Here's a post-Bombshells fic about House's biological father coming to visit him. No Dominika in this one because she RUINS EVERYTHING. I think 2-parts should do the trick here. Hope you enjoy! - atd
Cuddy was on her way to her office when she saw a tall elderly man—tall and distinguished looking—wandering the halls looking a bit lost.
She stopped.
"Can I help you?" she said.
The man bent toward her. He was elegantly dressed, in a wool overcoat and cashmere scarf. He had a handsome, lined, intelligent face, with these immensely piercing blue eyes. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn't put her finger on what.
"I'm looking for the office of Dr. Gregory House?" the man said.
She gave him a skeptical look.
"Is he expecting you?"
"No. But it's rather urgent that I speak to him."
"Dr. House only accepts new patients by referral," she said.
"I'm not a patient."
Cuddy narrowed her eyes.
"Is this a. . .sales call?" she said. The man didn't look anything like a salesman—more like an antique dealer or a college professor.
"No, actually it's a personal matter."
Cuddy frowned. (House had personal matters? Involving this elegant gentleman, no less?)
"What kind of personal matter?"
"It's terribly rude, I realize," the man said. "But I'm not at liberty to say."
Cuddy bit her lip.
"House really doesn't like intrusions," she said, finally.
He gave a light smile.
"You seem to know him quite well."
"Yes, well, he's worked for me for 10 years and, until recently, we, uh . . .dated."
"He clearly is a man of exquisite taste," the man said, his eyes twinkling. He had to be 80 years old and yet Cuddy felt the strength of his magnetism. He must've been an absolute heartbreaker in his day.
"I'm Clifford West by the way," the man said, thrusting out his hand.
"Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine," she replied, shaking it. His familiarity, her sense of déjà vu upon meeting him, was bordering on eerie.
"It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said.
Cuddy couldn't remember the last time she'd encountered a man with such courtly manners. She succumbed to it.
"Dr. House's office is one floor up, to the left," she said. "But the odds of him actually agreeing to meet with you are slim."
"Thank you, Dr. Cuddy. I'll take my chances."
And, with a tiny bow, he continued on toward the elevator.
######
House was alone in his office, pretending to read a file but mostly zoning out, when Clifford West materialized in his doorway.
"Dr. House?" he said.
House looked up.
"I only take patients by referral," he said, going back to fake working.
"I'm not a patient. I was wondering if I might trouble you for a moment of your time."
House folded his arms. The guy looked vaguely, but uncannily familiar.
"Do I know you?" he said, peering at him.
"Not yet. But I hope to rectify that fact. My name is Clifford West."
"Well Cliffie, whatever magical elixir you're selling, whatever religious cult you want to convert me to, whatever pyramid scheme you think I need to immediately invest in, I'm not interested."
Clifford laughed, amused.
"It's nothing like that. I'm the Dean of Humanities at Briar University."
"Just as I suspected. We have nothing in common: You're the dean of humanities and I hate humanity. Go find somebody else to bother. Scram."
"But I have a matter of some urgency to discuss with you."
House rolled his eyes a bit.
"They all do," he said, under his breath.
"The thing is, well there's no acceptable way to say this, so I'll just blurt it out: I'm your father."
With that, House's mouth dropped open. He stared at this strange man, incredulously.
"My father is dead," he said finally, tersely.
"John House wasn't your biological father and we both know that," Clifford said.
House suddenly felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest.
"So may I come in for a moment now?" Clifford said.
House kept staring at him, dumbfounded. He nodded, silently.
"Close the door," he managed to choke out.
The thing was, there really wasn't any question at this point. The man looked familiar because House was essentially looking in a mirror, at himself, 30 years from now. And yet, while his intellectual brain processed the information to be true—emotionally, he wasn't quite ready to believe.
"Explain yourself," he said.
"I met your mother at a poetry reading 53 years ago," Clifford said.
"That's already bullshit. My mother never went to a poetry reading in her life."
