Keeper (Agnates in Elysium), 8/10 (R)
Dec. 13th, 2007 09:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deelaundryRemember this WIP from July? I finally got past my block on Part 8. Part 9 will go up tomorrow; Part 10 by the end of the weekend.
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house_wilson and betteronvicodin
Title: Keeper (Agnates in Elysium), Part 8/10
Author: Dee Laundry
Rating: R
Summary: House & Wilson’s son Jack passes one of life’s crossroads and makes an unexpected connection.
Note: Part One began in June 2033. Sequel to My Fathers’ Son, set in an AU that crosses over with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
simple__man’s Churchverse, which began with Brilliant. Grateful appreciation to daisylily for beta and to simple__man for creating something wonderful and letting me play with it.
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven
Forty ounces of Gatorade, two Advil, a piece of toast, and half a cup of coffee, and Jack was finally starting to feel like he might have energy at some point before he had to leave for Pop’s speech. He hadn’t drunk that much the night before, but mixing gin, whatever the hell was in that shot, and the potent Russian Imperial Stout had not been good for him.
He was thinking about getting off the couch when Church strode through the front door and headed directly for the kitchen. “Any more of Mary’s home-made blueberry waffles?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Freezer. I’m about to take a shower.”
Church called from the kitchen, “Soap your own ass today; I’m busy.”
Putting the shower idea aside for a moment, Jack wandered in to watch Church. Waffles, toaster, syrup, coffee mug – Church acted like he owned the place. Good to know things hadn’t changed.
“You’re high,” Church declared, and Jack crossed his arms comfortably. “Dad’s high. This is all fucked up and insane, and I refuse to believe it.”
“Fair enough,” Jack replied, and shrugged. “What are you doing today?”
“Proving that this is not what you and Dad think it is.” Church’s hurry-up-you-stupid-cooking-device jig was in full swing, making Jack grin. “Go make yourself pretty, Johnny Upright,” Church snapped. “We’ve got to get to the conference.”
Thirty minutes later they walked through the main entrance of the Sheraton. Church had been sullen and uncommunicative on the way over, and Jack had kept his comments to himself. Nothing to be done for it when Church got like that.
Jack looked around the staid brass-and-leather lobby for a sign showing where the conference was, while Church fidgeted next to him. “Pop said for some reason they were going to have to change which room he’s speaking in,” Jack said, “so we’ll need to check the schedule.”
“Schedule’s up on the wall there.” Church pointed to a scrolling sign on the other side of the lobby, and immediately moved toward it in a long lope. Jack got caught up in the piles of luggage a family of six was hauling into the hotel, but was able to join Church a moment later.
“This is the hotel’s overall schedule of events,” Jack noted. “It’s not going to have the rooms for individual presentations. I think we have to go the conference registration desk, which is one floor up.” He turned his head to catch Church disappearing through a doorway. “Where are you going?”
Church paused, blocking the doorway, and looked back. “Gotta pee.”
“Now?” protested Jack, exasperated. Church remained planted, frustrating the efforts of two boys of about ten to come out of the restroom. They stood patiently for all of two seconds, and then bulldozed right past Church, knocking him into the door and the door into the wall.
“Punk kids!” Church yelled after them with a smile on his face before turning back to Jack. “Retention of urine can cause kidney damage, which you’d know if your father was a nephrologist,” he said scornfully, snottily.
“He was a –” Jack began, but the door was already swinging shut behind Church.
Jack waited four minutes patiently, and another four impatiently, before stomping into the men’s room. “Church, I swear to God –”
There was no one in the restroom.
Small space, entirely visible from the door, and no one. No one at the sinks, no one at the urinals, and no one in either of the two stalls. Jack scoured the room, high, low, and in between. He had one foot on a toilet rim, about to push himself up and start checking behind the ceiling tiles, when his cell phone rang.
Before the phone was even at his ear, he could hear Church demanding, “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m standing in a goddamned stall looking for you,” Jack retorted, as a stocky middle-aged man with a conference badge on entered the restroom. The man gave Jack a strange look; Jack realized he still had his foot on the toilet and hastily brought it down. He lowered his voice and hissed at Church, “Where did you wander off to?”
“I didn’t wander anywhere. I pissed, I walked back out of the restroom, and you weren’t there. I assumed you’d gone to powder your nose in the little girls’ room, but whatever. Just meet me at the registration desk.”
The line clicked and Church was gone. Jack had no clue how Church had slipped past him, but it wasn’t worth worrying about now. Pop’s speech was going to start soon, and they still hadn’t found the room.
Heading toward the escalator, Jack thought he caught a glimpse of Church, but when he got to the second floor, he only saw conference attendees, loosely gathered in clumps of two and three. Damn. He’s like a cat, Jack thought. Sneaky and slinky, heading off wherever his fancy takes him. He’ll probably pop out from nowhere any minute, fresh from the hunt with an injured chipmunk clenched proudly in his jaw.
