Chapter 1

"NEVER BUY AN OLD DeSOTO"

"Gregg Buys the Car"

Betz88

-November 28, 1998-

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written long before we were given the excellent "Three Stories", and that kicks it waay into the realm of AU. It has been around quite awhile, but never on this site. It was my first attempt at HOUSE loooong fiction, so who knows … in another universe, Gregory House's muscle infarction may have happened in this exact way, and that's why I've decided to share it here. If you are so inclined, let me know what you think. Thanks. Bets;)

It squatted half in the snow, partly beneath the barn's overhang and partly jutted into the barnyard. It seemed to hunker there, sagging a bit from a broken spring in the right rear. Both front tires were flat and both headlights blown, their lenses blackened, giving it the look of a cross-eyed dinosaur. It gave the impression of abandonment, but still seemed to hold a sense of dark power held jealously in reserve.

The barn stood across an icy road from a brick house whose front yard held an abundance of snow-covered bushes and three naked weeping willow trees. From the wide front porch came the rumbles and squeaks of three old wicker rocking chairs and the laughing banter of three young adult male voices.

"I can't go with you guys tomorrow," one argued plaintively. "I'm stuck in the clinic all day. It's a pain in the ass and I hate whiney women and snot-nosed kids, but them's the breaks. I don't want back on Cuddy's shit list 'cause I just got off it again a week ago." The speaker rolled his eyes and shrugged narrow corduroy-clad shoulders. His expressive eyes were piercing blue, the chestnut hair curly and tousled. "I'm lucky to get one day a week off anymore, so you guys will have to go on without me."

"Hell, Gregg, you should have told us earlier. Whose money are we gonna take if you aren't there to bet on the game?" growled a handsome thirty-something African American with dark penetrating eyes, wide features and deep-in-the-cellar voice that sang in the icy air. "Cuddy got you by the short hairs again, huh?"

"If that's what you want to call it." Dr. Gregory House glanced at his watch and took a quick slug from the can of beer he held in his opposite hand. "Our good buddy James will probably go along just to get out of the house, and he's dumb enough to bet on anything. Which means you guys won't be losing any money. He's gotta be the most gullible little shit I ever met. Hell, he should have been here by now. Said he was getting off at noon."

From across the porch on the third squeaky wicker chair, Vincent Crane, the Chrysler dealer with the vivid red hair and firm build of a French bulldog, added his own comment. "That dude's gonna be late for his own funeral. Or maybe his old lady's got a death grip on the reins this week." He made an elaborate gesture of pulling back on a horse's bridle. "Whoa boy!!" Vince laughed and plopped his size-nine cowboy boots up onto the porch railing with a thump, then craned his neck to see Gregg beyond the muscular body of Billy Travis, the only R. N. he'd ever known who had a build like an Eagles quarterback. "And you, Young Dr. Kildare of the warm and compassionate heart … you already spend too much time at ol' 'Warm 'n' Fuzzy' hospital. You come home smelling like poop and iodine. Yuk! You guys all do. Don't know how I got mixed up with such a smelly bunch!"

House grinned disarmingly and inclined his head toward the barnyard. "Gotta earn a living, my friend," he replied. "Gotta support my new dependant." He paused momentarily, then continued. "My Mom told me last Monday that this place is too big for her since Dad died. Like I didn't know that already! Says she's going to sell it … get out from under and move into an apartment in town. So you see, I gotta find some new digs too. I think she's going to a hi-rise, and if she does, she won't need me to live with her anymore."

Vince whistled through his teeth. "Whew! Doesn't give you much time to fix up that old piece of shit over there, does it?"

"Poor timing," Gregg admitted. "But maybe I can get the thing going before that happens. And besides, better be careful what you say around Mother Goose. She might hear you and lay a big ol' exhaust fart on you!"

This time two startled faces met his words. "What did you just call that wreck?" Billy needled him.

Gregg drained his beer can, collapsing it easily within his fist. "Mother Goose," he repeated brightly. "You know … 'goose the mother and watch 'er haul ass!'"

