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viciouswishesTitle: The First Patient
Author: viciouswishes
For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cupiecake
Beta: My mom
Fandom: House
Pairing: None. Just House.
Setting: Pre-series, 1969 to be exact.
Rating: G
Words: 1661
Request: Have House be crying. maybe over a kitty.
Summary: Greg always wanted to be a drummer like Keith Moon.
A/N: While I don't generally lock fiction, I am using this in an original fiction non-profit project and am taking extreme precautions for the moment.
Greg's parents moved around a lot. A lot was an understatement, but not unusual for a military family. By the time he was 10-years-old, Greg grew to hate the term, "military brat" as much as he hated when his father barked orders to pick up the pieces of his solar system diorama or eat the rest of his pancakes.
He didn't really even like pancakes, especially since the dentist had diagnosed him with three cavities and his mother banned all sugar, including syrup, from the household. In truth, Greg hadn't been brushing his teeth, instead chewing the sticky pink bubblegum that came inside baseball card packages.
Greg liked baseball a lot. He always listened to the games broadcasted over the radio. He wanted to play, but they'd moved again. And the season was already too far gone to sign up for baseball in his new school district.
Beyond baseball, Greg found himself adjusting to the idea that he could be someone new at every move. In Oklahoma, he threw markers at Elena Bodden's head and had a week's worth of detention. In Jackson, he achieved straight As and won the knowledge bowl championship for his 5th grade class by giving the correct answer of Harper Lee.
But summer was by far his best friend as he laid stretched out on his bed, a model airplane floating above his head. It moved in the wind from his open window. "Gregory," his mother said, her head poking into his bedroom, his private kingdom, "I don't want to tell you again to bring your dirty clothes into the laundry room."
"Before dinner. I promise." Greg waited until she shut the door, and he turned on his stereo. There was nothing like The Who's Tommy, and Greg did not want his mother interrupting Moon's drum work. This week, Greg had decided that he wanted to be drummer. A cool drummer who perfected every drum beat. He'd probably win a Nobel Prize or something. He'd also tell Ed Sullivan where he could shove his show when he begged Greg to be on it. That is, if Greg's mother wasn't in earshot.
Greg heard his mother already starting to cook dinner and knew she'd want to watch Bewitched with him tonight. He didn't mind as Elizabeth Montgomery was foxy, even if the new Darrin was an idiot.
Precious meowed from the floor. His mother must be cooking chicken again for the third night in the row.
"Here, Precious," Greg said. "Here, kitty-kitty." Precious had the stupidest name, but he didn't expect much more from his mother who probably would've named him Fufu. But instead, Greg was named after his grandfather who'd died before he was born.
Precious purred as Greg petted her and zoned out to another drum solo. If only he was old enough to go to concerts.
"We're Not Gonna Take It" played on the stereo as his mother knocked on the door frame. "Greg, your laundry." She had her hands on her hips. "Dinner's also ready. Your father's home."
Greg groaned and turned off his stereo. Moon probably didn't have to do his own laundry.
With a sigh, Greg sat his laundry basket in front of the AEG washing machine. His mother didn't trust him to use it, and for that, he was thankful. He looked over to Precious who had followed him and rubbed herself against his ankles. Bits of her fur appeared like white sprinkles over the bottoms of his brown pants.
He heard the garage door shut: his father.
Greg followed the noise into the kitchen where his mother stood at the stove, stirring something. His father at the table, an open beer bottle in his hand. "Blythe, that boy needs to learn some responsibility. You let him run around all day, listening to that noise he calls music."
Staying behind the wall, Greg listened to his parents argue about him. They were always arguing about his behavior and his education.
"I'm sure your parents called your musical tastes noise as well," his mother responded. She removed the pot before it began to boil over. "He's an imaginative child and very bright for his age. His teacher has even been talking to me about moving him up a grade."
"And you listened to her?" His father snorted. "Ms. Finn might be able to teach kids their multiplication tables, but she's shit for brains when it comes to helping them with future goals. Most of them are going into the military after high school, and she should know that and stop trying to convince them to be lawyers or trapeze artists or whatever Greg wants to be this week."
