requested ficlet: little!House for alan_shore
Boys Will Be Boys [898 words]
His father is overseas.
His mother is at his grandmother's house.
And House, is, well, anywhere but his grandmother's house.
This is Dedham, Massachusetts, and he's ten years old and much too cool to be hanging out with his grandmother when they go up to visit her. It's only a courtesy call anyways, to provide his father's mother with his latest letter home and a photograph of them all they had taken two weeks ago. His hair is mussed, a contrast to the sharp lines of his father's dress uniform.
This town is small. Boring. There are no deserts to explore and no pyramids to climb, no horses to 'borrow' to take for long rides when nobody is watching. Leaves and birds flutter alike in the trees above his head as he walks down the main street of the town, hands shoved in pockets of jeans with a slight tear in the knee from his last adventure.
He's not watching where he's walking.
Neither is the other boy.
Shoulders bump with enough force to jarr them both aside, and House whirls around, swearing under his breath in a language that the other boy doesn't understand. Then he breaks back to English. "Watch where you're going."
"The same should go for you," The young, nearly his age blonde replies. "As you ran into me."
"Did not." House snaps back, looking at the kid in front of him. Just slightly better dressed and his hair is actually been combed once today, unlike his own. He glares. Just a little. As he's not really angry, but he can try.
The other boy just shakes his head and turns to go on his way.
House watches his walk before he shifts on his feet. He's bored. This kid knows what there is to do around this place, he bets. At least he hopes. Because wandering under fluttering green leaves and the sun isn't his idea of fun. "Hey," He calls. "Wait up."
The boy stops and looks over his shoulder as House jogs over. "Yes?"
House stuffs his hands back in his pockets, almost shy, but not really, because ten year old boys are only shy around pretty girls and their fathers. Not for the same reasons, though. "What the hell is there to do 'round here?" A pause. "And what's your name?"
"Depends on where is here," The blonde one says. "And Alan, Alan Shore."
"Greg. House."
"You're not from around here, are you."
House looks at Alan as if to say 'and what exactly does that mean'. "Why do you say that?" He might be glaring again.
"Well, the fact that you don't know what there is to do around here," Alan says. "And the fact that you were speaking something under your breath that I couldn't understand."
Damn. House shrugs. "Visiting."
"For long?"
"Just the day."
Alan wipes his brow and glances up towards the sun, which has decided that it was neccesary to make a statement and kick up the temperature a notch. He glances at Greg, the newcomer, and eyes him suspiciously.
"What?"
"Why aren't you sweating?"
House looks at himself and shrugs. "I'm not hot."
"You're definitely not from around here, then." Alan says, nodding his head towards a small shop across the street. "As it is hot." He adds, and walks off to go enter the store, with House following along behind him. The cold air and scent of sweet and sugar meet him with a rush, and House does appreciate this change in location, even if he'll never admit it to the other boy. Alan pulls a coin out of his pocket and sets it on the counter. "A single scoop of chocolate, please."
House feels his mouth water. He walks up to the counter and looks down, into the bins of ice cream and contemplates. It's been awhile since he's had ice cream on a hot day, and he wants to make this good. He reaches into his own pocket and then sets the needed amount down on the counter. "A single scoop of chocolate as well."
A few moments more and the both of them are walking back around outside, no direction. Discussing.
"Our place back in New Jersey is huge, the backyard."
"They speak foreign languages in New Jersey?"
House laughs at that. "No, I was in Cairo."
Alan raises an eyebrow. "You certainly don't look Egyptian."
"I'm not," House says. "My dad is a fighter pilot. He's over in Vietnam kicking Japanese ass."
"My best friend is rich," Alan finally says. "We have a treehouse in his backyard. With a ladder and a rope and everything."
House is impressed. It shows. But not by the treehouse, by the friend who's rich and the way Alan speaks of him, like they've done everything together, camping out, sneaking out, swimming, sitting by each other in class and making offhand comments about the teacher and her possibly false hairpiece. All of House's friends are now scattered about the country, or on the other side of an ocean. He'll never see most of them again.
He's jarred back into the present by the feeling of cool sticky ice cream running down his arm, and he licks it off.
"Yeah, well," House says, attempting to recover, to hide his emotions. Because ten year old boys only show emotions to their mothers, and their grandmothers when they're forced to.
"Well, what?" Alan asks expectantly.
"I..." The way Alan is looking at him is unsettling, so he just spits out the first thing that comes to mind. It works.
