AMENDMENT

Part IV

By GeeLady

Time-line: Post-Mayfield.

Summary: Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a child.Story contains some paranormal events.

Pairing: pair. Father-child, family difficulties.

Rating: T. Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction.

CAUTION! In a later chapter there will be a character death warning (but not really a character death! Those who've read other stories of mine understand what I mean).

Disclaimer: The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

Author's note: I suspect this theme, or something similar, has been done before in the House-verse but I wanted to try this unusual, slightly paranormal-ish plot, in answer to a story I read as a kid; one that has stuck with me for decades, and it begged the question: What if we were given the opportunity to go back in time and change just one thing? What would it be and what would the consequences be? How might we be different? Perhaps not precisely what we hoped for.

ALSO: The Kabbalah I do not pretend to understand - but I found it a rather fascinating read, and realized it suited perfectly for this story. All errors and sloppy applications of the Kabbalah regarding the Kabbalah and its teachings to the events in Amendment are on me, with apologies.

"Doctor Wilson? This is Mister Churchill..."

Wilson groaned inwardly. Calls from Churchill, his son's school principal were never good, and their frequency had been steadily multiplying over the last year. Gregory, now a very willful eight year old, was on Churchill's "Red List", a record of disruptive students and their "incidents". Gregory had already used up his allotment of demerits and his two "last chances".

Wilson winded his way through afternoon traffic, thankful once again that his boss, a parent herself with two teenage daughters and a new baby boy, was understanding when it came to children, and granted him a free hour away from the clinic to go deal with his own son's misbehavior.

Wilson had hoped things at this school would be different. Churchill was the fourth principal in what had become a short line of institutions that Gregory had been kicked out of. With such a dismal record of disobedience and rule-breaking (even several instances of minor vandalism), no private school was willing to accept him, but the public school system seemed unable to handle him any better. What was going to happen today? They were running out of schools.

On the ride home, Gregory was sullen and resentful. "I didn't want to go there in the first place." He said. "Everybody there hates me."

Wilson sighed. He fumbled in his pant's pocket and withdrew a small roll of antacids. His ulcer was awake and talking today. "You say that about every school. Some of the reason is how you act. No one wants to be around a smart aleck."

Gregory seemed to not care about school or after school projects, or even making friends. He simply fought everything and everyone, most especially his father.

Wilson tried again. "I think you ought to take those piano lessons we discussed. You didn't like baseball-"

"- I did like it. The kids hated me 'cause I couldn't catch the stupid ball. And Coach made fun of me. He said I ran like a giraffe."

Wilson knew Gregory was having difficulties with his height, and his thin, child legs that currently lack the muscle that would later develop and turn him into an all around athlete. Wilson had seen Gregory run and had, of course, cheered him on like a proud encouraging parent, but his poor son really was all legs and arms with little coordination and lots of stumbling. The coach's analogy was apt; his son really did run like a giraffe.

Suddenly a picture of House was there in his mind. His House, much older, crippled but physique still hinting at all the signs of the athletic power-house he had (beginning just after puberty no doubt), have grown in to and so remained for many years. Baseball, lacrosse, rugby, running, swimming, tennis - there was almost no sport House hadn't tried, until the infarction had put an end to all of it.

With little Gregory, at least for now, sports seemed to be out. "You have no idea if you'd like the piano unless you actually try it."

His House had traveled the planet, being dragged to almost every continent, exposed to dozens of languages, learned all about other cultures, tried every sport everywhere, heard the music of the world, seen wonders...

Wilson could not provide such a glamorous up-bringing. His salary as a clinic doctor kept them well enough but they were by no means rich. He could, however, afford piano lessons and Little League. Or swimming and tennis, or some combination of things that might curb his son's self-sabotaging tendencies.

But he was tired today, wearied from the troubles his son seemed to get himself into on an almost daily basis. "How about Scouts?" Wilson asked with little enthusiasm, expecting Gregory's quick rejection of that, too. "Do you think you'd like being a Boy Scout?" On the scale of Hope, his tone was hovering on Pointless.

Gregory played with his fingers. His nails were chewed to the quick. Wilson gently slapped his hand from his mouth. "Stop chewing. That's how you get infections." The House oral fixation was intact, it seemed, in this younger version.

