He unlocked the door, stuck Steve's cage inside on the floor of the rear seat, and locked up again. Heading back inside, he waved at David who was watching from the front window.
David calmed quickly once House had returned. The doctor sat on his leather sofa and beckoned to the boy. "C'mere." He pulled the boy into his arms. David started to weep, not the horrible, tears of terror from before, but calmer, relief-tears. House shifted around until he could find a comfortable way to hold the child on his lap without hurting his leg, and just did that until the tears were over. Finding some leftover take-out napkins from the coffee table, House cleaned up his face a bit. David was humming something, some tune House had never heard before, sort of a low, droning sound. He stroked the little boy's back as he rocked him slightly. Cameron would love this. Everyone who knew him would rib him about this - especially Wilson. House discovered that he didn't give a rat's ass.
House woke first on the next morning. He'd let David sleep with him. After popping a Vicodin, he woke the boy.
David wasn't any more a morning person than House was. He didn't usually speak very much before breakfast. This morning was an exception. "House?"
"Yeah?" House started to massage his right thigh.
"What's gonna happen to Steve?"
House hadn't really thought much about what he'd do with Steve. All he'd been concerned about the night before was getting the rat away from David. "Don't worry about Steve. He's not coming back."
David became very still and quiet. "No, House, you can't." He grabbed the doctor's shoulder. "I don't want you to get rid of him."
House smiled gently. "You're afraid of him. I don't want you to be scared here."
David fell into an unsettled quiet for a few moments. "House, I think you should keep Steve. If my mom comes back, then you'll be all alone."
House didn't say that he doubted that David's mother would come back. He knew that David hoped every day that he'd never see her again. He also suspected that David feared that House would resent him if he had to get rid of his pet. This was a delicate matter that needed to be settled quickly and decisively. While he showered and shaved, he thought about exactly what he wanted to say, how to say it, and the possible repercussions.
They were having cold cereal. David, as usual when he was upset, was pushing the food around in his bowl, occasionally sipping milk from his spoon as he watched House surreptitiously.
House poured the dry cereal into his bowl, picked up the milk, set it back down, and spoke his piece, House-style. Damn the torpedoes! "Steve was just my pet. I liked him, but he's just a rat. You're a child. I love you. You're afraid of him, so he's going. You're staying here with me. I'm taking Steve to the Humane Society."
David became very still, as he frequently did when he felt moved by the kind things that House did for him. He stared down into his milk as if something absolutely fascinating were happening there. "Okay." He whispered.
House placed his hand between them on the table. "Is there anything else here that scares you, David?"
David shook his head. "No.
"I want you to tell me if you're afraid, or if something bothers you. No more sitting by my door in the middle of the night. Wake me."
"Okay." David's stillness belied the maelstrom of feelings inside. Giant tears spilled down his cheeks. As he cried quietly, the boy reached out to touch the large hand that was well muscled from using the cane. He clutched at the hand as if it were a lifeline.
**************************
"I want to keep him," House told Wilson.
"You're talking adoption?" Wilson said as he cut his chicken sandwich in half. House had wanted to have a private conversation with him, so they were having lunch in his friend's office.
House shrugged. "Whatever makes the current arrangement more permanent." He sipped his cola to wash down his last bite of Reuben.
Wilson thought to himself. House. With a kid. The most self-centered bastard on the planet? He had thought that this whole matter would end after a few weeks when the kid's mother returned from whatever crack den she was living in. "But...you're..."
House scowled in Wilson's general direction. "I'm?"
Wilson stood up, paced around a bit, then stretched his hands out in front of him. "You're ... House!" he exploded incredulously. "This whole thing is NUTS for you."
"Jealous, Jimmy?" House needled playfully. "I pwomise Daddy will wuv you just as much as the new baby."
Rolling his eyes, Wilson tried again. "House, the kid is just another one of your puzzles. He's brilliant. He's a freaking musical genius. You're just interested in him because you don't know what makes him tick."
House sat back in his chair. "What makes you think that?"
"Because that's how you are with everybody! What happens when you figure him out and get bored with him?"
House's response was low and calm, nothing like the explosive response Wilson expected. "You really believe that?"
Wilson folded his arms. "Yes, that's exactly what I believe. That's exactly what happened with Stacey"
"I know what makes you tick Wilson." House gestured towards the empty chair. "We're still friends. Sit down."
"I'm not so sure that this is the healthiest friendship in existence." Wilson sat and began to toy with his lunch.
House smiled slightly. "He needs me, Wilson. He won't survive without me."
Wilson shook his head. "I doubt that. Anyone with just a little common sense can raise a kid."
"He's not a regular kid. You said so yourself just now." House broke a potato chip into halves, then fourths, then crumbs. "He needs me because I already know what makes him tick. I can support his development. He needs someone who can keep up with him."
Wilson sat down. Couldn't House see that this wasn't enough? He knew what kind of relationship House had had with his parents. House had been a brilliant boy with ordinary parents who had no idea how to support their son's brilliance. This was just House trying to undo his own pain; right the wrongs of his childhood. He shook his head. "Just that? Someone to keep up with the little genius gears in his brain? Do you even love this kid?"
House looked into his friend's dark eyes. "Of course I do."
"Well tell me this, House: If he was an ordinary, stupid kid, would you bother to expend an ounce of energy on him?"
House didn't flinch at all at his friend's bold question. "Nope. I'd let Child Protective Services have him. In a heartbeat."
"So you're only interested in him because of the entertainment value!" Wilson said triumphantly. "You're using the kid, Greg."
Shaking his head, House leaned toward his friend. "You're not getting it, Jimmy," he said. "Sure, he's more interesting to me than an ordinary kid because of his intellect. That's what drew my interest, of course it was." He paused to think of how to explain himself. "He's a bit of a puzzle, a novelty. He's interesting, and fascinating and all that. I've put in some time figuring out what makes him tick, sure." He rapped on his desk through the plastic wrapper of his sandwich. "But I want to raise him because he needs a parent who can support and challenge him, and maybe help him to heal from all the awful things that have happened so far in his life."
"You're undoing your own miserable childhood."
"Whatever. Anyway, if he were some average stupid kid, he wouldn't need me. He'd do just fine with any old foster mom-a-tron." When he saw that Wilson was still unsure that his friend was making a wise decision, he sighed heavily. "Lookit, Wilson, what would you do? You've met a fucking eight-year-old Mozart who's been repeatedly abandoned and abused by his crack-addict-hooker mom. Would you leave him to the streets, or to Social Services? Do you think that kid would ever realize his full potential? What if we never had Mozart?"
"Quite frankly, we wouldn't know the difference."
"If you knew about such a kid, wouldn't you do something?"
Wilson sighed, resignedly. "I do see your point. But Greg, what happens when you get bored with him?"
"Never happen." House picked up his cane and bounced it on the floor next to his chair.