Annoyed, Jack plucked a copy of the conference schedule off the registration desk. Just as House had said, only one James Wilson was presenting during the conference – in nine minutes, moved from the Quinn Salon to the Mallory Room.
After a few false starts, Jack found the room just off the main meeting corridor. Pop was up front, nodding as two middle-aged men argued around him. Jack caught his eye, waved, and smiled at the wink Pop gave in reply.
Church was nowhere to be seen, so Jack sighed and hauled out his cell phone. At the first ring, Church picked up and snapped, “Well, I’m here; where are you?”
“I’m here. And yes, everyone is always ‘here,’ given the definition of the word, but I happen to be in the Mallory Room, which is where James Wilson is giving his speech.” Jack took a chair and smiled apologetically at the woman sitting two seats down before hunching away, over his phone. “And you are not.”
“I’m in the room James Wilson is giving his speech in,” Church protested.
“What room is it?”
“I don’t know; a hot little meeting planner escorted me here.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Ask somebody what room it is.”
“I’m not asking somebody. You ask somebody and get your ass over here.”
“I’m in the right place, Church. I’m looking at Pop right now.”
“Fuck this. I’m going to ping your GPS so you can find me.” After a pause, Church returned. “There. Look at your damn phone and come here.”
Even as he brought the phone away from his ear and into his line of sight, Jack knew what he would see.
“According to this,” he informed Church, “I’m sitting two and a half feet in front of you. Do you see me? Because I don’t see you.”
Church huffed a growl into the phone. “You’re obviously doing it wrong. Ping me and I’ll find you, you lazy moron.”
Trying to ignore the nearby woman who was now glaring full-force, Jack hit the buttons. “There.”
A few seconds later, Church muttered, “Stupid fucked-up thing.” He huffed again and then said louder, “Just come find me, Jack.”
“The GPS isn’t fucked up, Church. You and I are in the same room, just not in the same universe. Just like your Dad said.”
“My Dad’s a recreational user of drugs and a champion bullshitter.” His voice changed in volume and tone; he was clearly addressing someone else. “Yes, shockingly enough, I used a profanity. You can hold that moue until your face freezes that way, but eavesdropping’s a worse sin, so you’ll be the one going to etiquette hell. Old biddy.”
Jack shook his head at Church’s boorish words, until he looked up and saw the woman two seats down from him had a disdainful moue of her own. ‘Biddy’ was about right. He turned away from her and asked Church, “Is Jimmy there?”
“Yeah, he’s up at the lectern, about to start.”
“And Pop’s here, and the room’s settling down.” A sudden thought hit Jack, and he rushed his next words. “We’re going to lose our connection any second. When we do, walk out the back door of the room and meet me in the hall.”
“What?” Church asked incredulously. “This place has great reception; there’s no way –”
“Thank you for coming,” Pop began, and as Jack had predicted, his phone went dead, cutting Church off in mid-sentence. He ducked his head and tried to be inconspicuous as he left the room. He could feel Pop’s eyes on him, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to get back to Church, couldn’t let –
Halfway out the door, his thoughts were knocked off their track as someone collided roughly with him. Full speed, heavy, banging into his back, legs tangling; he barely had time to get his hands under him before he hit the carpet. He was kicked in the ribs and a foot came very close to his ear, as Church yelled, “Fuck!”
Jack lifted his head to see Church take a few stumbling steps – lengthy, damn, the man had long legs – and then come to a halt before whirling around. “Where’d you come from? You could’ve killed me!”
“Yeah. I think you were in more danger of – ow – killing me, barreling into me like that,” Jack retorted as he pushed up and got back to his feet.
Church crossed his arms and glared. “I guess you think this proves something.”
“You mean the fact that we came out of supposedly different rooms by the same exact doorway?” Jack wiped fuzz off his pants and patted his hair back into place, in part because he wanted to, and in part because he knew it’d drive Church batty. Why just be right, when you could be right and annoying? “Or the other fact, that we physically can not listen to my Pop and your Mom at the same time?”
Closing his eyes, Church shook his head. His face was drawn, and Jack felt a wave of pity for him. “Pity” had always been a dirty word in Jack’s house – and in Church’s too, he’d assume – implying weakness, but in this moment it was the right word and heartfelt. Even though he didn’t know why Church was having such a hard time adjusting to this, Jack felt intense sorrow for his suffering and wanted to help. How was the hard part.
When Church opened his eyes and turned abruptly away, Jack followed after him. Down the escalator, through the lobby, and right into the hotel’s restaurant, where they still had the breakfast buffet out. “Two beers,” Church snapped at the hostess before she could even get the menus out from their holder.
“But it’s breakfast time,” she replied, her sunny smile slipping a little.
“Fine,” Church said, “then we’ll have mimosas, or Bloody Marys, or whatever the hell you normally serve to the flower-hatted ladies after church. A pitcher full.” He jerked his head toward the bar, and then stomped away to a table near the windows. Jack followed, trying to hide his smile. He didn’t like to drink this early, and certainly not on top of the slight hangover he still had from the day before, but what the hell. Church House possibly admitting he didn’t know everything was not your everyday occurrence.