There was a moment of laughter, then Billy Travis shook his dark head, black cornrows bouncing. "You silly shit! But seriously, Gregg isn't your timing a little off? Maybe you should'a waited awhile to see if you gotta move … when you gotta move. Where you gonna keep 'er?"

Greg sighed, assuming a pained expression. "Damn if I know, but maybe we can get 'er up and running before then. Then she can go where I go. I can sell the station wagon in a heartbeat."

"WE?" Two voices loudly and in unison.

"Well … yeah. Why not? Between the four of us, we should be able to handle it, right? You know … flesh an' blood … wires an' metal; same difference!" He paused a moment, timing their reactions before adding the zinger. "Besides, why do you think I keep you guys around and keep stuffing your faces with hamburgers and beer? Not for your girlish good looks, that's for sure!"

"Shee-yitt!" Exploded from Vince's direction.

From Billy: " Nice! I thought slave labor went out a hundred an' fifty years ago. Guess not. You talk to him Vince! He's my boss an' I have to answer to him, but he ain't yours!"

"What would be the use?" Vince Crane moaned. "Like he says, he don't keep us around for our looks. You're an old-car nut and I sell Chryslers. As for our pal Jimmy Boy with the nice white fingernails … he likes things neat. He'll stick around to keep the mess cleaned up."

The sound of big tires crunching down the icy road and the rumble of a powerful engine silenced the trio momentarily. Speak-of-the-devil expressions crossed their faces at the same instant, bringing grins and eye rolling. Nobody had bothered to let Jim know about the addition to the barnyard. James Wilson, another of Billy's bosses and Gregg's younger colleague and best friend, had arrived. The beautifully restored F-150 swung into the snow-packed field, swooping dangerously close to a towering tail fin, then braked to a stop. Jim revved the pickup's engine and killed it. They watched from the porch, not speaking. In the ensuing silence, nothing happened for nearly a minute. Then suddenly the icy air seemed to double its weight from anticipation of what might happen next.

High-pitched laughter rolled upward and across from the porch. The Ford's driver threw open his door and slid lightly to the ground. He stood motionless for a moment, fists on hips, staring. Jim still wore hospital scrubs beneath his ancient Navy peacoat, and the strings of a white surgical mask dangled beneath the coat's hem. He turned around very slowly, dark eyes piercing the three of them as they finally came to their feet and started toward him. He cocked his head in disdain. "So! This must be that 'beautiful classic car' you said you were going to go look at, Dr. House!" He extended his hands, palms up. "My God! It's a Land Yacht! It's a Sherman Tank! It's a for-cryin'-out-loud Upside-Down-Swimming-Pool! Gregory, are you serious?"

House-the-doctor nodded humbly. "You are so perceptive, James. It's all of that and more."

"You call that a 'car'? It's a monstrosity. Looks like something that got dredged up from the bottom of the river."

"Amen," someone added unnecessarily.

"'It', my boy, dear uninitiated buddy, " Gregg replied calmly with only a small hint of snark, "is one slightly used, perfectly serviceable beneath all the crud, magnificent feat of Chrysler Corporation engineering known as a 'concept car'. Their original 'try-it-and-see-if-it-works' car. What you're looking at, my friend, is a real honest-to-God, don't-make-'em-anymore, bonafide 1959 DeSoto Firedome coupe, complete with white-wall tires, full vinyl roof and genu-wine Corinthian leather interior. So there!"

"You wasted a lot of time memorizing all that, didn't you, Gregg?" Jim shook his blondish mop of silky hair and blinked his eyes owlishly. "I think," he announced in a peevish tone, "you just blew your last gasket, popped your final cork, lost your last marble, threw your last bearing, blew out your last light bulb, crashed the only program you had left, and shredded your one remaining …"

"Oh all right already!!" Greg House knew when he'd been poleaxed by an expert.