"A drummer," his mother said. "And I wish you wouldn't swear." As she turned around, Greg hid further away from the kitchen doorway. "Greg, come and set the table."
Greg waited a moment, trying to pace his approach, but Precious ran out in front of him. Stupid cat, giving him away. "Yes, mom," he said as he stepped into the kitchen.
One of the few things his mother demanded of him, besides bringing his dirty clothing to the laundry, was setting the table. When he was in preschool, he'd made a placemat out of colored construction paper that showed the proper places to set the knife, fork, spoon, plate, and glass. He'd used it until the color bled into the white table cloth. But he'd never forgotten how to set a table, and he did it with perfection every evening and on Sunday mornings.
They ate dinner in silence. Greg sticking his hand below the table to feed Precious pieces of chicken from his plate. Chicken always excited Precious more than it did Greg.
Greg dozed off on the couch next to his mother as his father watched the evening news. "Goddamn cat," his father said, pointing to Precious who had vomited in front of his chair and didn't look like she would stop.
"Language." His mother ran off to grab towels to clean up after Precious. "Greg, bring Precious into the laundry room. That chicken you were feeding her under the table must've upset her stomach."
Picking up Precious, Greg held her closely as she trembled in his arms. Usually, she sat still and purred. "I don't think it's the chicken. I fed her chicken yesterday too, and she was just fine."
His mother laid a clean towel down on Precious' bed. Greg watched the way the hem of her blue skirt moved back and forth. "Put her in here, Greg. It's too late to take her to the vet's. They closed at 5." She handed him The Complete Book of Cat Health and Care. "If she's not better in the morning, we'll take her in."
Greg sat next to Precious, his back against the washer. He opened the book and started thumbing through possible diseases. It seemed as though his mother was right that she just had an upset stomach or the cat flu.
He grabbed a blue blanket off the top of the clean laundry pile and lay down next to Precious. Greg petted her head, and she started to purr. He felt better and fell asleep.
When Greg awoke, his hand was still touching Precious' shoulder. He couldn't feel her breathing. "Mom! Mom!" Leaning down, he put his ear toward her lungs, listening.
His mother rushed into the laundry room, her hands tying her pink housecoat. The early morning light filtered through the windows, poking through the empty centers of her curlers.
"She's not breathing. Barely breathing." Greg picked up Precious in his arms. "She doesn't have the flu. It's not a symptom." He nodded to the book.
His mother was a blur around him, calling for his father. She took Precious from Greg and he picked up the book, searching again for the answer to Precious' illness once again, as they drove to the veterinary office. His father cursed and smoked, saying that they might not be open this early on a Saturday.
A bell above the door jingled and Greg looked at the expanding pink countertops. A large white cat snoozed on top of some file cabinets. "I found it," Greg said. He walked faster to catch up to his parents at the counter, and he went over all Precious' symptoms: vomiting, shaking, and shallow breathing. "She's been poisoned. You need to tell the vet that, mom."
"Greg," his mother said, "I'm sure the vet is a very knowledgeable man and will make a correct diagnosis."
Greg watched as they took Precious in a back room. "Tell the vet, mom." He tugged on his mother's arm, but she pulled him on her lap. Something his father always commented on that Greg was too old to do. His mother's fingernails tapped on the plastic chair, and she told Greg that he needed more sleep.
They waited for what seemed to be hours, and Greg kept his head buried in his mother's shoulder. The tweed of her jacket scratched his skin. His mother had managed to take the curlers from her hair, and her long brown curls hide Greg's face.
Then Greg heard the veterinarian telling his father that there was nothing they could do for Precious. He turned from his mother's shoulder. "I told you, she was poisoned. She got outside yesterday. You killed her." Tears started streaming down Greg's face. He hated this veterinarian who couldn't even pick up a book. "You killed her. I knew what was wrong with her." Greg moved off his mother's lap, rushing toward his father and the veterinarian.
"Blythe, make the boy be quiet," his father said. He took his wallet from his jacket pocket.
"Shhh, Greg." His mother pulled him closer. "It's going to be okay. You know how you were talking about drum lessons, well, I met this teacher-"
Greg stopped struggling and let his mother win. "I don't want to be a drummer." He continued to sob.
