December 31st
New Year's Eve
It's been a long evening and it isn't even midnight yet. Greg sits back and sips his latte as he listens to Cousin Joe with Gatemouth Brown on lead guitar. He's waiting for a biopsy result to come in; though he's fairly certain of what it will tell him, he needs proof in hand before he delivers the bad news to Patterson. Or rather to his wife, since Patterson himself is incapable of comprehension at this point.
His thoughts drift to the party at the fire hall. He could be there now, at his keyboard to play a slow song with the band and watch his wife dance with her grandfather. He'd opted to come here because while he can dump mundane chores off on his minions, the actual diagnosis is his responsibility. He used to foist it off on team members when he worked at PPTH, true enough, but things are different now. This is his practice, he's in charge.
The soft beep of an incoming message on his desktop distracts him from his thoughts. He pops the display up and there's Roz. She's at the dance, he can hear the music and see people behind her. He glances at the little glass spider perched on the corner of the blotter—her birthday present to him—and back at the screen. He still has the calcite worry stone she gave him last year at Christmas; it sits in his pocket, a small, pleasant reminder of her that he carries with him everywhere.
"Hey amante," she says, her dark voice a caress. "Just checking in, how's it going?"
"Results should be in shortly," he says, as he enjoys the sight and sound of her. "I take it the shindig progresses."
"Not the same without you," she says. "Everyone wishes you a happy birthday and thanks for the cake. I saved a big corner with lots of buttercream for you. We'll have it for breakfast."
"Pffft," he says, but still pleased. "Cake Temptress, trying to have your evil way with me."
"Damn straight," Roz says, and waggles her eyebrows at him. Her green eyes sparkle. "Let's go watch the band for a few minutes."
She takes the webcam to the side of the makeshift stage, and as she approaches the band starts to play. He recognizes the song and makes a face.
"Hah, very funny," he growls, but a laugh gets the better of him because they're playing the Beach Boys 'The Ballad of Ole Betsy' and every one of those jerks grins at him. They deliver the last lines, 'she may be rusted iron/but to me she's solid gold/and I just can't hold the tears back/'cause Betsy's growing oooooooold . . .' in perfect, lugubrious harmony; he can hear Sarah's clear alto add a layer of sweetness, damn her treacherous hide. She waves at him from behind the keyboard where she's taken his place. Looks like she's perfectly at home.
When the band is done they yell 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY GREG!' and the hall erupts in cheers and hoots.
"Happy birthday," Roz says with a laugh. Greg groans and rolls his eyes.
"Yokel humor, hardy har har," he snarks.
"Wish you were here." She blows him a kiss. "I'll see you at home, okay?"
"Yeah. Come naked, bring cake," he says, and enjoys her soft laugh.
"One now, one later," she says.
"Okay, I choose naked."
"Hah, only if you want a popsicle on your doorstep."
"But then I'd get to thaw you out," he says, and looks up as Anne comes into the office. "Gotta go."
"Okay. Love you," Roz says, and she's gone.
"Results at last," Anne says. She looks tired, a little sad as she hands him the sheet. Greg looks it over and nods his head; he's got the evidence he needs.
"Go home," he says. "Make sure you note your hours after five as overtime."
Anne gives him a slight smile. "Thanks, but I'll stay till Colleen comes in at six."
"Hey, no skin off my nose. Making the big bucks will just bump you into a higher tax bracket." He stretches a little and gets to his feet, gives his right leg a chance to loosen up. The new thigh muscle's cramping more than usual—a good sign from what the trial doctors tell him, but bothersome all the same. Still, it beats the alternative.
"Good night, Doctor House. Happy New Year." Her smile widens. "Happy birthday as well."
"Not you too," he groans, and she chuckles before she heads into the dim interior of the main room.
Patterson's wife is still up, as he knew she would be. When he comes into the room she closes her eyes for a moment, then faces him. Greg stops at the foot of the bed. "Ragged red fiber," he says. "I know that means nothing to you, but it tells me what I need to know." He takes a breath. "Your husband has MELAS syndrome. It's a rare form of dementia. It took us a while to figure out because he's an atypical case. Most patients present with stroke-like symptoms much earlier, often in childhood or youth. He's a late bloomer."
"Is—is there any treatment for it?" she asks after a brief silence. Greg shakes his head.
"The best we can do is manage symptoms as they show up. Some patients have responded to vitamins and anti-oxidants, but not on enough of a consistent basis to make them a serious option."