"Of course she did. Blythe went to many poetry readings—she even wrote a little poetry herself. There's probably lots you don't know about your mother."
"So enlighten me."
"Your mother was a dreamer, a romantic, a gazer at the stars. But she lacked direction in her life—or structure. Your father provided that. So she suppressed some of her more. . . bohemian tendencies and settled into the life of a military wife. But she still had an active, keen mind. Hence the poetry."
House folded his arms defensively, but said nothing.
"Your mother was a beautiful woman then, as I'm sure she still is."
"She is," House said, swallowing a bit.
"I was drawn to her. Any man would have been—she was so young, so vibrant, so full of optimism. I made up an excuse to talk to her. We began having coffee after the readings. We went to foreign films together, art openings, readings at communist book stores."
"Communist book stores?"
"She wasn't a communist. She was just intellectually. . .curious."
House had to laugh. The idea that Mr. Red-White-and-Blue John House had a wife who was secretly attending communist propaganda sessions was almost too good to be true.
"As I said, I was taken with her, right away," Clifford was saying. "But the thing is, I was married, myself. To a woman that I, too, had married out of a sense of duty. Joan was pregnant, you see. By the time I met your mother, I already had two little ones at home."
"You're not a particularly heroic figure in this story," House said, edgily. "You get that, don't you?"
"We were in love, Greg—may I call you Greg?"
"No."
Clifford West looked up, genuinely surprised.
"Dr. House then?"
"Whatever. Call me whatever you want," House grumbled.
"I loved your mother deeply, Greg, and yes, it turned into a brief and passionate affair. But it was short lived. We both had lives to get back to, so we parted and each promised to stay away. It was easier for me, once I get the job at Briar College, hundreds of miles away. I tried to contact your mother a few years later, but you had already left St. Louis at that point. I think you had moved to Delaware?"
"Newark . . .then San Antonio, then Ft. Lauderdale, then a year in Okinawa, Japan, then Michigan, then Denver, then Richmond. . ." House recited, by rote.
"That's a lot of moving around for one young man,"
"Yeah, I'm a real fucking hardship case," House said. Then he added impatiently: "So what'd you do when you found out she was pregnant with your kid?"
"I didn't," Clifford said, sadly. "I mean, not until years later. I saw an article about a promising young medical mind. It was like I was staring back at my own face from when I was 21 years old. And then I saw your name, Gregory House. And I just . . .knew."
House folded his arms.
"So it took you 30 years to muster up the courage to come visit me? Really ballsy move, Cliff."
"No. I tracked down your mother right away—in the article it said they were living in Virginia—and demanded that she tell me the truth. She denied it at first, but there was really no point. You'd have to be blind not to see it. . .She finally admitted that you were my son, but she begged me not to come forward. I was torn. I wanted to meet you, to know you, more than I can possibly say. On the other hand, my wife and I built a wonderful life together. We had four children—all adults now, of course, well over 40—and old secrets can be disruptive. Blythe told me that John House isn't the kind of man who accepts betrayal—on any level. So for everyone's sake, I stayed mum."
House kept trying to process all of this but it was beginning to feel like an out of body experience.
"Four kids?" he said. "I have four siblings?"
"Yes." Clifford reached for his wallet and pulled out a photo—at least 20 years old, judging by the out of fashion clothing and Clifford's full head of dark hair. A smiling family: Clifford and a woman, presumably his wife, sitting down, surrounded by their grown children and various spouses and offspring. All the clothing matched, as though they had been styled in advance. "That's my wife Joan," he said. "And that's Cliff Jr.—he's owns an architecture firm in Manhattan. His wife is Beth and that's little Amanda, who's a senior at Brown now." He shook his head, disbelievingly. "And that's my daughter Sarah—she's a professor like me. She teaches comparative literature at Duke. That's Jordana: She's an astrophysicist at the Space Telescope Institute. And that one. That's my great disappointment, Brian. He's the CEO of a bank. And a Republican." He chuckled.
