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Mother's Intuition
by Topaz Eyes
Mother's Intuition
Notes: Originally written for the Kickstarters challenge at housefic_pens, based on the prompt: "There are worse things than this," he said softly, and she shook her head. Thanks to jazzypom!
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The pale winter sun had already passed mid-afternoon when Blythe House arrived at the door to her son's glass office. She unbuttoned her coat, suddenly overheated after the brisk January air outside, and stood for a moment before entering, her own legs slightly stiff from the four-hour drive; simply watching Greg through the half-shut blinds.
Greg stood alone staring at the neatly-written list of symptoms on the whiteboard, leaning on his good leg and absently twirling his cane. His fellows were nowhere around; Blythe only assumed they were out and about running his errands. To most people Greg looked completely at ease but Blythe had had long practice of observation to know otherwise.
She pulled the door open and stepped in; Greg cocked his head, possibly seeing a glimpse of her reflection, but did not move. Blythe then cleared her throat and was not surprised when Greg tensed at the soft, guttural noise; she could almost see him schooling his features in response. She watched him turn around, his face carefully impassive.
"Hi, Mom," he said; but though his mouth quirked in a faint, almost pleasant half-smile Blythe knew he was not happy to see her.
"Hello, Greg." Blythe crossed the carpet to stand beside him, her sensible shoes whispering over the pile. She patted his upper arm lightly and he reluctantly ceased rotating his cane. "How are you doing?"
"What are you doing here?" he asked, glancing askance out the window leading to the balcony.
"Can't I just drop by and visit my son once in a while?" she replied with a teasing lilt in her voice. Answering questions with questions was an old game.
"If you call a two-hundred mile drive 'just dropping by'." He turned back to stare at the whiteboard, abruptly ending the banter. "But I'm in the middle of a case right now."
"Of course you are." Blythe sighed, long used to the apparent brush-off. Sometimes, she knew, it was true.
She studied her son's profile. Greg appeared outwardly calm, but his eyes flicked all over the board. She gazed at the whiteboard with him in an uneasy silence, unable to make sense of the words herself but sensing the puzzle within them. This was his domain, this world of glass and blinds and secrets shuttered behind the unfamiliar syllables, waiting for the key to unlock their meaning, as long as it took.
"James called me," she finally offered into the air between them, after several minutes of stalemate. "About you and Stacy."
He blinked, but otherwise remained implacable. "Well, Jimmy's just a tattletale."
Blythe opened her mouth to reply but the coffee maker seethed just at that moment, signaling that the coffee had finished brewing.
"Finally," he muttered, hanging his cane on the board, and went over to the pot to pour two mugs. Blythe, watching his retreating back, winced at the unsteadiness in his step.
She watched Greg pause at the pot after pouring. He returned, his face again carefully impassive, and wordlessly handed a steaming cup to Blythe.
"Thank you, dear," she said, cupping her hands around the warmth and inhaling the bittersweet fragrance of coffee with two sugars.
His mouth twitched in acknowledgment, softening just a bit. Then he resumed his position in front of the board, sipping and glaring over his red mug, as if daring the board to reveal its secret. The board, however, remained mute.
Greg reached over to pick up a red whiteboard marker. Only Blythe (or James, if he were present) would have noticed the fine tremor in his hand as he grasped it.
Blythe tried again on a different tack. "Greg, James is terribly worried that you're in worse pain than before--"
At that he pivoted to face her, his voice deceptively mild as he set his mug down on the nearby table. "Mom? As much as I'm enjoying our little kaffeeklatsch maybe you should go gossip with Jimmy and Cuddy over lattes. They'll be more than happy to tell you how the pain's in my head and not in my leg." With that he turned back toward the board.
Blythe did not shrink from the underlying stab in Greg's voice; she was just as intractable, in her own gentle way. "Is it?" she pressed.
"Is what?"
"Is the pain all in your head?" she continued, feeling the subtle despair beneath the practiced petulance.
He snorted and his eyes flicked over the board again, stubbornly refusing to answer.
Blythe sighed again, more heavily this time. Greg had stopped confiding in her a long time ago, long before his muscle infarction; since the incident that got him expelled in disgrace from Hopkins. More than enough time had passed to forgive and move on but he was still mired in his own misplaced sense of failure.
