Covenant (PG)
Posted to betteronvicodin and house_wilson
Title: Covenant
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson, House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Words: 5627
Summary: James chooses the path.
Warnings: Alternate Universe (very alternate). Prequel to Pillory, which should be read first.
Note: Written for betteronvicodin, Bad!Fic prompt 124: “Wilson interrupts House and Cameron's wedding with an important announcement, what could it possibly be?” Immense gratitude to daisylily and bironic for beta, and purridot for added support.
It is a cruel trick of Greg’s, to ply me with the finest wine from his cellar on the eve of his wedding ceremony.
We are together, groom and groom’s second, in the smallest of the three kitchens on the estate Greg has in scant months past inherited. The chairs are rough-hewn but comfortable, and the table holds the empty carcasses of flagons uncounted. I refuse to look at them, refuse to count. It is our last night together as brothers of choice. In the morning he will make his vow with Allison and be lost to me.
It is possible my eyes fail to conceal the extent of my distress, for Greg staggers to his feet and clasps a strong hand on my shoulder. “The wine wishes to make its egress. Come, fair fellow, and assist me in my journey.”
I clutch at his hand, hold it fast, and plant my own shaky legs upon the ground. “Your mother will be disheartened,” I retort, lifting his hand above my head and twisting as I rise, in a clumsy imitation of tomorrow’s dance of celebration. “That is, to learn that her long-ago teachings of urinary propriety have been so easily forgotten.”
“I forget nothing,” Greg replies in a deep voice that sends minute shivers through me. Our hands are still wrapped together; I feel the pulse of his heart through my palm, or perhaps it is my own heart calling out to his. “I require your assistance, lamentably, for the task of ambulation.”
“I could fetch your cane,” I suggest, falsely. I can feel his heart and hear his breath, and we are together in his last free hours. Leaving his side is impossible to contemplate.
His lips are as flat as the horizon, but his eyes dance. “You would have me wait and fumble with a short, slender reed when this sturdy warm pikestaff is so conveniently near?”
As he leans into me, his fingers twist and turn with mine; his other arm snakes around my shoulders.
There was a strange traveler to our land many years ago, when I was still a child, who carried around his neck a thick and heavy serpent five feet long. Cool to the touch, it moved so slowly and quietly that with a different appearance it could have been mistaken for a mere yoke. And yet that strange traveler felt affection for the serpent, and told all the children of the warm heart he was convinced beat underneath.
When the traveler left, he did not leave alone.
There is a flicker to my ear as of a snake’s tongue, but it is Greg’s finger, flicking out his annoyance and urging me forward. He knows the wine always causes my mind to meander, as he surely must know that inevitably my thoughts return in the end to him.
Mid-step, he leans suddenly closer to me. I take the added warm weight gratefully, albeit with some little effort, and our progress down the hall continues. “My fair fellow,” he breathes in my ear.
“You repeat yourself,” I laugh. “And have you ever looked upon me? My coloring is hardly what one would call fair.”
“Hmph,” he grunts, as we take another step. “I have looked upon you. More times than you can conceive. Earth-brown eyes and hair, but your skin could never hide a blush.”
“What reason should I have to be abashed?”
He brings us to a lurching halt, and I move my hands to steady him. Looking up, I see his gaze fixed on me, and if my eyes are like earth, his are summer sky. It is the custom to liken such a color to ice, but to do so would deny the ascendant vitality ever-present there.
As the moment stretches, I soar into that sky, ever closer to the sun. I could blame the wine for the heat suffusing me, but who would hear? My fingers are tightening into his flesh of their own accord.
He blinks, the skin at the outside corners of his eyes crinkles, and the heat in me recedes the smallest fraction. “Abashment is not the only thing that can cause your cheeks to glow,” he rumbles, as he pushes me the final steps toward the lavatory.
“Stand by the toilet, nursemaid,” he then directs, limping slowly into the room. “It turns out your lame and wizened charge will require further assistance.”
Greg is a dangerous man. Dangerous for his own potential, and dangerous in the way he provokes boldness in me. I have always been strong. Friends and family - although not every maiden - would also call me steady. But he taps a swell of audacity and passion so well-hidden that yet I did not know it was there. Around him, I can do anything.
His trousers are open, clinging precariously to his hip bones. He stumbles carefully, precisely, and falls into my side. I catch him easily with an arm around his waist - we are strong and steady together. “Whether it is the wine or the worries of the day is beyond my concern at the moment,” he says, and waves a hand through the air, “but I am feeling as the most ancient elder and youngest child at the same time.”
The slightest sway and his mouth is against my ear. “Assist me.”
He is dangerous. He knows the letter of every law.
He makes me bold, willing to push the boundaries of the spirit.
My hand has slipped around his flesh before I think to move. I tug at the head, aim it toward the still, clear water below.
Greg’s eyes are closed, and we stand a few moments, not moving.
“Tumescence and difficulty with urination are intriguing symptoms,” I note, and this time it is my mouth at his ear. Then I shift my grip, and Greg almost gasps. “As is shortness of breath,” I tease.
He shudders, a long, shallow roll from shoulder to knees. “And I find myself feverish,” he groans.
“That, I can conclusively state, is the temperature of the air. For I have had no symptoms and yet I feel that same fever.” I let my lips travel around the curve of his ear and down the slope of his jaw, keeping a safe hairsbreadth from touching skin.
Again a shudder, this one quicker, and his breath blows out shakily. “You portray yourself a healer, but your intent clearly is to destroy me.” This time there is anger behind his words, and he knocks my hand away from him.
“Greg?” Our path has turned sharply, and I am clinging helplessly to the reins until the course is firm in the new direction.
“Go. Out,” he commands. “Your assistance is no longer needed.”
Searching his face yields nothing but the side view of a hard and lonely gaze. He will speak no more until he desires it. We have been brothers of choice long enough for me to have learned that lesson several times over.
I retreat to the kitchen and consider the wood of the table. We follow the Code. What else can citizens do? We follow the Code in our actions, in our thoughts, and in our hearts.
And if, in a worn and drunken moment months ago, we spoke of something different, then that was theory. Hypothesis - a philosophical discussion of what two other men might do. Two incomplete men, wanting only to be whole, to seal together in covenant for the sustenance of both. To inscribe their names side-by-side in the Annals and be known to history as one.
Other men. Weaker than we.
Stronger, comes the hint of a whisper; I crush it beneath my heaviest boot.
Presently Greg returns down the hall. He has located his cane and is moving faster than before. “Drink,” he barks, when his shadow first strikes the kitchen floor.
Amused, I respond, “Are you demanding I hoist one up or pass one over?”
“Both.” He drops heavily into the chair next to mine, and reaches for the nearest flagon. I snatch it away and throw the last dregs down my throat.