They sat for a few moments in silence, broken only by Church’s grunt of thanks as the hostess set down two small pitchers. Apparently, she hadn’t wanted to guess wrong and had brought both drinks Church had mentioned. Good thing. Jack hated tomato juice.
After half a glass of mimosa, when Church’s expression had softened a touch, Jack said, “Hey.” He waited for Church to look him in the eye, then shrugged. “It explains why you don’t want to have sex with me.”
“Because I’ve magically sensed that we’re genetically related?” Church smirked.
“Or you’re extraordinarily observant enough to pick up all the clues and supremely brilliant enough to put them all together properly and come to the correct if improbable solution that no other person could have deduced.”
As Church stretched out and threw an arm over the back of his chair, his eyes narrowed contemplatively. “That does sound like me.”
Jack hid his smile behind the motion of bringing his glass to his lips. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“So,” Church said, and Jack could see the corner being turned, could see the acceptance growing in Church from the inside out. A warmth and peace settled inside Jack, the feeling of a circle being closed at last. He thought back to the metaphor he’d concocted the first time they went for beers together: twin planets with matched orbits. He’d been more correct than he knew.
“So,” Church repeated, while pouring another drink into first his and then Jack’s glass. “Seeing as how you’re my kid brother and all, the way I see it, I’ve got over twenty years of harassment I’ve got to catch up on. You’re going to be in for a rough winter.”
“The way I see it,” Jack replied, tilting his glass toward Church in a quick toast, “you’ve got over twenty years of birthday presents you owe me.”
That got him a huge eyeroll. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get Mom out shopping just as soon as the conference is over. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a pony.”
Jack started to snicker and somehow missed Church getting up from his seat. The next thing he knew, a long arm was around his neck and knuckles were digging into his scalp. “Hey! Ow!” he protested, but Church tightened his grip. Jack hadn’t gotten many noogies as a kid, but he’d seen his friend Teddy escape from his brothers plenty of times.
By going limp Jack gained the element of surprise and was able to rock his chair back and twist at the same time. He and Church tumbled to the floor, rolling and grappling for position. Before they got thrown out of the hotel, Jack had pinned Church twice and only been pinned once himself, which he considered a victory.
***
House stared at the welcome mat outside the kid’s door. This had to be one of the most harebrained ideas the Brat had ever come up with. “Like regression therapy,” he’d said during the short phone call, as if either one of them really believed in that crap.
Speak of the devil, the Devil opened the door and pulled House in. “Good, you’re here.”
They were in the living room of the apartment and the kid was nowhere to be found. House tried one last time to talk some sense into his progeny. “This isn’t going to accomplish –”
“Just do it, okay?” Church’s expression was… interesting. Determined and anxious and something else, something that was a bit like the way the boy looked at Jimmy. Interesting.
A door somewhere banged loudly, and then the kid stumbled into view, giggling his fool head off.
“Jack, shit, what did you take?” The Brat was at the kid’s side in seconds, helping him reach the couch and then sink into it, clutching at the couch’s arm.
“Nothing,” the kid protested. “But do we have any more mimosas? You make ’em better than that restaurant did this morning. Mmm, mimosas. Mimo, memo, momo. Hey, did you know ‘momo’ means peach in Japanese? I wonder why they don’t call them momosas.”
“Because they’re not made with peaches. Come on, you weren’t this bad off when you went in the bathroom.”
“I’m not that bad,” the kid replied, taking a deep breath. “As you remind me all the damn time.”
The Brat rolled his eyes and then nodded. House took this moment to step up. “Hi, Jack.”
Jack screwed his eyes shut and let out an explosive breath. “Hi, Daddy,” he said, his eyes still closed. “I miss you.”
House groaned inwardly and shot the Devil Incarnate a fierce glare. He didn’t sign up for “Daddy.” Regression, fine, but not all the way to toddler stage with “Daddy” and tantrums and tears, tears, tears.
He was halfway to the door when a hand wrapped around his bicep and stopped him short. When’d the Punk get so strong? He only had a second to wonder and then Church was shoving him back into the living room, toward the couch and kid. “Sit!” the Punk ordered.
As soon as he’d sat on the center cushion of the couch, the kid leaned into his side. This made his left arm uncomfortable, so he pulled it out and put it on the back of the sofa, which of course encouraged the kid to lean in closer. Stupid.
Stupid Jimmy got House into this mess, with his stupid “let’s get married and take in Cuddy’s spawn” and his stupid contagious fawning over the little baby terror and how the hell was House supposed to know you could fall in love with an infant and keep that annoying infatuation going for twenty-five years until you ended up on a couch in a tiny apartment with a very drunk kid you barely knew leaning on you, invading your space, just because the fruit of your loins asked you to be here?
Stupid Jimmy.