House stared the photo, at all their smiling, attractive faces. They were every inch the wealthy, well-fed, well-educated American family.
"I bet your kids had everything they wanted, huh?" House said, bitterly. "Tennis camp, cello lessons, a library stuffed with books, European vacations. The whole bit, huh?"
Clifford hastily put the photo away. "Yes," he admitted. "Something like that. Why? It wasn't like that for you?"
"Let's just say my father valued discipline over more…intellectual pursuits."
"I'm sorry Greg," Clifford said.
"Yeah well. The life you get is the life you get, huh?"
"But your career… your brilliance. Your reputation proceeds you, Greg. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been following your career with a touch of long-distance pride."
"Oh yeah, I'm every father's dream son."
"To me, you were the son that got away. Just like Blythe was the love of my life who got away. Not that I would trade my life, my family, for anyone's. But we all have regrets, Greg. You and Blythe—you're mine."
"Does my mother know you're here?"
"No she does not. And I hope it can stay that way."
"Then what are you doing here? Why now? My father died two years ago."
"I know. I was sorry to hear about that."
"I wasn't."
Clifford looked at him, skeptically.
"I'm here because I'm. . .sick."
"Oh for fuck's sake. You want me to treat you," House said, disgusted.
"No! No! Nothing like that. I'm dying. Stage four pancreatic cancer. I have months to live. There's nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it. I wanted to see you, spend some time with you."
"And do what? Toss a football around? Go to the park together? In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a cripple."
Clifford frowned.
"I noticed the cane. . .how did it happen?"
"I was playing baseball and scanning the crowd for my real father and a line drive hit me in the leg."
"You don't have to tell me. . ." Clifford said.
"Oh, that's a relief."
Clifford sighed a bit, looked around the office.
"So what happens in there?" he said, pointing toward the DDx room. "Is that where you and your team brainstorm?"
"No," House said, shaking his head. "We're not doing this. I'm not giving you a tour of the hospital. I'm not going to be your new best friend."
"I feel like you have a lot of anger, Greg."
"You don't miss much, do you?"
"I'm very sorry about that. I can't help but to wonder if the disorienting feeling that you grew up with the wrong father contributed to it."
"If you think I would've fit in better with your grinning bunch of Stepford children, you're kidding yourself."
Clifford nodded. At Briar, he was used to dealing with insolent young men who pretended not to care about anything or anyone. House struck him as an older, more jaded, more brilliant version of that model.
"I met your lovely Dean of Medicine," he said, changing the subject. "She said you two used to date?"
"Is that what she called it?" House said, scowling.
"What would you call it?"
"We were practically living together, until she dumped my sorry ass."
"I'm sorry. Did this happen recently?"
"Three months, 23 days, and"—he looked at his watch—"17 hours ago. Not that I'm counting."
"I'm sorry. That must be hard."
"Hey, at least it's not Stage 4 pancreatic cancer!"
Clifford was momentarily taken aback. Then he recovered.
"You think if you're rude to me, it'll drive me away?"
"Not so much think as hope."
"We don't have to do this. A relationship with you is something I wish for, very deeply. But we don't have to do this."
"What's the point?" House said. "You'll be gone in six months anyway."
"What's the point of doing anything? We're all dying, after all."
"Finally, you're making some sense!"
Clifford studied him for a moment, in the same penetrating, almost disconcerting way that House sometimes studied people.
"You're depressed," he said. "It's understandable. A breakup like that can be difficult. Especially if you thought she was the one."
"She is the one," House muttered. "Not past tense."
"Let me buy you a drink."
"Nope."
"Tomorrow then."
"Sorry, busy."
Clifford nodded, sadly.
"Okay, look. I'm staying at the Princeton Hilton. I'll be here for 10 days. And then I go back to Portland. I told Joan I was taking part in some medical trials here."
"Filling her with false hope. Classy move, Cliff!"
Clifford took out a pen and wrote down a phone number.
