Tinderbox-chapter 4
Title: Tinderbox
Author: Fayding_fast
Sequel: Yes, to Duped. See link below.
Chapter: 4/4
Theme: reincarnation
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Warning: Angst, swearing, mention of strong violence (but not against major characters.)
Con-crit? Yes, please.
Rating: R
Author's note: Enjoy
Duped
Tinderbox, chapter 1
Tinderbox, chapter 2
Tinderbox, chapter 3
October 27th, 2012, 13:00 hrs
When was Monday going to arrive?
Peter sat rigidly at his dining room table, his father's present, an early Christmas gift, opened but not started in front of him and glanced, again, out the window.
The sky was emboldeningly blue, and the sun was still merrily blazing, reassuringly bright, in the sky.
Today was Saturday; was that right? Peter knew that when the sun was shunted aside by the moon, and his house and garden became dark, that shortly after that, he would be sent to bed to sleep, and when he awakened, it would be Sunday. And he'd eat meals and bathe, maybe play or read a little, and inevitably, at the end of that new day, the sun would lose its daily skirmish once more, fall out of sight, and when it recovered and managed to haul itself back into the sky, by then, it would be Monday.
Monday meant school and Brian and, chillingly, Billy.
How was Billy going to react to him at school? How would Billy treat him? Were they still friends, or did Billy now view him as an enemy? Would Billy still ask him for his lunch? Physically try to hurt him? Mock him? When was the sun going to go down, and how many hours did he have left until he would be forced to face Billy, on Monday?
Peter looked down blankly at the sequin art instructions and rocked almost imperceptibly on his chair. He just couldn't think objectively. He had too many questions. There were too many unknowns.
"Kiddo?"
Immobilizing thoughts disturbed, Peter looked vacantly up at his father. "Yes, daddy?"
"That was House calling again. That's the third time today. He's concerned about you. You sure you don't want to talk to him?"
How could the very sound of a name hurt so much? Gouge like a knife? Peter struggled to speak. "I'm sure," he breathed.
"Well, it's up to you." Mr. Talbot approached his son, trying not to think about the huge childminding problems he was facing, if he could no longer lean on House for assistance. He changed the subject and pointed at the box on the table. "You haven't done much of that, yet. Don't you like it?"
"Yes, I do." Peter studied the picture on the lid. It showed a dragon, but not a dragon like the ones depicted in his treasured book of dragonology upstairs. The creatures in that well thumbed book were majestic beasts, beautifully captured in flight as they swooped in to protect damsels, lone travelers and threatened villages, their bronze and golden scales gleaming, their tails sweeping aside foe, their gazes wise and composed and, somehow, all the more commanding for that. They were dragons he could believe in, and he did, wholeheartedly. Peter was a child eager to embrace the fanciful.
But this dragon.... this animal was a cartoon and a badly rendered one. Its coating was rainbow hued and unrealistic - its flat eyes nothing more than lifeless dull dots. Even the fire belching from its mouth looked unconvincing. Still, it was a present from his daddy, and Peter adored it for that reason alone.
Mr. Talbot frowned a little. "You've done some sequin art before, haven't you?"
"No, daddy, I've never tried this before." Shamefaced, Peter held up the instructions like a shield in front of him, certain that his daddy was about to lose his diminished patience. "I don't know what I'm meant to do. I can't read a lot of these words," he admitted.
Nodding, Mr. Talbot sat down next to him. "I didn't realize that," he said. "Suppose I give you a hand?"
Peter stared at him, speechless, not used to his father being willing to spend some down time with him. He groped for and quickly found his tongue. "That's nice of you, daddy. Thank you," he said. He basked in something his daddy very rarely extended to him - simple kindness.
Listening attentively as his daddy taught him how to use the picture's blueprint, as fervently as he could, he tried to will away the sunset.
*
October 28th, 2012, 23:15 hrs
Face washed, teeth brushed, Peter's father was ready to go to bed. Or he would have been, if he wasn't standing in Peter's bedroom doorway in his pajamas, torn by indecision. Enough light was filtering in from the landing light for him to clearly be able to see Peter's face.
His son was crying in his sleep.
It was at times like this, when Mr. Talbot missed his wife the most strongly. Jenny would have known precisely what to do. Chances were, Peter wouldn't be crying at all if she was still around. She would have coaxed him to confide in her - any worries or fears he was hoarding, and she would have soothed them away with wise words. Or a kiss placed on his troubled brow. The child would be running around excitedly during the day. Not sitting around like a pale ghost. His beloved wife would have known how to take care of him.
Mr. Talbot moved away from the doorway and entered his own bedroom. He pulled back the bedclothes on both sides of the double bed. Moving back into his son's room, he rolled back the duvet and placing one hand under the child's neck and one under his knees, he lifted the boy into his arms. "Up we come, kiddo," he whispered.
He carried the still sleeping boy into the master bedroom and gently laid him on the bed. He covered him up. Then carefully, trying not to awaken the child, he climbed into the other side of the bed himself. He switched off the lamp.
He lay awake for a long time, haunted by fear. Suppose he rolled over in his sleep and hurt the boy? He couldn't bear to leave the distressed boy alone in his own bed, but would he accidentally smother him?
Balancing on the very edge of the mattress, he listened to the child's hitching breathing and fretted over his son's immediate and future welfare.
He lay there, sleep eluding him, and pined for Jenny.
*
October 29th, 2012, 12:00 hrs
Peter had seen a film once, when he'd walked the Earth as Wilson. It has been a low budget, clumsily shot affair, closer to a home movie than a Hitchcockesque Hollywood blockbuster - a film that Wilson wouldn't have sat down and watched at all, if he had anything better to do.
The film had left an indelible mark on his psyche.
Supposedly based on a true story, the film had followed the fortunes of a young wife. Blissfully happy at first in her new marriage, things rapidly turned sour when her husband was sacked from his job, started drinking excessively, and began to regularly pound his wife into a pulp. And the thrashings would have continued, carried on unchallenged, until she was lying, broken and forgotten, in a pine box. Except, three quarters of the way through the movie, the woman changed.
Knocked sprawling from her chair one Sunday lunchtime, this meek, unassuming woman, who wouldn't ordinarily say boo to a goose, had staggered to her feet, her remaining teeth bloodied and her nose knocked out of joint, and caved her dearly beloved's skull in with a frying pan.
Drastic measures, certainly. But her alcoholic, mindless brute of a husband never lifted a finger to her again.
Peter sat alone in the school's main hall, lunch untouched, eyes trained on the one entranceway, and he thought about that film. About its message. It was crystal clear. If he wanted to be left alone - if he wanted the chance to be able to live his life in relative peace, then if he was assaulted, Peter was going to have to physically fight back.
He tensed, thinking that Billy had just entered the room and then relaxed. It was another boy who happened to look like Billy, but he didn't move like him. He didn't swagger.
Peter pulled irritably at his shirt, which, because he was sweating profusely, was sticking to the small of his back. He was a bundle of nerves. He'd spotted Billy earlier that day, and Billy had glared at him venomously, so now, he knew.
They were no longer friends. Like Batman and The Joker, they were archenemies. Plots were being hatched. Trouble was percolating, and there he was sitting - slap bang in the middle of it.
It was a miserable, thoroughly rotten life.
Was that....? Yep, this time, it really was Billy - fists clenched by his sides - hard gaze zeroing straight in on him, and it was all Peter could do to stop the whimper. Frozen in place, he trembled uncontrollably as Billy sauntered unhurriedly towards him. It had come to the crunch.
Billy would be able to see that he was terrified, wouldn't he? It would give him a kick to see the shaking, the sweating - the jerky rise and fall of his chest..... Billy was close now and relentlessly getting closer, and Peter had nobody to help him; no one at all.
Someone slid smoothly into the seat beside him.
Jumping, Peter checked to see who it was and saw that it was Brian. His stomach fell. He hadn't been expecting this - not a two against one attack. He wouldn't have a fair chance; he'd be pulverized. If only he had a weapon. He'd tried to cram his daddy's frying pan into his school bag that morning, but had ended up nearly hysterical, when the bag had started to split at the seams. He was weaponless. Defenseless. The fight was a foregone conclusion even before the bell had rang.
"You set me up." Billy was right in front of him, and Peter half expected to see his lives flashing before his eyes.
Peter shook his head in denial. "I didn't," he said. "I just invited you round House's to play games."
"Yeah, sure you did." Billy turned, expecting Peter's unquestioning obedience. "Let's take this outside." He started to walk off.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Peter got shakily to his feet, ready to follow. He was expecting to die. Had he been good enough, this time around, to earn a place in heaven? Would they even let him back in a second time? He squared his slim shoulders. He prayed that he at least looked like a warrior and not a bulging eyed, sacrificial goat digging its hooves in as it was dragged to the altar. His mommy was probably watching, and he wanted, very badly, to do her proud.
He'd taken his first reluctant step when, to his shock, Brian grabbed his arm, none too gently, and yanked him roughly back down.
"Sit down, you fool," Brian hissed. "Don't move! Have you got a death wish?"
Peter gaped at him, open mouthed.
Billy turned around, surprised that Peter wasn't tagging along behind him. He glared at the smaller boy impatiently. "Well?" he said. "Are you coming?"
Brian laid a restraining hand on Peter's knee, and from the way that hand was shaking, Peter knew that he wasn't the only frightened child around. "He's not going anywhere with you," Brian said quietly. "Now, beat it."
Peter met Billy's shocked eyes, elated. He had support. He had a friend. He had this heroic, feisty guardian angel on his side, and even if the worst happened and he went down, it seemed he wasn't going down alone.
