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Boy
by Laura
Boy
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: PG13
Feedback: This was my first time writing Chase. It'd be appreciated.
Random: Chase with Beowulf interludes.
Summary: It fell, as he ordered, in rapid achievement.
::.::
--(and a young prince must be prudent like that,
giving freely while his father lives)
Your mother called you Bobby when you were younger. It was the lilt in her voice; it was what you knew. It was almost love. This was before she was swimming in alcohol and traipsing through abandonment issues, unknowingly paving the way for your future. The well-worn path is heavy under your feet, solid and familiar.
Your father called you Robert, always. Stiff and formal, with an air of expectancy, he acted like he hardly knew you. He tried, sometimes, to play the part, but all that did was put a strain on the family. You knew he was a good doctor, though not everyone is meant to be a father. When you got older you realized you didn't care. The relationship was doomed from the start, you enabled each other into nonexistence, save for the family name, and it's not a sudden thing, that you're nobody's child.
You're only at your best when you absolutely loathe something. There is no feeling more powerful than hate. It makes you tense, sharp, and has your mind screaming for truth. It makes you a good doctor, and not so much lousy at everything else, but not in a position to really appreciate it. And your mother called you Bobby and then she didn't. Your father was there and then he wasn't. You were going to become a priest and then you weren't. People change, plans change, and you wear disappointments like others wear cheap accessories. The only difference being, you are still paying for yours.
--(scourge of many tribes,
a wrecker of mead-benches, rampaging among foes)
House pisses you off to no end. And you take it. You take it, you're asking for it, begging (maybe, definitely). A fake smile tattooed on your face, blinding like midnight sun reflecting off of a frigid lonely terrain. Full of contempt, you stare him in the eye and dare him to go somewhere. You know you can send him packing and that's why you think you hate him. Because you'll leave or he will leave, there'll be separation of some sort, and then you're just a sad guy with floppy hair and dead eyes, all unfocused anger. You try to force his hand, he will tell you he can't stand you, that he can hate just as well as you, has been doing it longer, and you're not human enough to be around.
Your eyes purposefully rake over Cameron's body when he's in the room, slow and exaggerated, like she's yours. It's very clear to him what you're doing when you press your hands flat on the table in front of her. Palms and flailed fingers, you're telling him, "This could be her under my hands, bearing my weight." You could be the one who slides two fingers down the front of her pants, into her, and she's warm and wet and home. You would be the man that kisses your way from her collarbone towards her mouth, to stifle her noises, steal every emitted groan. You could bend her over the arm of your couch, over your body with its broken soul, over his desk, and pound into her until you come, until her pale knees are bruised, purple and yellow, because when you came you thought of House (you and Cameron would have this in common) at home drinking himself to sleep.
You come into work smelling like a stranger's perfume and wearing wrinkled clothes. The other day Cameron offered you a sympathetic look and then slid a hand onto your shoulder. It's an oft-used move, no doubt; she dispenses comfort like oxygen.
"Clinic, now," House said. "This isn't Lifetime, Cameron. Get a puppy on your way home or something."
You sat and watched them as they gathered up their things. Foreman nodded at you before leaving. House came back into the room with a message in his hand. He and Cameron glared at each other before she exited the room. You're tired of their eye fucking.
"You wait," he told you.
His eyes caught your question, but he said nothing further. He took a seat across from you and slouched down in his chair. You two stared at each other for a few minutes. He just sat with that smirk you wanted to punch off of his face. For some reason, you thought if you punched him his smirk would get bigger. You shook the hair out of your eyes and thought about your father.
"Awful quiet over there," he said.
You shrugged your shoulders and chewed on a pencil.
"What's wrong? Dominatrix got your tongue?" he joked.
You sat up straight in your chair and tried to look unfazed. It was a reflex to always try and appear better than you felt.
"What do you want from me?" you asked.
"Why don't you spend this time contemplating the near loss of your job? I'm guessing you're going to do that special kind of British mourning; quiet, solemn, may or may not involve kilts."
He mentioned it quite casually as he stood and you've never hated him more. Well, maybe once.
"Guilt is a good business," he said.
He went to his office. You got up and left the room.
--(do not give way to pride;
for a brief while your strength is in bloom)
You wanted to be someone once, someone important. Not like your father, who has bought most of his status. He would diagnose the pain in a woman's knee and suddenly she was throwing him dinner parties, calling him `Dr. Rowan' with a breathless giggle escaping from her shiny red lips. You see things in red, always red. Pulsating and near deafening, it reminds you of your mother's lips. It could be love, and you can't admit it out loud, not even to yourself. You'll dream of the ring your father gave you or the one time House looked at you, there was something, and you could've sworn--but it's always out of reach, floating above clouds you refuse to acknowledge. That's not love. Ever. You wake up sweaty with a throbbing headache, tangled in sheets and bathed in sunlight. You hate waking up that way, blood pounding in your temples, heart obviously functioning; it makes you feel very much alive.
Boys like you are a dime a dozen, abandoned in large airy houses, raised on ubiquitous money and tempered politeness, ready to take on the world, but only if it comes to them. Mothers will love their sons, fathers will push or pull their sons a million different ugly directions, and all boys grow into men, but only some men grow back into boys. You become stubborn and tight-lipped at the mention of your mother, and it's no wonder you don't love your father because he's just like you.
--(and death will arrive,
dear warrior, to sweep you away)
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Your life is an endless impractical joke. The current punch line: your father is dying of cancer.
You're standing at the foot of his hospital bed. He is unconscious and on a respirator. You should be relieved, in a way, that this will be over soon, but you're not. He doesn't deserve to die like this. He'll probably never regain consciousness, fading away into his own sunset. You feel sick as you pick up the chart hanging at the end of his bed. Your eyes scan the nearly illegible scrawl for some kind of clue, any evidence of his suffering and that his death will not be as comfortable as possible.
He could've died a million different ways by now. You used to have dreams about him dying. They weren't nightmares because you enjoyed them. Your favorite one was of him dying in a car accident. The dream was visceral, you can still remember the squealing of the tires and the panicked flicker of recognition on his face when he realizes the car is out of his control. His car is crushed, pressure exerted onto metal and bone, and he's in agony, trapped in a mass of hot Mercedes, because when metal bends it wails. He'd scream right along with it. Halfway through the dream changes, variations live in the moment between impact and whichever way the car decides to wreck. Fissured glass, blood, and rearranged car parts surround him in a macabre mosaic. That part always makes you smile. He ends up trapped inside of his car, pinned beneath a tractor-trailer, blue and red flashing lights screaming arias, a million different endings. After that part you usually wake up. There is no dealing with it. That's the beauty of this particular dream.
You put the chart back and leave the room, shutting the door softly. A nurse walks up to you.
"Are you family?" she asks.
No. Never.
"His son," you respond, not quite the biggest lie you've ever told.
"You can go inside," she says. "You could sit with him for a while," she adds before walking off in that politely brusque way nurses do.
And your hands slip into your pockets as you purse you lips, thinking. You could go sit with him. You could.
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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 Fox Television, 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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