"How do you know that?"
Smiling slightly, House murmured, "Because once he gets his grown-up brain on, I think he'll be even more brilliant than I am."
"Hopefully not quite as modest, though," Wilson muttered dryly.
*******************************
House waved his fork in the air towards David, "Oh, there's something I need to tell you."
"Okay." David was trying to wrangle a too-large forkful of pasta into a manageable amount to fit into his mouth.
"Well, there's something called a conference," he thought better of that description, "A big meeting of lots and lots of doctors." He started buttering a roll. "It's in Washington, D.C., and I have to go there to attend it."
David's eyebrows raised a few millimeters. "That's where the White house is. White House, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, Vietnam Memorial... lots of other memorials. I know about Washington, DC."
"Yeah, well, I'm going to go there for this conference. Four days."
House noticed that David became very still, the way he was when something was up with him, something he did not want House to notice. He suddenly was no longer eating, although his hands were still making eating motions, and his eyes were fixed on his plate. So much for the casual approach. "It's just four days," he reminded the boy gently.
"Can I come with you?"
Smiling slightly, House shook his head. "Afraid not, buddy. Doctor stuff. Very dull; the kind of stuff takes years off kids' lives And I'd be too busy to do anything with you, anyway, just lots of meetings and lectures. You'd just be waiting around in a hotel room."
David sat quietly, stirring noodles around in the rapidly cooling sauce. House thought he just might be hearing little gears turning in the kid's head. "Okay." Was all he said.
House was sure that there needed to be a lot more said in this conversation. He attempted cheerfulness. "Hey, you know what happens when people go to conferences?"
David, still staring down at his plate, shook his head. "No."
"They get cool stuff."
"You mean presents?"
House nodded. "Yeah, sometimes." He pulled a Vicodin key ring out of his pocket. When he twisted two parts of it together, it began to emit a pulsing mini-strobe light. "They hand this stuff out like candy." House was sure this was the wrong approach for a kid like David. David didn't care about trinkets David cared about whether he'd eat that day or not. And his music.
David glanced away from the lit key ring. "I don't want a key ring."
"Well, there's a lot of other, even cooler stuff." Even as he spoke, the doctor knew it had been stupid to try and persuade David with silly toys.
"House..." House was pretty sure that David was fighting back tears, though he'd only seen the child actually cry once in the time he'd known him.
"Hmm?"
"I don't think I want any presents. I'd rather go with you."
Suppressing a sigh, House nodded. "I know you would, David. But you know I can't pull you out of school for 4 days without inviting a lot of attention. I would love to not have to go to this thing, too, but I can't get out of it right now." House didn't mention that Cuddy would have a kitten if he weaseled out of yet another conference. "It's only four days, buddy. We can handle this. You can handle it."
David looked up at House. The brief flash of stormy green hurt and anger was unmistakable. Then it was gone again. "Okay." He set his fork down, stared into his lap.
House felt the familiar faint throb of his right leg, the way it felt just as his last dose of Vicodin was beginning to wear off. He ignored it for the moment. It would be at least half an hour before he would absolutely have to act on it.
Pushing his plate aside, he stood and drew his chair closer to David. "Hey, buddy... It's four days. Be over before you know it. I promise."
"Okay," the boy replied in a voice that told the doctor that "it" was anything but okay.
House racked his brain, trying to think of ways to make this more bearable for his young friend. "I'll be sure to call you every night, before you go to bed." He offered.
"Okay."
"I could read to you, if you promise not to let on to Wilson. He'll tease me, you know," he said, making another stab at light-heartedness.
"Why would I tell Wilson?"
House frowned. Duh. "Oh, because he's going to be looking after you while I'm gone... He's going to come here to stay. You like Wilson. You guy's'll probably have fun."
Controlled. Very tightly controlled, was how House would consider David's response to this bit of news. House was still able to detect that David was relieved. Relief, and something else he couldn't quite pick up yet. "Oh, okay." The boy said. He sat very still for a few moments more, and then hopped off his chair. "I'm not hungry anymore, House. Can I go to bed now?"
House's piercing blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. His gut told him not to let David off the hook so easily. This boy's feelings were already too far underground for anything resembling healthy. "No, you can't." He gently nudged him back to his seat.
As David perched on the edge of the dining chair, House peered at him as he might one of his medical puzzles. "Did you think I was leaving you here alone?"
Staring down at his shoes, the floor, the table leg, anything but at the doctor, David shook his head.
House whispered softly, "Look at me, David."
Clenching his jaw tightly, David slowly allowed his eyes to meet House's. He nearly managed to hold it together for about 2 seconds, then his stoic expression shattered into one of deep sorrow. A ragged sob burst from his throat; tears sprang from his eyes.
"Oh, David." House shook his head.
David wrapped his arms around himself, tried to contain his emotions; tried to shut himself off from House.
"C'mere," House murmured, taking the little boy into his arms. David fought the invasion of his personal space at first, holding himself stiffly, just allowing House to embrace him. But House knew not to relent until, finally, the floodgates opened, and the child was sobbing openly, allowing himself to be held, burying his face in House's shoulder, slobbering all over his shirt.
As the storm began to subside, House took David into his lap, putting all of the boy's weight on his good leg. He stroked his back very slowly, gently. Quieter now, David started to speak. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, House."
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"For being a baby." The boy insisted.
"You're eight years old."
David looked up at the man who had become like a father to him in just under 3 months. House looked sad to him. So sad... for him. "David, I would never leave you here alone for four days."
David didn't know of a proper response to this, so he said nothing.
"I know your mom left you alone a lot. I saw for myself." He tightened his hold on the boy to emphasize what he would say next. "But that was wrong. You shouldn't have been treated that way. You didn't deserve it."
"Then why did she?" His eyes burned into House.
House shook his head. "I don't know." He wanted to say that some people have kids but don't really deserve them. Some people have kids when they're not really ready. Some people suck at being parents. Some people accidentally bring children into the world. But he knew that David was too young to understand any of this without blaming himself. So he said, "But you didn't deserve it. You're a wonderful kid."
David shook his head. House knew that it might take a long time to truly convince David of this. He left it alone. And just held his boy in his arms for a long, long time.
********************
"I want to keep him," House told Wilson.
"You're talking adoption?" Wilson said as he cut his cheese sandwich in half. House had wanted to have a private conversation with him, so they were having lunch in his friend's office.
House shrugged. "Whatever makes the current arrangement more permanent." He sipped his cola to wash down his last bite of Reuben.
Wilson thought to himself. House. With a kid. The most self-centered being on the planet? He had thought that this whole matter would end after a few weeks when the kid's mother returned from whatever crack den she was living in. "But...you're..."
House scowled in Wilson's general direction. "I'm?"