Billy stared at the two boys, taking in their defiance - the way they were sitting shoulder to shoulder and glanced to the side, puzzled. He hadn't accounted for this - this display of courage. He certainly hadn't foreseen that Brian would step in and spoil his plans. He wasn't prepared to tackle the two of them, not here, in front of the teachers. Frustrated, he looked at Peter one more time before pivoting and stalking off.
The two boys watched his retreating back without any real sense of relief.
"I can't believe he's gone," Brian gasped presently. He realized that his hand was still resting on Peter's knee and laughed nervously. He placed his hands in his lap.
"Now, beat it?" Peter asked.
Nerves still jangling, both children fell about laughing. They sobered quickly.
"Billy will kill you if he sees you on your own," Brian warned. "You know that, right?"
Peter sighed. "Yeah, I know." He tried to smile at his friend. "I think that you were extremely brave," he said, and with those words, he cemented a lifelong friendship.
"I'm not really," Brian said, "but your friend, House? He reminded us you've lost your mom. He made me think."
Peter looked down, silent.
Brian searched the room for Billy, but the boy had left the hall. "Peter? I think that we should go and tell one of the teachers what's been happening. I know it's tattling, but I'm not always gonna be around. How about Mr. Atkins? He'll know what to do."
"I don't know," Peter murmured doubtfully. "I don't like the idea of running to a teacher. I feel like I should be brave enough to deal with this on my own."
"That's crazy," Brian said frankly. "Billy's bigger than you. If we tell Mr. Atkins, he can at least help to keep an eye on you. What do you say, we go and tell him right now?"
Peter stared at him without blinking.
Brian stood up and held out his hand. "Come on," he urged.
Unwillingly, Peter nodded. He grasped Brian's hand, and his friend pulled him onto his feet.
*
October 31st, 2012, 19:30 hrs
House laughed, without mirth, into the phone. "Look.... yes, I understand that he's been withdrawn.... I just..... I just want to speak to him. For a couple of minutes. Please." House fought to keep his tone reasonable, when it would have been so easy to scream at Peter's father out of sheer, undiluted frustration.
God, he needed another drink.
He listened to Mr. Talbot prattle on, phone pressed painfully tight against his ear. Desperate to know how his young friend was getting on, he strained to hear any background noise - the faintest murmur from Peter. He couldn't hear anything.
"No.... no, I know he doesn't want to see me..... Look.... can't you persuade him to come to the phone?"
Masked revelers passed by his living room window. One of them glanced in - a bull-horned, snaggle-toothed monstrosity with snarling, obsidian eyes, and House turned his back on him. He was battling enough demons of his own.
"Yeah, I get it.... sure. Okay. Please..... just tell him I called." House clenched his jaws in annoyance when he heard the sound of the dialing tone. His tenuous link to Peter was broken.
House stood there in his darkened apartment for a moment, feeling totally lost, and then he carefully replaced the phone in its cradle. He poured another whiskey and took a long swig. It burnt his throat delightfully.
Braying laughter drifted back to him from down the street. It was October 31st, as good an excuse as any for having mindless fun, partying and scoffing too much candy.
House raised his glass in a mock toast. "Happy Halloween," he whispered.
*
November 1st, 2012, 20:15 hrs
Intimating that he owned the place, Lee strolled through House's front door without knocking, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw that House was conscious and sitting on the sofa. He ignored his friend's scowl. "Hi, House," he said.
"I want my spare key back," House demanded sullenly.
Noting how slurred these words were, Lee detoured to the kitchen and started hunting for a clean glass. Think again, my friend, he thought grimly. House had called in sick, and Lee had wasted much of the day worrying about him.
"I don't want you here," House called out to him. "I'm ill."
"You're not ill," Lee said firmly, tendering an unsolicited second opinion. He wasn't going to put up with House's nonsense. Finally locating a glass, he turned on the cold water tap and filled it to the brim. "Just drunk."
House tutted in irritation. He looked down at the drink he was nursing, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass.
Leaving the kitchen, Lee walked over to him and held out the water. "Wanna swap?" he asked.
House sighed and considered his options, but when he'd told Lee he didn't want him there, he had lied. Handing over the whiskey, he took the proffered glass.
Nodding at him in approval, Lee sat on the opposite side of the sofa from House and regarded his intoxicated friend. He placed the confiscated whiskey on the table. "No more 'Doctor of the Year' awards for you," he said.
Gulping down some water, House tried to make an effort. "Thought this year's was in the bag," he said very quietly.
"So, what's going on?" Lee glanced at the nearby table and the telltale evidence of a lengthy drinking spree. "Is this about Peter? I know you've both had a row."
"A row?" House snorted in disbelief. "That's one way of putting it." His head lolled back against the sofa. "He won't even talk to me," he complained tiredly.
"Why?" Lee thumped the cushion behind him and made himself completely at home. "Tell me what happened."
Ordinarily, House would have remained tight-lipped, but that argument with Peter had left him feeling like he'd been flayed. He was still bleeding. And, so, he opted to talk. He kept the fact that he'd mentioned Julie and Peter's reincarnation to himself, but other than that, he reported what had been said. He told Lee how it had been said. Encouraged because Lee listened attentively, House ended up telling him everything.
There was no response for a moment - Lee silently thinking things through. Then he took the empty glass from House's hand and stood up. "I'm seeing Peter tomorrow," he said brightly. "I'll sort this out, then."
House's head shot up. "You can't sort this out, Lee." He could scarcely believe that he'd ruined his most important friendship, and not just the once, but twice! And if he was brutally honest..... if he could live the past week again, then would he really do things any differently? He'd only been endeavoring to protect the boy; that was all. He'd just been trying to shield him. "It's over. I don't know where I went wrong."
Lee's problem was quite the reverse. It was difficult to see what House had done right. You could have just notified Peter's school, for starters, he thought.
But House had that heartrending uncomprehending look that Lee saw in a lot of his patients. He kept his expression carefully neutral. "Stop being so pessimistic, House. That solves nothing." He shook his head. "Look, Peter will see sense. He's an extremely bright kid. He told you that you'd made things worse, right? He knew that there was already a problem. I promise you, by tomorrow evening, you and Peter will both be best buddies, again."
House looked up and searched his face, expression as uncertain as a child's. "I don't think so," he murmured.
Lee nodded confidently. "I know so," he assured him. "Everything will be okay." He reached down and lightly touched House's arm. "Have some faith."
Starting at the touch, House was half expecting to shatter. Was almost sorry when he didn't. Peter had flinched away from him. Flinched! As if he hadn't known that House would rather die, than ever hurt him.
Lee turned and started to collect the empty beer bottles and dirty glasses. "I'm going to make us some coffee and cook you an omelette. You wanna get cleaned up?"
Staring up at him, House decided that if his friend wanted to try to heal his rift with Peter, then he wouldn't attempt to stop him. But he couldn't allow himself to hope. No, he certainly wasn't going to do that because if he did and Lee failed - well, that would surely be the finish of him. House nodded and hauled himself painfully to his feet. "You can keep the key," he muttered - his version of a thank you - and started to weave in the direction of his bathroom.
One eyebrow rising, Lee watched him go, and then he headed back to the kitchen. "Always my intention," he said.
*
November 2nd, 2012, 14:10 hrs
"Now! Legs straight out, lean back and pull on the chains. Excellent. Now! Relax." Lee was teaching Peter how to use the swings over the child's local park.
Arriving at Peter's house earlier that day, he had been disturbed to see how wan the child looked. He'd decided that his pre-planned walk out into the November air, might genuinely do the boy some good.
"Great. Legs out, pull...... that's it; you've got it." Lee considered the child meditatively. Peter was going through the motions mechanically, but it was obvious that the boy wasn't having a good time. Instead of being pleased that he was managing to gain some height on his own, the child looked unnervingly grave.
Peter looked down into Lee's eyes, and Lee shivered. Just the day before, Lee had been shocked to see House looking childlike and vulnerable. Now, the six year old, in front of him, looked old and jaded. The quarrel had hurt them both.
Lee looked around. There were only a couple of other people in sight braving the chill wind. Apart from that, it was easy to believe that they had the entire park to themselves. Huddling inside his coat, Lee put his hands into his jeans' pockets. "I love it here, don't you?"
Peter looked at him in bemusement. Doctor Lee didn't mean that, did he? The child glanced over at a lake swamped with algae. The swing he was sitting on was ancient, the chains covered with rust. The grass around them was patchy and blanketed with thousands of leaves, all blackening and curling up at the edges, rotting slowly away into dry, papery flakes. Winter was right upon their heels, eager to devour them, and as far as the child's eyes could see - like his mom, like his relationship with Billy, his friendship with House - everything was...... "Everything's dying," Peter said.
Lee's smile faded. He caught the edge of the swing and gently slowed its momentum, until, finally, it ceased to move altogether. Lee crouched down, knees creaking, in front of the child. He removed a small bottle from his back pocket.
Peter looked at it curiously. "What's that?" he enquired.
"Give me your hand," the doctor said. He took hold of Peter's right hand and eased it away from the chain. "You see this, here?" he asked and pointed out the base of the child's thumb. "You see where the skin is all cracked and raw? That's because you keep sucking your thumb." He unscrewed the lid of the bottle he was holding and pulled out a tiny brush. "I'm going to paint this liquid onto your thumbnail. It's clear, so you won't be able to see it. It tastes so horrible that it will stop you putting your thumb into your mouth. It will help you to break the habit. This was House's idea."