House realized with a start that he was stroking the kid’s hair, and it felt very familiar. Like Jimmy’s. Almost the same color, too, or at least the color Jimmy’s used to be before it was Clairol 116B. He could also see Wilson in the kid’s nose and cheekbones, although the body type was all House.
The kid shifted a little, pushing closer, and House’s arm dropped from the back of the couch to the kid’s shoulders. It felt fine, not too horribly awkward, and the kid sighed like maybe he was happy.
It shouldn’t have been surprising that on close inspection he looked like Wilson. Church had shown House a picture of the kid’s surrogate, and she could definitely have been Wilson’s sister.
In any universe, that’s the kind of good luck I have, House mused. Not ordinary good luck like, say, not having an infarction or finding effective non-addictive pain management or having a life in which most people I meet aren’t complete idiots. No, I have the crazily implausible good luck that results in finding, without any effort, a ready, willing, and able Wilson in a skirt to produce a baby for us. Or finding Wilson himself, smart and complex enough to hold my interest, stupid and stubborn enough to stick around.
House hugged the kid a little tighter and then held out his right arm, inviting the Brat to come sit with him. If he was going to be this absurdly mushy, might as well have the devil he knew in there too. To his surprise, Church came over and tucked his lanky frame into House’s right side, curly head laying across from Jack’s straight one.
Now it was time for the “therapy” the hellion had asked for. Ought to be able to do this, with how much time I’ve spent at that headshrinker’s. “Jack, I want you to listen to me.”
“Yeah, Dad?” was the muffled reply.
“I apologize for running out on you when you were eight.” The kid’s head started to come up, so House shoved it back down. This was embarrassing enough; no way was he going to do it if he had to look anybody in the face.
“I’ve thought about it,” he continued, just as the Brat had coached him, “and it was the wrong decision. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“You were there for me,” Jack protested, and if it sounded a little choked, it was probably simply because he was practically chewing House’s shirt. “I just – wanted you home. Pop missed you so much. And so did I when I wasn’t with you.”
“It was the wrong decision.”
Not something that had ever come out of his mouth a lot, about decisions he’d made, but the words were so very easy to say when it was someone else’s boneheaded play. And of all the boneheaded plays, this one was pretty damn thick-skulled, so House could make his statement with conviction, and even apologize on behalf of this doppelganger who was apparently an idiot of the highest order.
This next part, though, House wasn’t sure he understood. Scratch that. He knew he didn’t understand, and the Brat had been loath to offer up details. He nudged Brat’s shoulder, and the spawn reached up and squeezed his hand. That squeeze had been learned from Jimmy – it was the one that said, “I’m being polite in mixed company but you’d better shape up and fly right this instant or there will be hell to pay when we get behind closed doors.”
Church (and House) usually dispensed with the politeness rather than doling out the squeeze. It underlined how special Brat thought these circumstances were, so House gave in – just this once – and said something purely to bring another person happiness.
“And Jack, I never should have made that rule. You know the one. I wanted to keep you from getting hurt, and in the process I hurt you, which I never, never wanted to do. I was blind and I’m sorry.”
The kid inhaled sharply and started to move his arms, and House braced himself for a hug. Instead, the kid reached around House and grabbed Church, pulling him up off House’s chest and hugging him tightly.
“Thank you. Thank you for doing this,” the kid breathed, and to House’s astonishment, the Brat was hugging back just as strongly.
House pushed himself back into the sofa cushion as far as he could go, trying to get some distance from this puppy-pile in front of him. He happened to look up, and there was Wilson – the kid’s Wilson, not his Jimmy – standing in the doorway. And there was the fawning, smitten look House remembered from so long ago, and apparently it was contagious not only in the giving of it but in the receiving of it, because Wilson was bestowing it not only on the kid but on the Brat and maybe, if House wasn’t mistaken, on him too.
“Thank you,” Wilson mouthed, his lips moving slowly and carefully, and House had to look away.
(Continued)
Posted to
house_wilson and betteronvicodinTitle: Keeper (Agnates in Elysium), Part 8/10
Author: Dee Laundry
Rating: R
Summary: House & Wilson’s son Jack passes one of life’s crossroads and makes an unexpected connection.
Note: Part One began in June 2033. Sequel to My Fathers’ Son, set in an AU that crosses over with
simple__man’s Churchverse, which began with Brilliant. Grateful appreciation to daisylily for beta and to simple__man for creating something wonderful and letting me play with it.Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven
Forty ounces of Gatorade, two Advil, a piece of toast, and half a cup of coffee, and Jack was finally starting to feel like he might have energy at some point before he had to leave for Pop’s speech. He hadn’t drunk that much the night before, but mixing gin, whatever the hell was in that shot, and the potent Russian Imperial Stout had not been good for him.
He was thinking about getting off the couch when Church strode through the front door and headed directly for the kitchen. “Any more of Mary’s home-made blueberry waffles?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Freezer. I’m about to take a shower.”
