A/N: This is a new revision of an old story. I haven't so much changed it, as trimmed a lot of fat. Many thanks to Namaste for the original beta, and to Betz88 for the inspiration to get back on the horse, and for being just wicked cool.
Takes place in S2, shortly after "Daddy's Boy". Strong language.
Disclaimer: Acknowledged that neither the characters herein, nor the quotation from "Wind-Up" by Ian Anderson, are of my own invention. I use them without express consent, but likewise without malicious or commercial intent.
LATE
Daily ritual.
Okay. Breathe, carefully, through the nose, out the mouth... that's right. You are in control of everything, there is no pain, you are the master of the universe...
FUCK...
House's eyes fluttered open, then slammed shut at the first conscious awareness of pain. The alarm clock was screeching. Shut up! As if I could sleep anyway...
Every day.
Without opening his eyes, he swatted the clock. Before he had fully completed the motion, his hand was fumbling about the night table until his fingers grasped the small plastic bottle of Vicodin. Shaking out a tablet, he took a moment to churn and swish up enough-- mmmm, tasty phlegm, fucking snot in my mouth, where's the faucet, never mind, better not to stand just yet, snooze button, yeah that's it-- enough saliva to wash the pill down; he swallowed it. Swallow hard, swallow fast, inhale deeply, and only then allow the eyes to open again once more.
8:16.
Where the hell is Angelina Jolie? Had me dry-humping the pillow a second ago. How long had that damned thing been ringing? He'd had trouble sleeping lately. He hadn't yet been able to figure out why.
The cause, he was convinced, was beyond his usual physical pain. Whatever it was, he didn't care--he knew only that he was whipped, and needed rest. Either way, it didn't seem to matter at this time of day.
With a grunt, House pulled himself upright and swung his left leg off the bed, his hands carefully helping the right one to follow. He grabbed his cane, hauled his body up, and trudged past the blinking answering machine and toward the shower. I know, I know...
He was going to be late today.
ooooooooooo
"9:28, Dr. House checks in. Don't bother writing it down."
"You're late." Dr. Lisa Cuddy had appeared at his elbow near the admin desk.
"Better me than you."
"I'm never late."
"I, for one, will sleep better knowing that."
"Some of us actually take responsibility seriously."
"Good thing. I'm not ready to be a daddy. Still a kid at heart. Oats remain to be sown." House winked devilishly. "Wild ones."
House noted with some surprise that Cuddy's face didn't harden; nevertheless it told him that she wasn't in a mood to play today. "You have a visitor. In my office."
"Ah. Carmen. I told her to come to my office. Wanna come along? Don't worry, she's seriously responsible, too. Clean as a whistle." But Cuddy had already turned her back and was heading for the elevator.
"I'm clean too!" House called after her. No sense of humor.
Opening the door to Cuddy's office, House's stomach abandoned jocularity and flipped with a blunt ache as he glimpsed the soft, sad smile on the face in front of him.
"Mom?"
"How are you, darling?" She came to him, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek.
"Mom, what is it? Why are you..." He stopped. He saw tears welling in her eyes.
"Hi, Greg... buy a girl a coffee?"
ooooooooooo
House looked at his mother as she waited for him at the cafeteria table. She'd aged, and not well, even in the months since he'd seen her last. Darkness ringed her eyes, and the creases around her mouth had deepened. She looked exhausted. House paid for the two cups of coffee on the tray in front of him and sat down across from her.
"Cream and sugar?"
"No, thanks." Blythe blew steam from her cup before taking a tentative sip. "So...are you seeing anyone?"
Remember my 'friend' Wilson? On second thought, wrong answer-- "I am a rock, I am an island."
"What about that lovely Dr. Cameron we met last time?"
Well, if she showed up in my bed, I wouldn't kick her out-- Wait. Wrong again. "She works for me, Mom."
"I guess you're right. Well, as long as you're happy..."
"I am," he lied. Blythe nodded, disappointment in her eyes, as if she'd heard a different answer.
Change the subject. "Where's Dad?"
"At the hotel. He needed to rest."
He didn't want to see me. "Ow! Damnit," House swore under his breath. The styrofoam cup in his hand had buckled between his fingers, sending coffee cascading over the rim.
"Greg, my god!" Blythe seized his scalded hand and blew on it. "Better?"
"It's fine, Mom," he promised, withdrawing his hand. House's eyes darted self-consciously about the cafeteria. "Tell me about Dad."
"Oh, Greg, I don't know what to think. He's sick. Don't look like that, I mean he's ill. He won't see a doctor."
"That's why you're here?"
"Well of course we both wanted to see you. You know how stubborn your dad can be...He says there's nothing to worry about, but...Greg, I just know something is terribly wrong."