Wilson stood up, paced around a bit, then stretched his hands out in front of him. "You're ... House!" he exploded incredulously. "This whole thing is NUTS for you."
"Jealous, Jimmy?" House needled playfully. "I pwomise Daddy will wuv you just as much as the new baby."
Rolling his eyes, Wilson tried again. "House, the kid is just another one of your puzzles. He's brilliant. He's a freaking musical genius. You're just interested in him because you don't know what makes him tick."
House sat back in his chair. "What makes you think that?"
"Because that's how you are with everybody! What happens when you figure him out and get bored with him?"
House's response was low and calm, nothing like the explosive response Wilson expected. "You really believe that?"
Wilson folded his arms. "Yes, that's exactly what I believe. That's exactly what happened with Stacey"
"I know what makes you tick Wilson." House gestured towards the empty chair. "We're still friends. Sit down."
"I'm not so sure that this is the healthiest friendship in existence." Wilson sat and began to toy with his lunch.
House smiled slightly. "He needs me, Wilson. He won't survive without me."
Wilson shook his head. "I doubt that. Anyone with just a little common sense can raise a kid."
"He's not a regular kid. You said so yourself just now." House broke a potato chip into halves, then fourths, then crumbs. "He needs me because I already know what makes him tick. I can support his development. He needs someone who can keep up with him."
Wilson sat down. Couldn't House see that this wasn't enough? He knew what kind of relationship House had had with his parents. House had been a brilliant boy with ordinary parents who had no idea how to support their son's brilliance. This was just House trying to undo his own pain; right the wrongs of his childhood. He shook his head. "Just that? Someone to keep up with the little genius gears in his brain? Do you even love this kid?"
House looked into his friend's dark eyes. "Of course I do."
"Well tell me this, House: If he was an ordinary, stupid kid, would you bother to expend an ounce of energy on him?"
House didn't flinch at all at his friend's bold question. "Nope. I'd let Child Protective Services have him. In a heartbeat."
"So you're only interested in him because of the entertainment value!" Wilson said triumphantly. "You're using the kid, Greg."
Shaking his head, House leaned toward his friend. "You're not getting it, Jimmy," he said. "Sure, he's more interesting to me than an ordinary kid because of his intellect. That's what drew my interest, of course it was." He paused to think of how to explain himself. "He's a bit of a puzzle, a novelty. He's interesting, and fascinating and all that. I've put in some time figuring out what makes him tick, sure." He rapped on his desk through the plastic wrapper of his sandwich. "But I want to raise him because he needs a parent who can support and challenge him, and maybe help him to heal from all the awful things that have happened so far in his life."
"You're undoing your own childhood."
"Whatever. Anyway, if he were some average stupid kid, he wouldn't need me. He'd do just fine with any old foster mom-a-tron." When he saw that Wilson was still unsure that his friend was making a wise decision, he sighed heavily. "Lookit, Wilson, what would you do? You've met a fucking eight-year-old Mozart who's been repeatedly abandoned and abused by his crack-addict-hooker mom. Would you leave him to the streets, or to Social Services? Do you think that kid would ever realize his full potential? What if we never had Mozart?"
"Quite frankly, we wouldn't know the difference."
"If you knew about such a kid, wouldn't you do something?"
Wilson sighed, resignedly. "I do see your point. But Greg, what happens when you get bored with him?"
"Never happen." House picked up his cane and bounced it on the floor next to his chair.
"How do you know that?"
Smiling slightly, House murmured, "Because once he gets his grown-up brain on, I think he'll be even more brilliant than I am."
"Hopefully not quite as modest, though," Wilson sighed.
**************************
Stacey rang House's doorbell. She'd never been to this place, and found that she already liked the brownstone. It looked cozy from the outside. Not long after, she was buzzed in. House's apartment was, predictably, pretty close to the front door. The door was still closed. She had the distinct impression that she was being watched from the peephole. Then there was a dull thud, a scraping sound, and the door was yanked open as far as the security chain would allow.
The little boy was there. "Hello..." he waited for her to respond.
"You must be David." Stacey had leant down to be closer to his level. "Is Dr. House here?"
He glanced to his left inside the door. "Um..."
Stacey smiled. She didn't have time to play Greg games, but she couldn't help being amused that he'd added a personal doorman to screen his visitors to his fortress. "Tell House it's Stacey. And I don't have all night.
The door abruptly closed in her face, but Stacey could hear the boy trot off to a nearby room to report, "It's a lady named Stacey and she doesn't have all night."
House appeared at the door a few seconds later. "Stacey. What a surprise!" His face belied the mood of his welcoming words. He held the door open for her.
Stacey had known Greg House for many years, but it had been a long time since she'd socialized with him. She did recognize his baby grand, and the general dcor of his home as typical House. It was sort of an eclectic blend of old-fashioned and new furniture, lots and lots of books, and beautiful hardwood floors that she immediately coveted.
After taking her coat, House said, "Sorry, I'm in the middle of making dinner. Hope you don't mind the kitchen." At his kitchen table, Stacey accepted a cola. While she watched him preparing the glass, she thought to herself, "Well, what exactly did you expect? A pup tent in a field?" Barbaric, was what she'd half expected. That House's place would be bare walls, a sofa, a TV, a microwave oven, and a refrigerator full of TV dinners, peanut butter, jelly, and bread.
"So this is David?" Stacey remarked more than asked. David had followed them into the kitchen but appeared to be trying to recede into the woodwork unobtrusively.
House followed Stacey's gaze. "Oh, yeah - David." He gestured, and the boy came forward. "I'd like you to meet Stacey." Conspiratorially, he pretended to murmur through one side of his mouth, "She used to be my main squeeze."
David stared at House, wide-eyed. Stacey suppressed a smile, while House chuckled to himself.
"Actually, I've come especially to meet you, David," Stacey said to the boy. "Greg has told me about you, and I wanted to meet you in person." She smiled gently as she extended her hand to shake his.
Reluctantly, David offered his hand and went through the motions of shaking. "Hi," was all he would say. House's attention was claimed by something cooking, which gave Stacey a chance to size up the situation. Quiet, perhaps shy. A very cute little boy. Dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, like a miniature House. His sneakers weren't stylish running shoes, though, they were old-fashioned red sneakers with the rubber-covered toe, like the PF Flyers that Stacey remembered wearing as a little girl.
"We're having linguini with Italian sausage and marinara sauce." House announced. "Care to join us for dinner?"
Stacey started to decline, then thought better of it. This would be a good way to find out what was really going on here. "That would be a great idea."
"Great!" House bellowed. "David, table!"
As she listened to House griping about the quality of the tomato sauce he'd been forced to settle for, Stacey watched David going through the motions of setting the table. He fussed about which sides the forks and spoons should go on. At one point he glanced up at Stacey, who quickly looked away. When she looked back, David was gone, and the silverware for each setting had been left in a pile atop each plate. Smiling to herself, Stacey remembered experiencing this same confusion as a child. Her solution had not been quite so direct, so... House-like. She had painstakingly memorized where everything should go by the time she was six.