“From my cellar, not yours,” he protests, grabbing for another flask.
I snatch and drain that as well. “I am merely attempting to balance the scales. Tonight you have had far too much, and I have had far too little.”
He smirks and settles back in his chair, my trespass, whatever it might have been, forgiven. “It is always the case on the eve of a wedding. The second must keep his eyes clear, to assess any danger to the groom as he rushes fool-heartedly into a permanent commitment.”
“Whatever your heart may be, I do not think it a fool.”
He snorts. “In the matter of tomorrow’s nuptials, no. Sound deliberation and rational conclusion; not a twinkle of inane folly to be found.”
His eyes are on mine, alive, demanding, and I am captured. “But in another corner,” he continues, “it holds hope, and there is never any hope that is not foolish. Hope without idiocy we call instead simple longing.”
“Greg,” I warn. “You must watch your words.”
Leaning forward, he curls his hand around mine on the table. “I always watch my words, but what of you? Do you listen? Hark, now, and heed: it is with you that my hope rests. You have the power to satisfy my longing, fulfill my desire.”
His eyes are ablaze, the room is scorching beyond all measure, and the flame-licks of Hell are snapping all around me. I pull back and knock my chair to the ground in my scramble to rise. “You dare to insult me by insinuating I would stray from the righteous path?” I demand.
“You can make your path righteous,” is his cool, considered reply. He is the devil of temptation.
“Lyndon,” he continues, as if I would need reminding of this example. As if Lyndon has not been my patient for more than a dozen years, since before the declaration.
“Lyndon’s birth to the station of man was an accident of nature,” I contend. I am pacing, hard and fast, between table and stove. The room is too small. My anger has subsided into an anxiety twitching along my nerves, relieved only faintly by movement. “Her body has always held a feminine soul. As a boy, Lyndon went to the pillory a dozen times for transgressions against the Code; since moving to the station of woman, she has been a model of propriety. The declaration was simply correction of a birth defect.”
“And a happy marriage with Tom Bates resulted,” Greg replies, entirely too calmly. He has pulled the overturned chair to him with his cane and is setting it upright. “It can be done, is my point.”
In that conversation, months gone and buried, those unreal men had such very few options before them. “Leave for distant lands,” Cuddy had said, and Greg and I had laughed until our sides ached. A dear friend and my colleague in the healing arts, the only female-born ever to be elevated to the station of a man, Cuddy is a brave thinker who sometimes stretches beyond the horizon of rationality.
To conform to Lyndon as exemplar had been Greg’s proposal for the imaginary duo. My own idea was simpler, and I recall it now.
“Adams and Warren have lived together happily as brothers of choice for decades, in a just and upright relationship,” I say. “Why would they not be the model?”
“They are not joined,” Greg replies, watching me pace. “Their lines remain separate in society’s great book.”
“But everyone perceives them as one, treats them as one.”
“And yet they are not one. You have not noticed that that remains a regret and an ever-present tension between them? They cannot consecrate, cannot consummate what they hold as their highest union. They would choose to follow Lyndon’s path and then marry if they did not need both their fortunes to survive.”
That is a smear that I cannot let stand. Every citizen follows the Code in deed and thought. Imagining oneself out of station is tantamount to acting out of station. “Speak not such accusations of blasphemy. You cannot know their hearts,” I hiss.
Greg grabs at my arm as I pass and drags me to him. “I know my heart, and I know yours. You can end this charade, this teasing talk along the edges of our laws. You can make us righteous.”
He is too near, too warm. I wish I had drunk no wine and at the same time had drunk it all. Anything that might move my thoughts off their unsteady, rocky platform, to either sober reflection or oblivion. “Any man that makes a declaration like Lyndon’s suffers the loss of all that he has. What makes my life’s worth so much smaller than yours, that you would thrust the mantle of sacrifice around my shoulders?”
I feel the tug of his hands distantly and move to sit as they request. The hands squeeze my shoulders for a moment, and then one clasps strongly to the back of my neck. Again I find myself tumbling into the summer sky.
“I make no claim that my own life is worth more than any other man’s. But for an entire line to die out, to wither on the growing tree of history, is a crime. Under the patriarchy of your father, with your brother as heir, the Wilson line has grandsons and cousins and nephews, and failing all that, a chance the prodigal could return. My line has only me to sustain it.”
“In the years of our acquaintance, you have always been the only heir, and yet you were never moved to marry and begin the regeneration of the line.”
“When my father was alive, there was always the possibility of another heir, a younger brother.”
Laughing, I shake his hand off me. “At your mother’s age…”
“A second wife,” Greg explains. “He talked of it.”
We sit in silence through the space of a hundred heartbeats. My mind is careening, staggering, and there is an odd rhythm in my chest. Longing wove itself deep into the fibers of my heart so long ago that I no more think of it than I think of the taste of the air I breathe. Now it has distended, and I wonder if it will squeeze the life from me.
“You are right,” Greg says eventually, and I feel as if at sea.
“The drinking,” he explains, tapping his cane against the floor. “Too much; my head begins to hurt. Time for bed.”
Slowly to his bedchamber we go, a very different trip than the one taken earlier. The space between us is wide. The air is too heavy, with Greg’s words hanging ponderously.
I help him into the bed and turn away, intending to use the cot in the next room. But he grabs my hand. “Lie next to me. The world does not spin so mightily when you are my anchor.”
There is no reason to deny him this.
***
An auspicious day, beautiful weather, the entire community dressed in their finest. Seated next to me is my treasured child, resplendent in a gown of richest blue. Filled with joy, I pat Lisa’s thigh, trying to erase the small frown from that beautiful face.
“This is wrong,” drops for what is no doubt the hundredth time from her lips. His lips, his. Even after five years, I forget. Born a daughter but now a son, my Lisa is. Always my pride and joy, now my heir, of both our healing practice and the Cuddy line. I would trust no other to lead both into ever higher preeminence, and my blessings will always be upon Councilman Gregory House for securing Lisa’s station.
“Father, this is wrong,” she - he repeats.
“What disquiets you? Everything seems in order.”
Lisa sighs; the small furrows of worry deepen. “House should not be marrying Allison,” she - he whispers.
I pat my dear child again. “Allison is a bright, healthy girl from a good family. She will make a fine wife and a fine mother for the House children when that time comes.”
“Her fecundity is by no means certain. She has bird bones and too-slim hips,” Lisa sniffs. My smile is difficult to smother, but I manage it.
I reply, “Her sisters from the Cameron family have birthed vigorous, robust babies, as you well know.” Lisa sniffs again, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for something unknown. “Is a base, green jealousy making itself known?”
“Father! You suggest I would steal Allison for our family?”
“No indeed.” Leaning closer, I say more quietly, “It was not so long ago that you were a daughter, and I had come to wonder whether you wished to join the House line yourself.”