"House?" Profound sadness flashed across the boy's face. The name still wrenched at his insides, but he was proud that he hadn't flinched. His daddy had helped him out with that accomplishment; obscurely, the man had been obsessively talking about House to him, all week.
Trying to sit still, he watched wordlessly as Lee liberally coated his nail and the surrounding skin with Stop 'N' Grow.
When he was finished, Lee recapped the bottle and slid it back inside his pocket. He patted the boy's knee. "Now that you've brought his name up, perhaps we should discuss him," he said.
The child's expression closed off.
"I know you've had a disagreement with House. You want to tell me what's going on?"
Peter adamantly shook his head.
"Too loyal, huh? I went to see him yesterday, and he's not doing so well. You don't want that, do you? I know you care about him."
"He doesn't care about me," the child said, bottom lip quivering. "I'm getting cold. Please, may we go home, now?"
"No," Lee said. "You can't go around believing that House doesn't care about you. That just isn't true. I want you to talk to me."
Peter looked at him unhappily, held prisoner on an antique swing.
"Why are you avoiding him?"
"We had a bad argument. We argued over my friends, Brian and Billy."
"But Billy isn't your friend, is he? He was bullying you."
The child stared down at his sneakers. One of them had a hole in it; he needed some new ones.
Lee gazed at him sadly. How could he get through to him, if the kid was unresponsive? "You and I, we're both alike in the way that we try to befriend everyone. House isn't like us. He's a miserable bas..... he's a loner. He prefers to keep himself to himself. Or he did, before he met you. I heard rumors..... I don't know how true they are, but I heard that he lost someone very close to him..... the doctor who was in charge of my department just before me, actually, and it hit House extremely hard. So severely, in fact, that he started pushing everyone away."
His face a mask of sorrow, the child stared into the distance, stricken with guilt.
"I've been in the office next door to his for years," Lee continued. "On occasion, House and I would consult each other professionally, but other times, I would bump into him - in the carpark or around the hospital - and I would say hello, but he would just look right through me, his eyes blank - cold."
"Like a dead fish's eyes?" Peter asked offhandedly.
"Exactly like that, yeah. But then, for some reason, he befriended you, and he began to change considerably. He started to reach out to people. Believe me, when people like House reach out to you, it's a rare and special thing. You don't turn them away. You should hang onto his friendship with both hands." Lee clasped his hands together to demonstrate. "You understand?"
The boy's gaze flickered up from Lee's hands to his face. "I do," he affirmed.
"I'm not saying that House dealt with your problem in the best possible way, but his motives were pure. He was only trying to protect you. He didn't mean to hurt you or shout at you; he loves you. He wanted to stop Billy abusing you. Billy's not a very nice kid. You're very intelligent; I'm sure you know that."
Peter stared at him without commenting.
"Right?" Lee said, with the persistence that served him well, both at the hospital and as House's friend.
Slowly, Peter nodded. "I know Billy's not nice, Doctor Lee. I think he can smell people's fear like a dog."
"Yeah?" Peter was definitely an unusual child, Lee reflected. He was incredibly sweet, and he was funny, but he was strange. "Even more reason to stay away from him," he said.
"I thought he was my friend, but I mis....." The child trailed off, unable to think of the right word.
"Misjudged?" Lee tilted his head.
"Yes. Thank you. I misjudged him." Peter sighed. "Badly."
Lee smiled at him. "Well, we can all make that mistake." He shivered. That wind was really getting cold. "Does your daddy know about Billy? Do you want me to call your school?"
"Brian came with me, and we told a teacher," Peter said. "The school knows."
The boy looked up at Lee for a long moment, and the hairs on the doctor's arms stood on end. The child really did seem a lot older. It was the boy's eyes, Lee realized. They weren't a child's eyes at all. They were worldly-wise - assessing.
Lee instinctively stepped back, but then Peter smiled at him, and he was just a little boy again.
"But thank you for the offer, Doctor Lee. You're a good person."
"That's okay." Lee hesitated, frowning, but then shook off the odd moment. God, I'm really losing it. Hypothermia was probably setting in. He glanced towards the top of the hill. House would kill him if he took much longer. He turned back to the child. "You and House have a wonderful relationship. I don't want to tell you what Billy said to House; you're too young to understand, but he said some truly nasty things. Naturally, House was very upset and still is. Don't give Billy the satisfaction of tearing you both apart. Will you give House another chance?"
"House is still upset? Even now?" That knowledge didn't sit well with Peter. It didn't sit right at all.
"Yes. If I call him and ask him to come here, would you be willing to speak to him?" Lee crossed his fingers behind his back.
Ambivalent, Peter warily nodded.
Lee smiled at him and pulled out his cell.
Peter didn't know what he could possibly say to House. Assailed by an attack of nerves, Peter's thumb went into his mouth. He spat it out. The revolting taste lingering on his tongue, brought tears to his eyes. " Holy Moly!" he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's disg......" Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he quit complaining as a stooped figure appeared on the horizon. He squinted against the sun.
"Well," Lee said cheerfully, "House must have broken all the speed limits to get here."
"Wow!" Peter said. He couldn't believe his eyes. How had House arrived there so quickly? Doctor Lee had only just called him. There was only one possibility. "Did he hop on a dragon?" he asked.
Lee glanced at him. "A dragon couldn't land," he pointed out. "There's no runway."
Peter wasn't dissuaded. He watched, heart in his mouth, as House made his excruciatingly slow way down the hill. Frankly, the boy was horrified. His friend could barely move, and knowing House as well as he did, he could guess why House had deteriorated so much.
Lee made as if he was going to meet House to assist him, but Peter stopped him.
"He won't like it if you try to help him," the child warned. "He'll be ashamed." But even as his words encouraged Lee to stay where he was, Peter had to fight the overwhelming need to help House himself. Every instinct made him want to dash over to House to support him, so he wouldn't stumble. The child would willingly have carried him if he could.
It took an age, but House eventually reached the playground without serious incident, and all three of them were thankful. As House neared Lee, the two men had a silent but heated conversation. House tapped his right thigh for emphasis and jerked his head in irritation back up the hill, plainly saying, Choose somewhere to meet that's completely inaccessible, why don't you?
Lee met his glaring eyes defiantly and shrugged. I'm doing my best here. What do you expect me to do?
Peter would normally have been content to let this little drama play out all day, but he was keen to plug the hole in his dragon theory. "Did you drop in by parachute, House?" he called. He leaned forward on the swing, trying to catch House's eye.
Nothing doing.
House froze, then looked down. How he'd missed these off-the-wall comments. Swallowing, he rested his cane against his legs and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. It took several long moments for him to regain control. "No," he said finally. Picking up his cane again, he turned and staggered past Lee, heading for the center swing. He hadn't once looked at Peter. He sank onto the seat with a muffled groan of relief.
Peter stared at him, concerned. The swing was way too small for House. He had to stretch his long, long legs out in front of him, and the chains were digging into his hips and shoulders. Wide-eyed, the child looked at Lee and then back at his friend. "House, do you like kiddie swings?" the boy asked tentatively.
"Love 'em," House said. "They're a thrill a minute." He rubbed his face tiredly. "How are you getting on at school?"
"Very well, thank you, House. I'm at the top of my class."
House paused. "I meant..... how are Brian and Billy behaving towards you?"
"Oh. It's been very weird, House. Brian has hardly left my side. I think Billy's scared of him; he's keeping well away from both of us."
Abject relief crossed House's face. "Good," he murmured. He glanced, for the first time, at the child and then looked quickly away. "Swell." House gripped the swing chains and dragged himself upwards, breathing as if he'd not just climbed to his feet, but completed an Olympic standard, punishing routine on a pommel horse.
Lee frowned. House wasn't leaving, was he? Nothing had been resolved. "Peter," he said, and both of his companions glanced at him quizzically. "Peter, House has come here to say he's sorry. Haven't you, House?" he pressed, exasperated.
"It's alright, Doctor Lee." Peter held up a restraining hand, and Lee fell silent, abiding by the child's wishes. "Didn't you watch as he walked across the grass? When House is truly sorry about something, he doesn't always say so with words. He was saying sorry to me all the way down that hill. Isn't that right, House?"
House's cane lost traction, and he almost fell.
Lee stepped forwards to try to catch him, but House regained his balance and impatiently warded him off. House finally met the child's eyes.
"Doctor Lee has had another talk with me," Peter disclosed to House. "He said that because you're a miserable bastard, and you have cold eyes like a dead fish, I need to grip onto our friendship with both hands." He removed his hands from the swing chains, grimacing when he saw the brown streaks of rust on them, and then, balancing carefully on the seat, he copied Lee's earlier gesture. "Like this," he said.
House looked at Lee. "You call that helping?"
Flustered, Lee cuffed Peter lightly around the head. "That's not what I said," he protested.
House forgave the blushing man. "Don't worry about it; he tends to paraphrase." He nodded at the child. "That's what Doctor Lee thinks; what about you?" he asked.
The child seemed to be searching his face for something. He evidently found it because his gaze softened. "I think that you have the warmest eyes I've ever seen," he said.
"Hey!" Half laughing, Lee gently clipped Peter around the ear again. "I don't believe you!" he scolded. "You make me out to be the bad guy, and then you sit as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth and sweet talk him!"
"House asked me what I think," the child explained, and all of a sudden, he looked and sounded exhausted.
Lee felt a surge of compassion for him. He placed a huge hand lightly on the boy's shoulder, and the tiny boy sagged under its weight.
"I could do with a hug," Peter said softly, his face unutterably weary. Too dignified to resort to begging or whining, he held his arms out to House, risking rejection. Quietly, he waited doggedly to see whether House would pick him up.