"...Anyway," House was saying, "David likes it, and he certainly can use some more calories, so that's what we're eating." When he turned around, Stacey could tell he was pretending not to notice the boy's disappearance when House asked, rather pointedly, "So... what's new with you?"
She shook her head. "Is he usually shy, or am I making him nervous?"
House leaned back against the countertop. "Oh, I'm sure it's you. Do you usually make little children run away?"
"No more than you make patients run away, Greg," Stacey quipped. "I want to know why I should help you with your...project."
Pulling a long pouty face, he answered, "Because you still love me, and you want me to be happy." He raised his eyebrows.
Sucking her teeth in irritation. "Knock it off, Greg."
In a very low, voice, House murmured, "Please, can I keep him, Mom? Can I, please?"
Stacey didn't respond.
"After all, the whole 'saving your husband's life' thing should count for a ginormous favor you owe me."
She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Does he know what you're trying to do?" She asked him.
House got serious. "Not yet. I don't want him on pins and needles indefinitely."
Nodding, Stacey asked again, "So is he being shy?"
House compressed his lips together and shook his head. "No, he's probably figured out that something pretty important is happening, even if he doesn't know exactly what it is. No flies on that kid."
"What happened to his parents?"
House shrugged, "Father; no idea. The mother used to live across the hall. Was leaving the kid alone at home for days at a time, or kicking him out to roam the streets when he was being inconvenient."
Stacey felt sick. "That's awful. No wonder he's withdrawn."
Shaking his head, House said, "No, this is unusual. Could be because we never have company. Except Wilson occasionally."
"Wilson seems to like him."
"Wilson likes everybody," House replied. "But he is a good kid. He deserves better than he's gotten so far."
"What's in it for you, House?"
House drew back in mock disbelief. "Stacey - what makes you think there has to be something in it for me?"
Stacey folded her arms, "Because there usually has to be something in it for you. Because you don't DO kids, or any of the things children need. Furthermore, you don't even like most people." She said.
House nodded, admitting to everything. "Ok, you're right, but," He pretended to whine, "I promise to feed him and clean up after him all by myself if you just let me keep him."
Stacey didn't respond. She knew this was just a cover up for feelings that House was trying not to express. When they had been lovers, Greg had been loving and sweet with her, when he chose to be with her. The problem was with his absences, especially when they were right in the same house. She waited.
Sighing, House sat down across from Stacey at the kitchen table. "Look, this boy needs a home. I'm willing to give him one."
"Because...?" When House didn't respond, Stacey added, "You only help patients when they interest you, House. What makes this boy worth your time?"
In the background, Stacey heard a strong, bluesy bass line emanating from the piano in the next room. "House there must be a reason why you'd want to take in a stray kid."
House leaned his head slightly, listening to the piano with one ear, Stacey with the other. "He's ... interesting. And...I can help him."
The bass line was accompanied with a dancing little melody. Rising, House grabbed his cane, and limped to the kitchen door. He gestured for Stacey to follow him. "Listen," he whispered.
David had started talking/singing along with the melody. "Hellooo flower...boy, do you look juicy...and you know juuuust what I'm comin' to get, right? Hahahahaaha...." Then through his teeth, he began to buzz a counterpoint to the melody. The subject of the song, was an insect, who ended up pleading with a Venus flytrap not to be eaten. The little song quickly built to a loud, cacophonous end with the death of the bug.
Stacey had started to applaud, but House caught her hands just in time, shaking his head as he did so. They watched David as he sat on the piano bench, swinging his short legs for a moment. Then he sighed loudly, reached for some blank sheet music and a pencil, and began writing his song down.
Back in the kitchen, Stacey grabbed House's arm. "He's really good. I'm surprised he managed to learn how to play considering his background."
House nodded. "Actually, he just picked that up since he's been living with me."
Stacey stared, her eyes nearly as wide as David's had been earlier. "You've had him 4 months, House. He'd have to be... pretty damn brilliant to learn to play that well in that time. He's like a virtuoso."
House shook his head, "No, the kid's a freaking Mozart, Stacey."
Stacey shook her head in disbelief.
"Yeah. He's learned to play harmonica and piano, and music theory, and he can compose his own songs. That," House indicated towards the living room, "was an original composition he just threw together in the time we were talking." He frowned at Stacey. "He usually makes up songs that reflect his emotional state. Judging from the content of the song, he's feeling threatened or trapped." Putting on a mock disapproving expression, he added, "Thanks a lot, Stacey. Now we'll never get dinner."
Rolling her eyes, Stacey refocused her mind on the child, who was now scribbling away, occasionally checking himself by striking a few notes on the piano's keyboard. "So shouldn't this talent be...supported and fostered by two...more...normal parents? What about Child Protective Services? Why didn't you call them in to help David?"
Scoffing, House crushed her with: "You know the answer to that; they'd chew him up and spit him out. That would ruin this boy. He'd never be able to be creative once they shelve him in foster care, or an orphanage, or one of those places kids are warehoused in. He'd lose himself there. He needs someone to support his ... his gift."
Stacey thought for a moment. She didn't even consider that Greg might exploit the boy. It wasn't House's way. In spite of his abrasiveness and bizarre personality traits, Stacey had a lot of respect for the way he tended the development of the doctors he had mentored. She didn't think he would he push the kid, unnecessarily, either. If Greg House could manage to care for David for four months without the boy running away, it wasn't a matter of his being capable. It was a matter of satisfying whatever hoops Social Services would make them jump through. And even though he probably would never say, Stacey could tell that Greg has feelings for David. She just wasn't sure what they were.
"Have you talked to Cuddy about this?" She asked.
House winced. "Why would I need to do that? She signs my paychecks; she doesn't govern my personal life."
"True, but you're going to need more references than Wilson. And somehow I don't think there are millions of people out there who would agree that Greg House would make a good..."
David had silently appeared by House's side with a sheaf of music that he thrust at his caretaker. "Does this make sense, House?"
Stacey recognized the insistent attitude. In spite of his shyness, David had interrupted their conversation the way House would have when he was in the throes of one of his passionate episodes at the hospital.
House took the sheets from the boy and perused them carefully. "Nice work." (Stacey observed that the boy's eyes lit up for the first time). House drew his finger down the second page. "You've got too many notes in these three measures," he pointed out.
Frowning, David leaned over the papers that House held. "No, it has to be like that." He hummed a few notes. "See?"
House shook his head. "Can't do it that way unless you throw in something to tell the musicians what to do in these measures."
Exasperated, David groaned. "The musician should just fit the notes in. It sounds just like it's supposed to!"
House smiled gently. "You have all the tools you need. Think about it awhile. You can fix this, easy."