Gregory said. "I guess."

From his often emotionally remote, apathetic son, such a response was practically a whoop-up. "Really?" Wilson was surprised, actually. Delighted. He had not expected agreement, but he was confident Scouts would be good for Gregory. It wouldn't mirror all the utilities of a strong military influence (as John House may have brought to into Gregory's life (in between abuses), and which strict edicts and demands to responsibility his wayward son seemed to require), but it could go a long way in both expanding Gregory's experiences (so hopefully alleviating his boredom with the sameness of their American average existence), and curbing his footsteps that appeared to be heading ever more toward delinquency.

But now Wilson felt some hope that he had found the solution. Gregory would make new friends in a controlled setting where poor behavior wouldn't be tolerated. On the contrary, it would be a good way for Gregory to learn discipline and even have fun doing it. Wilson recalled that the Scouts sometimes took their troops on adventures to other places, sometimes other countries. It was perfect. Gregory would have his travel experiences, and time away from his doting, boring ol' dad.

"Okay, great." Wilson said, "I'll make the call."

Wilson smiled at his son as Gregory bit his nails and kicked at the under-dash. He felt so good about this new plan that he didn't feel like scolding his son for the finger chewing or for getting his dirty sneakers on the Cavalier's spit-polish interior.

-

-

This time it had nothing to do with Gregory's behavior, and everything to do with his mute terror.

"Dad, dad!" Gregory ran back from the bus stop one morning just as Wilson was leaving for work.

Wilson saw the tears and the shaking shoulders. "What's wrong?" Trying to stifle his irritation. This would make him late for work for the fourth time that month.

"A d-dog ran o-out on th-the road and got hit by a big truh-truck. He's all bloody..he sl-sl-sl.."

Wilson crouched down and hugged his crying son. "Calm down, calm down. It's over now."

Gregory shook his head vigorously. Such a thing to an eleven year old was never over until dad's or mom's fixed it.

"Can you come? Please? Please?" He pulled on his father's sleeve, urging him to hurry up and follow. "The dog ..maybe he'll be okay, we can take him to a vet,...and he can fix 'im..."

"Son, I don't think.."

"Pl-e-e-ease!"

Wilson knew it was useless. If he didn't go and deal with this, Gregory would never get to school today and he would never get to work, which would be a bad thing since there were bills piling up. "Okay. You show me where."

Wilson followed his son to the main street, passing Gregory's scattered school books that he had flung aside when the horrid event had occurred. It was still early enough that there were few cars on the road, and no big truck anywhere in sight. What few cars were passing going north or south, none of them slowed down to see what the bloody pile of black fur at the curb used to be.

Gregory pulled him by the hand over to the dog. Even from forty feet away it was obvious the thing was dead. There was a grotesque blood trail where the unfortunate thing had been dragged across the asphalt, and too much blood had pooled around what was left for it to still be breathing.

But Gregory pulled him to the very spot right next to it, explaining in high-pitched hysteria, "I-was-standing-right-'ere-and-the-truck-hit-him-n'-'e-slid-over-to-me."

Wilson's heart went out to him. An awful thing for an eleven year-old to have witnessed. Awful enough that it had elicited tears from his customarily emotionally reserved son. The animal had actually slid across the road and landed at his son's child size nine Air Jordan's. Not a pleasant way to begin a school week.

Wilson bent down and did a quick visual examination of the dog, checking for a pulse under the top of his front leg with two fingers, near the "armpit". Unsurprisingly there was no heart beat. "I'm afraid he's already dead, Gregory. But he's not suffering anymore, and he probably died instantly. I doubt he felt anything." Mostly the truth, some guess work, some outright fibs.

Gregory was hiccupping, but not crying anymore. "Are you" - hic'! - "shu-sure?"

"I'm a doctor, son. I'm sure." Gregory seemed even more devastated now that knew the dog was dead.

Wilson stood up and draped one arm over his son's thin shoulders. "Tell you what. We'll cover him with a blanket or something, and I'll call the animal control people. They'll come take him off the road. He'll be buried properly. Okay?"

Gregory stared down at the animal unblinkingly, as though temporarily blind to everything else around him. He said meekly, "Okay."