For a heart stopping moment, Lee was afraid that House wouldn't - that he was rooted to the spot. But then his friend moved forwards, swept the child up into his arms and crushed him against his chest.
"I'm sorry we falled out, House," Peter whispered. "I'm very glad you came."
"Fell out," House said huskily.
And then House said something else that Lee couldn't quite catch. Maybe House's voice was too hoarse, or the words were decimated by the breeze, but Peter seemingly heard them. Lee watched as the child pulled back slightly, frowning, to carefully examine House's face.
"It's okay, House. We're good," Peter said.
House nodded, blinking rapidly.
"I should have taken your calls," Peter admitted.
House swallowed and nodded again, closing his eyes.
And then the little boy gently kissed a rough, unshaven cheek and wrapped his arms possessively around House's neck, and that told Lee all he needed to know.
The spat was over.
Lee turned his back to give them some privacy, feeling a little bit wistful and enormously smug.
Modern life was supposed to be a stressful one, or so the media would have him believe. Personally, Lee thought that was hokum. He heard Peter yelp and then chuckle behind him, and his smile broadened. Unable to resist temptation, he turned his head to watch them.
House caught his eye - his expression as serene as a Tibetan retreat. "Thank you," he mouthed, smiling.
Lee smiled back at him. Nope, he thought, in his vast experience, life wasn't too bad at all.
*
November 18th, 2012, 17:23 hrs
House watched his friend hug his father at his apartment door. He, himself, nodded goodbye to Mr. Talbot from where he was parked on the sofa. Not very polite, but he was too lethargic to move. Besides, he was in a melancholy mood.
"Bye, daddy." Peter just about managed to refrain from shoving his father out into the foyer, and then he was leaning his body against the door to shut it and running over to the other man's side. His face was flushed with pleasure. "Oh, House, I'm so excited," he said, bouncing on the carpet like a hyperkinetic flea.
House's lips twitched, a genuine smile lurking just around a corner. He raised an interrogative brow. "Really? I would never have guessed."
"House, get this, I can swim! Today, I actually swimmed three yards, and I didn't even drown much. Three yards! Can you believe it?"
"You swam three whole yards? Well, I'll be damned." House steadied his friend as the boy clambered onto the sofa beside him, agile as a monkey. The child smiled at him joyfully, and his own smile broke free.
"My daddy said that I'm improving at an amazing rate," Peter continued. "I couldn't swim at all last week."
House thought that this might be the boy at his best. He loved the child beyond all reason, and all of his many moods, but Peter bubbling over with elation and seemingly lit from within.... well, that was really something else. House forced himself to breathe.
"House, when I've got some spare time, I'm going to walk to the nearest beach. I've decided to swim to Tasmania."
"You have?" Used to the child's whimsical ideas, House didn't even blink. He brushed aside hair that was flopping into the boy's eyes. "I take it, you're not worried about sharks, then?"
"Not now I can swim, no. Someone once told me that the best thing to do if a shark comes up to you, is to poke it in the eyes. If that doesn't work, you have to swim under the shark to the sea bed, and then it can't see you outlined against the sun. I think I'll do that. I can have a quick look for oysters whilst I'm down there."
"Good for you. Never waste an opportunity." House snorted, imagining for a moment, Peter lying on his stomach at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, squashed as flat as a pancake, and diligently stringing together a pearl necklace in the pitch dark. "Why Tasmania?" he asked, curious. "You want to see Cradle Mountain?"
Peter looked at House with pity. "I'm hardly going to battle sharks just to see a mountain," he said. "If I want to climb a mountain, I've got me plenty of them, right over here. Nope, I want to catch a Tasmanian devil. I saw one on the TV last week. I've never seen anything so cute; he looked just like a little teddy bear."
"Yeah, they're cute all right, until they decide they're starving, sink their teeth into your forearm and snap it off at the elbow. They can crunch through bone. They even eat each other if they're hungry enough."
Peter's face had taken on a strange greenish tinge. "House, you've got a real knack for spoiling my vacation plans."
Closing his eyes, House sank down even further into the cushions. "I'm multi-talented," he said. "But take my word for it; find a wallaby to stroke instead; they're not quite so vicious."
"Okey-dokey." Sitting buddha like on the cushion, Peter turned to survey his friend. House's face was drawn. He looked pale, tired and was visibly moping. Had been, ever since their argument. Peter didn't know why that was, and, having hidden talents of his own, he thought it might be time to draw him out. "Where did you last go on vacation, House?"
Opening one eye to peer at him, House said the first thing that came to mind. "I spent a week languishing in hell," he said. He sighed. He didn't want to be miserable in the boy's company, but despite his best efforts, his spirits weren't lifting.
The child was intrigued. "What on Earth made you want to go there?" he asked. "Did you see it in a brochure? What was hell like?"
"Hideously lonely," House reported honestly.
"I'll bet it was. I imagine that you had the whole hotel to yourself."
"Good grief." House looked up pleadingly towards the ceiling. "Why me?" he said.
"You must have booked it, House," Peter answered him. The child scrutinized him carefully, face no longer radiant but appraising and intent. "How did you travel there? Did you have to go out and dig a deep hole?"
"Paved road," House snapped. He shifted restlessly, aware that he was being truculent. But he was being plagued by nightmares, damnit! Nightmares in which the child still avoided him.
Still, the dreams were in danger of becoming a reality, if he continued to behave like a sulky teenager. He opened his mouth, intending to tell his friend to ignore him, when he performed a classic double take. If Peter had been glowing with happiness before, now, you could have perched him on top of the Luxor in Vegas, and he wouldn't have looked out of place. He was incandescent. House regarded him with misgivings.
"Oh, man, is this some kind of riddle?" Peter enquired, rubbing his palms together with glee.
"No! I mean, no, Pedro; I don't want......"
"House, wait; I'm good at these. The road to hell," Peter murmured. He was quiet for a couple of minutes.
House started to sit up straighter. "Peter, forget the whole thing, okay? Let's play a game or do some drawing. You decide; we'll do whatever you like."
"Don't sweat it, House; I'm getting there." Peter absently took hold of the older man's hand, his slim warm fingers interlocking with House's larger icy ones. "Isn't there a saying, House? The road to hell is paved with something or other? Help me out a little bit, okay? All you need to give me, is this one tiny clue."
What could it hurt if he told him, House wondered; the answer would still go right over the child's head. "Good intentions," he said softly. He waited for the look of confusion, but it didn't come. Peter squeezed his fingers.
The youngster was eerily silent again. Then he asked, "When did you go to hell, House?"
House's gaze traveled over his friend's face. What are you thinking? he thought. He began to feel really foolish. "I was there for Halloween," he mumbled resignedly.
Nodding, Peter's eyes were burning with intelligence. He had never reminded House so much of Wilson. "Did you take a different route back, House? Say, through a park?"
The kid should have been incapable of interpreting his cryptic comments, and yet, their dual conversations had just been blended into one. Shocked wide awake, House felt ridiculously close to tears. He stared at his lap. "Yes," he said. "A park with a roundabout, three swings and salvation."
"Swings? It sounds like a neat place." The child's voice was impossibly gentle.
"The best part about that park was definitely the swings," House agreed.
"You see, House? Your vacation wasn't a complete waste of time. And now that you've tried hell and didn't like it, there's no reason why you should ever have to go back there, so why are you still brooding?"
There's no reason why you should ever have to go back there. House's mind pounced on that phrase and analysed it rapidly, hunting for flaws. The words could easily have been dismissed as the meaningless ramblings of a child, but the child in question was Peter, and that lent the words credibility. House was instantly comforted. "I've no idea," he said.
Warmth, originating from Peter's hand, was spreading throughout House's body, soothing the cold and the blues away. Perhaps, this was his friend at his best, calm and compassionate and with synapses firing on all cylinders. House lightly prodded at the boy's chest with his free hand. "You're one incredibly smart cookie; you know that?"
"I'm not a cookie, House; I'm a boy," Peter said, scandalized. "But people have told me that I'm smart, before." Peter smiled at House to indicate that when he spoke next, he didn't intend any malice. "That's why I don't like being called an idiot."
House looked at him solemnly. "It will never happen again," he promised.
"Good." The child's smile became impish. "House, have you ever thought that, maybe, you need to choose your vacations a little more wisely? If you pick somewhere that doesn't smell of rotten eggs, it would be a good start."
House laughed, feeling years younger and indescribably content. His friend, when he was irrepressible like this, was like a walking, talking Vicodin. "Like Tasmania, you mean?"
Peter frowned. "Tasmanian devils can really bite through bone?" he asked, double-checking.
"Like a chainsaw. Luckily, they mostly survive on roadkill."
"Wow. Looks sure can be deceiving." The little boy thought for a moment. "House?" As Wilson, he'd been fond of musing that plans were like guitars. They might look well-constructed and feel elegant in your hands, but invariably, they needed fine tuning. Peter was very flexible.
"Yeah?" Body relaxed, House peered over at him.
"How's your backstroke?"
House chuckled. "I guess it would do in a pinch. Why?"
"Do you feel like a swim to Japan?"
"Japan, huh?" House nodded reflectively. "Yoi aidea. Japan's a beautiful place. I once lived there. Did you know that......."
House chattered on, the much-loved voice whisking the child to a land of temples and cherry blossom. Of bullet trains and hot water springs. A land where samurai, both male and female, who lived by their own particular code of honor, had once fought in fierce battles - their prowess supreme.
Peter suspected that he and House both knew a little bit about battles, themselves. He settled in against the older man, eagerly hanging onto every word.
His friend might have been a wannabe psychopathic serial killer, but House's side was still his favorite place.