Exasperated, David sighed and made as if to grab the papers away from House. "Gimme, then." He started back to the piano.
House was too quick for him and snatched the papers away and the boy grabbed only air. "Dinner first."
"Not hungry."
"No choice."
Resignedly, David plunked himself down in front of a plate and picked up a fork, like a relay runner waiting for a baton.
"Ladies first." House started serving up pasta and salad to Stacey.
David noticed, seemingly for the first time that Stacey was still there, and startled. His fork clattered to the floor, and he went pale and froze in place. Setting the small pan of spaghetti sauce on a trivet on the table, House retrieved the fork neatly. Stacey noticed that Greg effortlessly maneuvered himself close enough to whisper "It's ok, relax," discreetly to David. Replacing the fork with a clean one, he fed the boy.
House wasn't bad at cooking; the meal was simple and nutritious. Stacey remembered that they had sometimes cooked together when they'd been in love and lived together. Stacey noticed that he'd managed to work chopped carrots into the sauce; he'd said before that the boy had some nutritional deficits. That House had bothered to chop carrots and trick a kid into ingesting vitamin A and carotene said a lot. The salad was pretty good, too. And they hadn't been expecting her, so this was an ordinary day. Well done, House.
He opened a bottle of wine for the adults and poured a glass of juice for David. They ate mostly in silence. Stacey reflected on their past relationship, considering this new dimension of House that she'd never known. Played a little game of 'what if.' What if they had had a child eight years ago? This was what Greg would have been like as a father, maybe. Or maybe not. Perhaps his injury was what Greg needed to slow him down and force him to consider someone other than himself. Their children might have been as lonely for him as she had been. He might have been totally miserable as a physically disabled father. Perhaps Greg had needed things to happen just as they had.
"I'll just change the time." David decided out loud.
"That didn't take long." House replied, smiling slightly.
"I'm done." He'd eaten about one-quarter of his already small meal, and pushed back his chair.
House hooked his left foot around the leg of David's chair and pulled it back into the table. "Not even close," he said, tapping the edge of the plate.
Sighing, David resigned himself to finishing the long meal. House mercifully took the focus off the boy by asking Stacey questions about hospital administration. House must really want this kid, she thought. He hates small talk.
******************
House hadn't really prepared Wilson one bit for the four days he would be caring for David. He'd merely left grocery money, plenty of blank sheet music, and told the younger doctor where the clean sheets were for his bed (He didn't bother to change them himself; hell, if Wilson was going to be persnickety, he could sleep on the goddamn couch). Waiting to go through the gate at the airport, Wilson tried to get a little more out of him, to no avail.
Wilson was at a loss for words. "House, surely you have a word or two to share with me about the care and feeding of your kid?" He raised a hand to his head, and then gesticulated wildly in the air above and in front of him. "People leave more instructions for their cat-sitters!"
Shrugging, House replied, "What's to tell? He's a human. You're a doctor of humans; at least you were last time I checked. I think they covered the basic needs of a human being somewhere back in pre-med?" He punched Wilson's shoulder. "Come on, you know this..." He feigned impatience. "Okay, okay, I'll give you a hint for number one. Begins with an 'f'... You can do it. F..ooo dah." He pronounced in slow motion. Shaking his head, House sighed. "I dunno, Wilson. How do I know you won't leave him out on the stoop and feed the newspaper or something?"
Rolling his eyes, Wilson said, "House, you know what I mean. It would be helpful to me to know what his schedule is like, what he expects, and that way it won't be so disrupting to David to have you away. Kids need routine."
House shrugged again. "Feed him. Send him to school in the morning, with lunch money. Feed him when you get home in the evening. Tell him to go to bed at night. You shouldn't need to take notes, because I'm done."
Wilson shook his head. "So you're raising a feral child, then? There's a lot more to this story. You are sending me into this so unprepared."
"You'll do fine," House said, grabbing his carry-on and cane. "Gotta go. Can't keep the attendants waiting. You know the guys think I'm smuggling drugs in my cane." He piled his belongings in a gray plastic tray. "And the women...the women just want an excuse to feel me up."
Sighing, Wilson left the airport, and made his way back to House's apartment. He'd planned to be there to meet David after school on the first day. He wasn't really sure how the boy would be once House's temporary absence was a reality.
David proved to be his usual quiet self. At the grocery store, he walked alongside the cart while Wilson selected some fresh ingredients. Attempting to include the boy in deciding what they would eat for the next four days, he asked for his input on the foods he'd already chosen.
Offering a very Houseian shrug, David replied, "I dunno." He pointed into the cart. "House never buys any of those things. I don't know what it's supposed to look like."
Raising one thick eyebrow, Wilson asked, "What does House usually buy?"
"Frozen stuff. You know, with the pictures on the front so you can tell what you're gonna have."
Wilson suppressed a chuckle. "Okay, let's get some frozen stuff."
In the freezer section, David selected four containers and placed them in the upper basket of the cart. "Mac and Cheese," he announced, satisfied with his choice.
"Are you...planning to have that every night?"
Nodding, David pointed approximately west. "The peanut butter is that way, and the bread section is in the corner. Do you want me to get them?"
"Well... we are going to have to have a talk about variety," Wilson mused, "But I guess that's alright for now. I'm going to get a few more things, ok?"
"Ok. I like spaghetti, too."
"Does House ever give you any vegetables or fruit?"
Staring down at his shoes, David admitted, "I eat those peaches in the can. And House makes raw stuff I have to eat."
"Now we're getting somewhere." He pointed towards the produce section. "Get your PB and J; I'm gonna go get us some more real food. Nice try." He could have sworn David was smiling sheepishly as he trotted off on his mission. Sure, House had changed a lot since David, had made room for the boy in his life. But House was still House. He wasn't going to turn into Betty Crocker. In short order, the young doctor gathered ingredients for four breakfasts, three bagged lunches, and four dinners that he was sure David wouldn't be able to resist.
That night, David had his Mac and Cheese, a tossed salad with homemade raspberry vinaigrette and made-from-scratch iced tea. Wilson was surprised that the boy ate all of the salad, and gave him ice cream for dessert as a reward. Wilson was doubly surprised that David only ate a few bites of ice cream. "Too full?" he asked.
David nodded. "Guess so."
They spent the evening watching the first Indiana Jones movie, which took about an hour longer than the movie actually was, because David kept asking to replay scenes. He hadn't even been watching the scenes, just replaying parts with interesting background music, Wilson discovered. Once he realized this, he handed the remote to the boy, he and pulled out a medical journal and read through the repetition.
At around nine, Wilson suggested that it was about bedtime. David obediently went into the bathroom, where Wilson heard him taking a shower, and brushing his teeth, and then returned to the living room in "pajamas" (a baggy t-shirt and gray sweatpants) that made him look like a miniature House.