Laughter swirled around them in ice-chrystalized puffs. As Jim turned, someone handed him a beer from behind, and when he looked up, Gregg's arm lay comfortably across his shoulders.

For awhile they stood hunched in a circle, looking at the old car as though it were a strange work of art in an obscure gallery somewhere.

"What's it gonna take to slap an inspection sticker on the damn thing?" Vince Crane finally asked. "The guy you bought it from … he say anything about what-all it needed?"

Gregg nodded and looked Crane in the eyes. "Yeah, he did." The doctor's face became grim, and the others automatically braced for what came next: "He said that If I park her in the back of your shop, that's where I'd prob'ly find all the MOPAR parts. Not at his place, and not here."

Vince rolled his eyes and stepped back a step. Billy took over. "What's the damned thing need to put it back on the road?"

Gregg shrugged, shoulders elevated, eyes wide. "Oh, not so much, I think. The guy said the engine's in top shape. Tranny too. Twenty thousand on the last overhaul. Needs paint though."

Vince Crane choked on his beer trying to keep a straight face, but sputtered beer down the front of his jacket anyhow. "Paint ain't gonna make 'er run, numbskull. How 'bout just the stuff it'll take to make it drivable?"

Having listened long enough to things he couldn't make sense of, Jim Wilson scrunched his face and tilted his head. "It's not got much in the way of safety equipment, does it? I mean, look at the seat belts! Lap style. You'd cut off the top of your head if you crashed and hit the steering wheel. Everything on the dash is metal. Clunk clunk crash crash. Got no airbags, no …"

"Whoa!" Billy growled. "Whaddaya mean 'no air bags'?"

They looked at him questioningly. Jim had obviously been right.

Billy smiled, face bland with innocence. "If it's you behind the wheel, Jimmy Boy, it's for sure the damned thing's got a wind bag!"

Wilson was silent for a moment. Then: "G. F., Travis!"

They enjoyed another laugh, then Gregg began to count on his fingers the list of needed parts. "Tires and headlights," he began. "Brakes, water pump, springs in the rear, gotta get the ding out of the passenger door … rear universal."

"Whoa!" Billy interrupted. "Both universals. The new one will blow out the front one if you don't."

"Got it," Gregg said. "Both universal joints! The guy said the battery is new. He got it to try to start the thing, but there's a flat spot on the starter. He's not sure about the voltage regulator. It sat in a shed for four years. It'll probably need hoses, belts, and clamps all of that."

"Well. Is. That All???" Billy grumbled incredulously. "Really?"

Gregg House held back another grin. The dimples in his cheeks deepened impishly. "Yeah, Bill, I think so. Why? That a lot?"

Jim Wilson stepped closer to his best friend. "Maybe, old buddy," he suggested, "you could just jack up the steering wheel and run a whole 'nother car under there."

Gregg lurched suddenly in the direction of the younger man in mock attack, but Jim saw it coming and jumped nimbly out of the way, narrowly avoiding an elbow in the ribs.

This elicited another laugh. "You're just jealous," House said.

"Jealous of what?" Billy asked. "Of a 1959 Deeee-Soto? I don't think so!"

"You too, mister," Gregg grumbled. "The only wheels you got to your name are the ones on that pug-ugly Ford Taurus you keep bragging about. But it's got tin-foil fenders and all of twenty-three miles on the odometer. Give it another twenty-three miles and little bitty pieces will start dropping off along the road." He was grinning broadly while Billy stood and sputtered.

"Maybe so," he retorted, "but it'll last long enough so that you'll be an old, old man who can't walk anymore and will have to ride to work in a wheelchair. That's how long that car is gonna last!"

Gregg pulled up short. That was heavy stuff. Wheelchair? Ugh! "Not in a million years!" he scoffed.

More griping and insults passed between them, but after awhile the teasing and laughter dulled, until someone reminded everybody else just how damned cold it was out there. And so they corralled all the empty beer cans and turned back across the road.

Inside the house, the kitchen was warm, there were hamburgers ready to broil, and the only thing still cold was the beer.

7