"Tell Me a Story"; H/W kid!fic (feat. the Offspring's fic debut)
Title: "Tell Me a Story"
Pairing: House/Wilson (established)
Rating: PG (some cursing)
Warning: kid!fic (he's actually around this time); partly dialogue-only; partly first-person
Summary: In which, the Offspring comes home for Christmas, Wilson plays Santa Claus, and House tells the story of how his firstborn got his name.
A/N: So many awesome names were given to me, but I ended up going with instinct and emotion. I hope it works out! Thanks to everyone who helped me, and I really appreciate every comment that I've been given. This is my (crappy homemade) Christmas gift to you all. Hey, it's better than a sweater. Right? Right??
Well, if not, here's a Christmas picspam to make it up to ya'll, over at my journal.
Series also includes: Brilliant, Road Trip, Nine Months (and Change), and The Twelve Days of Chrismukkah.
"Tell me a story."
"Not a chance, you demanding wretch. What are you, three?"
"Four. I want a story."
"He's nineteen, and home from college for the first time in ages. Tell him a damned story."
"He was here at Thanksgiving!"
"Like I said, ages. Come here, baby boy."
"Mom! No kissing. I'm too old for kissing. Dad, tell him I'm too old for kissing."
"Only if you're too old for stories."
"Don't call me Mom. And you're never too old for kisses or stories."
"Yes, Jimmy. I'm sitting here, nicely, waiting for my story. Completely emasculated, just the way you like me."
"Oh, be quiet and stop squirming."
"You two get a room, please. You're scaring the horses."
"Don't be disgusting. What story are you telling me, old man?"
"One more crack like that, and I'll be telling you the story of your untimely demise."
"So mean, so hateful, no presents for you. Anyway, there's only one story I want to hear at Christmas time."
"Which one would that be?"
"House, you only tell it every year. Do we have to go through this every time?"
"The snarking and whining is part of the tradition."
"I thought it was part of everything we ever did, ever."
"Yeah, whatever. You're falling down on the job, by the way. I'm not telling this damned story without cookies and milk."
"I don't want cookies and milk. I want a beer and a cigarette."
"This is all your fault, somehow."
"Why am I always at fault for him being a deviant?"
"I'm not a deviant. I'm a teenager, and not for very much longer, I might add."
"No beer, and I might consider letting you smoke outside, if you promise to help your mother with the dishes tomorrow."
"I'm not his mother, and he's not smoking at all. He's eating cookies and milk and listening to a damned Christmas story."
"He's about to start threatening you with death. I like this part."
"Me, too. He's gotten very creative. Last week, he came up with one involving eyeballs, pine tar, a blowtorch, and guitar strings. It was one of his better efforts."
"The eyeball ones are always good. Anything involving intestines is usually worth a listen, too."
"Both of you can shut up. I'm about to hang you both from the rafters by your toes."
"Make sure you string some lights on Pop, there. Very festive."
"What about you, Short Round?"
"I'm more of a tinsel kind of guy myself."
"I hate both of you. I'd rather use intestines, anyway. Here's your milk, and here's your cookies."
"Can I sit in your lap?"
"Absolutely not."
"Oh, he's old enough now. No Christmas visits from Child Services to worry about."
"You can sit beside me, and drape yourself over me like you always do."
"I was trying to be polite this time. You want me to be polite, don't you?"
"Can I tell this damned story, or what? I'd like to go to bed some time before the New Year."
"You want to take Jimmy to bed."
"That, my dear boy, goes without saying. Now, somebody ask the stupid question, so we can get on with it."
"Ahem. Please, Father Dearest, how did I get my name?"
"Well, son, that's a very good question. This is how it happened...stop snickering, or I'm going to bed right now."
"We're done. You're just so cute when you're being all serious."
"Okay, we're not laughing any more. Please continue."
"Like I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by two morons, this is how we named the Antichrist, I mean, the baby."
......................................................................................................
Once upon a time, there was a hospital.
No, not all of my stories have hospitals. It just seems that way because you never listen to any of my other stories.
In this hospital, there lived a very ugly, hideous, devilishly fiendish hospital administrator named Cuddy. She was so devilishly fiendish that she had launched a campaign to trick our handsome, clever hero into being the father of her child.
Am I telling this story? I'm the hero, and I am both handsome and clever. Which is more than I can say for you two. There was trickery involved, too, or else I would have demanded sexual favors. Many sexual favors.