"I can speak Arabic."
fin
His father is overseas.
His mother is at his grandmother's house.
And House, is, well, anywhere but his grandmother's house.
This is Dedham, Massachusetts, and he's ten years old and much too cool to be hanging out with his grandmother when they go up to visit her. It's only a courtesy call anyways, to provide his father's mother with his latest letter home and a photograph of them all they had taken two weeks ago. His hair is mussed, a contrast to the sharp lines of his father's dress uniform.
This town is small. Boring. There are no deserts to explore and no pyramids to climb, no horses to 'borrow' to take for long rides when nobody is watching. Leaves and birds flutter alike in the trees above his head as he walks down the main street of the town, hands shoved in pockets of jeans with a slight tear in the knee from his last adventure.
He's not watching where he's walking.
Neither is the other boy.
Shoulders bump with enough force to jarr them both aside, and House whirls around, swearing under his breath in a language that the other boy doesn't understand. Then he breaks back to English. "Watch where you're going."
"The same should go for you," The young, nearly his age blonde replies. "As you ran into me."
"Did not." House snaps back, looking at the kid in front of him. Just slightly better dressed and his hair is actually been combed once today, unlike his own. He glares. Just a little. As he's not really angry, but he can try.
The other boy just shakes his head and turns to go on his way.
House watches his walk before he shifts on his feet. He's bored. This kid knows what there is to do around this place, he bets. At least he hopes. Because wandering under fluttering green leaves and the sun isn't his idea of fun. "Hey," He calls. "Wait up."
The boy stops and looks over his shoulder as House jogs over. "Yes?"
House stuffs his hands back in his pockets, almost shy, but not really, because ten year old boys are only shy around pretty girls and their fathers. Not for the same reasons, though. "What the hell is there to do 'round here?" A pause. "And what's your name?"
"Depends on where is here," The blonde one says. "And Alan, Alan Shore."
"Greg. House."
"You're not from around here, are you."
House looks at Alan as if to say 'and what exactly does that mean'. "Why do you say that?" He might be glaring again.
"Well, the fact that you don't know what there is to do around here," Alan says. "And the fact that you were speaking something under your breath that I couldn't understand."
Damn. House shrugs. "Visiting."
"For long?"
"Just the day."
Alan wipes his brow and glances up towards the sun, which has decided that it was neccesary to make a statement and kick up the temperature a notch. He glances at Greg, the newcomer, and eyes him suspiciously.
"What?"
"Why aren't you sweating?"
House looks at himself and shrugs. "I'm not hot."
"You're definitely not from around here, then." Alan says, nodding his head towards a small shop across the street. "As it is hot." He adds, and walks off to go enter the store, with House following along behind him. The cold air and scent of sweet and sugar meet him with a rush, and House does appreciate this change in location, even if he'll never admit it to the other boy. Alan pulls a coin out of his pocket and sets it on the counter. "A single scoop of chocolate, please."
House feels his mouth water. He walks up to the counter and looks down, into the bins of ice cream and contemplates. It's been awhile since he's had ice cream on a hot day, and he wants to make this good. He reaches into his own pocket and then sets the needed amount down on the counter. "A single scoop of chocolate as well."
A few moments more and the both of them are walking back around outside, no direction. Discussing.
"Our place back in New Jersey is huge, the backyard."
"They speak foreign languages in New Jersey?"
House laughs at that. "No, I was in Cairo."
Alan raises an eyebrow. "You certainly don't look Egyptian."
"I'm not," House says. "My dad is a fighter pilot. He's over in Vietnam kicking Japanese ass."
"My best friend is rich," Alan finally says. "We have a treehouse in his backyard. With a ladder and a rope and everything."
House is impressed. It shows. But not by the treehouse, by the friend who's rich and the way Alan speaks of him, like they've done everything together, camping out, sneaking out, swimming, sitting by each other in class and making offhand comments about the teacher and her possibly false hairpiece. All of House's friends are now scattered about the country, or on the other side of an ocean. He'll never see most of them again.
He's jarred back into the present by the feeling of cool sticky ice cream running down his arm, and he licks it off.
"Yeah, well," House says, attempting to recover, to hide his emotions. Because ten year old boys only show emotions to their mothers, and their grandmothers when they're forced to.
"Well, what?" Alan asks expectantly.
"I..." The way Alan is looking at him is unsettling, so he just spits out the first thing that comes to mind. It works.
"I can speak Arabic."
fin