"This is how you can reach me. I really hope you'll give me a call."
He stood up.
"Hold on a second," House said, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a swab. "Say ahhhh."
"Is that really necessary?" Clifford said. And as he spoke, House reached into his mouth and procured the sample.
"I'm skeptical by nature," he said, dropping the swab into a sample jar.
"And when the DNA proves what we both already know? That I am your father?"
"I make no promises, Darth Vader. I'm not really the 'bonding over beers with Dad' type."
"Then we can do whatever you want. Play chess. Watch a movie. Sit on a park bench. I just want to get to know my son."
"I'm sure Cliff Jr. is all broken up about your impending death—go find him," House said. "Now get out of my office."
Clifford nodded.
"Okay," he said. "I understand. Ten days. And then I'm gone. For good."
"Don't be melodramatic. It's not like you're dying or anything. Oh…wait."
"Goodbye, Greg."
"See ya, Dad!"
The old man left House's office and walked slowly down the hall.
House put his head in his hands and stayed that way for a long time.
Then he grabbed the DNA sample and made his way down to the lab.
#####
House was just about to look at the two samples under the microscope when Cuddy walked in.
"What are you doing here?"
He backed up against the microscope—in an exaggerated show of hiding it.
"I'm masturbating to hardcore pornography," he said. "Either that or I'm looking at cells under a microscope."
"You never do your own lab work," Cuddy said, skeptically.
"All of my young fresh fellows were otherwise occupied," House said.
"I don't believe you. Let me see what you've got there."
"It's actually none of your business."
Cuddy gave a throaty laugh.
"Everything that happens in this hospital is my business."
"Not this. It's, uh, personal."
Cuddy furrowed her brow.
"Does this have anything to do with that gentleman who came to see you earlier?"
And then, like an anvil, it hit her: That vague sense of déjà vu that she couldn't shake.
"That man is your biological father," she said.
(One night, over a bottle of chianti, he had told her the truth about his father. It had turned into an all-night discussion, the longest they'd ever had about his life and childhood. When they got into bed, she had climbed on top of him. "Thank you for sharing that with me," she had whispered.)
"He's some guy who saw my picture in a magazine and noticed a resemblance. He probably just wants my money."
"Then why are you testing his DNA?"
"An abundance of caution."
"I noticed you haven't looked at the results," she egged on.
"On waiting for you to leave."
"If he's just some imposter, who cares if I'm here or not?"
House glared at her a bit, then took a barely noticeable inhale and looked at the samples.
He tried to remain stony faced.
"Not my dad," he said.
"You're lying."
"I am not."
"House, I know you. You may not have an official tell but it's written all over your face."
He looked at her, clenched his jaw a bit.
"So what if he is my father? What's it to you?"
"House, is he your father?"
"I repeat: What's it to you?"
She got a little excited, despite herself.
"That's…incredible! He seemed so nice. And interesting. Is he an academic of some sort? What are you going to do? Are you seeing him tonight?"
He ignored her so she continued to babble.
"I just. . .I just can't believe it," she said. "How do you feel? You must be so excited!"
House folded his arms.
"If I had a girlfriend, I might tell her how I feel. I might open up to her about all of my emotions right now. But I don't have a girlfriend. I have a nosy boss who I wish would leave me the fuck alone."
She was startled, a bit, by the coldness in his voice.
"Okay, I'm going," she said, backing out of the lab. "But you are going to see him again. Right?"
When he didn't reply, she finally relented.
"Look, I know you hate me right now. But I'm happy for you. Truly."
He turned away from her and looked back down at the sample
######
That night, around 10 pm, there was a knock at House's door. He peered through the peep hole.
Wilson.
"You're not married so your wife couldn't have kicked you out," he said, letting him in.
"I spoke to Cuddy," Wilson said.
"And she kicked you out?"
"She told me about your father."
"Christ, she's obsessed."
"House, this is huge. So it was really him?"
