Extra Limb
Summary: James would have been more adamant about his demands had known that one day a slighted patient would walk into House's office and kill him. AU.
Disclaimer: I'll own House when ducks tap-dance to the beats of the Beastie Boys. Until then, it belongs to David Shore and Fox. –goes looking for ducks to train to tap-dance-
Author's Note: This is one of the many one-shots I plan on writing for LJ's 100situations group. (I'm trying to write less and say more… Don't know how well that's working for me… -grin-) I just wanted to post this before we get too far into the new season. (Every new episode will make it that much more AU!)
Canon-compatible up to "No Reason."
Reviews/Reviewers are loved.
Thank you and enjoy!
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James watched as they lowered the coffin.
He had always told House to be kinder to his patients. Less caustic. More sympathetic. Less blunt. More subtle. Less like himself.
He would have been more adamant about these demands had known that one day a slighted patient would walk into House's office and kill him.
Not immediately, of course. House was far too stubborn for that, too pig-headed to go gently into the afterlife. In fact, during his last weeks Greg seemed to cling to life with fierceness that almost surprised James. House had not been a joyful man, his multitude of self-destructive tendencies clear evidence to that fact, and he seemed find existence, as a whole, deeply unsatisfying.
James had always thought that House saw it as a tradeoff. He made himself miserable to be brilliant, convinced that without one there couldn't be the other. And although this exchange had led to a great life, it certainly hadn't led to a happy one.
Apparently, however, in those moments between the Diagnostics Department and the ER, House had found something worth living for. And then he had asked for Ketamine, lost consciousness, and not woken up. Although not for House's lack of will. Had it been a simple matter of desire, James had no doubt that Greg would've been back on his feet in mere days, harassing the staff and patients of Princeton-Plainsboro with his usual enthusiasm.
But death is not a matter of will, and a dying body can only be deterred for so long before the inevitable. Ultimately, House's life ended the way it had been lived; with dramatics, flare and no small amount of shock value.
James found it fitting, in a way. House would've hated for his finish to be a common one.
He didn't bring flowers, had no speech prepared. House would've found such things foolish, so James decided that the proper way to respect his memory was to go to the funeral without either. After all, House had never liked flowers, and James had never been good with words when they really mattered. Because even though he could describe every aspect of death, detail the how why and when, he found himself woefully inadequate when attempting to encompass all of the wonders of life. And in life, how one dies is insignificant when compared to how one lives.
He didn't watch as they began to cover the coffin with dirt, hearing some inner voice scoff at him. "Think if you stare long enough, Jimmy, I'll come bounding out of that box?" A snort. "Gaping like a moron doesn't cure death, last time I checked."
So, James slowly turned away from the scene, weaving his way through headstones and statues, cursing the sun and resisting the urge to loosen his tie.
"Should've worn a T-shirt. You would've been cooler, looked cooler and the expression of horror on Cuddy's face would have made me smile from the great-beyond. Take note for future reference, Jimmy. When Foreman kicks the bucket, dress accordingly."
James let out a small, sad, smile as he continued through the graves back to his car, debating whether or not to go to the wake. He felt as if he should, if only for Blythe. No parent should have to outlive their child, especially one so devoted to such an unforgiving son.
"At least I didn't make her accept three banshees into the family."
He laughed bitterly before hearing a rustle behind him.
Knowing that most of the small gathering had remained by the coffin, James gave slight frown as he turned, seeing Allison Cameron several paces away from him.
She was dressed in black with matching hollows under her eyes, her arms tightly clasped around herself, shivering in the heat of summer. As she was, shaking, tired and heartbroken, he could all but see her composure dangling on its thin, fraying, thread.
She looked pretty when she cried, he observed. Even as tears dragged through her makeup, pulled the mascara from her lashes and left trails on her skin, she was exquisite.
That would have pleased House, had he been there. He had wanted art when he hired her. A flawed and broken piece of walking, talking perfection.
James remembered when Greg had discovered the blemishes marring her insides. Recalled how thrilled his friend had been, to learn of the faults that added to her intricacies, enhancing her beauty rather than taking from it. She was interesting, she was gorgeous, she was so helplessly needy.
And she was staring at James as if he had betrayed her, had betrayed House, in the most foul of ways.
"How can you be all right?"
It was more than a question. It was an accusation. Why was his shirt neatly pressed, his hair perfectly in place? Why were his eyes clear? Why was he standing straight, back unbent by the weight of this new sorrow? Why wasn't he falling apart? Why wasn't he suffering?
James didn't know how to explain that sometimes grief didn't scream. Didn't cry. Sometimes it was pulled from a place so deep that no physical release could ever hope to encompass it.
What was the point in trying to express that kind of pain? Of attempting to liberate the rage, frustration, the sense uncontrollable despair, through something as insubstantial as tears? Through something as hollow as screams?
This sort of anguish was far crueler than that. There was no release, no relenting of pain. There was a constant ache, a dull throb that made the loss impossible to ignore. It was a merciless thing; lodging itself in chests, throats and thoughts, bitter-sweet memories flowing through every moment, every motion. The pain so persistent that it becomes a part of the person who feels it, like an extra limb.
James had his hands, his feet and his continuous grief for Greg.
It was a choice James had made, to mourn like this. Because if he didn't then one day, if he wasn't careful, he would wake up to find that he had forgotten how much it hurt to have House gone. That he wouldn't be able to recall how much he had needed Greg needing him.
And James would rather possess the constant ache, his new limb, than risk forgetting Greg needing him.
He looked back to the woman who suddenly seemed so young, in all of her past and present heartbreak, with her quaking muscles and exhausted eyes. The beautiful adult-child in front of him.
"I'm not okay."
And James knew she believed him because he felt her thread snap, saw the steady stream of tears thicken and heard the soft wail as it left her lips.
So he carefully took her hand in his and guided her to his car, gently helped her into the passenger's seat before driving them both to the congregation of frayed people.
"Watching 'The L Word' would be more fun," remarked his new limb, and James tried not to wince at the twinge.
Their threads would snap, and he would ache.
They would scream, cry and rage, let their grief explode into one fantastic flare of pain, before reluctantly allowing it to recede.
While James would mourn more quietly; more slowly.