Church called from the kitchen, “Soap your own ass today; I’m busy.”
Putting the shower idea aside for a moment, Jack wandered in to watch Church. Waffles, toaster, syrup, coffee mug – Church acted like he owned the place. Good to know things hadn’t changed.
“You’re high,” Church declared, and Jack crossed his arms comfortably. “Dad’s high. This is all fucked up and insane, and I refuse to believe it.”
“Fair enough,” Jack replied, and shrugged. “What are you doing today?”
“Proving that this is not what you and Dad think it is.” Church’s hurry-up-you-stupid-cooking-device jig was in full swing, making Jack grin. “Go make yourself pretty, Johnny Upright,” Church snapped. “We’ve got to get to the conference.”
Thirty minutes later they walked through the main entrance of the Sheraton. Church had been sullen and uncommunicative on the way over, and Jack had kept his comments to himself. Nothing to be done for it when Church got like that.
Jack looked around the staid brass-and-leather lobby for a sign showing where the conference was, while Church fidgeted next to him. “Pop said for some reason they were going to have to change which room he’s speaking in,” Jack said, “so we’ll need to check the schedule.”
“Schedule’s up on the wall there.” Church pointed to a scrolling sign on the other side of the lobby, and immediately moved toward it in a long lope. Jack got caught up in the piles of luggage a family of six was hauling into the hotel, but was able to join Church a moment later.
“This is the hotel’s overall schedule of events,” Jack noted. “It’s not going to have the rooms for individual presentations. I think we have to go the conference registration desk, which is one floor up.” He turned his head to catch Church disappearing through a doorway. “Where are you going?”
Church paused, blocking the doorway, and looked back. “Gotta pee.”
“Now?” protested Jack, exasperated. Church remained planted, frustrating the efforts of two boys of about ten to come out of the restroom. They stood patiently for all of two seconds, and then bulldozed right past Church, knocking him into the door and the door into the wall.
“Punk kids!” Church yelled after them with a smile on his face before turning back to Jack. “Retention of urine can cause kidney damage, which you’d know if your father was a nephrologist,” he said scornfully, snottily.
“He was a –” Jack began, but the door was already swinging shut behind Church.
Jack waited four minutes patiently, and another four impatiently, before stomping into the men’s room. “Church, I swear to God –”
There was no one in the restroom.
Small space, entirely visible from the door, and no one. No one at the sinks, no one at the urinals, and no one in either of the two stalls. Jack scoured the room, high, low, and in between. He had one foot on a toilet rim, about to push himself up and start checking behind the ceiling tiles, when his cell phone rang.
Before the phone was even at his ear, he could hear Church demanding, “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m standing in a goddamned stall looking for you,” Jack retorted, as a stocky middle-aged man with a conference badge on entered the restroom. The man gave Jack a strange look; Jack realized he still had his foot on the toilet and hastily brought it down. He lowered his voice and hissed at Church, “Where did you wander off to?”
“I didn’t wander anywhere. I pissed, I walked back out of the restroom, and you weren’t there. I assumed you’d gone to powder your nose in the little girls’ room, but whatever. Just meet me at the registration desk.”
The line clicked and Church was gone. Jack had no clue how Church had slipped past him, but it wasn’t worth worrying about now. Pop’s speech was going to start soon, and they still hadn’t found the room.
Heading toward the escalator, Jack thought he caught a glimpse of Church, but when he got to the second floor, he only saw conference attendees, loosely gathered in clumps of two and three. Damn. He’s like a cat, Jack thought. Sneaky and slinky, heading off wherever his fancy takes him. He’ll probably pop out from nowhere any minute, fresh from the hunt with an injured chipmunk clenched proudly in his jaw.
Annoyed, Jack plucked a copy of the conference schedule off the registration desk. Just as House had said, only one James Wilson was presenting during the conference – in nine minutes, moved from the Quinn Salon to the Mallory Room.
After a few false starts, Jack found the room just off the main meeting corridor. Pop was up front, nodding as two middle-aged men argued around him. Jack caught his eye, waved, and smiled at the wink Pop gave in reply.
Church was nowhere to be seen, so Jack sighed and hauled out his cell phone. At the first ring, Church picked up and snapped, “Well, I’m here; where are you?”
“I’m here. And yes, everyone is always ‘here,’ given the definition of the word, but I happen to be in the Mallory Room, which is where James Wilson is giving his speech.” Jack took a chair and smiled apologetically at the woman sitting two seats down before hunching away, over his phone. “And you are not.”
“I’m in the room James Wilson is giving his speech in,” Church protested.
“What room is it?”
“I don’t know; a hot little meeting planner escorted me here.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Ask somebody what room it is.”
“I’m not asking somebody. You ask somebody and get your ass over here.”
“I’m in the right place, Church. I’m looking at Pop right now.”
“Fuck this. I’m going to ping your GPS so you can find me.” After a pause, Church returned. “There. Look at your damn phone and come here.”