House frowned. "He's always been terribly wrong."
"Greg!"
"Just kidding. You were saying..."
Blythe covered her eyes with her hands. "He hasn't been quite right for months, but lately he's gotten much worse."
"What are his symptoms?"
"He's had fevers, he has trouble breathing sometimes, he won't eat...Last week, I came into the bathroom while he was coughing, and I saw blood in the sink. He denies it, but I'm sure he's in pain. He shuts down when I mention it... "
"He is quite the stoic, isn't he?"
"Yes," Blythe agreed, then seemed to reconsider. "But no...Not really. He's more like you are... I can't explain it. I suggested we come to pay you a visit."
"Must've taken some arm-twisting."
"Your father loves you, Greg. We both do."
House sighed, resigned. "Let's go. You can ride on the back of my motorcycle."
ooooooooooo
The wind whipped his face. Short snatches of cold air raced through his open mouth, escaping as a warm fog that licked his eyes and nostrils. Greg was running, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He took the three steps up to the front porch in a single leap, and flung the door open, panting.
"I'm home!"
Greg's father was reading the newspaper. He'd been home on leave for less than a fortnight. It occured to Greg that he should be glad his dad was alive. He wasn't feeling particularly grateful. At least they hadn't had to move this time; Greg had grown to relish his relative autonomy.
"Supper's over," John House said, without looking up. Greg quickly focused his eyes on his shoes; he knew better than to offer an answer. His mother swept out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron before greeting him with a kiss and a tussle of his hair. Greg winced, and shot his eyes toward his dad. He hoped he hadn't noticed the display of affection.
"I saved you a plate, dear."
"You're not doing him any favors by coddling him."
"He's just a boy."
"He's thirteen. He needs to learn responsibility."
"He understands responsibility."
Greg's face was burning. Why couldn't they talk to him? I'm standing right here. "It's okay. I'm not hungry."
"You have to eat something. Take off your shoes, and then come out to the kitchen with me."
Greg was used to feeling like a guest in his own house, especially when his father was home. He politely pushed meatloaf and scalloped potatoes about on his plate; his legs had stopped, but his mind was still racing.
"Greg, why were so late today?" His mother asked him, busy at the sink.
"I...lost track of time."
"Were you playing baseball again?"
Can't lie, she'll know... Keep it simple. "Sorry, Mom."
"It's all right, honey. But your father and I were worried."
Fifty percent right. Failing grade. "Sorry."
Blythe rinsed the last dish and sat with him at the table. They made eye contact briefly, but broke it quickly. Greg was home, and her worry, his fear of disappointing, had all been swept under an unspoken rug.It was more comfortable to each of them to name English words for their feelings in their minds, than to actually express them in public. "I believe it's report card day, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I did pretty good." Greg fished through his backpack, and handed her the crumpled card.
"You sure did," she beamed. "Good job, son."
"Let me see it." John House had entered the kitchen. Greg clenched his jaw. The examination, Greg knew from experience, would not end well. Blythe stood up.
"Did you hear us talking, John?"
"Nope. Came out for a cookie." He took the card. "Not bad. Why the 'C' in biology?"
"John..." Blythe trailed off.
"What? You want me to tuck him in, tell him a bedtime story? What about you, Greg? Do you want me to lie?"
Yes, Dad, just this once, tell me you're proud of me, that you love me no matter what... "No."
"All right then. I asked you a question, son."
"It's boring. I...didn't turn in some homeworks."
"Why not?"
"I finished the book in September. I know more than the teacher."
"That's not what I asked, Greg." John didn't raise his voice, but his eyes were a pair of drill bits, boring into him. Blythe had been watching them quietly; now she turned and began re-washing the already clean dishes.
Greg fumbled for a defense. "It's boring," he repeated. "What's the point? I already know it. I'm going to be a doctor, Dad," he offered hopefully. I'll make you proud of me...
John seemed unimpressed. "They don't let slackers into medical school, Greg. What's the point? The point is that sometimes we have to do things in this life that we don't want to do. You suck it up, and you do it."
The telephone rang, mercifully preventing the need to respond. John answered it.
"Hello?...Well, hello yourself, Mr. Pike, how are you?...Yeah, on leave. Yes, I'm fine, thanks... Say that again...He did what?..."
Oh, shit.
"Now what does that mean exactly? 'Y' incision?..."
Double shit...fuck shit fuck...
"I see...thank you for calling...I'm really awfully sorry about this, Mr. Pike." John hung up the phone and balled his fists against the wall. Greg could hear him breathing heavily.
"John, was that Chris Pike? The funeral director?" Blythe asked.
John turned around. Greg wanted to crawl under his chair. "You forgot your textbook."
I'm dead. "Uh..."