"Goodnight, Wilson." He said to the man. "I'm going to bed now."
Before Wilson could respond, the telephone rang. Grabbing the cordless receiver, Wilson clicked it on. "Hey, House."
David's face fairly lit up. For David. For an average, well-adjusted child, it was merely a broad smile.
"Hey Wilson. How's the kid?"
"He's fine. Fed, watered, about to be put in the barn for the night."
Wilson didn't hear him chuckle, but he knew House was smiling. "Lemme talk to him."
He handed over the phone.
"Hi House." David sat next to Wilson, close enough to actually be touching. "Yeah, I'm fine." He listened. "Okay...I will." He scooted back on the sofa so that his back was resting, his short legs, dangling. "Okay." House was obviously doing a lot of talking, because David spent a long time just holding the phone. Occasionally he nodded silently, or chuckled to himself. He became more relaxed than he had been all evening, even leaned a bit against Wilson's arm. Bedtime story, Wilson thought. The irascible misanthrope Gregory House is telling his kid a bedtime story. Oh, if he could only tell Cameron.
"House," David murmured. "House, I'm getting sleepy. Goodnight." He handed the phone to Wilson and went into his bedroom.
"House?"
"Yeah. He sounds ok."
"Well, for a kid who lives Macaroni and cheese and peanut butter and jelly, I guess he is ok."
"He doesn't eat jelly. Too sweet."
Wilson was appalled. "What kid doesn't like sugar?"
"A kid with about four cavities who's afraid of going to the dentist."
"Ah."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you that he gets vitamin supplements every morning. They're in the spice rack. One envelope. Watch until he takes them all. If he doesn't eat any breakfast, don't give him the iron."
"Now this was the kind of factoid that might have been helpful to have when I asked you this afternoon," Wilson griped. "Geez, House, is the kid ok?"
"He wasn't. He is now." House paused. "He was in horrible shape four months ago. Nutritionally screwed, vaccinations not up to date. To say nothing of some pretty substantial abuse and neglect."
Wilson grimaced. "Sounds like the mother was a real incompetent bitch."
"Yeah... well, he's lucky. Who knows what he might have lost intellectually because of her."
Wilson propped his feet on the coffee table. "Is there anything else you want to share with me about him? I'm all ears now, and you've got the time."
"Could you do me a favor, Wilson?"
"Of course."
House hesitated, and then spoke, somewhat reluctantly. "Wait about ten minutes after we hang up, go into his room. Leave your high heels off. He sleeps like a corpse, but not for about half an hour. If he's lying on his right side, he's asleep."
Wilson wasn't sure where this was going. "Ok, sneak into his room just after he falls asleep, and do what?"
An embarrassed pause, "Uh... tell him that ... he's a wonderful kid."
"Is this supposed to be a subliminal suggestion or something?"
"Something like that."
Wilson felt something in his heart, something old and frozen and locked away, melt a little. *Damn, not again.* He had to control this. "Goodnight, House."
"You'll do it, then?"
"Of course. Goodnight."
"'Night."
Wilson clicked off. It was a good thing that House was so far away, he reflected. If he had seen the look on my face, he'd already know how I feel about him. Then it'd be all over.
The four days went rather quickly. David ate and slept normally every day, went to school, did his homework. Wilson took him on a few simple outings, the library, a movie. Nothing went out of the ordinary. David played with his music every day. House called every night to talk and read to the child, which was so unusually endearing to Wilson that he merely fell deeper and deeper in love with his best friend. He was in SO much trouble.
House was expected to return early during Saturday afternoon. Wilson and David were kind of waiting around for him to call from the airport, and he was running a bit late. Wilson could tell that David was excited and a bit nervous to see his self-appointed guardian. He flitted from one activity to the next; first a book, then the piano, his sheet music, his harmonica, the TV, but he couldn't seem to focus on anything.
"C'mere David," Wilson summoned him to the sofa, hoping to distract him from his misery.
David came and stood in front of the man. "Yeah?"
"Relax. House is just a little late. Don't worry."
"Okay." David sat next to him on the sofa, back straight, his hands in his lap.
Chuckling, Wilson placed a hand on the little boy's back and gently massaged. "Loosen up, buddy."
David glanced back at Wilson and flashed a brief smile which disappeared as soon as he realized that the man had seen it.
Wilson smiled back. "You like that? Back massage?"
David shrugged.
Wilson began to massage the small back in earnest then. Using a very light touch, he worked his thumbs into the nape of David's neck and slowly eased his way down to the small of his back. David responded to his ministrations like a kitten soaking up sun. Within 10 minutes, he was lying prone on the sofa as Wilson caressed his shoulders while they both watched TV. It was the most relaxed David had ever been in Wilson's presence. Soon, the boy began to breathe slowly and evenly. He'd fallen asleep.
House let himself into the apartment quietly. He'd been a little annoyed that his plane had been late, and, rather than wait any longer at the airport for Wilson and David to pick him up, had taken a cab home to avoid having to carry his luggage any further. His leg ached. His right arm ached. He only wanted to get home, take a shower, pop a Vicodin or three, and spend some time with his kid. And his friend. Wilson had seemed distant when he'd called every night. He hoped that he hadn't felt too put out from taking care of David. House wasn't sure he wanted to trust anyone else with taking care of his boy when he had to be away.
House's warm welcome home came in the form of two snoring corpses on the sofa. Wilson had his legs propped up on the coffee table. David was curled up on his right side on the sofa next to the oncologist with his head resting on the man's leg. With one hand resting on the boy's head, Wilson's chin rested on his chest as he dozed. Before he shut the door rather loudly, House indulged himself in watching the two, allowed his heartstrings to be tugged on for a bit. Love you, Wilson, he allowed himself to think.
As if he'd heard, Wilson inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. "Hey..." he squinted at House and shook the sleep away. "Hey, welcome home! Thought you were going to call when your plane got in."
House considered pretending that he had called, that they had missed his call and forced him to hail a cab...with all the luggage he had, and a bum leg. But he found he didn't really want to tease. He wanted to relax and bask for a while in his...his family. "Taxi," he said. "It was just easier."
Nodding at David's sleeping form, Wilson added, "He wanted to see planes up close."
Frowning a bit, House shrugged. "I'll have to make it up to him. Leaving his jacket and suitcase where he had been standing, he limped across the room to his leather easy chair and plopped down into it. Unexpectedly, he extended his left hand to Wilson.
Wilson pretended nothing was out-of-the-ordinary, and took House's hand in his right.
"How'd it go?" the older doctor asked quietly as he released the hand a moment later.
"Really well. He's a pretty easy kid."
To celebrate House's return, they ordered in Chinese, which David would eat to be polite, but, House had discovered, he didn't really care for it. House microwaved more Mac and Cheese for him, and ordered him some plain mixed vegetables, which he would eat, one vegetable type at a time.