Oh, don't look at me like that. I should have, too. There was a time...
Anyway, the devil woman knew that the hero's fine ass belonged to another, but she also knew that the owner of said ass was a complete sap, and more than willing to volunteer our hero for father duty.
I won't go into the messy details, this being a Christmas tale, but suffice it to say, it was a horrendous experience, a trial that would have killed a lesser man...I was not thinking of Miss July. I thought of you the entire time. I don't know where you get these ideas.
Fortunately for our hero, the quest had indeed been successful, and soon, he and his lady (who wasn't so much a lady, as he was an oncologist) were announcing all over the kingdom, er, hospital, that the wicked witch was expecting.
Unfortunately, the evil one, who isn't really all that evil but don't tell her I said that, was coming to the realization that her life would be changed irrevocably by the arrival of the demon spawn. For the first time since the beginning of her dastardly reign of terror, the Cuddy beast was beginning to feel the icy touch of fear.
Oh, shut up, this is a boring story. I have to help it out as much as I can. You do realize that it's the height of narcissism to want me to tell this story at your age. You're old enough to tell it yourself, if you don't like it.
In the meantime, our hero and the nibbler of our hero's ears were quickly coming to the realization that living in separate homes was not only inconvenient, it was a waste of money. Not to mention, stupid. Also, our hero is about as capable of taking care of himself as an infant, although he rarely admits it. Happy Hanukkah, dear, don't say I never gave you anything.
As Judgment Day came steadily closer...oh, fine, as the due date came steadily closer, the dragon lady became increasingly violent and moody, culminating in a battle against our hero that ended in tears and recriminations, hiccups, snot, the whole works. Our hero being a sensitive soul...
Okay, I might have made some cutting remarks, but I didn't make her cry any more than she already was. I think I showed admirable restraint.
He did the only thing he could do. He went running to his best friend, who was also the person he went to bed with every night, although I find it easier to refer to him as Jimmy.
Jimmy had a brilliant plan, albeit a plan that didn't really have anything to do with the Whore of Babylon. At least, our hero thought so at the time, although our hero can be dense at times, especially when his ears are being nibbled.
This plan required a certain amount of sacrifice on the part of our hero, who not only had to dress in his most uncomfortable suit of armor, but he was also forced to be around his father for something like five hours. There was also hugging. I don't believe he's ever quite gotten over it.
Luckily, the civil union being completed with surprisingly little trouble, our hero was allowed to go drink himself under the table. He has been accused of pinching the Cuddy on her ample ass, but this is a lie, spread by my enemies in order to destroy me. Him. The honeymoon was also nice, although I am aware of nothing that happened, and admit to even less.
The Jezebel, despite being our best man, was still not as happy as the occasion would have seemed to merit. Our hero, though incredibly handsome and clever, couldn't believe that she was jealous of his marriage to his fair lady. It seemed more likely that she was still having second thoughts about birthing the whelp of Satan.
The whelp of Satan was growing steadily, and it was only a matter of time before he wore out his welcome. Something would have to be decided, and soon.
And so it was, in the ninth month of her pregnancy, which really was cutting it a bit close, the Cuddy monster decided that the best thing for all involved was to let our hero and his lady wife (who was not so much a lady as he was a mother) raise the Child of Darkness. She would have all the fun of labor, and none of the rest of the pesky problems associated with babies.
Except for the child support, and having to haul her ass out of bed to bail him out of jail on occasion. Not that we all haven't bailed his ass out of jail on occasion, so I don't think that actually counts. Just the child support, then, and the half-assed advice that we never actually listen to. Also, the uncomfortable Christmases spent with her family, but we had to suffer through those, too.
Who's ranting? I'm just saying she doesn't actually do all that much. Well, yes, I still have a job, but it's not like she could fire me. Okay, she could, but she won't. How did we get on this subject? Will you let me finish the story please?
So, with the question of who would raise the baby out of the way, all that was left to answer was the most important question of all. What the hell were we supposed to name the little bastard?
Twenty-six hours of labor came and went. Blood rained, bedpans hailed from the skies, screams and curses rent the air, dogs and cats, living together. Apocalypse was at hand. Finally, the damned thing decided to grace us with its unholy presence.
Our hero was allowed to hold the demon first, and while he didn't drop it on its pointed little head, it was a very near thing. Squalling, red, wrinkly, bloody, and slimy, who the hell wants to hold that? The wife, pussy that he is, stayed outside in relative safety, and would have stayed there indefinitely if the little beast's wailing hadn't pulled at his heartstrings.