"How did you get in, Greg?" John's voice was deliberately low, exquisitely controlled.
"Basement window," Greg mumbled.
"Wonderful. You make me proud, son," said John sardonically. "Breaking and entering, trespassing...mutilating a corpse!"
"What?" exclaimed Blythe.
"Your son spent the afternoon desecrating a goddamn corpse!" John roared, apoplectic.
Blythe paled. "You cut open a body?! Greg, for the love of god, why?"
"I wanted to look at the insides. There's only frogs at school. We don't even get a fetal pig until senior year."
"Oh my god..."
"I didn't hurt him. He was already dead. You wouldn't understand--"
"I understand plenty! What is Mr. Pike supposed to tell that man's family?!" John House demanded. His face reddened exponentially by the second.
"I sewed him up good! Suit and tie, they'll never know the difference--" Greg flinched; he saw murder in his father's eyes.
Come on! Hit me! Hit me...
"Do you think this is a joke? Do you care anything about why that man was lying in that basement? How far he'd come to get there? Maybe when you see somebody's legs blown off, head blown off, right in front of you, someone you care about... maybe then you'll think... Jesus Christ! Don't you tell me I don't understand! There's such of a thing as right and wrong, Greg. I've seen it, better than I'll ever be able to explain. What we do matters, Greg. Who we are matters, and I don't know what kind of man you expect to become, but I think that--"
Greg could listen no longer. He stood up, knocking back his chair, and met his father's eye.
"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!"
He wasn't entirely aware of the words coming from his mouth, until he felt them, like a thunderstorm threatening, hanging over the kitchen in the ensuing silence.
John House used his height to its fullest advantage, approaching and towering over Greg, eyes blazing with fury. Greg closed his eyes for a moment, anticipating the blow that would surely meet his face. Open your eyes, damnit. He snapped them open again and stared up at his father, defiant. Only a second or two had passed.
Greg saw the corner of his father's mouth turn upward briefly, mocking him; at the same time, his eyes inexplicably cooled before he finally spoke.
"You're a liar."
The physical blow never came. Greg was furious.
ooooooooooo
House hadn't been serious about the motorcycle, but he was glad for the brief laughter the notion had ellicited. Twenty minutes later, he followed his mother into the hotel lobby. He'd deliberately taken his time paying the taxi driver in order to cloak the difficulty he had getting out of the cab. He managed to sneak a Vicodin as Blythe walked ahead of him.
Hotel rooms have a distinct smell, House noticed, just as a hospital does, or a new car. Clean linen and not-so-subtly perfumed disinfectant. It was an unlived-in scent that emphasized the knowledge that the occupants were strangers, just passing through, masters, by your leave of course. House entered the room and saw his father lying on the bed, his backed propped up by a half-dozen pillows. He flicked the air with a remote control, as if it were a lance, and a windmill loomed before him. Blythe set to motion immediately, picking up shoes and errant socks.
"Did you know there was a channel that played soap operas all day long?" John House queried the room in a manner of greeting.
House couldn't recall having seen his father looking weaker. He'd lost thirty pounds since he'd seen him last, and dark circles ringed his red eyes. The skin of his face was sallow and gaunt.
House pulled a desk chair next to the bed. It was yesterday's General Hospital.
"Dad." House greeted his father with a curt nod.
"Greg," John returned. "I can't keep track of who sleeps with who on this show. Who's this babe?"
"It's Carly. New actress."
"No, she's supposed to be with Sonny."
"He's doing Emily Quartermaine these days." This is bizarre, House thought. Conflict-avoidance had always been his mother's gambit.
John grunted, covering a shift in position. "She's just a kid. It's that rapid-aging syndrome again."
House made a mental note to do a bit of research. "Self-medication Through Soaps". Might be worth an article.
John was twitching, pretending to brandish the remote. "You know there's a cop on this show that's addicted to painkillers?"
For the first time since House had arrived, John made eye contact; his stare was piercing and unavoidable. Feeling suddenly pre-pubescent, House fought the urge to lower his glance.
He nodded with a pained, ironic smirk. "Yeah. His name's Lucky."
"Interesting."
Now this was more comfortable. Mutual contempt and accusation, barely masked by the mirthful draw at the corner of each man's mouth. The sensation, for House, was nearly pleasant. He decided not to risk further metaphorical exchange.
"Mom told me you haven't been feeling too hot."
"What's not hot about a mature, experienced United States Marine Corps pilot? You just ask one of the chicks on this show. It's the uniform."
Blythe laughed. "John, you've been recycling that line for fifty years! Except for the 'mature' part."
House noticed John meet his wife's eyes warmly. "Well, it worked, didn't it?"