Even as he brought the phone away from his ear and into his line of sight, Jack knew what he would see.
“According to this,” he informed Church, “I’m sitting two and a half feet in front of you. Do you see me? Because I don’t see you.”
Church huffed a growl into the phone. “You’re obviously doing it wrong. Ping me and I’ll find you, you lazy moron.”
Trying to ignore the nearby woman who was now glaring full-force, Jack hit the buttons. “There.”
A few seconds later, Church muttered, “Stupid fucked-up thing.” He huffed again and then said louder, “Just come find me, Jack.”
“The GPS isn’t fucked up, Church. You and I are in the same room, just not in the same universe. Just like your Dad said.”
“My Dad’s a recreational user of drugs and a champion bullshitter.” His voice changed in volume and tone; he was clearly addressing someone else. “Yes, shockingly enough, I used a profanity. You can hold that moue until your face freezes that way, but eavesdropping’s a worse sin, so you’ll be the one going to etiquette hell. Old biddy.”
Jack shook his head at Church’s boorish words, until he looked up and saw the woman two seats down from him had a disdainful moue of her own. ‘Biddy’ was about right. He turned away from her and asked Church, “Is Jimmy there?”
“Yeah, he’s up at the lectern, about to start.”
“And Pop’s here, and the room’s settling down.” A sudden thought hit Jack, and he rushed his next words. “We’re going to lose our connection any second. When we do, walk out the back door of the room and meet me in the hall.”
“What?” Church asked incredulously. “This place has great reception; there’s no way –”
“Thank you for coming,” Pop began, and as Jack had predicted, his phone went dead, cutting Church off in mid-sentence. He ducked his head and tried to be inconspicuous as he left the room. He could feel Pop’s eyes on him, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to get back to Church, couldn’t let –
Halfway out the door, his thoughts were knocked off their track as someone collided roughly with him. Full speed, heavy, banging into his back, legs tangling; he barely had time to get his hands under him before he hit the carpet. He was kicked in the ribs and a foot came very close to his ear, as Church yelled, “Fuck!”
Jack lifted his head to see Church take a few stumbling steps – lengthy, damn, the man had long legs – and then come to a halt before whirling around. “Where’d you come from? You could’ve killed me!”
“Yeah. I think you were in more danger of – ow – killing me, barreling into me like that,” Jack retorted as he pushed up and got back to his feet.
Church crossed his arms and glared. “I guess you think this proves something.”
“You mean the fact that we came out of supposedly different rooms by the same exact doorway?” Jack wiped fuzz off his pants and patted his hair back into place, in part because he wanted to, and in part because he knew it’d drive Church batty. Why just be right, when you could be right and annoying? “Or the other fact, that we physically can not listen to my Pop and your Mom at the same time?”
Closing his eyes, Church shook his head. His face was drawn, and Jack felt a wave of pity for him. “Pity” had always been a dirty word in Jack’s house – and in Church’s too, he’d assume – implying weakness, but in this moment it was the right word and heartfelt. Even though he didn’t know why Church was having such a hard time adjusting to this, Jack felt intense sorrow for his suffering and wanted to help. How was the hard part.
When Church opened his eyes and turned abruptly away, Jack followed after him. Down the escalator, through the lobby, and right into the hotel’s restaurant, where they still had the breakfast buffet out. “Two beers,” Church snapped at the hostess before she could even get the menus out from their holder.
“But it’s breakfast time,” she replied, her sunny smile slipping a little.
“Fine,” Church said, “then we’ll have mimosas, or Bloody Marys, or whatever the hell you normally serve to the flower-hatted ladies after church. A pitcher full.” He jerked his head toward the bar, and then stomped away to a table near the windows. Jack followed, trying to hide his smile. He didn’t like to drink this early, and certainly not on top of the slight hangover he still had from the day before, but what the hell. Church House possibly admitting he didn’t know everything was not your everyday occurrence.
They sat for a few moments in silence, broken only by Church’s grunt of thanks as the hostess set down two small pitchers. Apparently, she hadn’t wanted to guess wrong and had brought both drinks Church had mentioned. Good thing. Jack hated tomato juice.
After half a glass of mimosa, when Church’s expression had softened a touch, Jack said, “Hey.” He waited for Church to look him in the eye, then shrugged. “It explains why you don’t want to have sex with me.”
“Because I’ve magically sensed that we’re genetically related?” Church smirked.
“Or you’re extraordinarily observant enough to pick up all the clues and supremely brilliant enough to put them all together properly and come to the correct if improbable solution that no other person could have deduced.”
As Church stretched out and threw an arm over the back of his chair, his eyes narrowed contemplatively. “That does sound like me.”
Jack hid his smile behind the motion of bringing his glass to his lips. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“So,” Church said, and Jack could see the corner being turned, could see the acceptance growing in Church from the inside out. A warmth and peace settled inside Jack, the feeling of a circle being closed at last. He thought back to the metaphor he’d concocted the first time they went for beers together: twin planets with matched orbits. He’d been more correct than he knew.