House nodded slowly, led Wilson to his laptop, where he had Clifford West's Wikipedia page open. Two best sellers (Myth and Mythologies and The Examined Life), an interview on The Charlie Rose show (that House had already watched twice), and a recipient of the National Humanities Medal in 1992.
"Wow," Wilson said. "Impressive guy." Then he peered at the picture of Clifford on the site. "He's like an artist's rendering of what you're going to look like in 30 years."
"And yet ironically, he doesn't need a cane."
"So…where is he now?"
"At the Princeton Hilton Hotel," House said.
"And when do you see him next?"
"I don't."
Wilson started.
"What do you mean you don't?"
"I mean…I don't. I'm 51-years-old. I have no interest in getting to know this complete stranger. He means nothing to me."
"House, he's your father, your flesh and blood. If nothing else, I would think your intellectual curiosity would compel you to get to know him better."
"I already have him all figured out. Big Professor on Campus, with his books and his awards and his tweed jackets that he probably has custom made at a clothier in some perfectly quaint village in England. I imagine he cheated on his long-suffering wife a lot, each time elevating his animalistic gruntings to the stuff of Shakespearean sonnets. There's probably 10 other bastard sons and daughters just like me scattered around the country."
"You really believe all that?" said, furrowing his brow.
House shrugged.
"It's possible."
"Then why is he here? Why did he come all the way to Princeton to see you."
"He's old," House said, declining to mention Clifford's terminal illness. "He's feeling guilty about all the poor wretched Wests who didn't get the benefit of his excellent fathering skills."
"So he has kids?"
"Four overachieving siblings. There's Cliff Jr, the big shot architect. Sarah, the literature professor at Duke. Jordana, the astrophysicist and Brian, the bank CEO and Republican—Clifford's alleged shame, nudge-nudge, wink-wink."
Wilson stared at House, suddenly feeling a profound sense of sadness. A family of overachievers and intellectuals. The kind of family House should have grown up in; the kind of family he could've thrived in. (He was also struck by the fact that, despite his brief encounter with Clifford West, House had managed to memorize the names of all of his children.)
"Wow. You have siblings," he said.
"They don't know about me," House said. "Probably wouldn't take too kindly to dear old dad's bastard son."
"And what does your mom say?"
"She doesn't know he came to see me," House said, looking down.
"Are you going to tell her?"
"Hell no! I'm not going to rock the world of a 77 year old woman for no reason."
Wilson nodded.
"I guess there's no right answer here. So how long is Clifford in town?"
"10 days. Then he turns back into a pumpkin."
"That'll give you plenty of time to get to know him."
"You're assuming I want to spend any time with him at all."
"House, you should. He came all this way to see you."
"I'm still deciding."
Wilson nodded. "Okay, fair enough. But don't waste too much time. Regret is the single worst word in the English language."
"I'd go with genocide myself. But regret's a bad one, too."
Wilson gave a slightly game smile.
"Speaking of regret. . ."
"Here we go," House said, rolling his eyes.
"How are things with Cuddy?"
"Regret doesn't really apply in this case. Do I regret that she dumped me? Yes, I regret it. I regret it a lot. I also can't do a damn thing about it."
"She said you were mean to her."
"Poor baby."
"You should give her a break."
"Why? She didn't give me one."
"Because she cares for you. That's why she called me. She was worried that you might be upset, that you needed a friend."
"If she really cared about me, she'd come over and give me a blowjob."
"Don't be crude, House. Talking about Cuddy that way doesn't fly anymore."
"You obviously severely underestimate the healing power of a Lisa Cuddy blowjob."
Wilson shook his head.
"I'm leaving. But I leave you with this advice. Call the old man tomorrow. Make a date to see him, talk to him, pick his brain. You might actually learn something about yourself in the process."
"Thank you, Maury Povich."
Wilson laughed.
"Goodnight, House."
"Goodnight, Wilson."
He led his friend to the door. After he was gone, he pulled out his tablet. He was already on page 455 of Myth and Mythologies.
######