Title: The Promise
Author: pgrabia
Disclaimer: House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.
Genre: Drama/Romance/angst
Characters/Pairing(s): G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.
Word Count: ~1300
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". Major character death. Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.
Rating: R (M) (to be safe) unless otherwise advised.
A/N: This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.
Unbetaed, sorry.
The Promise
Chapter Three
Clancy's Pub was a small establishment styled after traditional Irish public houses and was hopping with business when Deacon Bernard arrived the next evening. He looked around the busy room with pale green eyes, searching for the man he was supposed to meet with, basing his search on the parameters he'd been given: a man with a cane wearing a cap and classic rock tee. He smiled slightly to himself when he spotted the likely candidate sitting at a two-top booth in the far corner of the room. The subject was middle-aged, late 40's to early fifties with three-days growth of beard, angular face and tall, slender body wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and jeans with leather motorcycle boots and a cap on his thinning head of hair.
Deacon waded through the crowd of people, past snooker tables and a line of people playing darts, to get to the booth. Upon his arrival the man looked up at him and nodded for Deacon to sit down opposite him. He removed his overcoat and threw it onto the seat before sitting down next to it.
"Mr. Thomas, I presume?" Deacon said mildly.
The other man nodded curtly. "You're the shyster Stacy referred me to, huh?"
"Apparently," Deacon said with a chuckle, " but I'd prefer you called me Deacon or Mr. Bernard than shyster, Dr. House."
The man looked at him, startled, and made to get up from the booth.
"Don't go," Deacon told him, grabbing his wrist. "Sit down before you make a scene and attract what I'm certain would be unwanted attention."
They met gazes briefly before the man nodded and sat down again.
"Stacy told you who I was?" House asked him softly, looking displeased.
"No. I remember seeing you with her at one cocktail party or another that she likely dragged you to," Deacon assured him. "We've met before, briefly, but obviously I'm more forgettable than you are."
"So you know why I need a good defense attorney," House said, cutting to the chase.
"I didn't think dead men needed attorneys," Deacon said with a smile. House rolled his eyes at the remark. "You realize you're presumed dead, I assume."
"Is everything we talk about confidential?" House asked, his eyes scanning the room quickly, nervously, before returning to look at the attorney. Before Deacon could reply a server came to their table. House ordered a scotch, neat. Deacon ordered a pale ale draft and she went on her way to retrieve the drinks.
"Yes, although this is hardly what I would call a private environment in which to meet and discuss your particular situation," Deacon told him.
House shrugged one shoulder. "There's privacy in the middle of a crowd. No one here knows me, so there's no reason for them to be trying to listen in to our discussion."
Deacon had to admit that there was truth to what he said and nodded. "I won't ask you to describe to me here and now how you managed to pass yourself off as being dead. I am curious as to what exactly it is you want from me."
"I want my life and identity back," House said simply. "The New Jersey DOC thinks I'm dead so they're not looking for me as a fugitive of their custody. That was the point. I had a reason for faking my death and I've been living on the lamb all this time. That reason no longer exists, so I want my life, such as it is, back. I'm not stupid. I know I'm facing considerable prison time for escaping custody while on parole. I need you to help me face as little additional prison time as possible."
"Oh, is that all," Deacon replied with a touch of sarcasm. "I'll need to know more of the details of your original incarceration, parole, and reason for your parole being revoked before I can do anything—and I don't make promises. If you play straight with me, I play straight with you. And I don't come cheap."
"I have the funds available to me," House said simply.
"That's good," Deacon told him with a nod. "Stacy told me that you've taken her on retainer as well. Smart move—it protects the both of you. As an officer of the court I have to tell you that I can't help you remain at large, but I'm also bound by client confidentiality. You will have to turn yourself in to the police, and soon."
"I know," House acknowledged, "but I needed to have representation lined up first. So you'll take my case?"
"Provisionally pending learning the details of your story and your willingness to turn yourself in to the authorities," Deacon replied.
The server returned with their drinks and left again.
"I suggest we meet at my office during office hours, and Stacy should be there as well," Deacon told House. "I have an opening tomorrow afternoon at three and nothing after that for the rest of the day. It should give us the time we need to go over the details. After that I'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with and can plan further how your case should be handled. Before I came here tonight I called Stacy. She assured me she's able to make the meeting."
"You work fast," House commented with a nod. "Good. The sooner this is taken care of the better."
"For tonight I want to know one thing," Deacon told him. "Tell me why the authorities were going to revoke your parole."
House took a sip of his drink before answering. "My boss was trying to patronize me. My best friend was dying from cancer and he thought he could replace him by buying hockey season tickets for the both of us. I wanted to give him the message that he could never replace Wilson so…I flushed said tickets down his private toilet. Long story short: they screwed up the plumbing for the entire hospital, a main burst and water flooded and burst through the floor above an MRI, destroying it. Those things aren't cheap. I was charged with felony vandalism."
"Did you know that by flushing the tickets they would cause that kind of catastrophic damage?" Deacon asked.
"No. I don't think anybody could have anticipated that," House admitted, meeting Deacon's gaze. Deacon couldn't help but feel that House was being straight with him. "I wanted to plug up one toilet, not destroy the sewage system or an MRI."
"Interesting," Deacon replied with a nod. "Did anyone actually see you flush the tickets?"
"No, I don't think so," House said with a shrug. "Foreman knew it was me because who else would have had the tickets or the motive but me? Also, the tickets bore my name on them. Who else would have done it?"
"That's a good question," Deacon agreed. "However, if no one actually saw you do it, they may not have a case. We might be able to argue that there is reasonable doubt. I'm also going to do a little digging and find out the details of the damage done and the condition of the hospital's plumbing prior to the incident. If there was something flawed with the plumbing to begin with, such knowledge may work in our favor. If I can get those charges thrown out, it will definitely help the outlook of your case. Rescinding your parole would have been unfair and unjustified. While I can't get you off on the escape from custody issue, I may be able to gather enough ammunition to work out a decent plea deal."
"Just get me the minimum amount of time behind bars," House told him.
Deacon nodded, already piecing ideas together, hoping that luck and the facts were on their side.