Thus, was the hero saved from the ickiness which was his firstborn (and so far, only) son. Our Jimmy would have kept on holding the damned thing, too, but eventually it had to go school.
What do you mean, what do I mean? You are my only son, so far. What, do you think you're special or something? We might decide to have another one, you don't know. It's not unheard of, and look at how miserable your mother is without you around to baby. More importantly, look how miserable I am, being the only person left around for him to baby.
Yes, I am aware that Jimmy can't actually get pregnant, although I've always wondered if you realized that. We can adopt, or have a surrogate. Besides, your attitude makes me want to go out and kidnap something baby-shaped, just to piss you off. I don't even like kids, but I'd do it.
Anyway, shut up, I'm trying to tell the miraculous story of your fucking birth.
The hero lobbied tirelessly to call the demon "Baby Asshole", and he would have been successful if his three traitorous minions hadn't figured out that the sign on the bassinet had been changed, and went running to the wife. There were beatings involved, it was very sad. Abused by his beloved wife, our hero soldiered on valiantly, changing the tiny evil's armband to say "Crack House". This was also met with beatings.
Many names were thrown out, and each was shot down, mostly because the hero didn't want to see his child getting his ass kicked any more than necessary. Some idiot suggested Gregory Jr., and her death was only averted by the entrance of the nurse. One day, when she isn't expecting it, I'll finish the job. Gregory, for God's sake. Thank me every night of your life, you ungrateful little shit.
Finally, a committee was convened. Three parents, three names. Cuddy went first, although her name would be last. It was only fair, because she sucks at naming things, and she wasn't actually raising the brat.
"Bredon," she said, which wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be. The name of the oldest son of a favored fictional detective, and one of the few things that we actually have in common. Bet you're glad we didn't get married. I know I am.
Bredon House. Not bad, but Wilson came next. And while Jimmy is many things, imaginative is not one of those things.
He pored over baby books, he surveyed his patients, he scrolled through every baby naming site on the Internet. When it came time for his turn, he blushed prettily, and said, as if it were the most ingenious thing he'd ever come up with, "James."
James Bredon House. Very sedate, very boring. I snore whenever I'm forced to say it. However, all was not yet lost. Our hero had yet to bestow his name upon his only son.
No books, no baby name websites, no family names. He'd thought about it long and hard, for at least ten minutes anyway, and decided that he wanted a name that would suit his child, while reflecting on each of his parents.
Our hero looked around at every member of his now strangely-extended family, and spoke the name that would mark his child for the rest of his natural days.
"Christian."
There was a din of silence in the room. The Cuddy beast sighed, her palm resting tiredly on her cheek, and the wife pinched his nose in that adorable way he has. They were speechless, so impressed were they by the thoughtfulness shown by our hero in his choice of names.
"We're both Jewish!" the Cuddy cried.
"You're an atheist!" Jimmy wailed.
Our hero just smiled. Christian James Bredon House. It was a very good name.
.....................................................................................................
"You didn't tell it right. That's not my name."
"Says so on your birth certificate, Social Security card, Playboy subscription."
"Playgirl subscription, too, but that's still not my name. Finish the story."
"How can I finish when I'm already done?"
"Tell him, or I'm telling him. I'm tired, and I want to go to bed."
"You want us to go to bed so you can put out the presents. He doesn't believe in Santa Claus any more, you realize."
"Blasphemy."
"Oh, cool, did I get a stocking this year?"
"Don't you always get one?"
"Eventually, Mother Hen Cluckity-Cluck, you're going to have to let him grow up."
"Someday, perhaps. Today, however, is not that day. Shut up and finish the story."
......................................................................................................
Our hero being the tortured soul that he is, constantly beset by people who question his motives and his actions, he was forced to explain his reasoning behind the name he had given his adored imp-child.
"You won't let me name him 'Crack House'," he explained, "So 'Shit House' is probably out of the question."
They wanted to know what that had to do with naming the pup 'Christian'. Our hero rolled his eyes and shook his head. Surely they would get it. Surely he wouldn't have to explain it.
"I'll give you a hint. I plan to give him a nickname. One that is better to be given than to receive."
Still, they didn't get it. Even Jimmy, who usually picks up on our hero's sense of humor quickly, was unable to figure it out.