Author: viciouswishes
For:
cupiecakeBeta: My mom
Fandom: House
Pairing: None. Just House.
Setting: Pre-series, 1969 to be exact.
Rating: G
Words: 1661
Request: Have House be crying. maybe over a kitty.
Summary: Greg always wanted to be a drummer like Keith Moon.
A/N: While I don't generally lock fiction, I am using this in an original fiction non-profit project and am taking extreme precautions for the moment.
Greg's parents moved around a lot. A lot was an understatement, but not unusual for a military family. By the time he was 10-years-old, Greg grew to hate the term, "military brat" as much as he hated when his father barked orders to pick up the pieces of his solar system diorama or eat the rest of his pancakes.
He didn't really even like pancakes, especially since the dentist had diagnosed him with three cavities and his mother banned all sugar, including syrup, from the household. In truth, Greg hadn't been brushing his teeth, instead chewing the sticky pink bubblegum that came inside baseball card packages.
Greg liked baseball a lot. He always listened to the games broadcasted over the radio. He wanted to play, but they'd moved again. And the season was already too far gone to sign up for baseball in his new school district.
Beyond baseball, Greg found himself adjusting to the idea that he could be someone new at every move. In Oklahoma, he threw markers at Elena Bodden's head and had a week's worth of detention. In Jackson, he achieved straight As and won the knowledge bowl championship for his 5th grade class by giving the correct answer of Harper Lee.
But summer was by far his best friend as he laid stretched out on his bed, a model airplane floating above his head. It moved in the wind from his open window. "Gregory," his mother said, her head poking into his bedroom, his private kingdom, "I don't want to tell you again to bring your dirty clothes into the laundry room."
"Before dinner. I promise." Greg waited until she shut the door, and he turned on his stereo. There was nothing like The Who's Tommy, and Greg did not want his mother interrupting Moon's drum work. This week, Greg had decided that he wanted to be drummer. A cool drummer who perfected every drum beat. He'd probably win a Nobel Prize or something. He'd also tell Ed Sullivan where he could shove his show when he begged Greg to be on it. That is, if Greg's mother wasn't in earshot.
Greg heard his mother already starting to cook dinner and knew she'd want to watch Bewitched with him tonight. He didn't mind as Elizabeth Montgomery was foxy, even if the new Darrin was an idiot.
Precious meowed from the floor. His mother must be cooking chicken again for the third night in the row.
"Here, Precious," Greg said. "Here, kitty-kitty." Precious had the stupidest name, but he didn't expect much more from his mother who probably would've named him Fufu. But instead, Greg was named after his grandfather who'd died before he was born.
Precious purred as Greg petted her and zoned out to another drum solo. If only he was old enough to go to concerts.
"We're Not Gonna Take It" played on the stereo as his mother knocked on the door frame. "Greg, your laundry." She had her hands on her hips. "Dinner's also ready. Your father's home."
Greg groaned and turned off his stereo. Moon probably didn't have to do his own laundry.
With a sigh, Greg sat his laundry basket in front of the AEG washing machine. His mother didn't trust him to use it, and for that, he was thankful. He looked over to Precious who had followed him and rubbed herself against his ankles. Bits of her fur appeared like white sprinkles over the bottoms of his brown pants.
He heard the garage door shut: his father.
Greg followed the noise into the kitchen where his mother stood at the stove, stirring something. His father at the table, an open beer bottle in his hand. "Blythe, that boy needs to learn some responsibility. You let him run around all day, listening to that noise he calls music."
Staying behind the wall, Greg listened to his parents argue about him. They were always arguing about his behavior and his education.
"I'm sure your parents called your musical tastes noise as well," his mother responded. She removed the pot before it began to boil over. "He's an imaginative child and very bright for his age. His teacher has even been talking to me about moving him up a grade."
"And you listened to her?" His father snorted. "Ms. Finn might be able to teach kids their multiplication tables, but she's shit for brains when it comes to helping them with future goals. Most of them are going into the military after high school, and she should know that and stop trying to convince them to be lawyers or trapeze artists or whatever Greg wants to be this week."