With the dog covered and the call made, Wilson drove Gregory to school to drop him off. "Are you sure you're okay, son? That dog didn't suffer, I'm sure of it."

"I know. I'm okay." He was very subdued, and he still looked a little pale.

"Okay." Wilson didn't feel completely sure, but school had already started and he was now over an hour late for work. Gregory took his books, climbed from the car and went inside the school doors.

Gregory had a compulsory after-school soccer practice, so Wilson decided to pick him up in the car and they'd go for burgers and ice-cream. Gregory agreed easily enough but was silent during the drive home.

"How was school today?"

"Okay I guess."

"Didn't Miss Johnson take you guys to the museum today?"

"Yeah."

"How was that?"

"We looked at statues. Mostly lady statues. Some had no arms."

Wilson regretted bringing it up. Their local museum had a lot of original local work and a lot of replica's of famous pieces. He wondered if Gregory would associate statues of armless people to a dead dog at the side of the highway.

"Some of them are very old," Wilson explained, "and must have gotten broken."

"Yeah." Gregory didn't seem to care one way or another, but then he volunteered "Miss Johnson told us about a painter who got locked up in a church and was forced to paint pictures on the walls and the ceiling. He was stuck in there for twenty years." Gregory sounded both awe-struck and disturbed by it. Twenty years to an eleven year old was two life-times.

Gregory had to be speaking of Michelangelo. A very depressing and strangely morbid story for a teacher to share with a child. Wilson thought he might have to have a chat with Miss Johnson.

Gregory looked over at him, and Wilson could tell from the corner of his eye that his son wanted to ask him something but for some reason was afraid to. So he gave him an in. "Did anything else happen today?"

Gregory shook his head but finally, after a few more blocks of silence, Gregory asked very meekly "Is my mom dead?"

Horror shot through Wilson's chest like a machete. Wilson swallowed, trying to find the right words to answer but not. "Um, why,...why would you ask me that?"

"I just wondered."

"You were never curious before. Why now?" The dog, it had to be the dog. Or the armless statues, frozen in what must have struck Gregory's mind as a death pose.

"I was too scared to ask before. You told me she was sick, but you never took me back. It was like you were mad at me or something for asking, so I thought maybe you'd be mad at me some more if I asked again."

Wilson felt like a criminal. Even so, he was about to compound his crime. "She was sick, Gregory. She was dying. I wanted to rescue you from that."

"Oh."

Gregory's birthday was coming up. He would be twelve. "Is there anything special you want for your birthday?"

The distraction seemed to work, because Gregory's eyes lit up again and shone their brightest blue. "Can I have anything I want?"

"Within reason. We're not rich."

"A new bike. A mountain bike, like Taylor's."

Taylor again. Everything Taylor got, Gregory wanted. Taylor was his son's new best friend. One of the hardest things for a parent to see is their child ostracized or friendless. For years Gregory had played by himself, read by himself in his room, and spent almost all of his off-school hours alone, having to entertain himself.

Finally, one glorious new school day, Taylor had moved into the neighborhood and the two had hit it off in a flash. Taylor was a little rambunctious and not too bright, (in fact rumor was he had been kept back a year or so due to a learning disability - what type Wilson did not know), but as least Gregory had, at last, full time friend.

Wilson thanked Providence for small favors.

-

-

"Doctor Wilson, your son is missing."

Wilson was glad he wasn't driving when he heard the disquieting news. Gregory was on a special outing with his Boy Scout troop - which was a day long bike ride to a local wild-life reserve. The troop had planned this bike-trail event and nature observation lesson for months; marking the route, deciding what food to bring, what games they would play, and what Scout tasks they might learn. A twelve hour "mission".

Wilson found he needed to sit down immediately. "Missing?" What the hell did "missing" mean exactly? He closed the clinic room door, asking his next patient to wait-for-a-moment-please-be-right-with-you.

The Scout Master continued. "Gregory and Taylor both took off this afternoon after lunch on their bikes. We haven't seen them since."

It was almost five o'clock. "When did they go?" Wilson knew Taylor had been getting into more and more trouble lately, and dragging Gregory along with him on most of it.

"They were first noticed missing just after afternoon roll call. All the troops had paired up to take up observation posts of the surrounding park and record any wild-life they saw..."

