Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
"Mum?" The word slips from a young boys mouth. He sits at her bedside, tears running down his cheeks. He can feel her heat rising from beneath the sheets, and he wishes he could crawl under them and join her. But he knows better. Knows that she would push him away, cry out for another drink, another answer to her everlasting problem. Another solution to her everlasting pain.
It would be too much.
It was bad enough when his father left, and now his mother was slipping away. He watched her face as it settled into its calm sleep, and he silently prayed. He had sworn that he would always pray, not matter how hard things became. He had kept to that promise, and he prayed now for his mother and for the strength that she needed. That they both needed.
He leaves the room quietly and slips into his own bed. He pulls the covers up close to his chin and lets his eyes close. Lets the dreams drift past his eyelids. Lets the memories of what he had done that day and the hopes for days to come take over him.
He wakes to her screaming. Screaming for more drink. Moments pass, he doesn't move. He cries instead. The hot tears pouring down his cheeks, he can't do it anymore. Her screaming stops, everything stops. She makes no noise, none at all, and he rises from his bed to find her.
He cries instead.
A repeat. That's what it is. Everything should be the same. A lost little boy and a damaged parent. But it's all different. It's worse this time, worse because there was time for a good-bye, but the time wasn't used.
The article stares up at him. It's words piercing into him. He had never expected this, never wanted to expect it. His father's name in the paper was normal, but the obituaries, those were a new development. It makes his eyes burn.
He should reach for the phone, call in for a few days off, but he cries instead. He knows his own limits, and he's reached them. His eyes are done with the burning of the held back tears, and his mind his done with the hatred he has held. He can't help but love his father.
His father.
He could have said something. They had seen each other. But no, it was so like him to let his own son learn about his death through the papers. He reaches for the phone, finally, but he doesn't call work, not directly. He dials blindly, and the voice on the other end surprises even him.
"I won't be at work today, House." He doesn't have to choke it out, the tears aren't that bad. He swallows hard, though, and listens to the answer, then the breathing on the other end, then the dial tone. Then nothing. He hangs up and puts the paper down. He opens a small drawer and pulls out a photo album. It's dusty, but he ignores the grime and opens it.
Smiling faces stare up at him. A small child held in the arms of a happy father. The mother stands off to the side, cleaning up the picnic she so painstakingly made. He can see a smile twitching at her face, and this makes him smile.
It has been so long since he's seen that smile.