Lisa avoids my eyes, and tugs at her - his dress, drawing it farther down. “There might have been a betrothal of a few days’ duration, but a permanent union… I am not such a fool as to invite that disaster.”
“Dear one -”
“Father. None of that is relevant to today. I have no thought for myself, only for House and -” Lisa breaks off, eyes widening slightly.
Turning to the left, I see John Wilson, the brother of our partner in the healing practice, James. John nods to us as he escorts his family to the few remaining seats, just behind House’s fellow Council members.
The multitude here is now shifting, eager for the commencement of this illustrious ceremony. Gregory House, Councilman and patriarch of the renowned and powerful House line, is at long last taking a wife.
A violin begins playing the sweet and peaceful tune of the matrimonial ceremony. House arrives, looking dashing in his formalwear, accompanied by James as his second. They wait next to Councilman Deane, the officiant, and even at this distance, I see House’s understandable nervous strain and its reflection in his closest friend.
Every man feels a sense of unrest when standing on the verge of his most sacred and permanent commitment. Lisa’s mother was dearer to me than any other, and I knew from early days that she was meant to be my charge and helpmate. Yet even I felt a moment of concern before the words were spoken. Once she was sealed to me, though, that concern vanished, and we had decades of contentment together. This I wish for Gregory House.
Lisa nudges me toward the left, and I turn in time to see Allison drawing close to House. Her father Cameron, such a fine man, is escorting her as her mother gazes proudly from the family’s row. The girl herself simply glows with fulfillment. She is marrying the patriarch of our society’s most prominent line; she will be mother to all the House heirs. It is truly an accomplishment beyond compare.
House’s smile, while it would be considered meager on any other face, is the broadest I have ever seen on him. He takes Allison’s hand and turns her gently toward Deane to begin the ceremony.
I have settled back to enjoy the sacred rite when I hear Lisa’s sharp intake of breath. Her gaze is fixed firmly on James, and seeing his visage I understand her alarm. James’ face is ashen, and his eyes are closed. He has been prone to gastric upset in the past few weeks, and I wonder if he is suffering a bilious attack. Just then, his lips move, although we are too far away to hear the whispered words.
House and Deane turn sharply toward James; House lays a hand upon James’ arm. We hear the word, “Stop,” and then Lisa is pulling me up from my chair and down the aisle.
“Stop,” James repeats as we approach. He draws a large breath, and the color returns to his face. Opening his eyes, he looks first to House and then to Lisa and me. “Lisa, Franklin, you are here, good. You can be my witnesses. I have a declaration to give.”
“Now?” Deane and the father of the bride ask in perfect unison. Allison clings to House’s hand, eyes wide, mouth twisted in perplexity, but House’s eyes seek only James and hold only the proudest satisfaction.
I am as confused as the poor girl, but Lisa seems to know the way, affirming, “We shall support you.”
Smiling, James squeezes Lisa’s arm briefly. “I must leave the practice. My deepest apologies for the inconvenience you will -”
“Concern yourself not. There are young men eager to be trained, and Father and I will be fine.”
At House’s beckoning, the other members of the Council have joined us. “This is irregular,” Anderson notes, and the others nod. The bride’s father is still spluttering behind his daughter.
“This is important,” House retorts. “A citizen wishes to make a declaration.”
“In the midst of a Councilman’s marriage rite?” Run through with shock, Deane almost loses his grip on the ceremonial book.
“We will listen,” House commands, fixing all around him with a glare. “James?”
James turns again to Lisa and me. “You will attest to my fitness?”
“Fitness for what?” I ask. Perplexing, I find this all. “To make a declaration? You are a citizen of good standing, intelligent and honorable. Why should you need our attestation to speak?”
James’ brother John has joined our number and is looking on with no little concern. James nods to him, and then draws himself tall.
“Listen, for this is my declaration, made with sound mind and upright purpose. I am James Wilson, citizen, second son of the Wilson line. I declare my intent, at the instant of Council’s approval, to leave my born station of man and take the station of woman.”
The gasps and sighs ring out as if fireworks made of air are exploding all around us. Allison’s shriek is in the highest range of soprano but mercifully short.
John Wilson barks, “No!” and pushes past me to grab at James’ arms. “This is insanity. Or some cruel joke made to throw chaos into your friend’s wedding day.”
“It is no joke,” James replies. “And Franklin Cuddy has attested to my fitness.”
“You cannot be serious. To cast your life’s work, your very being, aside like refuse…” John is trying to shake James now, heedless of House’s attempts to intercede. “Why? Why would you say such an unreal thing?”
James stares John down, as if there are none in the world but the two of them. “It is, as of the moment of declaration, my wish. That can be the only reason.”
House finally gets a hand between the two brothers and pushes John back. He stumbles into me, and I help him back to a sturdy stance. If in the process I restrain him from moving once more toward James and House, then so much the better.
John’s antagonism has not subsided. “On behalf of our father, patriarch of the Wilson line, I forbid this.”
Ignoring James’ open mouth, House retorts, “You have no standing to forbid or to permit. Every citizen of sound mind holds the right to determine his own fate in this matter.”
The Councilmen, who have formed a knot around Deane and begun quiet consultation, look up as John’s ire rises.
“You,” he spits, poking at House. “You would dare to say that a brother of choice should have more influence than a brother of birth?”
House’s eyes have grown steely, and he allows Allison’s hand to slip from his. The girl falls into her father’s arms, softly weeping, but House seems to take no notice of it.
Rounding fully on John, he retorts, “I make no claim of influence whatsoever. James is of age, and sane, and sober. I remind you, again, that it is his right to make this declaration.”
James moves again to make his own statement, but this time John interrupts, craning his neck to attempt to capture Deane’s eye. “Surely the Council must see the pernicious impact accepting this declaration would have on our society.”
“What impact?” House scoffs, as James sighs. “The Cuddy patriarch and first son have already assured us they are well equipped to handle the medical needs of the community. Or do you imagine that legions of men were merely waiting for James’ assertion as a signal for mass exodus from the responsibilities of citizenship?”
“Do not confuse the issue with your labyrinthine words,” John growls as he pulls against the restraint of my hand.
“It takes no extraordinary intelligence to follow the trail of my thoughts, but if you require me to slow down to a child’s pace, I would be pleased to indulge you.”
“Greg,” James snaps, and House startles. I realize with amusement that House and John in their fervent debate may have forgotten that James can still speak for himself.
“It is,” James says more moderately, “my decision, and I make it under no undue influence whatsoever.” He turns toward the members of the Council behind House. “Does the Council accept and approve my declaration?”
Anderson looks at each of his fellow Councilmen and then regards James gravely. “Do you understand fully the consequences of this decision? You will be subject to the precepts of the female station from the moment of the Council’s assent. And this decision is irrevocable.”