“So,” Church repeated, while pouring another drink into first his and then Jack’s glass. “Seeing as how you’re my kid brother and all, the way I see it, I’ve got over twenty years of harassment I’ve got to catch up on. You’re going to be in for a rough winter.”
“The way I see it,” Jack replied, tilting his glass toward Church in a quick toast, “you’ve got over twenty years of birthday presents you owe me.”
That got him a huge eyeroll. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get Mom out shopping just as soon as the conference is over. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a pony.”
Jack started to snicker and somehow missed Church getting up from his seat. The next thing he knew, a long arm was around his neck and knuckles were digging into his scalp. “Hey! Ow!” he protested, but Church tightened his grip. Jack hadn’t gotten many noogies as a kid, but he’d seen his friend Teddy escape from his brothers plenty of times.
By going limp Jack gained the element of surprise and was able to rock his chair back and twist at the same time. He and Church tumbled to the floor, rolling and grappling for position. Before they got thrown out of the hotel, Jack had pinned Church twice and only been pinned once himself, which he considered a victory.
***
House stared at the welcome mat outside the kid’s door. This had to be one of the most harebrained ideas the Brat had ever come up with. “Like regression therapy,” he’d said during the short phone call, as if either one of them really believed in that crap.
Speak of the devil, the Devil opened the door and pulled House in. “Good, you’re here.”
They were in the living room of the apartment and the kid was nowhere to be found. House tried one last time to talk some sense into his progeny. “This isn’t going to accomplish –”
“Just do it, okay?” Church’s expression was… interesting. Determined and anxious and something else, something that was a bit like the way the boy looked at Jimmy. Interesting.
A door somewhere banged loudly, and then the kid stumbled into view, giggling his fool head off.
“Jack, shit, what did you take?” The Brat was at the kid’s side in seconds, helping him reach the couch and then sink into it, clutching at the couch’s arm.
“Nothing,” the kid protested. “But do we have any more mimosas? You make ’em better than that restaurant did this morning. Mmm, mimosas. Mimo, memo, momo. Hey, did you know ‘momo’ means peach in Japanese? I wonder why they don’t call them momosas.”
“Because they’re not made with peaches. Come on, you weren’t this bad off when you went in the bathroom.”
“I’m not that bad,” the kid replied, taking a deep breath. “As you remind me all the damn time.”
The Brat rolled his eyes and then nodded. House took this moment to step up. “Hi, Jack.”
Jack screwed his eyes shut and let out an explosive breath. “Hi, Daddy,” he said, his eyes still closed. “I miss you.”
House groaned inwardly and shot the Devil Incarnate a fierce glare. He didn’t sign up for “Daddy.” Regression, fine, but not all the way to toddler stage with “Daddy” and tantrums and tears, tears, tears.
He was halfway to the door when a hand wrapped around his bicep and stopped him short. When’d the Punk get so strong? He only had a second to wonder and then Church was shoving him back into the living room, toward the couch and kid. “Sit!” the Punk ordered.
As soon as he’d sat on the center cushion of the couch, the kid leaned into his side. This made his left arm uncomfortable, so he pulled it out and put it on the back of the sofa, which of course encouraged the kid to lean in closer. Stupid.
Stupid Jimmy got House into this mess, with his stupid “let’s get married and take in Cuddy’s spawn” and his stupid contagious fawning over the little baby terror and how the hell was House supposed to know you could fall in love with an infant and keep that annoying infatuation going for twenty-five years until you ended up on a couch in a tiny apartment with a very drunk kid you barely knew leaning on you, invading your space, just because the fruit of your loins asked you to be here?
Stupid Jimmy.
House realized with a start that he was stroking the kid’s hair, and it felt very familiar. Like Jimmy’s. Almost the same color, too, or at least the color Jimmy’s used to be before it was Clairol 116B. He could also see Wilson in the kid’s nose and cheekbones, although the body type was all House.
The kid shifted a little, pushing closer, and House’s arm dropped from the back of the couch to the kid’s shoulders. It felt fine, not too horribly awkward, and the kid sighed like maybe he was happy.
It shouldn’t have been surprising that on close inspection he looked like Wilson. Church had shown House a picture of the kid’s surrogate, and she could definitely have been Wilson’s sister.
In any universe, that’s the kind of good luck I have, House mused. Not ordinary good luck like, say, not having an infarction or finding effective non-addictive pain management or having a life in which most people I meet aren’t complete idiots. No, I have the crazily implausible good luck that results in finding, without any effort, a ready, willing, and able Wilson in a skirt to produce a baby for us. Or finding Wilson himself, smart and complex enough to hold my interest, stupid and stubborn enough to stick around.
House hugged the kid a little tighter and then held out his right arm, inviting the Brat to come sit with him. If he was going to be this absurdly mushy, might as well have the devil he knew in there too. To his surprise, Church came over and tucked his lanky frame into House’s right side, curly head laying across from Jack’s straight one.