Which, our hero realized, was the greatest thing that had happened to him ever. Third greatest, he amended, as soon as he noticed his wife giving him the Evil Eye. Jew Voodoo is nothing to play with, even if you are a handsome and clever hero.
He refused to back down on the naming, sticking to his guns (or sword, if we must stick to the metaphor), and the mothers had no choice but to name the boy Christian.
For weeks, the battle raged on. They tried to shorten it to 'Chris', but the baby didn't look like a Chris at all. They tried calling him James, Jimmy, Jim, but the baby only wailed. Not that it wouldn't have wailed anyway, being the colicky little wretch that it was. Bredon was tried, and quickly discarded.
Thus began the habit of never actually referring to the brat by name, which I would take credit for, but the therapist keeps trying to pin it on me, and I'm not having that.
Secretly, however, our hero had always called his son by the nickname he'd planned from the very start, but only when the two were left alone together. Jimmy, not trusting our hero farther than he could throw him, very rarely left the two of them alone, however.
Of course, he had to sleep sometime, and our hero being a raging insomniac (never mind the shooting pain in his thigh that seemed to coincide with the nighttime wails of his offspring), the two Houses often spent the nights walking the living room floor. Learning to wrestle a fat, wriggly baby and a cane kept our hero occupied for some time.
However, Jimmy was fast becoming fed up. And a fed-up Jimmy is a frightening animal when at home. When all else failed, he brought out the big guns (or swords, as the case may be).
Sex was withheld. Along with rides to work, hot food, Vicodin scripts, cancer consults, and running interference against the Cuddy beast.
Of course, everything else was unnecessary. The lack of sex was more than enough to make our hero talk.
"You're a moron," he scoffed, but not where the wife could actually hear him. The sanctions had still not been lifted, and our hero is not a fool.
"Christian House, Jimmy. Think about it."
Three weeks it took him, but luckily the offspring wasn't depending on his genetics anyway.
Eating dinner one night, the spawn drooling happily on his shoulder, Jimmy put down his fork and threw his napkin at our hero's head.
"Church," he said. "Church House."
"Finally," our hero rejoiced. Maybe now he could get a plate of hot food and a blowjob.
The baby snuffled happily in his sleep.
......................................................................................................
"Much better. Very well done. Applause all around."
"Go to bed, smartass, so Santa Claus can bring your presents."
"How about I go smoke a cigarette, instead, and then run your phone bill up?"
"I don't much care for that plan. Did you bring home laundry?"
"Did I bring home laundry, he says. Would I bring home work for you on Christmas?"
"How many bags?"
"Four. Five, if you count my clean clothes that aren't actually clean."
"Ungrateful monster."
"He was ironing your shirt earlier! Hypocritical bastard."
"Close your mouths, or I'm stuffing them with dirty socks in your sleep."
"We have plenty, that's for sure. I'm not actually wearing socks right now. Please tell me that Santa brought me socks."
"Doesn't he always? Also clean underwear and T-shirts."
"Don't tell him all of his presents!"
"I'm just letting him know, so that we don't have to fight the stench of ass over the breakfast table."
"I don't smell!"
"Are you wearing underwear?"
"That's none of your business. No."
"Thank God for that other Christmas tradition. You get to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Socks or underwear, but I for one would appreciate you opening the underwear."
"Just for that, I'm stealing your underwear, and opening something else."
"Don't even think about it. You open this one, or nothing."
"What if I steal your underwear, Mother dear?"
"Don't call me that. Open your present."
"Yes, Jimmy dearest. Hey, this isn't underwear."
"He is a genius! I had begun to wonder..."
"Shut up, House. This is really...this is so great. Thank you, Dads."
"He's crying. I told you he would."
"He's not crying."
"I am crying. If I hear about this tomorrow, I know who to kill."
"We thought that if you ever decided to have children..."
"God forbid."
"If you ever did, you might like to have those things. For them."
"Grandpa House's dog tags and Grandpa Wilson's pocket watch. Are you guys sure you want to give these up? What about that little brother or sister?"
"Absolutely certain. Now take your pussy ass to bed. I told you that we should have bought him panties."
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response. No kissing, but I will take a hug, Jimmy. Merry Christmas."
"Love you, brat."
"Good night and Merry Christmas, asshole."
"And a Merry Kissmyass to you, Church."
A/N II: The name Bredon holds a special place in my heart. It not only is the name of Lord Peter Wimsey's (Dorothy L. Sayers famous detective) firstborn, and one of his middle names as well, it's also my asshole father's middle name. Thanks, old man.