Naturally Taylor and Gregory would have paired with each other. Taylor was almost three years older than Gregory, but physically about the same size. For the last year and a half, the boys had gone everywhere together. One didn't make a move unless the other knew. At first, it had seemed like a miracle. It was terrific to see Gregory with a best friend and happy.

But Wilson soon learned that all was not so rosy. The boys were inseparable - true - and, unfortunately, that had swiftly become the first of many problems. Taylor took Gregory everywhere all right, even to some places neither of them should have gone, like to the local Electri-Cade even though Gregory was forbidden as punishment for having cheated on a school project that had earned him a failing grade in chemistry.

"Taylor talked me into it!"

Lately his son always had that, or some other excuse, ready at hand. Or he would feign a poor memory - (his son who could recite word for word the entire script from the latest Transformer movie) - "I didn't know I wasn't suppose to be there, Taylor said it was okay, and he's almost fourteen." As though that made everything Taylor said or did all right. Problem was, at that age, every fourteen year old thinks he or she is right about everything. Gregory was just twelve and anxious to be as old and as "street wise", as his best friend. That was usually the root of every misdeed. Taylor was a bad example and worse influence.

Wilson listened to the Scout Master describe the goings-on with Taylor and his son. Things most of which Wilson already knew about.

But some things were new. Such as, according to Scout Master Thompson, orders having to be repeated to Gregory again and again. Gregory claiming to have lost his Scout Knife when in fact he and Taylor had both slipped away to a nearby teenage hang-out, sold their knives and then paid an older kid to buy them a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. They'd each smoked two or three cigarettes and then mashed the rest of them on the road on their way back to the troop "home-base".

Thompson said, sounding both worried and fed up with Gregory and the other boy - "Look, Doctor Wilson, we know Gregory's had some rough times, but even so his behavior must improve or we will have to take his patch. Taylor has already blown his one chance to redeem himself. He'll be gone for sure."

Wilson's shoulders were tight with worry and his spirit slumped with the disheartening truth that Gregory was turning into a hellion, and he had no idea what to do about it. The boy seemed hell bent on going his own way every minute, and defying all reason. Even bribes didn't work anymore.

Several hours later, the boys were picked up at a local theater watching a Hulk marathon. Gregory was driven home in a police car. As through the keyhole Wilson watched the officer escort his wayward son to the door, he felt a father's guilt and despair. And the overwhelming futility of trying to be a good parent. He loved Gregory so much, and really had tried to show it, too, all these years. But the last year or so, Gregory hadn't seem to want it.

The officer knocked on the door, and Wilson opened, ready to listen to the same professional advice he had heard countless times already, and making all the same grateful noises and promises of "Gregory will do better from now-on - count on it." Knowing full well it was a lie. He had come to the dreadful conclusion that he did not understand his son, found it impossible to communicate with him, and could control him even less.

Gregory slunk into the house and went straight to his bedroom. Wilson thanked the officer, shook his hand and saw him out.

Wilson waited in the hall, giving Gregory a few minutes to get undressed and climb in bed.

His son knew the routine - right to bed with no supper; lecture to follow. Only Gregory didn't seem to care about either anymore, and his attitude and skin and bones frame clearly showed it.

Wilson sighed wearily. My, son, the fugitive.

-

-

After calling his son's cell phone a dozen times and Taylor's parent's house half that, Wilson finally jumped in his car and drove around all night, searching the downtown streets for the slim but slowly filling out frame of his run away boy. He thought he understood loss, hurt, shame and fear, but this was a whole new level of agony. Gregory had not returned home from his Junior High school, and by six o'clock, Wilson was pacing with worry. By ten he was calling the police.

It was the same story. "Well, you say he's almost fifteen? Sir, most boys that age try to stretch their wings a little. Defy their parents to see how much they can get away with." The calm drone of the Sergeant on the other end of the phone said. Wilson ground his teeth to the nub trying not to scream at the lazy cop to get his lazy ass off his padded chair and help him find his son.

"He's still a minor of course, and that makes for some mitigating circumstances, but we can't launch an Amber alert. Number one, no one reported seeing your son get into a vehicle. He was seen, according to you, at his school during lunch hour with his friend, isn't that right?"