She nods and draws a deep breath, lets it out. She looks better now than she did when he came in; Greg understands why. To know is better than to not know, even if the diagnosis is bad. "Okay. At least I know where we stand." She lifts her gaze to his, a brief acknowledgment. "I can't say this is anything I ever wanted to hear, but thank you for finally finding the truth, Doctor House. It means more than I can say."
He's just told her her husband is toast and she's thanked him. Wilson would be in complete shock at this point, and out ten bucks as well. "My secretary can get you the names of some competent specialists. Don't settle for some moron who'll try to convince you seaweed tea is the magic cure."
She actually smiles just a little at that and takes her husband's hand in hers. "I won't."
He leaves her there to sit beside the wreck of her marriage, her dreams and hopes. The song he'd listened to earlier echoes in his head.
life is a one-way ticket, baby
and they ain't no second time around
so you better get all you can out of life
before you six feet underground
He thinks about that while he navigates the snowy roads. The luck of the draw has changed two peoples lives in ways they'd never imagined. That same random quality has touched him as well. Where would he be if he hadn't encountered Sarah at Mayfield? Percentages indicate he'd be deader than a mackerel, or well on his way with liver failure or an overdose, most likely. Lesser numbers tend toward permanent psychosis, or a revolving door policy on the looney bin; undoubtedly he'd still be plagued by hallucinations, auditory and visual, as well as full-blown panic attacks and even worse, an increasing inability to use his one great gift. But here he is, on his way home—a real home, not a place just to sleep and heat up takeout and drink copious amounts of alcohol—to make love to his wife, a woman who sees him for what he is and loves him anyway, and on Monday he'll walk through the doors of his own practice, with his own team at work to find another pair of patients to diagnose. He's hit the Powerball numbers, every single one of them, and he doesn't deserve it at all—but he'll take the reward anyway. He'd be a fool not to.
"One-way ticket," he murmurs aloud, and turns down the street that leads to his house, to see the neighbor's Christmas lights blink and flash as he pulls into the driveway.
He's just rummaged through the fridge for a snack when his cell phone rings. He checks it, with the thought that it's Anne or maybe Roz. Instead he sees 'House, Blythe' on his caller ID. He hesitates, then takes the call. "Mom," he says with some caution.
"Happy New Year," his mother says. She sounds a bit subdued, but still warm and affectionate. "How are you, dear? Working late?"
"What's up?" he sidesteps her questions.
"Well . . ." She sighs softly. "Fine, I'll get right to the point. It's your birthday, and I've wanted to tell you this for a while now, so it seems like a good opportunity and—and an appropriate gift. Your real father is still alive. I can give you his contact information if . . . if you'd like to meet him."
Greg takes a breath. He is consumed by a sudden and intense awareness of his surroundings—the soft light of the lamp on his desk, the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the tv in the other room, the hiss of snow against the window in the kitchen door. "Please tell me he's not career military."
"No, though he was drafted during the Korean war. He's a doctor, a surgeon. Well, he was then. When the war ended he opened a general practice in his home town." Blythe hesitates. "He's—he's not getting any younger. I thought you should have the chance to meet him."
"Very thoughtful of you," Greg says, not quite sure what to say or do, so he takes refuge in sarcasm. "Does he know about me?"
"He does now. I told him a few months ago." Blythe sighs.
"I take it from your reaction he wasn't thrilled." The last thing he wants is to voluntarily walk into this emotional minefield.
"He—he didn't say much. We haven't seen each other since . . . I thought it was best that he didn't know . . . I'm sorry, Greg. I never meant to keep you a secret, but I was afraid of John's reaction—and your real father's too. And—and yours, eventually. I've probably made things worse for you-"
"Where is this guy?"
"He lives in Maine, but he has a computer with a webcam. If you like, you can talk with him that way."
Eventually he takes the information. When he's done Blythe says "I hope . . . I didn't mean to hurt you with this, Greg. I . . . I'm so glad you have Roz, she's such a darling and so right for you, and the Goldmans are wonderful friends . . . but it just didn't seem right to keep denying you the chance to meet your father."
"Stop fussing. I'll deal with it or I won't. You did what you could at the time," he's surprised to hear himself say. What's even more shocking is the fact that he means it. Holy shit, he thinks. I just gave my mom a pass on stupid behavior.
"Well . . . thank you, dear." His mother sounds tremulous, but he can tell she's smiling too. "Happy New Year to you and Roz, I hope it's a good one."