“I do so understand,” James says firmly. With a sense of wonder, I realize that his countenance is hale and resolute. The worriment of earlier has left him entirely. While I cannot say that I fully understand this desire of James’ to take a path so deviant from society’s expected course, it is clear that it is his heartfelt resolution to do so. It pleases me to see such an admirable citizen and cherished associate make a sought-after achievement.
“There is no reason then for the Council to disapprove,” Deane says. Each Councilman nods assent, House with an ill-disguised glint in his eye. I glance at Lisa and see an echoing sparkle in her - his small smile. Something is afoot, but I keep my tongue silent.
Deane clutches the ceremonial book in his hands tightly and intones, “The Council approves the declaration of James of the Wilson line. She shall from this moment here recorded hold the station of a woman.”
John’s moan of discontent drowns out House’s immediate words, and I catch only, “- the pledge of betrothal to James of the Wilson line.”
“I accept,” James replies, and the wails from Allison and John match perfectly in volume if not in pitch.
Cameron strokes his daughter’s back firmly and attempts to burn holes through House’s skull with his gaze. John wrenches himself free from my grasp and takes a step toward James, who has moved directly to House’s side.
“This, this was your aim all along!” John bellows.
House’s indignation is immediate. “Are you accusing a Councilman’s betrothed of malfeasance?”
“I am accusing a Councilman of malfeasance in the matter of soliciting out-of-station behavior from my brother.”
They are as two stags fighting for dominance of the herd, fury and power clashing.
“Think wisely on your words, John Wilson,” House spits in cold fever. “I do not take kindly to wild allegation and insult.”
The next step is violence if intercession is not made. Perhaps the sage word of a patriarch and healer can help. “Sister,” I say.
“What?” call all the men closest to me. James holds his tongue, and I silently laud him for remembering his new station. That is, I laud her.
“You called James your brother,” I explain to John. “She is your sister now.”
“Sister,” he repeats in a daze. “Yes. That is true, isn’t it? Fine.” He motions toward James with an insincere, theatrical bow. “Dear sister of mine.”
The whimsy drops from his tone as he continues, “I order you home. We will consult our father, and even on his sickbed, he will talk some sense into you.”
James flicks his - her eyes toward House and catches hold of his hand. House is already shaking his head. “You cannot stop this. A woman of sixteen years or more does not need her family’s permission to commit to a betrothal.”
“Of sixteen years or more!” John laughs an unhealthy chuckle that threatens not to stop. “James’ tenure as a woman has been less than a moment!”
“John,” James says quietly. “My brother.”
Still holding House’s hand, James reaches out with his - her other hand and clasps John’s forearm. “This is my heart’s desire, and with all of my soul I know it to be my destiny. Please give me your blessing and take a happy heart home with you.”
The anger falls in the gentle onslaught of such familial love. “James. James. You ask so much of me,” John sighs. “This is not the way that you were born to follow and not the fate you ought to have.”
“I am at peace,” James says, and though the words do not - are not permitted to - contradict John’s, still John sighs as if in defeat.
“Come home,” he says. “And our mother will begin to discuss the ways of marriage with you.”
“There is no need,” House interjects. “Everything is prepared here and now for the matrimonial ceremony. Let us begin.”
Allison’s sad sniffling crescendos again into a wail, and for the first time House heeds her. “Why are you crying?” he demands.
“How can you ask such a nonsensical question after deserting my daughter?” Cameron asks furiously. Allison, now seated with her mother, looks up with tear-filled eyes.
“Desertion? I have done no such thing.” House looks to Allison and tilts his chin in a gesture of beckoning. “Cease your infantile whimpering, and come resume your place.”
Cameron blocks his daughter’s passage. “But you are now betrothed to another!”
House’s face forms an expression familiar for his countenance, one which conveys so clearly his disdain for any perceived form of imbecility. “That has absolutely no consequence to my betrothal to your daughter. Come, Allison, stand by me and be sealed, and I shall trust that intelligence will be passed to my children through patrilineal blood.”
Still shielded by her father, the girl peers at first House and then James. House’s posture is one of impatience mixed with welcome; James - well, James’ expression is considerably more complex. He - she then looks down to the ground modestly, but I notice a purpling of House’s fingertips on the hand James is gripping.
House’s gaze intensifies, bringing spots of color to Allison’s cheeks. “Recall all our discourse, and you will see that nothing here has put the lie to any of it. Enter this covenant today, and you will be my wife, respected and esteemed. You will bear the progeny of the House line.”
“Greg,” James says. He - she pauses, seeming to search for correct words. To speak with a man’s tongue for decades and then begin to conform to a woman’s must, I am sure, be exceedingly difficult. “There are many pleasant days ahead appropriate for a wedding rite.”
“Today is the day I have chosen,” House replies, “and I do not wish to wait.” Smiling, he pulls James tighter to his side. “However, if Allison no longer cares for the honor offered, I suppose I can find another on whom to confer it.”
Allison slips past her still fuming father and re-joins House. “I am ready.” House smiles at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Greg,” James begins again, but is stopped by a gentle kiss from House.
“Know where our righteousness lies, beloved, and put your faith in me.”
John Wilson is returning to his family, shoulders slumped and head shaking. After a moment, assuaged a measure by his daughter’s smile of reassurance, Cameron reluctantly moves back to join his wife. Lisa takes my arm, and we return to our seats.
It is an unusual day, to be certain, but still bright, still auspicious. As the sacred words of covenant flow through my ears, as House and James make their lifelong vows, I am reminded again of Lisa’s beautiful mother. She was an upright woman, of clear piety, dedicated to the Code. And yet in our private times together, I was fortunate enough to see a sparkle not usually found among women. It was an alluring spice, and I grew quite the taste for it.
I can see that same hunger is in House’s eyes now, as he gazes on James, as he takes James into his arms and crushes their lips together.
At my side, Lisa sighs peacefully, and I pat her - his leg fondly. My child is magnificent, such a romantic when it comes to cherished friends.
Deane has re-opened the ceremonial book, and the rite repeats for House and Allison. She is a sweet child, and Lisa’s concerns are, I believe, less than founded. Allison will make a good helpmate for House and an excellent mother.
As the ceremony concludes, House bends low to bestow the marriage kiss. With House’s betrothal to Allison having been of a more typical length than his to James, I expect that they have grown accustomed to the touching of lips, and today’s kiss will be a perfunctory peck.
It seems, however, that I am mistaken, for the passionate embrace is enduring. James’ face, which had held a look of resigned patience, grows dark. James’ hand lies at House’s waist, and I see a forceful tug. This gesture is ignored, and James’ expression grows stormier still.
“Oh, James,” Lisa sighs as the violin renews its happy tune. I draw my dear child to me in reassurance - not even the truest path is smooth at every step.