Wilson had to admit it was true, his world crashing down piece by piece.

"What was this other boy's name?"

"Taylor Miller. He's a known delinquent who's spent time in Juvenile Hall more than once."

"So Gregory isn't out there alone, is he?"

Wilson didn't even respond to that one.

"We can send his description and that of the other youth to our regular patrols and they can keep an eye out for him. But for now that's all we can do. Once he's been missing for twenty-four hours, we can expand that, but right now..."

Wilson hung up without thanking him, jumped in his car and had been driving every since, scanning the streets with bloodshot eyes, looking for a fourteen-almost fifteen-year-old who should be home in bed drooling over Lindsay Lohan, not running the streets with his wild, partying friend, doing who knew what dangerous stunt or going into who knew what dangerous bar.

With Gregory as tall as he now was, almost as tall as his dad, he could easily pass for eighteen or nineteen. With a fake ID, he could probably stretch it to twenty-one. Wilson knew Taylor was already drinking, smoked pot and ran around with boys much older than him. Boys who were already over twenty-one, had money, and so could regularly drink, get drugs or pretty well anything else they wanted. Gregory was just about to turn fifteen in two months.

Wilson found himself stopping the car, getting out and looking in the ditches now, praying he wouldn't but terrified he might find Gregory's body face down in a slew. This was 2010, and the television was crowded with documentaries about prowlers and pedophiles, robbers, rapists and murderers; hundreds of them, it seemed, one to a corner, all hunting for young, attractive boys about Gregory's age to use and then dispose of.

Wilson tried to thrust the images out of his mind. Gregory was fine. He was just playing hooky from Dad, and having some fun. By the time I get home, I'll find him curled up in his bed asleep. The next day he'll apologize and eat the breakfast I'll cook for him just like nothing had happened. We'll be pals again.

Wilson drove for hours, finally he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore and drove home. Maybe his son had called? He hadn't called Wilson's cell, but then he might have simply forgot he had his own cellular phone in his pocket.

Wilson knew it was not likely. Gregory never forgot anything.

Wilson sat down on the couch, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds, he was so exhausted. He was fifty-four years old, and had lost touch with his son years ago. He had no idea how it had happened.

When he awoke next, it was daylight and it took him a minute or so to remember why he was asleep sitting up on the couch. He raced to Gregory's room to find it empty, the bed un-slept in.

Then he head the apartment door open and his tall son entered, looking as right as rain. Wilson walked up to Gregory, wrapping his arms around him. He smelled like beer. "You scared me to death!" He took his son by the shoulders and held him away so he could get a good look at him. They looked eye to eye now, Gregory's height matching his. He seemed fine. "Where the hell did you go last night?" Wilson asked, relieved his son was fine but furious that he had spent the entire night sick to death with worry. "I drove around all night long looking for you - I thought you were dead, Gregory. Don't you care how cruel it was for you to not even call me? Why would you do this to me?"

"Me and Taylor met some girls. I just decided not to come home, we were having fun."

"What kind of "fun"? Drinking again? Pot? Maybe cocaine? Maybe heroin next time? Where the hell is all this crap going to end??"

Gregory shrugged off his father's hands. "This is America. I'm not a kid anymore and I can do what I want."

Wilson refused to let him walk away. This time Gregory was not apologizing or sheepishly asking for breakfast. This time he seemed completely unconcerned with how his father felt. Wilson was furious. "You're fourteen and you can't do whatever you want while you're in my house."

"I'm almost fifteen, and maybe I don't want to be in your house anymore." Gregory yelled defiantly. It was a teenager's argument; immature and without having thought it through to the end.

Wilson snapped, slicing the air with his hand like a judge bringing down multiple sentences for multiple infractions. "You are grounded for two months, Mister. No going out except to school. No television, no movies, no video games, no parties, no friends over, no goddamn Taylor, no nothing! You are my son, and -"

Gregory took a step back. "- No I'm not!"

Wilson's next words almost caught in his throat. He had to force them out. "What d-did you say?"

Gregory looked at him, his face was flushed and his eyes...Wilson had no idea how to describe his son's eyes. Confrontational of course, but Gregory seemed to be cracking somehow, something inside him opening up for the first time, escaping again and getting its breath, like a seed sprouting but not a good green healthy shoot, a black, ugly growth that could produce nothing but poison. "I said I'm not your son. Not really."