Pairing: House/Wilson (established)
Rating: PG (some cursing)
Warning: kid!fic (he's actually around this time); partly dialogue-only; partly first-person
Summary: In which, the Offspring comes home for Christmas, Wilson plays Santa Claus, and House tells the story of how his firstborn got his name.
A/N: So many awesome names were given to me, but I ended up going with instinct and emotion. I hope it works out! Thanks to everyone who helped me, and I really appreciate every comment that I've been given. This is my (crappy homemade) Christmas gift to you all. Hey, it's better than a sweater. Right? Right??
Well, if not, here's a Christmas picspam to make it up to ya'll, over at my journal.
Series also includes: Brilliant, Road Trip, Nine Months (and Change), and The Twelve Days of Chrismukkah.
"Tell me a story."
"Not a chance, you demanding wretch. What are you, three?"
"Four. I want a story."
"He's nineteen, and home from college for the first time in ages. Tell him a damned story."
"He was here at Thanksgiving!"
"Like I said, ages. Come here, baby boy."
"Mom! No kissing. I'm too old for kissing. Dad, tell him I'm too old for kissing."
"Only if you're too old for stories."
"Don't call me Mom. And you're never too old for kisses or stories."
"Yes, Jimmy. I'm sitting here, nicely, waiting for my story. Completely emasculated, just the way you like me."
"Oh, be quiet and stop squirming."
"You two get a room, please. You're scaring the horses."
"Don't be disgusting. What story are you telling me, old man?"
"One more crack like that, and I'll be telling you the story of your untimely demise."
"So mean, so hateful, no presents for you. Anyway, there's only one story I want to hear at Christmas time."
"Which one would that be?"
"House, you only tell it every year. Do we have to go through this every time?"
"The snarking and whining is part of the tradition."
"I thought it was part of everything we ever did, ever."
"Yeah, whatever. You're falling down on the job, by the way. I'm not telling this damned story without cookies and milk."
"I don't want cookies and milk. I want a beer and a cigarette."
"This is all your fault, somehow."
"Why am I always at fault for him being a deviant?"
"I'm not a deviant. I'm a teenager, and not for very much longer, I might add."
"No beer, and I might consider letting you smoke outside, if you promise to help your mother with the dishes tomorrow."
"I'm not his mother, and he's not smoking at all. He's eating cookies and milk and listening to a damned Christmas story."
"He's about to start threatening you with death. I like this part."
"Me, too. He's gotten very creative. Last week, he came up with one involving eyeballs, pine tar, a blowtorch, and guitar strings. It was one of his better efforts."
"The eyeball ones are always good. Anything involving intestines is usually worth a listen, too."
"Both of you can shut up. I'm about to hang you both from the rafters by your toes."
"Make sure you string some lights on Pop, there. Very festive."
"What about you, Short Round?"
"I'm more of a tinsel kind of guy myself."
"I hate both of you. I'd rather use intestines, anyway. Here's your milk, and here's your cookies."
"Can I sit in your lap?"
"Absolutely not."
"Oh, he's old enough now. No Christmas visits from Child Services to worry about."
"You can sit beside me, and drape yourself over me like you always do."
"I was trying to be polite this time. You want me to be polite, don't you?"
"Can I tell this damned story, or what? I'd like to go to bed some time before the New Year."
"You want to take Jimmy to bed."
"That, my dear boy, goes without saying. Now, somebody ask the stupid question, so we can get on with it."
"Ahem. Please, Father Dearest, how did I get my name?"
"Well, son, that's a very good question. This is how it happened...stop snickering, or I'm going to bed right now."
"We're done. You're just so cute when you're being all serious."
"Okay, we're not laughing any more. Please continue."
"Like I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by two morons, this is how we named the Antichrist, I mean, the baby."
......................................................................................................
Once upon a time, there was a hospital.
No, not all of my stories have hospitals. It just seems that way because you never listen to any of my other stories.
In this hospital, there lived a very ugly, hideous, devilishly fiendish hospital administrator named Cuddy. She was so devilishly fiendish that she had launched a campaign to trick our handsome, clever hero into being the father of her child.
Am I telling this story? I'm the hero, and I am both handsome and clever. Which is more than I can say for you two. There was trickery involved, too, or else I would have demanded sexual favors. Many sexual favors.
Oh, don't look at me like that. I should have, too. There was a time...