Title: Covenant
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson, House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Words: 5627
Summary: James chooses the path.
Warnings: Alternate Universe (very alternate). Prequel to Pillory, which should be read first.
Note: Written for betteronvicodin, Bad!Fic prompt 124: “Wilson interrupts House and Cameron's wedding with an important announcement, what could it possibly be?” Immense gratitude to daisylily and bironic for beta, and purridot for added support.
It is a cruel trick of Greg’s, to ply me with the finest wine from his cellar on the eve of his wedding ceremony.
We are together, groom and groom’s second, in the smallest of the three kitchens on the estate Greg has in scant months past inherited. The chairs are rough-hewn but comfortable, and the table holds the empty carcasses of flagons uncounted. I refuse to look at them, refuse to count. It is our last night together as brothers of choice. In the morning he will make his vow with Allison and be lost to me.
It is possible my eyes fail to conceal the extent of my distress, for Greg staggers to his feet and clasps a strong hand on my shoulder. “The wine wishes to make its egress. Come, fair fellow, and assist me in my journey.”
I clutch at his hand, hold it fast, and plant my own shaky legs upon the ground. “Your mother will be disheartened,” I retort, lifting his hand above my head and twisting as I rise, in a clumsy imitation of tomorrow’s dance of celebration. “That is, to learn that her long-ago teachings of urinary propriety have been so easily forgotten.”
“I forget nothing,” Greg replies in a deep voice that sends minute shivers through me. Our hands are still wrapped together; I feel the pulse of his heart through my palm, or perhaps it is my own heart calling out to his. “I require your assistance, lamentably, for the task of ambulation.”
“I could fetch your cane,” I suggest, falsely. I can feel his heart and hear his breath, and we are together in his last free hours. Leaving his side is impossible to contemplate.
His lips are as flat as the horizon, but his eyes dance. “You would have me wait and fumble with a short, slender reed when this sturdy warm pikestaff is so conveniently near?”
As he leans into me, his fingers twist and turn with mine; his other arm snakes around my shoulders.
There was a strange traveler to our land many years ago, when I was still a child, who carried around his neck a thick and heavy serpent five feet long. Cool to the touch, it moved so slowly and quietly that with a different appearance it could have been mistaken for a mere yoke. And yet that strange traveler felt affection for the serpent, and told all the children of the warm heart he was convinced beat underneath.
When the traveler left, he did not leave alone.
There is a flicker to my ear as of a snake’s tongue, but it is Greg’s finger, flicking out his annoyance and urging me forward. He knows the wine always causes my mind to meander, as he surely must know that inevitably my thoughts return in the end to him.
Mid-step, he leans suddenly closer to me. I take the added warm weight gratefully, albeit with some little effort, and our progress down the hall continues. “My fair fellow,” he breathes in my ear.
“You repeat yourself,” I laugh. “And have you ever looked upon me? My coloring is hardly what one would call fair.”
“Hmph,” he grunts, as we take another step. “I have looked upon you. More times than you can conceive. Earth-brown eyes and hair, but your skin could never hide a blush.”
“What reason should I have to be abashed?”
He brings us to a lurching halt, and I move my hands to steady him. Looking up, I see his gaze fixed on me, and if my eyes are like earth, his are summer sky. It is the custom to liken such a color to ice, but to do so would deny the ascendant vitality ever-present there.
As the moment stretches, I soar into that sky, ever closer to the sun. I could blame the wine for the heat suffusing me, but who would hear? My fingers are tightening into his flesh of their own accord.
He blinks, the skin at the outside corners of his eyes crinkles, and the heat in me recedes the smallest fraction. “Abashment is not the only thing that can cause your cheeks to glow,” he rumbles, as he pushes me the final steps toward the lavatory.
“Stand by the toilet, nursemaid,” he then directs, limping slowly into the room. “It turns out your lame and wizened charge will require further assistance.”
Greg is a dangerous man. Dangerous for his own potential, and dangerous in the way he provokes boldness in me. I have always been strong. Friends and family - although not every maiden - would also call me steady. But he taps a swell of audacity and passion so well-hidden that yet I did not know it was there. Around him, I can do anything.
His trousers are open, clinging precariously to his hip bones. He stumbles carefully, precisely, and falls into my side. I catch him easily with an arm around his waist - we are strong and steady together. “Whether it is the wine or the worries of the day is beyond my concern at the moment,” he says, and waves a hand through the air, “but I am feeling as the most ancient elder and youngest child at the same time.”
The slightest sway and his mouth is against my ear. “Assist me.”
He is dangerous. He knows the letter of every law.
He makes me bold, willing to push the boundaries of the spirit.
My hand has slipped around his flesh before I think to move. I tug at the head, aim it toward the still, clear water below.
Greg’s eyes are closed, and we stand a few moments, not moving.
“Tumescence and difficulty with urination are intriguing symptoms,” I note, and this time it is my mouth at his ear. Then I shift my grip, and Greg almost gasps. “As is shortness of breath,” I tease.
He shudders, a long, shallow roll from shoulder to knees. “And I find myself feverish,” he groans.
“That, I can conclusively state, is the temperature of the air. For I have had no symptoms and yet I feel that same fever.” I let my lips travel around the curve of his ear and down the slope of his jaw, keeping a safe hairsbreadth from touching skin.
Again a shudder, this one quicker, and his breath blows out shakily. “You portray yourself a healer, but your intent clearly is to destroy me.” This time there is anger behind his words, and he knocks my hand away from him.
“Greg?” Our path has turned sharply, and I am clinging helplessly to the reins until the course is firm in the new direction.
“Go. Out,” he commands. “Your assistance is no longer needed.”
Searching his face yields nothing but the side view of a hard and lonely gaze. He will speak no more until he desires it. We have been brothers of choice long enough for me to have learned that lesson several times over.
I retreat to the kitchen and consider the wood of the table. We follow the Code. What else can citizens do? We follow the Code in our actions, in our thoughts, and in our hearts.
And if, in a worn and drunken moment months ago, we spoke of something different, then that was theory. Hypothesis - a philosophical discussion of what two other men might do. Two incomplete men, wanting only to be whole, to seal together in covenant for the sustenance of both. To inscribe their names side-by-side in the Annals and be known to history as one.
Other men. Weaker than we.
Stronger, comes the hint of a whisper; I crush it beneath my heaviest boot.
Presently Greg returns down the hall. He has located his cane and is moving faster than before. “Drink,” he barks, when his shadow first strikes the kitchen floor.
Amused, I respond, “Are you demanding I hoist one up or pass one over?”
“Both.” He drops heavily into the chair next to mine, and reaches for the nearest flagon. I snatch it away and throw the last dregs down my throat.
“From my cellar, not yours,” he protests, grabbing for another flask.