The end.
Author: Fayding_fast
Sequel: Yes, to Duped. See link below.
Chapter: 4/4
Theme: reincarnation
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Warning: Angst, swearing, mention of strong violence (but not against major characters.)
Con-crit? Yes, please.
Rating: R
Author's note: Enjoy
Duped
Tinderbox, chapter 1
Tinderbox, chapter 2
Tinderbox, chapter 3
October 27th, 2012, 13:00 hrs
When was Monday going to arrive?
Peter sat rigidly at his dining room table, his father's present, an early Christmas gift, opened but not started in front of him and glanced, again, out the window.
The sky was emboldeningly blue, and the sun was still merrily blazing, reassuringly bright, in the sky.
Today was Saturday; was that right? Peter knew that when the sun was shunted aside by the moon, and his house and garden became dark, that shortly after that, he would be sent to bed to sleep, and when he awakened, it would be Sunday. And he'd eat meals and bathe, maybe play or read a little, and inevitably, at the end of that new day, the sun would lose its daily skirmish once more, fall out of sight, and when it recovered and managed to haul itself back into the sky, by then, it would be Monday.
Monday meant school and Brian and, chillingly, Billy.
How was Billy going to react to him at school? How would Billy treat him? Were they still friends, or did Billy now view him as an enemy? Would Billy still ask him for his lunch? Physically try to hurt him? Mock him? When was the sun going to go down, and how many hours did he have left until he would be forced to face Billy, on Monday?
Peter looked down blankly at the sequin art instructions and rocked almost imperceptibly on his chair. He just couldn't think objectively. He had too many questions. There were too many unknowns.
"Kiddo?"
Immobilizing thoughts disturbed, Peter looked vacantly up at his father. "Yes, daddy?"
"That was House calling again. That's the third time today. He's concerned about you. You sure you don't want to talk to him?"
How could the very sound of a name hurt so much? Gouge like a knife? Peter struggled to speak. "I'm sure," he breathed.
"Well, it's up to you." Mr. Talbot approached his son, trying not to think about the huge childminding problems he was facing, if he could no longer lean on House for assistance. He changed the subject and pointed at the box on the table. "You haven't done much of that, yet. Don't you like it?"
"Yes, I do." Peter studied the picture on the lid. It showed a dragon, but not a dragon like the ones depicted in his treasured book of dragonology upstairs. The creatures in that well thumbed book were majestic beasts, beautifully captured in flight as they swooped in to protect damsels, lone travelers and threatened villages, their bronze and golden scales gleaming, their tails sweeping aside foe, their gazes wise and composed and, somehow, all the more commanding for that. They were dragons he could believe in, and he did, wholeheartedly. Peter was a child eager to embrace the fanciful.
But this dragon.... this animal was a cartoon and a badly rendered one. Its coating was rainbow hued and unrealistic - its flat eyes nothing more than lifeless dull dots. Even the fire belching from its mouth looked unconvincing. Still, it was a present from his daddy, and Peter adored it for that reason alone.
Mr. Talbot frowned a little. "You've done some sequin art before, haven't you?"
"No, daddy, I've never tried this before." Shamefaced, Peter held up the instructions like a shield in front of him, certain that his daddy was about to lose his diminished patience. "I don't know what I'm meant to do. I can't read a lot of these words," he admitted.
Nodding, Mr. Talbot sat down next to him. "I didn't realize that," he said. "Suppose I give you a hand?"
Peter stared at him, speechless, not used to his father being willing to spend some down time with him. He groped for and quickly found his tongue. "That's nice of you, daddy. Thank you," he said. He basked in something his daddy very rarely extended to him - simple kindness.
Listening attentively as his daddy taught him how to use the picture's blueprint, as fervently as he could, he tried to will away the sunset.
*
October 28th, 2012, 23:15 hrs
Face washed, teeth brushed, Peter's father was ready to go to bed. Or he would have been, if he wasn't standing in Peter's bedroom doorway in his pajamas, torn by indecision. Enough light was filtering in from the landing light for him to clearly be able to see Peter's face.
His son was crying in his sleep.
It was at times like this, when Mr. Talbot missed his wife the most strongly. Jenny would have known precisely what to do. Chances were, Peter wouldn't be crying at all if she was still around. She would have coaxed him to confide in her - any worries or fears he was hoarding, and she would have soothed them away with wise words. Or a kiss placed on his troubled brow. The child would be running around excitedly during the day. Not sitting around like a pale ghost. His beloved wife would have known how to take care of him.
Mr. Talbot moved away from the doorway and entered his own bedroom. He pulled back the bedclothes on both sides of the double bed. Moving back into his son's room, he rolled back the duvet and placing one hand under the child's neck and one under his knees, he lifted the boy into his arms. "Up we come, kiddo," he whispered.
He carried the still sleeping boy into the master bedroom and gently laid him on the bed. He covered him up. Then carefully, trying not to awaken the child, he climbed into the other side of the bed himself. He switched off the lamp.
He lay awake for a long time, haunted by fear. Suppose he rolled over in his sleep and hurt the boy? He couldn't bear to leave the distressed boy alone in his own bed, but would he accidentally smother him?
Balancing on the very edge of the mattress, he listened to the child's hitching breathing and fretted over his son's immediate and future welfare.
He lay there, sleep eluding him, and pined for Jenny.
*
October 29th, 2012, 12:00 hrs
Peter had seen a film once, when he'd walked the Earth as Wilson. It has been a low budget, clumsily shot affair, closer to a home movie than a Hitchcockesque Hollywood blockbuster - a film that Wilson wouldn't have sat down and watched at all, if he had anything better to do.
The film had left an indelible mark on his psyche.
Supposedly based on a true story, the film had followed the fortunes of a young wife. Blissfully happy at first in her new marriage, things rapidly turned sour when her husband was sacked from his job, started drinking excessively, and began to regularly pound his wife into a pulp. And the thrashings would have continued, carried on unchallenged, until she was lying, broken and forgotten, in a pine box. Except, three quarters of the way through the movie, the woman changed.
Knocked sprawling from her chair one Sunday lunchtime, this meek, unassuming woman, who wouldn't ordinarily say boo to a goose, had staggered to her feet, her remaining teeth bloodied and her nose knocked out of joint, and caved her dearly beloved's skull in with a frying pan.
Drastic measures, certainly. But her alcoholic, mindless brute of a husband never lifted a finger to her again.
Peter sat alone in the school's main hall, lunch untouched, eyes trained on the one entranceway, and he thought about that film. About its message. It was crystal clear. If he wanted to be left alone - if he wanted the chance to be able to live his life in relative peace, then if he was assaulted, Peter was going to have to physically fight back.
He tensed, thinking that Billy had just entered the room and then relaxed. It was another boy who happened to look like Billy, but he didn't move like him. He didn't swagger.
Peter pulled irritably at his shirt, which, because he was sweating profusely, was sticking to the small of his back. He was a bundle of nerves. He'd spotted Billy earlier that day, and Billy had glared at him venomously, so now, he knew.
They were no longer friends. Like Batman and The Joker, they were archenemies. Plots were being hatched. Trouble was percolating, and there he was sitting - slap bang in the middle of it.
It was a miserable, thoroughly rotten life.
Was that....? Yep, this time, it really was Billy - fists clenched by his sides - hard gaze zeroing straight in on him, and it was all Peter could do to stop the whimper. Frozen in place, he trembled uncontrollably as Billy sauntered unhurriedly towards him. It had come to the crunch.
Billy would be able to see that he was terrified, wouldn't he? It would give him a kick to see the shaking, the sweating - the jerky rise and fall of his chest..... Billy was close now and relentlessly getting closer, and Peter had nobody to help him; no one at all.
Someone slid smoothly into the seat beside him.
Jumping, Peter checked to see who it was and saw that it was Brian. His stomach fell. He hadn't been expecting this - not a two against one attack. He wouldn't have a fair chance; he'd be pulverized. If only he had a weapon. He'd tried to cram his daddy's frying pan into his school bag that morning, but had ended up nearly hysterical, when the bag had started to split at the seams. He was weaponless. Defenseless. The fight was a foregone conclusion even before the bell had rang.
"You set me up." Billy was right in front of him, and Peter half expected to see his lives flashing before his eyes.
Peter shook his head in denial. "I didn't," he said. "I just invited you round House's to play games."
"Yeah, sure you did." Billy turned, expecting Peter's unquestioning obedience. "Let's take this outside." He started to walk off.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Peter got shakily to his feet, ready to follow. He was expecting to die. Had he been good enough, this time around, to earn a place in heaven? Would they even let him back in a second time? He squared his slim shoulders. He prayed that he at least looked like a warrior and not a bulging eyed, sacrificial goat digging its hooves in as it was dragged to the altar. His mommy was probably watching, and he wanted, very badly, to do her proud.
He'd taken his first reluctant step when, to his shock, Brian grabbed his arm, none too gently, and yanked him roughly back down.
"Sit down, you fool," Brian hissed. "Don't move! Have you got a death wish?"
Peter gaped at him, open mouthed.
Billy turned around, surprised that Peter wasn't tagging along behind him. He glared at the smaller boy impatiently. "Well?" he said. "Are you coming?"
Brian laid a restraining hand on Peter's knee, and from the way that hand was shaking, Peter knew that he wasn't the only frightened child around. "He's not going anywhere with you," Brian said quietly. "Now, beat it."
Peter met Billy's shocked eyes, elated. He had support. He had a friend. He had this heroic, feisty guardian angel on his side, and even if the worst happened and he went down, it seemed he wasn't going down alone.