Now it was time for the “therapy” the hellion had asked for. Ought to be able to do this, with how much time I’ve spent at that headshrinker’s. “Jack, I want you to listen to me.”
“Yeah, Dad?” was the muffled reply.
“I apologize for running out on you when you were eight.” The kid’s head started to come up, so House shoved it back down. This was embarrassing enough; no way was he going to do it if he had to look anybody in the face.
“I’ve thought about it,” he continued, just as the Brat had coached him, “and it was the wrong decision. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“You were there for me,” Jack protested, and if it sounded a little choked, it was probably simply because he was practically chewing House’s shirt. “I just – wanted you home. Pop missed you so much. And so did I when I wasn’t with you.”
“It was the wrong decision.”
Not something that had ever come out of his mouth a lot, about decisions he’d made, but the words were so very easy to say when it was someone else’s boneheaded play. And of all the boneheaded plays, this one was pretty damn thick-skulled, so House could make his statement with conviction, and even apologize on behalf of this doppelganger who was apparently an idiot of the highest order.
This next part, though, House wasn’t sure he understood. Scratch that. He knew he didn’t understand, and the Brat had been loath to offer up details. He nudged Brat’s shoulder, and the spawn reached up and squeezed his hand. That squeeze had been learned from Jimmy – it was the one that said, “I’m being polite in mixed company but you’d better shape up and fly right this instant or there will be hell to pay when we get behind closed doors.”
Church (and House) usually dispensed with the politeness rather than doling out the squeeze. It underlined how special Brat thought these circumstances were, so House gave in – just this once – and said something purely to bring another person happiness.
“And Jack, I never should have made that rule. You know the one. I wanted to keep you from getting hurt, and in the process I hurt you, which I never, never wanted to do. I was blind and I’m sorry.”
The kid inhaled sharply and started to move his arms, and House braced himself for a hug. Instead, the kid reached around House and grabbed Church, pulling him up off House’s chest and hugging him tightly.
“Thank you. Thank you for doing this,” the kid breathed, and to House’s astonishment, the Brat was hugging back just as strongly.
House pushed himself back into the sofa cushion as far as he could go, trying to get some distance from this puppy-pile in front of him. He happened to look up, and there was Wilson – the kid’s Wilson, not his Jimmy – standing in the doorway. And there was the fawning, smitten look House remembered from so long ago, and apparently it was contagious not only in the giving of it but in the receiving of it, because Wilson was bestowing it not only on the kid but on the Brat and maybe, if House wasn’t mistaken, on him too.
“Thank you,” Wilson mouthed, his lips moving slowly and carefully, and House had to look away.
(Continued)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 02:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:07 am (UTC)Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 03:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:12 am (UTC)Jack and Church started in different universes but were able to meet each other because they are different people. But Wilson (Jack's Pop) can't meet Jimmy (Church's Mom) because those two are the same person.
It makes sense in my brain -- hope it's not too confusing!
Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:15 am (UTC)Great chapter, I love that House agreed to the therapy for Jack. And that Jack was aware of what was going on the entire time despite being inebriated to his skull. Can't wait for the next parts!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 05:58 pm (UTC)Sorry for the delay. I was so stuck on this part; you wouldn't believe it. Thanks for hanging in there!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:40 am (UTC)PREFECT TIMING! EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED AND NEEDED
A++++++++
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 05:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 09:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 05:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 06:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 07:39 am (UTC)...If I were them, I would have tried to hold hands and reenter the room ;)
I've missed this a lot!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 06:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 01:08 pm (UTC)I'm glad House gave in just a bit to help out Jack, you did a great job keeping him in character despite the abundance of touchy-feely stuff going on around him! So glad you're going to finish this :)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 02:41 pm (UTC)You brought the awesome and the awesome brought cake! This is great and touching and other positive adjectives. Love it.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 04:15 pm (UTC)Oh, boys.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:59 am (UTC)I wish I had pictures of them. I have the one of Jack (on the right here: http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/60991.html) but none of Church.
Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 05:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 07:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 10:26 pm (UTC)But I've had too much coffee, so all I can think is the awkward hypothetical conversation between the two Wilsons, in which they would exchange hair care tips and embarrassing stories about Jack and Church.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:48 am (UTC)Thanks for reading - last parts will be up soon.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 11:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 03:11 am (UTC)(Teeny snippet that might make someone wonder, though: http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/65088.html)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-18 12:27 am (UTC)Don't ask me about the road metaphors, they probably stem from some deeply-repressed trauma. Involving a road. I don't know.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 01:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 02:33 am (UTC)That last scene is very much complicated by a) House not referring to Church by name (which is a trait of his that
House = Church's Dad
the kid = Jack
the Brat, the progeny, and all other nicknames = Church
Jimmy = Church's "Mom"
Wilson in the "good luck" paragraph = Wilson in general (Wilson in both universes)
Wilson in the last two paragraphs = Jack's Pop