"A drummer," his mother said. "And I wish you wouldn't swear." As she turned around, Greg hid further away from the kitchen doorway. "Greg, come and set the table."
Greg waited a moment, trying to pace his approach, but Precious ran out in front of him. Stupid cat, giving him away. "Yes, mom," he said as he stepped into the kitchen.
One of the few things his mother demanded of him, besides bringing his dirty clothing to the laundry, was setting the table. When he was in preschool, he'd made a placemat out of colored construction paper that showed the proper places to set the knife, fork, spoon, plate, and glass. He'd used it until the color bled into the white table cloth. But he'd never forgotten how to set a table, and he did it with perfection every evening and on Sunday mornings.
They ate dinner in silence. Greg sticking his hand below the table to feed Precious pieces of chicken from his plate. Chicken always excited Precious more than it did Greg.
Greg dozed off on the couch next to his mother as his father watched the evening news. "Goddamn cat," his father said, pointing to Precious who had vomited in front of his chair and didn't look like she would stop.
"Language." His mother ran off to grab towels to clean up after Precious. "Greg, bring Precious into the laundry room. That chicken you were feeding her under the table must've upset her stomach."
Picking up Precious, Greg held her closely as she trembled in his arms. Usually, she sat still and purred. "I don't think it's the chicken. I fed her chicken yesterday too, and she was just fine."
His mother laid a clean towel down on Precious' bed. Greg watched the way the hem of her blue skirt moved back and forth. "Put her in here, Greg. It's too late to take her to the vet's. They closed at 5." She handed him The Complete Book of Cat Health and Care. "If she's not better in the morning, we'll take her in."
Greg sat next to Precious, his back against the washer. He opened the book and started thumbing through possible diseases. It seemed as though his mother was right that she just had an upset stomach or the cat flu.
He grabbed a blue blanket off the top of the clean laundry pile and lay down next to Precious. Greg petted her head, and she started to purr. He felt better and fell asleep.
When Greg awoke, his hand was still touching Precious' shoulder. He couldn't feel her breathing. "Mom! Mom!" Leaning down, he put his ear toward her lungs, listening.
His mother rushed into the laundry room, her hands tying her pink housecoat. The early morning light filtered through the windows, poking through the empty centers of her curlers.
"She's not breathing. Barely breathing." Greg picked up Precious in his arms. "She doesn't have the flu. It's not a symptom." He nodded to the book.
His mother was a blur around him, calling for his father. She took Precious from Greg and he picked up the book, searching again for the answer to Precious' illness once again, as they drove to the veterinary office. His father cursed and smoked, saying that they might not be open this early on a Saturday.
A bell above the door jingled and Greg looked at the expanding pink countertops. A large white cat snoozed on top of some file cabinets. "I found it," Greg said. He walked faster to catch up to his parents at the counter, and he went over all Precious' symptoms: vomiting, shaking, and shallow breathing. "She's been poisoned. You need to tell the vet that, mom."
"Greg," his mother said, "I'm sure the vet is a very knowledgeable man and will make a correct diagnosis."
Greg watched as they took Precious in a back room. "Tell the vet, mom." He tugged on his mother's arm, but she pulled him on her lap. Something his father always commented on that Greg was too old to do. His mother's fingernails tapped on the plastic chair, and she told Greg that he needed more sleep.
They waited for what seemed to be hours, and Greg kept his head buried in his mother's shoulder. The tweed of her jacket scratched his skin. His mother had managed to take the curlers from her hair, and her long brown curls hide Greg's face.
Then Greg heard the veterinarian telling his father that there was nothing they could do for Precious. He turned from his mother's shoulder. "I told you, she was poisoned. She got outside yesterday. You killed her." Tears started streaming down Greg's face. He hated this veterinarian who couldn't even pick up a book. "You killed her. I knew what was wrong with her." Greg moved off his mother's lap, rushing toward his father and the veterinarian.
"Blythe, make the boy be quiet," his father said. He took his wallet from his jacket pocket.
"Shhh, Greg." His mother pulled him closer. "It's going to be okay. You know how you were talking about drum lessons, well, I met this teacher-"
Greg stopped struggling and let his mother win. "I don't want to be a drummer." He continued to sob.