For a long time after the call ends he stares at the piece of paper with the address scribbled on it. He'll have to think about this first, think about it long and hard. The man who raised him was an utter bastard; god knows what this guy will be like, and there's the added worry of how his biological father feels about him. The fact that he's known about his child's existence for several months and hasn't made contact . . . Greg releases a breath he hadn't realized he held. He should freak out over this. Instead he feels . . . uncertain and anxious. Annoyed as hell at his mother, yeah, even while he understands her reasons to a degree. But there's no huge crisis. Maybe it's just incipient shock, but that isn't enough cause for why he's not an emotional wreck.
Huh. He can't help but feel bemused by the whole experience. This must be something like how normal people handle things. How about that. At last he takes the paper, goes into the bedroom and stuffs it into his backpack. It can wait.
It's just a little before one by the time he hears Roz at the back door. Hellboy jumps off his lap and heads into the kitchen. A few moments later she appears with the cat in her arms. There's a light dusting of snow on the Santa cap perched atop her dark locks; she looks tired but happy. "Hey," she says, and puts the Heebster on the back of the couch so she can remove her coat.
"You're home early."
"Sarah and McMurphy kicked me out," she says, and slips her arms around him as she gives him a kiss that leaves no doubt of her intentions. "They both wish you a very happy birthday," she says against his lips.
"Yeesh, guaranteed to cause shrinkage," he grouses, but his heart isn't in it and Roz knows it. She chuckles and kisses him again. He reaches up and tosses the hat to the floor, then runs his fingers through her thick hair. He enjoys the feel of the silken strands against his skin, and takes comfort from her closeness.
"What is it?" she asks when the kiss is done. Greg smiles a little. Of course she picked up on his mood.
"Mom called," he says. "She gave me my real dad's webcam addy."
Roz's eyes widen. "Wow," she says softly.
"Yeah."
She rubs his back, a slow circle. "What will you do?"
"Not sure yet." He's fairly certain he'll contact the man, but the information has to sit for a while first.
"Are you okay?" She asks it straight out, but she holds him close too, in the shelter of her arms.
"Yeah," he says, and it's the truth. "Yeah, I'm all right."
They hold each other for a while, snuggled together. Then she leans in and kisses his cheek. "Can I ask a small favor before we celebrate in style?" she says after a few moments. He nuzzles her hair, appreciative of the way she doesn't push him with more questions; she'll let him talk to her when he's ready.
"If you must."
Roz pulls back a bit and gives him a stern look, though her gaze is full of laughter. "Don't be a cheapskate."
"Yeah, yeah, spill it already woman. You're taking up valuable time we could be using to have smokin' hot sex."
Roz rolls her eyes. "Fine. I want you to play a song for me. Please."
They end up at the piano. "My lady commands," he says, and executes a little show-off riff. "And your request?"
To his surprise she starts to sing—a breathy little half-whisper, she's still too shy to actually try out the melody in front of him:
when the bells all ring and the horns all blow
and the couples we know are fondly kissing
will I be with you or will I be among the missing?
He comes in, rolls the chords a little, and joins his voice to hers.
maybe it's much too early in the game
ah, but I thought I'd ask you just the same
what are you doin' New Year's, New Year's Eve?
wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
when it's exactly twelve o'clock that night
welcoming in the New Year, New Year's Eve
maybe I'm crazy to suppose
that I could be the one you chose
out of a thousand invitations you'll receive
ah, but in case I stand one little chance
here comes the jackpot question in advance:
what are you doin' New Year's, New Year's Eve?
When the song is finished they kiss, a long, tender and passionate salute that leaves them both breathless and trembling.
"Happy New Year, amante," Roz says finally. Her hand caresses his cheek. "So glad I'm here with you."
He busses her lips, quick and light. "Yeah," he says softly. "Me too. Let's go bring in the damn year already." He closes the lid on the keys and helps her up with him. They stand there for a few moments and indulge in a few more kisses before they go to the bedroom, hand in hand, and turn off the light behind them.
Outside the snow comes down soft and silent, oblivious to the shouts and cheers, the bangs of pots and pans, the sound of rifles and shotguns, the bells. It settles on house and ground alike and offers a transient virgin purity, white and pure in the glimmering dimness.
'Ballad of Ole Betsy', the Beach Boys
'Life is a One Way Ticket', Cousin Joe
'What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?', Frank Loesser (Rufus Wainwright's cover is my favorite)