Title: The Creation and Development of the Friends of the ABC: Chapter 1/?

Author: flyery

Rating: PG-13 (May go to R in later chapters)

Pairing: implied House/Wilson/Chase, RLP+Chase, RLP+House, RLP+Wilson

Summary: AU. It was a chance meeting for a boy of only ten years of age but it, and the subsequent encounters would inspire him years later as he was writing the most famous novel of his career.

Warning/ Historical Note: (potential spoilers) This AU is set during the French Revolution and the period just after it which means it will stretch from the mid-1700's to the mid-1800's. I am aware that there are many different interpretations of the personalities that animated that time-period. Mine may very well be different than yours. House's character Gregoire Coste is based on the real life physician Jean-Francois Coste who really did hold some of the positions I have given to Gregoire Coste. However, I have not used all the information that I found and I doubt that anything like this happened. There is no evidence that Victor Hugo was inspired by anything other than history, but this plot bunny has attacked me so I follow its will. Any questions about the historical aspect can be asked and I'll do my best to give answers or link sites.

Disclaimer: I make no claim to own the copyright for House, M.D.

"I'm gonna base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. It's what life is. It's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are." - Eve: One Day, One Room

*****

Chapter 1: Meiosis (Age 10)

Parisians will tell you of the beauty of the Luxenburg Gardens. And they are beautiful, every year, the flowers are planted and trimmed by the best gardeners of the nation, every year, they are carefully watched over. But that year, there had been a particular combination of sun and rain, an almost perfect mix. Paris had never seen so beautiful a year in their prized public gardens. And how public they were. Women were walking along the paths with parasols and long-sleeved dresses, the material sparkling in the sun. In another corner, children blackened by smoke and grime were chasing pigeons, carefully avoiding the beginnings of the numerous flower patches. Their laughter juxtaposed the gentle swish of long skirts. Even birds could be heard, calls rising in a crescendo above the others. The noises of the street seemed to scarcely reach this sanctuary.

On a bench a boy was sitting, watching the movement of the populace through the public gardens. He had already been there this year, had watched as the flowers bloomed, had known how beautiful they would be. It didn't really matter now though. The warm months were already too far through, their beauty had already become the norm. Only the interactions held his interest and it was only for a time before he grew bored of them. Instead, his ears hold a new siren call. He stood up and began to make his way towards the slight walls which enclosed the gardens.

Streets were the primary limit to the greenery and on their opposite side were cafes, some more dilapidated than others. From them came the scent of cafe the drink that had been brought from the New World along with chocolat and fruits new to the European palette. All the rage now. Even Napoleon's first wife had come from the New World: Josephine had spoken in a dialect strange to Parisian ears. Someone had once tried to mimic her voice for the boy but they had given up, muttering that it wasn't quite like that. They didn't understand the child's resentment of her; hadn't thought it possible that he'd already have been contaminated by his parents' influence.

Having seen a gap in the string of carts and carriages, the child, who, as all others, wanted to be called man, moved quickly through to end up on the opposite side of the road. Curious, he walked past the cafes, trying to decide which one seemed to hold the most interesting mix of students and artists. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the coins he found there and began counting, hoping he might have enough to buy one of the more expensive drinks that one of his friends had boasted about trying. As he attempted to split his attention between the patrons in the cafes and the coins in his hands, he forgot to leave any of it to check the placement of his feet. The consequence: he tripped in front of one of the many tables. While he was only scraped by the cobblestones, he had managed to unsettle the table enough that the tipping back and forth of the glasses could be heard. Quickly bouncing up, he grabbed the hot cup that was nearest to the edge and calmed the rocking table.

As he began to scuttle away, he was stopped by a firm press on his shoulder. "Wait a moment, let me look at that cut," said a kind voice.

Startled, Victor began to slowly rotate his body to the man, correction men at the table. There were three and it was the one who was neither oldest or youngest who had spoken to him. The youngest must have been in his early forties and the shoulder-grabber in his late forties. The oldest, maybe early sixties. While the youngest' eyes smirked at him, the dissimilar one, the one who had stopped him, showed a degree of compassion that contrasted the other two men's emotion so heavily that the boy wondered why they were at a table together.

Grudgingly, the child showed the man his hands, turning them this way and that to display the redness of the skin and the slight breaks in it. After a few moments of examination, the soft-faced man quickly dipped his handkerchief in a small glass of bronze liquid.

"Saint-Wilson," said the oldest man, " Your pressence has been missed in this city. How could it be that you left it. Soon the streets will echo with calls for you once again. Saint-Wilson. Saint-Wil...son."

Monsieur Wilson, and what kind of name was that, pursed his face slightly before pressing the cloth down on Victor's palm. The sting, sharp and biting made him tense and try to pull away but his hand was secure in its hold.

"I suppose that because I pretend sometimes to be a fuller, better and more caring person who loves all the little children of the world, part of that act has to include helping this little child when he has fallen. The people must know the truth: I am not a miracle-worker." Monsieur Wilson was almost as good as the older man at sarcasm.

The boy, slightly worried that his fall had ruined whatever gathering these men were having said quickly, "I'm not a 'little child' but I'm really quite sorry that I fell and really my hands are fine: there's no reason to examine or treat me or argue about me."

The men don't seem to pay heed. The one who hadn't talked yet was still smirking, watching the scene as an audience member might a play. He made no move to disturb them in their bickering and instead took slight sips from the cup of cafe he had in front of him. As Victor caught his gaze, the man held it and glanced at him once with interest, as though he was studying him, before releasing his awed gaze and taking another sip.