Anyway, the devil woman knew that the hero's fine ass belonged to another, but she also knew that the owner of said ass was a complete sap, and more than willing to volunteer our hero for father duty.
I won't go into the messy details, this being a Christmas tale, but suffice it to say, it was a horrendous experience, a trial that would have killed a lesser man...I was not thinking of Miss July. I thought of you the entire time. I don't know where you get these ideas.
Fortunately for our hero, the quest had indeed been successful, and soon, he and his lady (who wasn't so much a lady, as he was an oncologist) were announcing all over the kingdom, er, hospital, that the wicked witch was expecting.
Unfortunately, the evil one, who isn't really all that evil but don't tell her I said that, was coming to the realization that her life would be changed irrevocably by the arrival of the demon spawn. For the first time since the beginning of her dastardly reign of terror, the Cuddy beast was beginning to feel the icy touch of fear.
Oh, shut up, this is a boring story. I have to help it out as much as I can. You do realize that it's the height of narcissism to want me to tell this story at your age. You're old enough to tell it yourself, if you don't like it.
In the meantime, our hero and the nibbler of our hero's ears were quickly coming to the realization that living in separate homes was not only inconvenient, it was a waste of money. Not to mention, stupid. Also, our hero is about as capable of taking care of himself as an infant, although he rarely admits it. Happy Hanukkah, dear, don't say I never gave you anything.
As Judgment Day came steadily closer...oh, fine, as the due date came steadily closer, the dragon lady became increasingly violent and moody, culminating in a battle against our hero that ended in tears and recriminations, hiccups, snot, the whole works. Our hero being a sensitive soul...
Okay, I might have made some cutting remarks, but I didn't make her cry any more than she already was. I think I showed admirable restraint.
He did the only thing he could do. He went running to his best friend, who was also the person he went to bed with every night, although I find it easier to refer to him as Jimmy.
Jimmy had a brilliant plan, albeit a plan that didn't really have anything to do with the Whore of Babylon. At least, our hero thought so at the time, although our hero can be dense at times, especially when his ears are being nibbled.
This plan required a certain amount of sacrifice on the part of our hero, who not only had to dress in his most uncomfortable suit of armor, but he was also forced to be around his father for something like five hours. There was also hugging. I don't believe he's ever quite gotten over it.
Luckily, the civil union being completed with surprisingly little trouble, our hero was allowed to go drink himself under the table. He has been accused of pinching the Cuddy on her ample ass, but this is a lie, spread by my enemies in order to destroy me. Him. The honeymoon was also nice, although I am aware of nothing that happened, and admit to even less.
The Jezebel, despite being our best man, was still not as happy as the occasion would have seemed to merit. Our hero, though incredibly handsome and clever, couldn't believe that she was jealous of his marriage to his fair lady. It seemed more likely that she was still having second thoughts about birthing the whelp of Satan.
The whelp of Satan was growing steadily, and it was only a matter of time before he wore out his welcome. Something would have to be decided, and soon.
And so it was, in the ninth month of her pregnancy, which really was cutting it a bit close, the Cuddy monster decided that the best thing for all involved was to let our hero and his lady wife (who was not so much a lady as he was a mother) raise the Child of Darkness. She would have all the fun of labor, and none of the rest of the pesky problems associated with babies.
Except for the child support, and having to haul her ass out of bed to bail him out of jail on occasion. Not that we all haven't bailed his ass out of jail on occasion, so I don't think that actually counts. Just the child support, then, and the half-assed advice that we never actually listen to. Also, the uncomfortable Christmases spent with her family, but we had to suffer through those, too.
Who's ranting? I'm just saying she doesn't actually do all that much. Well, yes, I still have a job, but it's not like she could fire me. Okay, she could, but she won't. How did we get on this subject? Will you let me finish the story please?
So, with the question of who would raise the baby out of the way, all that was left to answer was the most important question of all. What the hell were we supposed to name the little bastard?
Twenty-six hours of labor came and went. Blood rained, bedpans hailed from the skies, screams and curses rent the air, dogs and cats, living together. Apocalypse was at hand. Finally, the damned thing decided to grace us with its unholy presence.
Our hero was allowed to hold the demon first, and while he didn't drop it on its pointed little head, it was a very near thing. Squalling, red, wrinkly, bloody, and slimy, who the hell wants to hold that? The wife, pussy that he is, stayed outside in relative safety, and would have stayed there indefinitely if the little beast's wailing hadn't pulled at his heartstrings.