I snatch and drain that as well. “I am merely attempting to balance the scales. Tonight you have had far too much, and I have had far too little.”
He smirks and settles back in his chair, my trespass, whatever it might have been, forgiven. “It is always the case on the eve of a wedding. The second must keep his eyes clear, to assess any danger to the groom as he rushes fool-heartedly into a permanent commitment.”
“Whatever your heart may be, I do not think it a fool.”
He snorts. “In the matter of tomorrow’s nuptials, no. Sound deliberation and rational conclusion; not a twinkle of inane folly to be found.”
His eyes are on mine, alive, demanding, and I am captured. “But in another corner,” he continues, “it holds hope, and there is never any hope that is not foolish. Hope without idiocy we call instead simple longing.”
“Greg,” I warn. “You must watch your words.”
Leaning forward, he curls his hand around mine on the table. “I always watch my words, but what of you? Do you listen? Hark, now, and heed: it is with you that my hope rests. You have the power to satisfy my longing, fulfill my desire.”
His eyes are ablaze, the room is scorching beyond all measure, and the flame-licks of Hell are snapping all around me. I pull back and knock my chair to the ground in my scramble to rise. “You dare to insult me by insinuating I would stray from the righteous path?” I demand.
“You can make your path righteous,” is his cool, considered reply. He is the devil of temptation.
“Lyndon,” he continues, as if I would need reminding of this example. As if Lyndon has not been my patient for more than a dozen years, since before the declaration.
“Lyndon’s birth to the station of man was an accident of nature,” I contend. I am pacing, hard and fast, between table and stove. The room is too small. My anger has subsided into an anxiety twitching along my nerves, relieved only faintly by movement. “Her body has always held a feminine soul. As a boy, Lyndon went to the pillory a dozen times for transgressions against the Code; since moving to the station of woman, she has been a model of propriety. The declaration was simply correction of a birth defect.”
“And a happy marriage with Tom Bates resulted,” Greg replies, entirely too calmly. He has pulled the overturned chair to him with his cane and is setting it upright. “It can be done, is my point.”
In that conversation, months gone and buried, those unreal men had such very few options before them. “Leave for distant lands,” Cuddy had said, and Greg and I had laughed until our sides ached. A dear friend and my colleague in the healing arts, the only female-born ever to be elevated to the station of a man, Cuddy is a brave thinker who sometimes stretches beyond the horizon of rationality.
To conform to Lyndon as exemplar had been Greg’s proposal for the imaginary duo. My own idea was simpler, and I recall it now.
“Adams and Warren have lived together happily as brothers of choice for decades, in a just and upright relationship,” I say. “Why would they not be the model?”
“They are not joined,” Greg replies, watching me pace. “Their lines remain separate in society’s great book.”
“But everyone perceives them as one, treats them as one.”
“And yet they are not one. You have not noticed that that remains a regret and an ever-present tension between them? They cannot consecrate, cannot consummate what they hold as their highest union. They would choose to follow Lyndon’s path and then marry if they did not need both their fortunes to survive.”
That is a smear that I cannot let stand. Every citizen follows the Code in deed and thought. Imagining oneself out of station is tantamount to acting out of station. “Speak not such accusations of blasphemy. You cannot know their hearts,” I hiss.
Greg grabs at my arm as I pass and drags me to him. “I know my heart, and I know yours. You can end this charade, this teasing talk along the edges of our laws. You can make us righteous.”
He is too near, too warm. I wish I had drunk no wine and at the same time had drunk it all. Anything that might move my thoughts off their unsteady, rocky platform, to either sober reflection or oblivion. “Any man that makes a declaration like Lyndon’s suffers the loss of all that he has. What makes my life’s worth so much smaller than yours, that you would thrust the mantle of sacrifice around my shoulders?”
I feel the tug of his hands distantly and move to sit as they request. The hands squeeze my shoulders for a moment, and then one clasps strongly to the back of my neck. Again I find myself tumbling into the summer sky.
“I make no claim that my own life is worth more than any other man’s. But for an entire line to die out, to wither on the growing tree of history, is a crime. Under the patriarchy of your father, with your brother as heir, the Wilson line has grandsons and cousins and nephews, and failing all that, a chance the prodigal could return. My line has only me to sustain it.”
“In the years of our acquaintance, you have always been the only heir, and yet you were never moved to marry and begin the regeneration of the line.”
“When my father was alive, there was always the possibility of another heir, a younger brother.”
Laughing, I shake his hand off me. “At your mother’s age…”
“A second wife,” Greg explains. “He talked of it.”
We sit in silence through the space of a hundred heartbeats. My mind is careening, staggering, and there is an odd rhythm in my chest. Longing wove itself deep into the fibers of my heart so long ago that I no more think of it than I think of the taste of the air I breathe. Now it has distended, and I wonder if it will squeeze the life from me.
“You are right,” Greg says eventually, and I feel as if at sea.
“The drinking,” he explains, tapping his cane against the floor. “Too much; my head begins to hurt. Time for bed.”
Slowly to his bedchamber we go, a very different trip than the one taken earlier. The space between us is wide. The air is too heavy, with Greg’s words hanging ponderously.
I help him into the bed and turn away, intending to use the cot in the next room. But he grabs my hand. “Lie next to me. The world does not spin so mightily when you are my anchor.”
There is no reason to deny him this.
***
An auspicious day, beautiful weather, the entire community dressed in their finest. Seated next to me is my treasured child, resplendent in a gown of richest blue. Filled with joy, I pat Lisa’s thigh, trying to erase the small frown from that beautiful face.
“This is wrong,” drops for what is no doubt the hundredth time from her lips. His lips, his. Even after five years, I forget. Born a daughter but now a son, my Lisa is. Always my pride and joy, now my heir, of both our healing practice and the Cuddy line. I would trust no other to lead both into ever higher preeminence, and my blessings will always be upon Councilman Gregory House for securing Lisa’s station.
“Father, this is wrong,” she - he repeats.
“What disquiets you? Everything seems in order.”
Lisa sighs; the small furrows of worry deepen. “House should not be marrying Allison,” she - he whispers.
I pat my dear child again. “Allison is a bright, healthy girl from a good family. She will make a fine wife and a fine mother for the House children when that time comes.”
“Her fecundity is by no means certain. She has bird bones and too-slim hips,” Lisa sniffs. My smile is difficult to smother, but I manage it.
I reply, “Her sisters from the Cameron family have birthed vigorous, robust babies, as you well know.” Lisa sniffs again, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for something unknown. “Is a base, green jealousy making itself known?”
“Father! You suggest I would steal Allison for our family?”
“No indeed.” Leaning closer, I say more quietly, “It was not so long ago that you were a daughter, and I had come to wonder whether you wished to join the House line yourself.”