Billy stared at the two boys, taking in their defiance - the way they were sitting shoulder to shoulder and glanced to the side, puzzled. He hadn't accounted for this - this display of courage. He certainly hadn't foreseen that Brian would step in and spoil his plans. He wasn't prepared to tackle the two of them, not here, in front of the teachers. Frustrated, he looked at Peter one more time before pivoting and stalking off.
The two boys watched his retreating back without any real sense of relief.
"I can't believe he's gone," Brian gasped presently. He realized that his hand was still resting on Peter's knee and laughed nervously. He placed his hands in his lap.
"Now, beat it?" Peter asked.
Nerves still jangling, both children fell about laughing. They sobered quickly.
"Billy will kill you if he sees you on your own," Brian warned. "You know that, right?"
Peter sighed. "Yeah, I know." He tried to smile at his friend. "I think that you were extremely brave," he said, and with those words, he cemented a lifelong friendship.
"I'm not really," Brian said, "but your friend, House? He reminded us you've lost your mom. He made me think."
Peter looked down, silent.
Brian searched the room for Billy, but the boy had left the hall. "Peter? I think that we should go and tell one of the teachers what's been happening. I know it's tattling, but I'm not always gonna be around. How about Mr. Atkins? He'll know what to do."
"I don't know," Peter murmured doubtfully. "I don't like the idea of running to a teacher. I feel like I should be brave enough to deal with this on my own."
"That's crazy," Brian said frankly. "Billy's bigger than you. If we tell Mr. Atkins, he can at least help to keep an eye on you. What do you say, we go and tell him right now?"
Peter stared at him without blinking.
Brian stood up and held out his hand. "Come on," he urged.
Unwillingly, Peter nodded. He grasped Brian's hand, and his friend pulled him onto his feet.
*
October 31st, 2012, 19:30 hrs
House laughed, without mirth, into the phone. "Look.... yes, I understand that he's been withdrawn.... I just..... I just want to speak to him. For a couple of minutes. Please." House fought to keep his tone reasonable, when it would have been so easy to scream at Peter's father out of sheer, undiluted frustration.
God, he needed another drink.
He listened to Mr. Talbot prattle on, phone pressed painfully tight against his ear. Desperate to know how his young friend was getting on, he strained to hear any background noise - the faintest murmur from Peter. He couldn't hear anything.
"No.... no, I know he doesn't want to see me..... Look.... can't you persuade him to come to the phone?"
Masked revelers passed by his living room window. One of them glanced in - a bull-horned, snaggle-toothed monstrosity with snarling, obsidian eyes, and House turned his back on him. He was battling enough demons of his own.
"Yeah, I get it.... sure. Okay. Please..... just tell him I called." House clenched his jaws in annoyance when he heard the sound of the dialing tone. His tenuous link to Peter was broken.
House stood there in his darkened apartment for a moment, feeling totally lost, and then he carefully replaced the phone in its cradle. He poured another whiskey and took a long swig. It burnt his throat delightfully.
Braying laughter drifted back to him from down the street. It was October 31st, as good an excuse as any for having mindless fun, partying and scoffing too much candy.
House raised his glass in a mock toast. "Happy Halloween," he whispered.
*
November 1st, 2012, 20:15 hrs
Intimating that he owned the place, Lee strolled through House's front door without knocking, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw that House was conscious and sitting on the sofa. He ignored his friend's scowl. "Hi, House," he said.
"I want my spare key back," House demanded sullenly.
Noting how slurred these words were, Lee detoured to the kitchen and started hunting for a clean glass. Think again, my friend, he thought grimly. House had called in sick, and Lee had wasted much of the day worrying about him.
"I don't want you here," House called out to him. "I'm ill."
"You're not ill," Lee said firmly, tendering an unsolicited second opinion. He wasn't going to put up with House's nonsense. Finally locating a glass, he turned on the cold water tap and filled it to the brim. "Just drunk."
House tutted in irritation. He looked down at the drink he was nursing, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass.
Leaving the kitchen, Lee walked over to him and held out the water. "Wanna swap?" he asked.
House sighed and considered his options, but when he'd told Lee he didn't want him there, he had lied. Handing over the whiskey, he took the proffered glass.
Nodding at him in approval, Lee sat on the opposite side of the sofa from House and regarded his intoxicated friend. He placed the confiscated whiskey on the table. "No more 'Doctor of the Year' awards for you," he said.
Gulping down some water, House tried to make an effort. "Thought this year's was in the bag," he said very quietly.
"So, what's going on?" Lee glanced at the nearby table and the telltale evidence of a lengthy drinking spree. "Is this about Peter? I know you've both had a row."
"A row?" House snorted in disbelief. "That's one way of putting it." His head lolled back against the sofa. "He won't even talk to me," he complained tiredly.
"Why?" Lee thumped the cushion behind him and made himself completely at home. "Tell me what happened."
Ordinarily, House would have remained tight-lipped, but that argument with Peter had left him feeling like he'd been flayed. He was still bleeding. And, so, he opted to talk. He kept the fact that he'd mentioned Julie and Peter's reincarnation to himself, but other than that, he reported what had been said. He told Lee how it had been said. Encouraged because Lee listened attentively, House ended up telling him everything.
There was no response for a moment - Lee silently thinking things through. Then he took the empty glass from House's hand and stood up. "I'm seeing Peter tomorrow," he said brightly. "I'll sort this out, then."
House's head shot up. "You can't sort this out, Lee." He could scarcely believe that he'd ruined his most important friendship, and not just the once, but twice! And if he was brutally honest..... if he could live the past week again, then would he really do things any differently? He'd only been endeavoring to protect the boy; that was all. He'd just been trying to shield him. "It's over. I don't know where I went wrong."
Lee's problem was quite the reverse. It was difficult to see what House had done right. You could have just notified Peter's school, for starters, he thought.
But House had that heartrending uncomprehending look that Lee saw in a lot of his patients. He kept his expression carefully neutral. "Stop being so pessimistic, House. That solves nothing." He shook his head. "Look, Peter will see sense. He's an extremely bright kid. He told you that you'd made things worse, right? He knew that there was already a problem. I promise you, by tomorrow evening, you and Peter will both be best buddies, again."
House looked up and searched his face, expression as uncertain as a child's. "I don't think so," he murmured.
Lee nodded confidently. "I know so," he assured him. "Everything will be okay." He reached down and lightly touched House's arm. "Have some faith."
Starting at the touch, House was half expecting to shatter. Was almost sorry when he didn't. Peter had flinched away from him. Flinched! As if he hadn't known that House would rather die, than ever hurt him.
Lee turned and started to collect the empty beer bottles and dirty glasses. "I'm going to make us some coffee and cook you an omelette. You wanna get cleaned up?"
Staring up at him, House decided that if his friend wanted to try to heal his rift with Peter, then he wouldn't attempt to stop him. But he couldn't allow himself to hope. No, he certainly wasn't going to do that because if he did and Lee failed - well, that would surely be the finish of him. House nodded and hauled himself painfully to his feet. "You can keep the key," he muttered - his version of a thank you - and started to weave in the direction of his bathroom.
One eyebrow rising, Lee watched him go, and then he headed back to the kitchen. "Always my intention," he said.
*
November 2nd, 2012, 14:10 hrs
"Now! Legs straight out, lean back and pull on the chains. Excellent. Now! Relax." Lee was teaching Peter how to use the swings over the child's local park.
Arriving at Peter's house earlier that day, he had been disturbed to see how wan the child looked. He'd decided that his pre-planned walk out into the November air, might genuinely do the boy some good.
"Great. Legs out, pull...... that's it; you've got it." Lee considered the child meditatively. Peter was going through the motions mechanically, but it was obvious that the boy wasn't having a good time. Instead of being pleased that he was managing to gain some height on his own, the child looked unnervingly grave.
Peter looked down into Lee's eyes, and Lee shivered. Just the day before, Lee had been shocked to see House looking childlike and vulnerable. Now, the six year old, in front of him, looked old and jaded. The quarrel had hurt them both.
Lee looked around. There were only a couple of other people in sight braving the chill wind. Apart from that, it was easy to believe that they had the entire park to themselves. Huddling inside his coat, Lee put his hands into his jeans' pockets. "I love it here, don't you?"
Peter looked at him in bemusement. Doctor Lee didn't mean that, did he? The child glanced over at a lake swamped with algae. The swing he was sitting on was ancient, the chains covered with rust. The grass around them was patchy and blanketed with thousands of leaves, all blackening and curling up at the edges, rotting slowly away into dry, papery flakes. Winter was right upon their heels, eager to devour them, and as far as the child's eyes could see - like his mom, like his relationship with Billy, his friendship with House - everything was...... "Everything's dying," Peter said.
Lee's smile faded. He caught the edge of the swing and gently slowed its momentum, until, finally, it ceased to move altogether. Lee crouched down, knees creaking, in front of the child. He removed a small bottle from his back pocket.
Peter looked at it curiously. "What's that?" he enquired.
"Give me your hand," the doctor said. He took hold of Peter's right hand and eased it away from the chain. "You see this, here?" he asked and pointed out the base of the child's thumb. "You see where the skin is all cracked and raw? That's because you keep sucking your thumb." He unscrewed the lid of the bottle he was holding and pulled out a tiny brush. "I'm going to paint this liquid onto your thumbnail. It's clear, so you won't be able to see it. It tastes so horrible that it will stop you putting your thumb into your mouth. It will help you to break the habit. This was House's idea."
"House?" Profound sadness flashed across the boy's face. The name still wrenched at his insides, but he was proud that he hadn't flinched. His daddy had helped him out with that accomplishment; obscurely, the man had been obsessively talking about House to him, all week.