Later, when David was in bed, the two men sat together, watching mindless television.
"This was a good experience for me," Wilson stated.
Greg glanced sideways at his friend. "Well, next time I get stuck with work travel, I'll be sure to give you a call."
"Anytime," Wilson told him. "He's a sweet kid."
"Mmmmnn.."
"You're changing, you know."
House sighed.
"Oh come on, it's okay to change. It's... nice." He cajoled.
House emitted another non-committal grunt.
"You're embarrassed. That's really cute. I'm going to tell Cameron all about this. She'll die."
"Do you promise to tell her? 'Cause if she dies, I don't mind this being the last thing she learns."
Wilson laughed quietly. "It'll make her short life worthwhile to see Greg House a changed man. Lovable, genial, and considerate. At least with the kid."
House pointedly stared at the television. "And you." He said quietly.
Wilson turned his head to look at his friend. "And me... But we've always been friends."
Greg nodded without meeting his friend's eyes.
"Even that's changed some, hasn't it?" He examined Greg's face more closely, and gasped slightly. Greg House was blushing!
Taking a deep breath, as if he'd come to some grand resolution, House turned his head to regard his friend with his deep, piercing blue eyes. "Yeah. It has changed. Jimmy." He said, clearly.
They peered at one another for several moments before House turned away to watch the TV again. House's usual way of saying, "Yes, I acknowledge that you are right; but that's all you're getting." But he didn't actually stop there. He took Wilson's hand in his own and gave it a little squeeze before releasing it. Perhaps he couldn't say anything more, but House was brilliant; he could find other ways to express himself.
Wilson felt weightless as they resumed watching mindless TV.
**************************
The blind had been left open. Wilson, mesmerized, couldn't help spying on House as he sat in the driver's seat of his parked car. House was seated at the piano, playing from handwritten sheet music. David, in pajamas was standing next to the bench, gesturing animatedly. They were conversing back and forth, sometimes appearing to be in a rather heated discussion. Wilson had never seen David so agitated. At one point, House pointed to a place on one of the sheets as he spoke. David grabbed a pencil from the piano and hurriedly made a notation. House nodded slightly, smiled, and continued playing. All smiles, David removed his harmonica from the piano lid and began using it as a toy car. He "drove" it up one of House's arms, and settled on driving it back and forth across the man's shoulders in time with the music, it seemed, judging by the way the tall doctor was keeping time with his head and swaying slightly as he played. David rested his head on the back of House's right shoulder as he continued to "drive" the harmonica back and forth along the left one.
House stopped playing. The little boy remained standing behind the man, resting his dark head on House's shoulder, the harmonica-car now stilled. House said something and David walked around and straddled the side of the piano bench. House's expression was soft, gentler than Wilson had ever seen, as he spoke to the child. He placed his hand on David's head, stroked his cheek gently, then finally patted his shoulder. David sat up, and although his back was too him, Wilson knew that the boy was smiling proudly, because House responded with a broad, beautiful, warm smile of his own.
Wilson couldn't take his eyes off the scene. Little David bounced away briefly and returned to the room with a book. House rose, took up his cane, and joined the child on the sofa. As House began to read aloud from the book, David snuggled in under his left arm. House actually cuddled the kid to his side, stroked his hair absently as he read. Wilson could tell he was even doing voices by looking at the goofy expressions on his face, and his animated demeanor. A few moments later, David had completely wound down, and House's manner became more steady and sedate. Wilson imagined that House was using his voice to lull the child to sleep. House closed the book a minute or so later, and spoke once more. Sleepily, David stood and returned to his bedroom.
It was precisely at that moment that Wilson fell completely in love with House. It had been building a long time, perhaps throughout their friendship. Everything crystallized suddenly because Wilson finally had absolute confirmation that House's exterior was total bullshit. The son of a bitch could love this child; the son of a bitch could love him, too. Did love him.
Wilson used his key for the outer door, and tapped on the inner one so he wouldn't wake David. House let him in promptly. House didn't appear surprised or annoyed with his unannounced visit. Wilson was always welcome.
They sat side-by-side on the sofa, nearly touching. Wilson was nervous; he kept loosening his tie, rearranging his feet on the coffee table. When he stole a glance or two at House, the man wore a bemused, almost smug expression.
"House... There's something I've been wanting to say to you..." Wilson began.
"Shhh..." was all House said. He took Wilson's hand in his, and simply held it. Occasionally, he stroked the other man's knuckles with his thumb.
Bravely, Wilson took a deep breath and turned to look at his friend. Greg took him totally by surprise by kissing him. Wilson was totally lost. He ceased to feel his extremities; was only conscious of his face between Greg's hands, his lips being bruised by the assault, the incredible endorphin rush. And of how hard he was becoming, how quickly he thought he could come from the sensations the kiss had evoked.
Greg was somewhat more in control, but he found he couldn't stop what he was doing. The sensations were like mild electrical shocks down his spine. He'd thought that kissing Wilson would prove to them both once and for all that their affections were only platonic. Once they got over the breach of male friendship rules, they could get on with business as usual. Somewhere in his heart, Greg knew this wasn't true, either. He loved Wilson beyond the platonic. He desired a sexual relationship with Wilson.
They sat turned toward one another not speaking but still close. House was looking down at first. Then, Wilson touched the other man's chin and tipped his head up so that he had to meet his eyes. The expression on Greg's lean, furry face was raw, naked love. No snarkiness, no pain, no irritation, only intense, pure tenderness. This was the essence of House, boiled down.
Greg had to pull back. It was too much. But he didn't want to hurt Wilson, either. So he compromised by pulling his friend close so that their foreheads were touching.
"Greg," Wilson tried to speak again.
"...Sshhh, Jimmy," He began to stroke his friend's opposite thigh. "Just let it be for now."
Jimmy let it be. The moment lasted perhaps 3 minutes in real time. Then it was over. And Greg didn't say anything afterwards, so he didn't either. But when Wilson left for the evening, Greg walked him to the door (that was a first), and gave him a hug. Jimmy dropped his raincoat. "Sorry," he told the raincoat, and hurried out the door. Just as it was closing, he caught a glimpse of a very smug smile on House's face.
*************************
Jimmy was still sleeping beside him. House had seen Wilson sleep before, but not like this, completely relaxed, as if all was well with his universe, like a small child. He always looked as though he'd arranged and starched himself into place very neatly before dropping off to sleep and had stayed that way. Today, Jimmy was beautiful. His hair was completely tousled, bangs down to his eyebrows. He was wearing a pair of old plaid flannel pajama bottoms of House's, and shirtless. Beautiful, to Greg House.