Thus, was the hero saved from the ickiness which was his firstborn (and so far, only) son. Our Jimmy would have kept on holding the damned thing, too, but eventually it had to go school.
What do you mean, what do I mean? You are my only son, so far. What, do you think you're special or something? We might decide to have another one, you don't know. It's not unheard of, and look at how miserable your mother is without you around to baby. More importantly, look how miserable I am, being the only person left around for him to baby.
Yes, I am aware that Jimmy can't actually get pregnant, although I've always wondered if you realized that. We can adopt, or have a surrogate. Besides, your attitude makes me want to go out and kidnap something baby-shaped, just to piss you off. I don't even like kids, but I'd do it.
Anyway, shut up, I'm trying to tell the miraculous story of your fucking birth.
The hero lobbied tirelessly to call the demon "Baby Asshole", and he would have been successful if his three traitorous minions hadn't figured out that the sign on the bassinet had been changed, and went running to the wife. There were beatings involved, it was very sad. Abused by his beloved wife, our hero soldiered on valiantly, changing the tiny evil's armband to say "Crack House". This was also met with beatings.
Many names were thrown out, and each was shot down, mostly because the hero didn't want to see his child getting his ass kicked any more than necessary. Some idiot suggested Gregory Jr., and her death was only averted by the entrance of the nurse. One day, when she isn't expecting it, I'll finish the job. Gregory, for God's sake. Thank me every night of your life, you ungrateful little shit.
Finally, a committee was convened. Three parents, three names. Cuddy went first, although her name would be last. It was only fair, because she sucks at naming things, and she wasn't actually raising the brat.
"Bredon," she said, which wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be. The name of the oldest son of a favored fictional detective, and one of the few things that we actually have in common. Bet you're glad we didn't get married. I know I am.
Bredon House. Not bad, but Wilson came next. And while Jimmy is many things, imaginative is not one of those things.
He pored over baby books, he surveyed his patients, he scrolled through every baby naming site on the Internet. When it came time for his turn, he blushed prettily, and said, as if it were the most ingenious thing he'd ever come up with, "James."
James Bredon House. Very sedate, very boring. I snore whenever I'm forced to say it. However, all was not yet lost. Our hero had yet to bestow his name upon his only son.
No books, no baby name websites, no family names. He'd thought about it long and hard, for at least ten minutes anyway, and decided that he wanted a name that would suit his child, while reflecting on each of his parents.
Our hero looked around at every member of his now strangely-extended family, and spoke the name that would mark his child for the rest of his natural days.
"Christian."
There was a din of silence in the room. The Cuddy beast sighed, her palm resting tiredly on her cheek, and the wife pinched his nose in that adorable way he has. They were speechless, so impressed were they by the thoughtfulness shown by our hero in his choice of names.
"We're both Jewish!" the Cuddy cried.
"You're an atheist!" Jimmy wailed.
Our hero just smiled. Christian James Bredon House. It was a very good name.
.....................................................................................................
"You didn't tell it right. That's not my name."
"Says so on your birth certificate, Social Security card, Playboy subscription."
"Playgirl subscription, too, but that's still not my name. Finish the story."
"How can I finish when I'm already done?"
"Tell him, or I'm telling him. I'm tired, and I want to go to bed."
"You want us to go to bed so you can put out the presents. He doesn't believe in Santa Claus any more, you realize."
"Blasphemy."
"Oh, cool, did I get a stocking this year?"
"Don't you always get one?"
"Eventually, Mother Hen Cluckity-Cluck, you're going to have to let him grow up."
"Someday, perhaps. Today, however, is not that day. Shut up and finish the story."
......................................................................................................
Our hero being the tortured soul that he is, constantly beset by people who question his motives and his actions, he was forced to explain his reasoning behind the name he had given his adored imp-child.
"You won't let me name him 'Crack House'," he explained, "So 'Shit House' is probably out of the question."
They wanted to know what that had to do with naming the pup 'Christian'. Our hero rolled his eyes and shook his head. Surely they would get it. Surely he wouldn't have to explain it.
"I'll give you a hint. I plan to give him a nickname. One that is better to be given than to receive."
Still, they didn't get it. Even Jimmy, who usually picks up on our hero's sense of humor quickly, was unable to figure it out.
Which, our hero realized, was the greatest thing that had happened to him ever. Third greatest, he amended, as soon as he noticed his wife giving him the Evil Eye. Jew Voodoo is nothing to play with, even if you are a handsome and clever hero.