Trying to sit still, he watched wordlessly as Lee liberally coated his nail and the surrounding skin with Stop 'N' Grow.
When he was finished, Lee recapped the bottle and slid it back inside his pocket. He patted the boy's knee. "Now that you've brought his name up, perhaps we should discuss him," he said.
The child's expression closed off.
"I know you've had a disagreement with House. You want to tell me what's going on?"
Peter adamantly shook his head.
"Too loyal, huh? I went to see him yesterday, and he's not doing so well. You don't want that, do you? I know you care about him."
"He doesn't care about me," the child said, bottom lip quivering. "I'm getting cold. Please, may we go home, now?"
"No," Lee said. "You can't go around believing that House doesn't care about you. That just isn't true. I want you to talk to me."
Peter looked at him unhappily, held prisoner on an antique swing.
"Why are you avoiding him?"
"We had a bad argument. We argued over my friends, Brian and Billy."
"But Billy isn't your friend, is he? He was bullying you."
The child stared down at his sneakers. One of them had a hole in it; he needed some new ones.
Lee gazed at him sadly. How could he get through to him, if the kid was unresponsive? "You and I, we're both alike in the way that we try to befriend everyone. House isn't like us. He's a miserable bas..... he's a loner. He prefers to keep himself to himself. Or he did, before he met you. I heard rumors..... I don't know how true they are, but I heard that he lost someone very close to him..... the doctor who was in charge of my department just before me, actually, and it hit House extremely hard. So severely, in fact, that he started pushing everyone away."
His face a mask of sorrow, the child stared into the distance, stricken with guilt.
"I've been in the office next door to his for years," Lee continued. "On occasion, House and I would consult each other professionally, but other times, I would bump into him - in the carpark or around the hospital - and I would say hello, but he would just look right through me, his eyes blank - cold."
"Like a dead fish's eyes?" Peter asked offhandedly.
"Exactly like that, yeah. But then, for some reason, he befriended you, and he began to change considerably. He started to reach out to people. Believe me, when people like House reach out to you, it's a rare and special thing. You don't turn them away. You should hang onto his friendship with both hands." Lee clasped his hands together to demonstrate. "You understand?"
The boy's gaze flickered up from Lee's hands to his face. "I do," he affirmed.
"I'm not saying that House dealt with your problem in the best possible way, but his motives were pure. He was only trying to protect you. He didn't mean to hurt you or shout at you; he loves you. He wanted to stop Billy abusing you. Billy's not a very nice kid. You're very intelligent; I'm sure you know that."
Peter stared at him without commenting.
"Right?" Lee said, with the persistence that served him well, both at the hospital and as House's friend.
Slowly, Peter nodded. "I know Billy's not nice, Doctor Lee. I think he can smell people's fear like a dog."
"Yeah?" Peter was definitely an unusual child, Lee reflected. He was incredibly sweet, and he was funny, but he was strange. "Even more reason to stay away from him," he said.
"I thought he was my friend, but I mis....." The child trailed off, unable to think of the right word.
"Misjudged?" Lee tilted his head.
"Yes. Thank you. I misjudged him." Peter sighed. "Badly."
Lee smiled at him. "Well, we can all make that mistake." He shivered. That wind was really getting cold. "Does your daddy know about Billy? Do you want me to call your school?"
"Brian came with me, and we told a teacher," Peter said. "The school knows."
The boy looked up at Lee for a long moment, and the hairs on the doctor's arms stood on end. The child really did seem a lot older. It was the boy's eyes, Lee realized. They weren't a child's eyes at all. They were worldly-wise - assessing.
Lee instinctively stepped back, but then Peter smiled at him, and he was just a little boy again.
"But thank you for the offer, Doctor Lee. You're a good person."
"That's okay." Lee hesitated, frowning, but then shook off the odd moment. God, I'm really losing it. Hypothermia was probably setting in. He glanced towards the top of the hill. House would kill him if he took much longer. He turned back to the child. "You and House have a wonderful relationship. I don't want to tell you what Billy said to House; you're too young to understand, but he said some truly nasty things. Naturally, House was very upset and still is. Don't give Billy the satisfaction of tearing you both apart. Will you give House another chance?"
"House is still upset? Even now?" That knowledge didn't sit well with Peter. It didn't sit right at all.
"Yes. If I call him and ask him to come here, would you be willing to speak to him?" Lee crossed his fingers behind his back.
Ambivalent, Peter warily nodded.
Lee smiled at him and pulled out his cell.
Peter didn't know what he could possibly say to House. Assailed by an attack of nerves, Peter's thumb went into his mouth. He spat it out. The revolting taste lingering on his tongue, brought tears to his eyes. " Holy Moly!" he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's disg......" Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he quit complaining as a stooped figure appeared on the horizon. He squinted against the sun.
"Well," Lee said cheerfully, "House must have broken all the speed limits to get here."
"Wow!" Peter said. He couldn't believe his eyes. How had House arrived there so quickly? Doctor Lee had only just called him. There was only one possibility. "Did he hop on a dragon?" he asked.
Lee glanced at him. "A dragon couldn't land," he pointed out. "There's no runway."
Peter wasn't dissuaded. He watched, heart in his mouth, as House made his excruciatingly slow way down the hill. Frankly, the boy was horrified. His friend could barely move, and knowing House as well as he did, he could guess why House had deteriorated so much.
Lee made as if he was going to meet House to assist him, but Peter stopped him.
"He won't like it if you try to help him," the child warned. "He'll be ashamed." But even as his words encouraged Lee to stay where he was, Peter had to fight the overwhelming need to help House himself. Every instinct made him want to dash over to House to support him, so he wouldn't stumble. The child would willingly have carried him if he could.
It took an age, but House eventually reached the playground without serious incident, and all three of them were thankful. As House neared Lee, the two men had a silent but heated conversation. House tapped his right thigh for emphasis and jerked his head in irritation back up the hill, plainly saying, Choose somewhere to meet that's completely inaccessible, why don't you?
Lee met his glaring eyes defiantly and shrugged. I'm doing my best here. What do you expect me to do?
Peter would normally have been content to let this little drama play out all day, but he was keen to plug the hole in his dragon theory. "Did you drop in by parachute, House?" he called. He leaned forward on the swing, trying to catch House's eye.
Nothing doing.
House froze, then looked down. How he'd missed these off-the-wall comments. Swallowing, he rested his cane against his legs and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. It took several long moments for him to regain control. "No," he said finally. Picking up his cane again, he turned and staggered past Lee, heading for the center swing. He hadn't once looked at Peter. He sank onto the seat with a muffled groan of relief.
Peter stared at him, concerned. The swing was way too small for House. He had to stretch his long, long legs out in front of him, and the chains were digging into his hips and shoulders. Wide-eyed, the child looked at Lee and then back at his friend. "House, do you like kiddie swings?" the boy asked tentatively.
"Love 'em," House said. "They're a thrill a minute." He rubbed his face tiredly. "How are you getting on at school?"
"Very well, thank you, House. I'm at the top of my class."
House paused. "I meant..... how are Brian and Billy behaving towards you?"
"Oh. It's been very weird, House. Brian has hardly left my side. I think Billy's scared of him; he's keeping well away from both of us."
Abject relief crossed House's face. "Good," he murmured. He glanced, for the first time, at the child and then looked quickly away. "Swell." House gripped the swing chains and dragged himself upwards, breathing as if he'd not just climbed to his feet, but completed an Olympic standard, punishing routine on a pommel horse.
Lee frowned. House wasn't leaving, was he? Nothing had been resolved. "Peter," he said, and both of his companions glanced at him quizzically. "Peter, House has come here to say he's sorry. Haven't you, House?" he pressed, exasperated.
"It's alright, Doctor Lee." Peter held up a restraining hand, and Lee fell silent, abiding by the child's wishes. "Didn't you watch as he walked across the grass? When House is truly sorry about something, he doesn't always say so with words. He was saying sorry to me all the way down that hill. Isn't that right, House?"
House's cane lost traction, and he almost fell.
Lee stepped forwards to try to catch him, but House regained his balance and impatiently warded him off. House finally met the child's eyes.
"Doctor Lee has had another talk with me," Peter disclosed to House. "He said that because you're a miserable bastard, and you have cold eyes like a dead fish, I need to grip onto our friendship with both hands." He removed his hands from the swing chains, grimacing when he saw the brown streaks of rust on them, and then, balancing carefully on the seat, he copied Lee's earlier gesture. "Like this," he said.
House looked at Lee. "You call that helping?"
Flustered, Lee cuffed Peter lightly around the head. "That's not what I said," he protested.
House forgave the blushing man. "Don't worry about it; he tends to paraphrase." He nodded at the child. "That's what Doctor Lee thinks; what about you?" he asked.
The child seemed to be searching his face for something. He evidently found it because his gaze softened. "I think that you have the warmest eyes I've ever seen," he said.
"Hey!" Half laughing, Lee gently clipped Peter around the ear again. "I don't believe you!" he scolded. "You make me out to be the bad guy, and then you sit as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth and sweet talk him!"
"House asked me what I think," the child explained, and all of a sudden, he looked and sounded exhausted.
Lee felt a surge of compassion for him. He placed a huge hand lightly on the boy's shoulder, and the tiny boy sagged under its weight.
"I could do with a hug," Peter said softly, his face unutterably weary. Too dignified to resort to begging or whining, he held his arms out to House, risking rejection. Quietly, he waited doggedly to see whether House would pick him up.