They'd never actually made love before last night. Kissed, caressed, and cuddled, but never 'all the way.' And they had been such straight guys in the past that neither had felt in all that much of a rush to take it further yet. Jimmy had suggested that they order a manual; a gay Kama Sutra, or the New Joy of Gay Sex. House assumed instructions weren't necessary; just do what feels good. And there was the David factor, too. Both men had been putting on the brakes for fear of making it difficult for House to adopt David. And they had yet to discuss the course their relationship had taken with the boy. They supposed they would figure out what to say when the time came, but House felt a little uncomfortable, explaining to his son about how things were with Wilson and him. Wilson thought that was silly, and didn't waste any time telling House so. Love was love.
House sat up in bed, resting his back against the headboard while he watched dawn breaking through the blinds and over Wilson's sleeping form. He reached for his bottle of Vicodin on the nightstand, popped two, and waited for the dull morning ache that had started in his thigh to subside.
Last night, Wilson had stolen Greg's heart all over again. House had sent David to get ready for bed. When the boy returned to say goodnight, all pink-skinned and slightly damp from the shower, absolutely adorable in dark blue Spongebob and Patrick pajama bottoms, and a way-too-big t-shirt, Wilson had swept the little boy into his arms, laughing, and drowned his face in sloppy kisses. Perplexed, David had smiled faintly in his usual low-key manner, as he tolerated the attack. Once released, he knelt between them on the sofa, looking at Wilson as if he had just stepped off a spaceship. "How come you did that?" He had asked.
House, while certainly affectionate enough with the child, was more likely to respect his personal space; to always leave the ball in his court. That was House's way. Wilson wasn't like that at all. He was physical; House was intellectual. Nice balance, House had thought. House had taught the boy how to compose music; Wilson had danced with him. House played poker with David; Wilson wrestled with him on the floor. The inverse was true when it came to practical matters. House was the one who indulged David in guilty pleasures like junk food, TV marathons, and long, high-speed drives in the country in the corvette or on the bike, while Wilson always encouraged him to eat healthy, wear his seatbelt, and read a novel every now and then.
Wilson, still chuckling to himself, his eyes bright, had answered, "Because...because you're a wonderful boy, and I was just suddenly very overcome with how much I love you," he'd answered.
David, House's "still water," hadn't said much. He'd drawn his legs up underneath him, sat cross-legged on the sofa, facing Wilson, and watched him intently for a moment. Wilson had continued smiling at him, had stayed totally open in spite of the scrutiny.
David pushed himself up onto his knees again, scooted closer, and wound his arms around Wilson's neck. "I love you, too," he'd whispered, his voice filled with awe and little-boy sincerity. He was relaxed, allowed himself to be held, to be pulled into Wilson's lap, to be cuddled. He'd fallen asleep that way a few minutes later. Wilson had carried him to his room and put him to bed. He'd even told him, once again, that he was a wonderful kid, and that House and Wilson loved him very much. Then he kissed him again and tucked him in.
Before he could sit down on the sofa again, House had mimicked Jimmy's actions of a few minutes before. He'd taken Wilson into his arms, smothered him with kisses.
"Overcome with love, Greg?" Wilson had teased.
"Something like that."
They had smooched a bit on the sofa, until House shut off the TV, rose, and held out his hand. "Come to bed with me," He'd insisted quietly, in his usual direct manner. Wilson let himself be pulled up, and followed House. House had locked the door, saying that there was no point in creating an awkward situation before they'd planned how to explain things.
"I'm not sure we should yet, Greg."
"I'm sure," he murmured, sitting on the edge of his bed and pulling Jimmy into his arms.
Wilson had no idea that Gregory House would prove to be such a complete pussycat in bed, but it made sense. To the rest of the world, he could be a total bastard. To his kid, he was kind, patient, gentle. At first, Wilson had thought that it was just that House was disarmed by the fact that David was a child with fewer defenses. As a fellow adult, Jimmy had expected the same thunder and lightning from House in bed that he gave at work; he'd been almost afraid that House's love would be way too intense. However, in Greg's arms, Wilson felt only tenderness. Then the younger man understood. House was completely disarmed by the people he chose to love. It made sense. No wonder he allowed himself to love only a very few.
House started undoing Wilson's buttons one by one as he gazed into the man's eyes. "I've seen how beautiful you are before. It's going to be even better now that I get to touch," the older doctor whispered. Pulling the shirttails out of the other man's pants, he peeled the shirt off Wilson with his usual efficiency. Seeing Wilson, half-naked and flushed with desire, House had to pause to take him in totally, his hands at Wilson's hips. He had to close his eyes, blow out a deep breath. It was as if he'd lost sight of his goal, temporarily.
Wilson couldn't stand it. "Touch my chest," he demanded. Wilson had always been rather vain and particular about his chest. It was one of his most sensitive erogenous zones. He loved looking at his chest, having his chest stroked and kissed, doing exercises that made his chest look inviting to his lovers. "Touch me," he whispered again.
Greg obliged immediately, though Wilson had half hoped that the other man would tease him a bit. House's long, slender fingers played over the oncologist's smooth, well-defined chest like a piano keyboard.
Much later, the two had lain together, naked, exhausted, fulfilled - for now. House was lying on his back, right arm at his side, the other holding Wilson, who was draped over him quite nicely.
Wilson spoke, his voice a bit muffled from where it was positioned in the crook of the older man's neck. "So what brought that on, after all these weeks, Greg?"
House didn't answer right away. He used his right arm to hold Wilson now, as he gently caressed his hair with the other hand. "My kid knows he has two people in the world who love him now," he said simply. "Automatic panty peeler."
Wilson had laughed at that. It was blissful for Greg to hear and feel his lover's laughter through his body. He'd tighten his hold on the other man, and found his mouth in the darkness. He assaulted his lips with a barrage of sweet kisses. Dragging his lips up the side of Wilson's face, he kissed the man's eyes, his thick brows, his forehead, then buried his face in his hair. They had lain like that until House felt Wilson's body begin to lose muscle tone as the other began to drift off to sleep.
"Jimmy," House whispered. "Roll over." He knew his leg would start to throb if they stayed like that.
Wilson obediently rolled off onto his back. House lay on his side, watching his new lover sleep until he himself drifted off as well. Just before, House placed his hand in the middle of Wilson's chest, and left it there as he felt his own eyes close.
*************
Epilogue:
Music was only the first arena in which David brilliance shone quite brightly. He peaked at 15, when he earned the opportunity to conduct the Princeton University Orchestra in the performance of his own symphony. Cryptically, he titled each movement after the people he loved most in his life. The first one, he named "Greg." It was an intense, dramatic movement in which a deep, persistent base line battled with an even stronger melody. People who knew Greg House thought it described him musically to a tee.
House and Wilson took the progression of their relationship very slowly. Greg exercised a few opportunities to be an ass, as expected, and Wilson certainly cheated a few times. And they had their ups and downs when it came to raising David. But they always took one another back. And somehow, David became the glue, for good or ill, that held the family together,.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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