Standing there in the diffuse late afternoon sun, squinting to re-read the scrawled words on the board, he twirled the marker between his fingers in place of his cane, occasionally lifting it to tap it against his chin. He still avoided glancing in her direction. Then he pursed his lips together and suddenly Greg was eleven years old again, cheeks bruised and knees bloodied, but still unwilling to name the boys who'd beat him after school when he'd refused to swipe packs of cigarettes from the corner store for them; boys he'd considered his friends.
"Greg--" she implored sadly. Talk to me. "You can't keep avoiding your pain, wherever it is."
"Gee, Mom, is that why I have my Vicodin?" Greg rattled the pill bottle in his pocket for emphasis.
"You know what I mean," she answered, her voice carefully even.
He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to resist the probing through his armor. She just barely heard the hitch in his breath as he opened his mouth to reply.
"There are worse things than this," he said softly, and she shook her head.
"No, honey," she replied just as quietly. "Not for you."
Greg turned and gazed directly at her for a long moment; then he bowed his head, eyes closing and shoulders slumping under the weight. He did not resist as her hand slipped into his and squeezed tightly, the marker caught between. Blythe could not stifle a relieved smile when he finally, reluctantly squeezed back; the falling twilight smoothing the strained lines around his eyes and mouth, blurring the visage of boy and man.
Just seconds later, they both startled at a sudden commotion behind them, as an overhead fluorescent light flipped on to illuminate the now half-dark office. Chase, Cameron and Foreman had already entered and took their seats at the table before they noticed Blythe standing with House.
"Mrs. House!" Cameron exclaimed in surprise.
They both turned at Cameron's voice. "Hello Alison, Eric. Hello Robert." Blythe released Greg's hand and nodded at each of them, giving them all a warm smile.
Beside her, House had already arranged his features to an air of amused indifference and clapped his hands together. "Well kids, look who's come to visit! Any good news for Grandma and me?"
Foreman shook his head with his usual exasperation; Cameron ducked hers and smirked and Chase raised an amused eyebrow. "The patient's stable for now but there are two new symptoms--" Chase began.
House whipped the marker at Chase's head. "So don't just sit there and hog all the candy, share with your brother and sister or you'll go to bed without supper. Chop chop."
Chase rolled his eyes as he caught the marker deftly, but nevertheless he rose and headed towards the board. Blythe shot her son a reprimanding look. "Really, Greg."
House returned her disapproving gaze by throwing up his hands. "What? They gotta learn to play together in the sandbox sometime," he retorted, lightening it with a smirk.
"So how long are you staying?" Cameron asked.
"Well, I'd love to stay but I have to be heading back now." She set her untouched mug on the conference table.
"That's too bad, it's almost dinnertime," Foreman said.
Blythe nodded. "I know, but it's a long drive so maybe another time." She turned back towards House. "Goodbye, Greg," she said, pulling him into a tight hug. "See you soon."
He awkwardly returned her embrace and even kissed her cheek. "Bye, Mom." He whispered something else, then released her and smiled a genuine, if sad smile.
"Have a safe trip back," Cameron added as Blythe picked up her coat and bag.
"Thank you, dear," Blythe said as she left the office.
Outside the glass door, she paused for a minute to button up her coat, and to observe Greg and his fellows without being seen. He yanked the marker from Chase's hand and stood at the board himself; he drew one firm red line between two symptoms, an old one and a new one that Chase had just added. Gesticulating again, he whipped something else, this time at Foreman, who stood up in his turn. Cameron looked up from the chart in front of her with a puzzled frown, and said something that made the three gape at her.
Blythe shook her head fondly at the four of them in their organized chaos. Such a ragtag group; each of them some unconscious reflection of him. She turned away reluctantly, letting the fading bickering over their diagnoses carry her towards the doors of the hospital.
John House was waiting in the car at the front entrance to pick her up, exhaust steaming in the damp frigid air. As she climbed in he looked at her sideways. "So how is he?"
She sighed at the note of surly reticence in her husband's voice. Like father, like son; she was long used to fending them both. "He's in a lot of pain," was her careful reply.
John snorted. "All of it his own making." As they drove away he added, "Usually he does everything he can to blow you off. I hope this visit was worth it."
"It was, John," she said quietly. "It was." She turned toward the passenger window to watch the scenery pass by in the falling dark.
Greg might not confide in her anymore; he might brush her off, try to ignore her; but he still needed her, deep down, to make the effort. And she knew he was grateful that she did. Because when he'd said goodbye--in his usual gruff, embarrassed style--softly, so softly that Blythe had had to strain to listen, he had added, "Thanks."
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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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