There was a certain amount of reverence to be felt for the man, the boy thought. Though he had probably once had a smoother, younger face, his hair still gleamed gold in the light and was tied back in a low tail by a leather thong that couldn't quite keep some strands from escaping. Most of these runaways were tucked behind his ears. The rest of him: blue eyes, only slight wrinkles at their corners, a lean body, tapered fingers, suggested that he was some prince from a tale who had been dropped into Paris several years ago and had since aged. But Victor supposed that he had been told that his entire life. Any of his comments would lack novelty. The boy still hoped that he had been in the military, an officer or a commander, so that there could be someone in there who really was like the heroes in all the pamphlets.

It was Monsieur Wilson's exasperated, "Coste," (he had been wrapping Victor's hand in the cloth) that brought his attention back to the argument at hand. Feeling that he had heard the name before, he searched back to the conversations he had heard in the past. Having realised who the oldest man, Monsieur Coste, was, he said, "You're Gregoire Coste who went to serve in America?"

With a sigh and a muttered, "I blame you," Monsieur Coste nodded and put up his hand to stop any questions. "No I'm the other Coste."

The boy was disappointed. He'd wanted to tell his friends all about who he'd met.

But the stream of self-pity was interrupted. "Yes, that is me. You shouldn't believe everything you hear. As I'm sure Chase can tell you, he's certainly heard it enough times, everybody then, Wilson's done weeping over you, why don't you scurry along home with the big news of who you've met. No need to tell them what you've learned. Chase, get me another two orders of Scotch, Wilson's contaminated mine. He'll pay you back."

Now Monsieur Chase (and who were the others with their English names who went to a cafe with such an important man) said with an edge of humor to his voice, "House, while you may pretend to never remember another's name, I happen to know that you're adept with faces. And this face happens to remind me of a certain high-ranking officer we met. Your surname is Hugo, is it not?"

An expression of contempt passed over the young boy's face. "My father is a traitor to the history of France. He believes that there is no God and he made my mother leave!"

A chuckle and then, "So you think your opinions make you special? Very different views from his from his father if you are right, Chase. In fact he seems like a miniature version of you when you were brought it. Still," and then a look which the boy could not understand, "I suppose you did prove, Chase, that passion is not a negative trait in the young, or even the middle-aged. Your name then, see if you may prove him right again."

Slightly subdued and yet upset by the patronizing, "Hugo, Victor-Marie Hugo."

A smirk from Monsieur Chase was all the 'I told you so' that he gave Coste, but the boy felt his curiosity slowly bubbling to the surface, "Excuse me, but Monsieur Coste, why did Monsieur Chase call you House? And why do they have English names?"

Having realized that he might very well just have insulted these overwhelming men, he was quick to start speaking again, "I'm very sorry I didn't mean to overstep my bounds, I just…"

But his babbling was once again cut off by the sudden presence of Monsieur Wilson's hand on his shoulder. "You shouldn't torture the boy, certainly not for a question that you would have asked. Besides, he is intelligent and you know he comes from a good family, whether you believe in the inheritance of those personality traits or not."

Monsieur Coste scoffed and then said, "If you are indeed intelligent and educated than you should know about the Revolution. Chase here has blue blood dripping from his veins even if he just came from the minor nobility. So he had a fancy name: Robert De La Chase, but he changed because he wanted to pass for a country boy. Everybody now a day's wants to be somebody else. I found him, I call him Chase. And Wilson sounds far better than Jacques. I dislike the Middle Ages."

"But how did it come to be that you have ended up, years after the Revolution, sitting in a cafe as old friends?"

Another release of air from House, "Time binds boy, you'll know that some day. When you've gone through as much of life as we have you'll understand. It's just the way it works. And us three, we've gone through a whole lot." At a sudden brightening in the eyes of Victor, House adds, "No life stories, I'm sure your mother is missing you."

"I came to the garden on my own, I came to this cafe on my own, I grew here, my mother doesn't worry. And I wasn't going to ask anyways," he says sharply even though he was.

Just then, the waitress arrived and looked at the newest arrival with expectancy, "So what can I get you?" She didn't seem so shocked but based on the way the men have been going at it over his presence, it wasn't because they often had additions to their little group.

The boy looked around the table and saw Monsieur Wilson nod. With a shinning smile, he asked for the price of a chocolat and, having discovered that he had the right amount, ordered one. Monsieur Wilson's smiling now and even House said, "While I suppose if you're paying for it…" Monsieur Chase just sat calmly but at House's comment, the first hints of a smile brushed his cheeks and suddenly, it was as if Apollo walked again. The waitress, returning, saw him and almost triped. Monsieur Chase seemed almost oblivious to this attention, still watching the other two men. Victor supposed it happened often to him. But they noticed and for a moment, there's something in House's eyes, but it's incomprehensible. With the drink laid down and the waitress gone, it disappeared.

The boy stayed until the last drops have been poured from his cup. He put down his few coins, but House brushed them away saying, "Wilson and Chase are splitting the bill, buy something else with that."

Victor was struck by the strangeness of this group. He started to protest but it was both Monsieur Chase and Monsieur Wilson whose hands stopped him. So he gave up, pocketed the money and waved the group good-bye. As he walked back home, he realized that his questions about House, or he supposed properly he should say Monsieur Coste, were unanswered. Shaking his head slightly, he began to skip as he continued on his way home, fingering his coins. Nobody would ever believe him and he supposed his mother might disapprove, but that afternoon was the most interesting one he'd had yet.