For a heart stopping moment, Lee was afraid that House wouldn't - that he was rooted to the spot. But then his friend moved forwards, swept the child up into his arms and crushed him against his chest.
"I'm sorry we falled out, House," Peter whispered. "I'm very glad you came."
"Fell out," House said huskily.
And then House said something else that Lee couldn't quite catch. Maybe House's voice was too hoarse, or the words were decimated by the breeze, but Peter seemingly heard them. Lee watched as the child pulled back slightly, frowning, to carefully examine House's face.
"It's okay, House. We're good," Peter said.
House nodded, blinking rapidly.
"I should have taken your calls," Peter admitted.
House swallowed and nodded again, closing his eyes.
And then the little boy gently kissed a rough, unshaven cheek and wrapped his arms possessively around House's neck, and that told Lee all he needed to know.
The spat was over.
Lee turned his back to give them some privacy, feeling a little bit wistful and enormously smug.
Modern life was supposed to be a stressful one, or so the media would have him believe. Personally, Lee thought that was hokum. He heard Peter yelp and then chuckle behind him, and his smile broadened. Unable to resist temptation, he turned his head to watch them.
House caught his eye - his expression as serene as a Tibetan retreat. "Thank you," he mouthed, smiling.
Lee smiled back at him. Nope, he thought, in his vast experience, life wasn't too bad at all.
*
November 18th, 2012, 17:23 hrs
House watched his friend hug his father at his apartment door. He, himself, nodded goodbye to Mr. Talbot from where he was parked on the sofa. Not very polite, but he was too lethargic to move. Besides, he was in a melancholy mood.
"Bye, daddy." Peter just about managed to refrain from shoving his father out into the foyer, and then he was leaning his body against the door to shut it and running over to the other man's side. His face was flushed with pleasure. "Oh, House, I'm so excited," he said, bouncing on the carpet like a hyperkinetic flea.
House's lips twitched, a genuine smile lurking just around a corner. He raised an interrogative brow. "Really? I would never have guessed."
"House, get this, I can swim! Today, I actually swimmed three yards, and I didn't even drown much. Three yards! Can you believe it?"
"You swam three whole yards? Well, I'll be damned." House steadied his friend as the boy clambered onto the sofa beside him, agile as a monkey. The child smiled at him joyfully, and his own smile broke free.
"My daddy said that I'm improving at an amazing rate," Peter continued. "I couldn't swim at all last week."
House thought that this might be the boy at his best. He loved the child beyond all reason, and all of his many moods, but Peter bubbling over with elation and seemingly lit from within.... well, that was really something else. House forced himself to breathe.
"House, when I've got some spare time, I'm going to walk to the nearest beach. I've decided to swim to Tasmania."
"You have?" Used to the child's whimsical ideas, House didn't even blink. He brushed aside hair that was flopping into the boy's eyes. "I take it, you're not worried about sharks, then?"
"Not now I can swim, no. Someone once told me that the best thing to do if a shark comes up to you, is to poke it in the eyes. If that doesn't work, you have to swim under the shark to the sea bed, and then it can't see you outlined against the sun. I think I'll do that. I can have a quick look for oysters whilst I'm down there."
"Good for you. Never waste an opportunity." House snorted, imagining for a moment, Peter lying on his stomach at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, squashed as flat as a pancake, and diligently stringing together a pearl necklace in the pitch dark. "Why Tasmania?" he asked, curious. "You want to see Cradle Mountain?"
Peter looked at House with pity. "I'm hardly going to battle sharks just to see a mountain," he said. "If I want to climb a mountain, I've got me plenty of them, right over here. Nope, I want to catch a Tasmanian devil. I saw one on the TV last week. I've never seen anything so cute; he looked just like a little teddy bear."
"Yeah, they're cute all right, until they decide they're starving, sink their teeth into your forearm and snap it off at the elbow. They can crunch through bone. They even eat each other if they're hungry enough."
Peter's face had taken on a strange greenish tinge. "House, you've got a real knack for spoiling my vacation plans."
Closing his eyes, House sank down even further into the cushions. "I'm multi-talented," he said. "But take my word for it; find a wallaby to stroke instead; they're not quite so vicious."
"Okey-dokey." Sitting buddha like on the cushion, Peter turned to survey his friend. House's face was drawn. He looked pale, tired and was visibly moping. Had been, ever since their argument. Peter didn't know why that was, and, having hidden talents of his own, he thought it might be time to draw him out. "Where did you last go on vacation, House?"
Opening one eye to peer at him, House said the first thing that came to mind. "I spent a week languishing in hell," he said. He sighed. He didn't want to be miserable in the boy's company, but despite his best efforts, his spirits weren't lifting.
The child was intrigued. "What on Earth made you want to go there?" he asked. "Did you see it in a brochure? What was hell like?"
"Hideously lonely," House reported honestly.
"I'll bet it was. I imagine that you had the whole hotel to yourself."
"Good grief." House looked up pleadingly towards the ceiling. "Why me?" he said.
"You must have booked it, House," Peter answered him. The child scrutinized him carefully, face no longer radiant but appraising and intent. "How did you travel there? Did you have to go out and dig a deep hole?"
"Paved road," House snapped. He shifted restlessly, aware that he was being truculent. But he was being plagued by nightmares, damnit! Nightmares in which the child still avoided him.
Still, the dreams were in danger of becoming a reality, if he continued to behave like a sulky teenager. He opened his mouth, intending to tell his friend to ignore him, when he performed a classic double take. If Peter had been glowing with happiness before, now, you could have perched him on top of the Luxor in Vegas, and he wouldn't have looked out of place. He was incandescent. House regarded him with misgivings.
"Oh, man, is this some kind of riddle?" Peter enquired, rubbing his palms together with glee.
"No! I mean, no, Pedro; I don't want......"
"House, wait; I'm good at these. The road to hell," Peter murmured. He was quiet for a couple of minutes.
House started to sit up straighter. "Peter, forget the whole thing, okay? Let's play a game or do some drawing. You decide; we'll do whatever you like."
"Don't sweat it, House; I'm getting there." Peter absently took hold of the older man's hand, his slim warm fingers interlocking with House's larger icy ones. "Isn't there a saying, House? The road to hell is paved with something or other? Help me out a little bit, okay? All you need to give me, is this one tiny clue."
What could it hurt if he told him, House wondered; the answer would still go right over the child's head. "Good intentions," he said softly. He waited for the look of confusion, but it didn't come. Peter squeezed his fingers.
The youngster was eerily silent again. Then he asked, "When did you go to hell, House?"
House's gaze traveled over his friend's face. What are you thinking? he thought. He began to feel really foolish. "I was there for Halloween," he mumbled resignedly.
Nodding, Peter's eyes were burning with intelligence. He had never reminded House so much of Wilson. "Did you take a different route back, House? Say, through a park?"
The kid should have been incapable of interpreting his cryptic comments, and yet, their dual conversations had just been blended into one. Shocked wide awake, House felt ridiculously close to tears. He stared at his lap. "Yes," he said. "A park with a roundabout, three swings and salvation."
"Swings? It sounds like a neat place." The child's voice was impossibly gentle.
"The best part about that park was definitely the swings," House agreed.
"You see, House? Your vacation wasn't a complete waste of time. And now that you've tried hell and didn't like it, there's no reason why you should ever have to go back there, so why are you still brooding?"
There's no reason why you should ever have to go back there. House's mind pounced on that phrase and analysed it rapidly, hunting for flaws. The words could easily have been dismissed as the meaningless ramblings of a child, but the child in question was Peter, and that lent the words credibility. House was instantly comforted. "I've no idea," he said.
Warmth, originating from Peter's hand, was spreading throughout House's body, soothing the cold and the blues away. Perhaps, this was his friend at his best, calm and compassionate and with synapses firing on all cylinders. House lightly prodded at the boy's chest with his free hand. "You're one incredibly smart cookie; you know that?"
"I'm not a cookie, House; I'm a boy," Peter said, scandalized. "But people have told me that I'm smart, before." Peter smiled at House to indicate that when he spoke next, he didn't intend any malice. "That's why I don't like being called an idiot."
House looked at him solemnly. "It will never happen again," he promised.
"Good." The child's smile became impish. "House, have you ever thought that, maybe, you need to choose your vacations a little more wisely? If you pick somewhere that doesn't smell of rotten eggs, it would be a good start."
House laughed, feeling years younger and indescribably content. His friend, when he was irrepressible like this, was like a walking, talking Vicodin. "Like Tasmania, you mean?"
Peter frowned. "Tasmanian devils can really bite through bone?" he asked, double-checking.
"Like a chainsaw. Luckily, they mostly survive on roadkill."
"Wow. Looks sure can be deceiving." The little boy thought for a moment. "House?" As Wilson, he'd been fond of musing that plans were like guitars. They might look well-constructed and feel elegant in your hands, but invariably, they needed fine tuning. Peter was very flexible.
"Yeah?" Body relaxed, House peered over at him.
"How's your backstroke?"
House chuckled. "I guess it would do in a pinch. Why?"
"Do you feel like a swim to Japan?"
"Japan, huh?" House nodded reflectively. "Yoi aidea. Japan's a beautiful place. I once lived there. Did you know that......."
House chattered on, the much-loved voice whisking the child to a land of temples and cherry blossom. Of bullet trains and hot water springs. A land where samurai, both male and female, who lived by their own particular code of honor, had once fought in fierce battles - their prowess supreme.
Peter suspected that he and House both knew a little bit about battles, themselves. He settled in against the older man, eagerly hanging onto every word.
His friend might have been a wannabe psychopathic serial killer, but House's side was still his favorite place.
The end.