Wilson stared at him, his mouth open, his heart hammering, his knees weak. "Yes, you are."

Gregory mentally, emotionally - in every way but physically - exploded. He was suddenly screaming at his father "I'm not stupid, you know. I remember my mom! I remember everything. Like you coming into the yard that night and stealing me from my parents. Maybe my mom is dead, but I still remember her, and you stole me from her. I know you're not my real dad. My real dad was a pilot, not a boring clinic doctor."

Wilson swallowed, his heart felt like jelly. He was almost in tears, so desperately had he wished all these years that Gregory had not remembered any of it; not really; not clearly. Gregory had come to accept his new life and his new and improved father. He had. "Your so-called father used to send you to the backyard to sleep in the dark alone when you were three years old."

He saw that his words had hit a mark somewhere inside the youth. Gregory bit his lip, shaking in anger because he knew it was true.

Wilson thought maybe he should stop, but perhaps its needed to be brought out into the open now, so Gregory could come to understand how much his own father had failed him, and how much his new one loved him dearly. "How many ice-baths did your dad throw you in? How many times did he lock you in your room and not speak to you like you were some sort of disobedient dog?"

Gregory looked a little confused. "You're crazy. My dad never did any of that stuff."

Perhaps he hadn't, not up until that night, anyway. "But he sent you to sleep in the back yard."

"He didn't mean it."

Wilson wondered when the room had grown so cold or he so hot. "He would have hurt you, Gregory, he would have, and I couldn't bear to leave you there, knowing that."

"You don't know that." Gregory started to cry cold silent tears, teenage tears - not a sniffle came along with them. "You took me away from my parents and you didn't even know them, and I hate you for it."

Wilson tried to gather back some of his calm and resolution that things would still be okay; that he could somehow make it all okay between them. He loved Gregory and would do anything for him. Why can't that be enough? "Be that as it may, you're my son now and you're going to do what I say. I know what's best for you."

Gregory violently wiped away his tears, seemingly furious that they had fallen at all. "No I don't." Gregory's countenance shifted, becoming stealthy, threatening, vengeful. "And you can't make me, because if you do, I'll go to the police and tell them what you did. They'll arrest you as a child abductor."

Gregory took a deep, shaky breath as though he were fearful of the things he had just said and was about to say. He took two steps back. "I'll bet there were posters about me all over the place when I went missing. I'll bet my parents tried to find me, but you'd already taken me too far away." Gregory took another step back toward the apartment door. "I can do what I want and if you try to stop me or tell me what to do anymore, I'll tell the cops that you stole me." Gregory's eyes bugged in fear for his next words. Fear, yet he said them anyway. "Maybe I'll even tell them that you're a pedophile. I'll say you've been sleeping with me - forcing me to have sex."

Gregory's intelligence was shining through now, bright as a search light on a prison wall. "You'll go to jail." He added quietly, the hatred and fury in his voice soft but unmistakable. The fear in his eyes for this step he had just taken defined and hard-edged. Gregory was swimming through the miasma of his life and was splashing some of its entrails onto the man he saw as the cause. Dad or not, years together or not, Gregory felt alone. He felt discarded. "They'll lock you up."

Had Wilson been able to gather together a coherent thought, he would have begged for Gregory's forgiveness, or sobbed. But all he could do was allow his body to go where it wished, and where it wished was to sink down the wall onto his backside in the apartment hallway. His strength was gone, his will sucked from him by his son's painful words and stricken face. Gregory hated his life. Maybe he hated himself, too.

"Gregory," Wilson managed to speak. "I-I'm so sorry, but I couldn't leave you there, I just couldn't." He begged softly for understanding. "I loved you too much for that."

Gregory looked at him, but there was no sympathy in his eyes. Gregory House had been torn in two, Wilson realized, that fateful night when he was three. He had rescued Gregory with every intent on helping him, only to end up hurting him himself. However good his intentions had been, little good had come of it.

Gregory grabbed his bomber jacket with the baseball logo and walked to the apartment door. "I'm going to go stay with Taylor. He has his own apartment now." He opened the door and said his parting words. "I hate you."

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Part V asap