Lisa avoids my eyes, and tugs at her - his dress, drawing it farther down. “There might have been a betrothal of a few days’ duration, but a permanent union… I am not such a fool as to invite that disaster.”
“Dear one -”
“Father. None of that is relevant to today. I have no thought for myself, only for House and -” Lisa breaks off, eyes widening slightly.
Turning to the left, I see John Wilson, the brother of our partner in the healing practice, James. John nods to us as he escorts his family to the few remaining seats, just behind House’s fellow Council members.
The multitude here is now shifting, eager for the commencement of this illustrious ceremony. Gregory House, Councilman and patriarch of the renowned and powerful House line, is at long last taking a wife.
A violin begins playing the sweet and peaceful tune of the matrimonial ceremony. House arrives, looking dashing in his formalwear, accompanied by James as his second. They wait next to Councilman Deane, the officiant, and even at this distance, I see House’s understandable nervous strain and its reflection in his closest friend.
Every man feels a sense of unrest when standing on the verge of his most sacred and permanent commitment. Lisa’s mother was dearer to me than any other, and I knew from early days that she was meant to be my charge and helpmate. Yet even I felt a moment of concern before the words were spoken. Once she was sealed to me, though, that concern vanished, and we had decades of contentment together. This I wish for Gregory House.
Lisa nudges me toward the left, and I turn in time to see Allison drawing close to House. Her father Cameron, such a fine man, is escorting her as her mother gazes proudly from the family’s row. The girl herself simply glows with fulfillment. She is marrying the patriarch of our society’s most prominent line; she will be mother to all the House heirs. It is truly an accomplishment beyond compare.
House’s smile, while it would be considered meager on any other face, is the broadest I have ever seen on him. He takes Allison’s hand and turns her gently toward Deane to begin the ceremony.
I have settled back to enjoy the sacred rite when I hear Lisa’s sharp intake of breath. Her gaze is fixed firmly on James, and seeing his visage I understand her alarm. James’ face is ashen, and his eyes are closed. He has been prone to gastric upset in the past few weeks, and I wonder if he is suffering a bilious attack. Just then, his lips move, although we are too far away to hear the whispered words.
House and Deane turn sharply toward James; House lays a hand upon James’ arm. We hear the word, “Stop,” and then Lisa is pulling me up from my chair and down the aisle.
“Stop,” James repeats as we approach. He draws a large breath, and the color returns to his face. Opening his eyes, he looks first to House and then to Lisa and me. “Lisa, Franklin, you are here, good. You can be my witnesses. I have a declaration to give.”
“Now?” Deane and the father of the bride ask in perfect unison. Allison clings to House’s hand, eyes wide, mouth twisted in perplexity, but House’s eyes seek only James and hold only the proudest satisfaction.
I am as confused as the poor girl, but Lisa seems to know the way, affirming, “We shall support you.”
Smiling, James squeezes Lisa’s arm briefly. “I must leave the practice. My deepest apologies for the inconvenience you will -”
“Concern yourself not. There are young men eager to be trained, and Father and I will be fine.”
At House’s beckoning, the other members of the Council have joined us. “This is irregular,” Anderson notes, and the others nod. The bride’s father is still spluttering behind his daughter.
“This is important,” House retorts. “A citizen wishes to make a declaration.”
“In the midst of a Councilman’s marriage rite?” Run through with shock, Deane almost loses his grip on the ceremonial book.
“We will listen,” House commands, fixing all around him with a glare. “James?”
James turns again to Lisa and me. “You will attest to my fitness?”
“Fitness for what?” I ask. Perplexing, I find this all. “To make a declaration? You are a citizen of good standing, intelligent and honorable. Why should you need our attestation to speak?”
James’ brother John has joined our number and is looking on with no little concern. James nods to him, and then draws himself tall.
“Listen, for this is my declaration, made with sound mind and upright purpose. I am James Wilson, citizen, second son of the Wilson line. I declare my intent, at the instant of Council’s approval, to leave my born station of man and take the station of woman.”
The gasps and sighs ring out as if fireworks made of air are exploding all around us. Allison’s shriek is in the highest range of soprano but mercifully short.
John Wilson barks, “No!” and pushes past me to grab at James’ arms. “This is insanity. Or some cruel joke made to throw chaos into your friend’s wedding day.”
“It is no joke,” James replies. “And Franklin Cuddy has attested to my fitness.”
“You cannot be serious. To cast your life’s work, your very being, aside like refuse…” John is trying to shake James now, heedless of House’s attempts to intercede. “Why? Why would you say such an unreal thing?”
James stares John down, as if there are none in the world but the two of them. “It is, as of the moment of declaration, my wish. That can be the only reason.”
House finally gets a hand between the two brothers and pushes John back. He stumbles into me, and I help him back to a sturdy stance. If in the process I restrain him from moving once more toward James and House, then so much the better.
John’s antagonism has not subsided. “On behalf of our father, patriarch of the Wilson line, I forbid this.”
Ignoring James’ open mouth, House retorts, “You have no standing to forbid or to permit. Every citizen of sound mind holds the right to determine his own fate in this matter.”
The Councilmen, who have formed a knot around Deane and begun quiet consultation, look up as John’s ire rises.
“You,” he spits, poking at House. “You would dare to say that a brother of choice should have more influence than a brother of birth?”
House’s eyes have grown steely, and he allows Allison’s hand to slip from his. The girl falls into her father’s arms, softly weeping, but House seems to take no notice of it.
Rounding fully on John, he retorts, “I make no claim of influence whatsoever. James is of age, and sane, and sober. I remind you, again, that it is his right to make this declaration.”
James moves again to make his own statement, but this time John interrupts, craning his neck to attempt to capture Deane’s eye. “Surely the Council must see the pernicious impact accepting this declaration would have on our society.”
“What impact?” House scoffs, as James sighs. “The Cuddy patriarch and first son have already assured us they are well equipped to handle the medical needs of the community. Or do you imagine that legions of men were merely waiting for James’ assertion as a signal for mass exodus from the responsibilities of citizenship?”
“Do not confuse the issue with your labyrinthine words,” John growls as he pulls against the restraint of my hand.
“It takes no extraordinary intelligence to follow the trail of my thoughts, but if you require me to slow down to a child’s pace, I would be pleased to indulge you.”
“Greg,” James snaps, and House startles. I realize with amusement that House and John in their fervent debate may have forgotten that James can still speak for himself.
“It is,” James says more moderately, “my decision, and I make it under no undue influence whatsoever.” He turns toward the members of the Council behind House. “Does the Council accept and approve my declaration?”
Anderson looks at each of his fellow Councilmen and then regards James gravely. “Do you understand fully the consequences of this decision? You will be subject to the precepts of the female station from the moment of the Council’s assent. And this decision is irrevocable.”