He refused to back down on the naming, sticking to his guns (or sword, if we must stick to the metaphor), and the mothers had no choice but to name the boy Christian.
For weeks, the battle raged on. They tried to shorten it to 'Chris', but the baby didn't look like a Chris at all. They tried calling him James, Jimmy, Jim, but the baby only wailed. Not that it wouldn't have wailed anyway, being the colicky little wretch that it was. Bredon was tried, and quickly discarded.
Thus began the habit of never actually referring to the brat by name, which I would take credit for, but the therapist keeps trying to pin it on me, and I'm not having that.
Secretly, however, our hero had always called his son by the nickname he'd planned from the very start, but only when the two were left alone together. Jimmy, not trusting our hero farther than he could throw him, very rarely left the two of them alone, however.
Of course, he had to sleep sometime, and our hero being a raging insomniac (never mind the shooting pain in his thigh that seemed to coincide with the nighttime wails of his offspring), the two Houses often spent the nights walking the living room floor. Learning to wrestle a fat, wriggly baby and a cane kept our hero occupied for some time.
However, Jimmy was fast becoming fed up. And a fed-up Jimmy is a frightening animal when at home. When all else failed, he brought out the big guns (or swords, as the case may be).
Sex was withheld. Along with rides to work, hot food, Vicodin scripts, cancer consults, and running interference against the Cuddy beast.
Of course, everything else was unnecessary. The lack of sex was more than enough to make our hero talk.
"You're a moron," he scoffed, but not where the wife could actually hear him. The sanctions had still not been lifted, and our hero is not a fool.
"Christian House, Jimmy. Think about it."
Three weeks it took him, but luckily the offspring wasn't depending on his genetics anyway.
Eating dinner one night, the spawn drooling happily on his shoulder, Jimmy put down his fork and threw his napkin at our hero's head.
"Church," he said. "Church House."
"Finally," our hero rejoiced. Maybe now he could get a plate of hot food and a blowjob.
The baby snuffled happily in his sleep.
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"Much better. Very well done. Applause all around."
"Go to bed, smartass, so Santa Claus can bring your presents."
"How about I go smoke a cigarette, instead, and then run your phone bill up?"
"I don't much care for that plan. Did you bring home laundry?"
"Did I bring home laundry, he says. Would I bring home work for you on Christmas?"
"How many bags?"
"Four. Five, if you count my clean clothes that aren't actually clean."
"Ungrateful monster."
"He was ironing your shirt earlier! Hypocritical bastard."
"Close your mouths, or I'm stuffing them with dirty socks in your sleep."
"We have plenty, that's for sure. I'm not actually wearing socks right now. Please tell me that Santa brought me socks."
"Doesn't he always? Also clean underwear and T-shirts."
"Don't tell him all of his presents!"
"I'm just letting him know, so that we don't have to fight the stench of ass over the breakfast table."
"I don't smell!"
"Are you wearing underwear?"
"That's none of your business. No."
"Thank God for that other Christmas tradition. You get to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Socks or underwear, but I for one would appreciate you opening the underwear."
"Just for that, I'm stealing your underwear, and opening something else."
"Don't even think about it. You open this one, or nothing."
"What if I steal your underwear, Mother dear?"
"Don't call me that. Open your present."
"Yes, Jimmy dearest. Hey, this isn't underwear."
"He is a genius! I had begun to wonder..."
"Shut up, House. This is really...this is so great. Thank you, Dads."
"He's crying. I told you he would."
"He's not crying."
"I am crying. If I hear about this tomorrow, I know who to kill."
"We thought that if you ever decided to have children..."
"God forbid."
"If you ever did, you might like to have those things. For them."
"Grandpa House's dog tags and Grandpa Wilson's pocket watch. Are you guys sure you want to give these up? What about that little brother or sister?"
"Absolutely certain. Now take your pussy ass to bed. I told you that we should have bought him panties."
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response. No kissing, but I will take a hug, Jimmy. Merry Christmas."
"Love you, brat."
"Good night and Merry Christmas, asshole."
"And a Merry Kissmyass to you, Church."
A/N II: The name Bredon holds a special place in my heart. It not only is the name of Lord Peter Wimsey's (Dorothy L. Sayers famous detective) firstborn, and one of his middle names as well, it's also my asshole father's middle name. Thanks, old man.