“I do so understand,” James says firmly. With a sense of wonder, I realize that his countenance is hale and resolute. The worriment of earlier has left him entirely. While I cannot say that I fully understand this desire of James’ to take a path so deviant from society’s expected course, it is clear that it is his heartfelt resolution to do so. It pleases me to see such an admirable citizen and cherished associate make a sought-after achievement.
“There is no reason then for the Council to disapprove,” Deane says. Each Councilman nods assent, House with an ill-disguised glint in his eye. I glance at Lisa and see an echoing sparkle in her - his small smile. Something is afoot, but I keep my tongue silent.
Deane clutches the ceremonial book in his hands tightly and intones, “The Council approves the declaration of James of the Wilson line. She shall from this moment here recorded hold the station of a woman.”
John’s moan of discontent drowns out House’s immediate words, and I catch only, “- the pledge of betrothal to James of the Wilson line.”
“I accept,” James replies, and the wails from Allison and John match perfectly in volume if not in pitch.
Cameron strokes his daughter’s back firmly and attempts to burn holes through House’s skull with his gaze. John wrenches himself free from my grasp and takes a step toward James, who has moved directly to House’s side.
“This, this was your aim all along!” John bellows.
House’s indignation is immediate. “Are you accusing a Councilman’s betrothed of malfeasance?”
“I am accusing a Councilman of malfeasance in the matter of soliciting out-of-station behavior from my brother.”
They are as two stags fighting for dominance of the herd, fury and power clashing.
“Think wisely on your words, John Wilson,” House spits in cold fever. “I do not take kindly to wild allegation and insult.”
The next step is violence if intercession is not made. Perhaps the sage word of a patriarch and healer can help. “Sister,” I say.
“What?” call all the men closest to me. James holds his tongue, and I silently laud him for remembering his new station. That is, I laud her.
“You called James your brother,” I explain to John. “She is your sister now.”
“Sister,” he repeats in a daze. “Yes. That is true, isn’t it? Fine.” He motions toward James with an insincere, theatrical bow. “Dear sister of mine.”
The whimsy drops from his tone as he continues, “I order you home. We will consult our father, and even on his sickbed, he will talk some sense into you.”
James flicks his - her eyes toward House and catches hold of his hand. House is already shaking his head. “You cannot stop this. A woman of sixteen years or more does not need her family’s permission to commit to a betrothal.”
“Of sixteen years or more!” John laughs an unhealthy chuckle that threatens not to stop. “James’ tenure as a woman has been less than a moment!”
“John,” James says quietly. “My brother.”
Still holding House’s hand, James reaches out with his - her other hand and clasps John’s forearm. “This is my heart’s desire, and with all of my soul I know it to be my destiny. Please give me your blessing and take a happy heart home with you.”
The anger falls in the gentle onslaught of such familial love. “James. James. You ask so much of me,” John sighs. “This is not the way that you were born to follow and not the fate you ought to have.”
“I am at peace,” James says, and though the words do not - are not permitted to - contradict John’s, still John sighs as if in defeat.
“Come home,” he says. “And our mother will begin to discuss the ways of marriage with you.”
“There is no need,” House interjects. “Everything is prepared here and now for the matrimonial ceremony. Let us begin.”
Allison’s sad sniffling crescendos again into a wail, and for the first time House heeds her. “Why are you crying?” he demands.
“How can you ask such a nonsensical question after deserting my daughter?” Cameron asks furiously. Allison, now seated with her mother, looks up with tear-filled eyes.
“Desertion? I have done no such thing.” House looks to Allison and tilts his chin in a gesture of beckoning. “Cease your infantile whimpering, and come resume your place.”
Cameron blocks his daughter’s passage. “But you are now betrothed to another!”
House’s face forms an expression familiar for his countenance, one which conveys so clearly his disdain for any perceived form of imbecility. “That has absolutely no consequence to my betrothal to your daughter. Come, Allison, stand by me and be sealed, and I shall trust that intelligence will be passed to my children through patrilineal blood.”
Still shielded by her father, the girl peers at first House and then James. House’s posture is one of impatience mixed with welcome; James - well, James’ expression is considerably more complex. He - she then looks down to the ground modestly, but I notice a purpling of House’s fingertips on the hand James is gripping.
House’s gaze intensifies, bringing spots of color to Allison’s cheeks. “Recall all our discourse, and you will see that nothing here has put the lie to any of it. Enter this covenant today, and you will be my wife, respected and esteemed. You will bear the progeny of the House line.”
“Greg,” James says. He - she pauses, seeming to search for correct words. To speak with a man’s tongue for decades and then begin to conform to a woman’s must, I am sure, be exceedingly difficult. “There are many pleasant days ahead appropriate for a wedding rite.”
“Today is the day I have chosen,” House replies, “and I do not wish to wait.” Smiling, he pulls James tighter to his side. “However, if Allison no longer cares for the honor offered, I suppose I can find another on whom to confer it.”
Allison slips past her still fuming father and re-joins House. “I am ready.” House smiles at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Greg,” James begins again, but is stopped by a gentle kiss from House.
“Know where our righteousness lies, beloved, and put your faith in me.”
John Wilson is returning to his family, shoulders slumped and head shaking. After a moment, assuaged a measure by his daughter’s smile of reassurance, Cameron reluctantly moves back to join his wife. Lisa takes my arm, and we return to our seats.
It is an unusual day, to be certain, but still bright, still auspicious. As the sacred words of covenant flow through my ears, as House and James make their lifelong vows, I am reminded again of Lisa’s beautiful mother. She was an upright woman, of clear piety, dedicated to the Code. And yet in our private times together, I was fortunate enough to see a sparkle not usually found among women. It was an alluring spice, and I grew quite the taste for it.
I can see that same hunger is in House’s eyes now, as he gazes on James, as he takes James into his arms and crushes their lips together.
At my side, Lisa sighs peacefully, and I pat her - his leg fondly. My child is magnificent, such a romantic when it comes to cherished friends.
Deane has re-opened the ceremonial book, and the rite repeats for House and Allison. She is a sweet child, and Lisa’s concerns are, I believe, less than founded. Allison will make a good helpmate for House and an excellent mother.
As the ceremony concludes, House bends low to bestow the marriage kiss. With House’s betrothal to Allison having been of a more typical length than his to James, I expect that they have grown accustomed to the touching of lips, and today’s kiss will be a perfunctory peck.
It seems, however, that I am mistaken, for the passionate embrace is enduring. James’ face, which had held a look of resigned patience, grows dark. James’ hand lies at House’s waist, and I see a forceful tug. This gesture is ignored, and James’ expression grows stormier still.
“Oh, James,” Lisa sighs as the violin renews its happy tune. I draw my dear child to me in reassurance - not even the truest path is smooth at every step.