Blythe lowered her eyes demurely as John chuckled. House's eyes narrowed, perceiving the effort in his father's laugh. Love is like oxygen...
"Dad, you look like hell. And I don't think a uniform's going to help, if you happen to have one in mothballs nearby."
John nodded, nonplussed. "Yeah, I know. Bad case of bronchitis, can't seem to shake it. I've been seeing a Navy doc."
Blythe whirled in surprise. "You never told me you'd been to a doctor!"
"Yeah, well, I have. Bronchitis. Now everyone can stop their damned fretting and fussing."
During his father's proclamation, House had fished a stethoscope out of his backpack.
"Mind if I have a listen?"
"Matter of fact I do."
"Don't worry, Dad, I'm a trained professional. I do this for living. Besides, it's been months since I killed somebody. Whoops, sorry--bilateral rales--"
"I said no!" John snatched the stethoscope away from House and flung it across the room, narrowly missing the television and plugging a crescent-shaped divot into the drywall behind.
"John!" Blythe chastised him. "Greg's only trying to help."
"I don't need help."
The effort John had expended had cost him dearly. His breathing was even more labored.
"Dad, you need to come with me to the hospital. You need oxygen--your lips are becoming cyanotic, and--"
"What the hell's 'cyanotic'?"
"Blue, Dad. Not good, ok? Let me just run a few tests..."
"I don't need tests."
"Sure. I know how much you trust the stout-hearted underpaid patriots staffing the Navy hospital in Pensacola, but if we get you a correct diagnosis, we can--"
"And I don't need your diagnosis!" John was wheezing badly. "I mean it, Greg. Either shut up about it or... get out of here... What did you come here for... anyway?"
The last sentence had the desired effect. House was wounded, and instantly on the offensive. He was good at it, after all.
"Fine. You win. Go take a nap. Have pleasant dreams about napalm and the glory days. Gee, I can almost smell the baby-flesh burning now."
"How dare you!" John lurched from the bed, right arm cocked to strike out. He'd barely managed an upright position before House could tell he was on the verge of collapse.
"John, no!" cried Blythe, wringing her hands. "Greg, do something!"
John's weight was falling. There was little House could do, but he nevertheless attempted to break the fall with his left arm, his right planting his cane behind himself for balance. It wasn't enough. The two men tumbled unceremoniously to the floor. Fuck! House cursed silently as the pain in his leg blinded him, leaving him momentarily dazzled. By the time he had recovered enough to kneel next to his father, John had lost consciousness. A trickle of blood had appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"He's not breathing."
"Oh my god--"
"Mom, listen to me. Call 911, now!"
ooooooooooo
"He's stablized, off the ventilator, but still unconscious."
Dr. Foreman wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know, but House accepted the statement with a nod as he busied himself fixing a cup of coffee. An Irish cup, it would have been, had there been a bottle handy. If he had been honest with himself, House would have realized that he had deliberately goaded his father to the point of respiratory arrest. There was, after all, more than one way to land a reluctant patient in the hospital. On the other hand, perhaps he had let his bitterness erupt without purpose at all, born of hurt and the desire to hurt. Whatever. Screw him.
"House?"
"What?"
"You want some coffee with your sugar?"
Dr. Cameron had approached him as he stirred his cup, concern and sympathy clothing her face and both sleeves. Allison Cameron--always a vision, but for the persistent notion that she had been Bambi's mother in a past life.
"That's the way I like it," he said, and swallowed a sickening gulp for proof. "Uh huh, uh huh."
"Are you okay?" She put her hand on his shoulder. House shrugged it off with a jerk, more from the shock of lust her touch had evoked than from annoyance.
"Sorry--Fine. But feel free to imagine otherwise in your shower tonight. Or are you a pillow girl?"
Cameron rolled her eyes in disgust and stalked away to put the conference table between them.
"Okay then... Arterial blood gas confirmed respiratory acidosis. Let's go through the differential."
Foreman appeared perplexed. "Excuse me?"
"Did I stutter? Differential diagnosis, people. We do it right, 'cause we do it thrice."
"House..." Foreman tried speak gently; he only succeded in sounding condescending. "The test results were conclusive. You shouldn't even be working on this case."
"Biopsy's not back yet," House volleyed.
"You know what the result's going to be. He's terminal."
"Why, Dr. Chase, I didn't realize you were here. So kind of you to participate."
Robert Chase had spent the discussion thus far rocking precariously on the back legs of his chair, looking distinctly disinterested, or preoccupied. Now he stood up and made for the door.
"Sit down!" The tone and volume of House's voice was enough to stun the office into stilled silence. "We're done when I say we're done." After a moment, Chase resumed his seat. Cameron rose and approached House as if he were a lion with a thorn in his paw.
"Do you remember what you told me when I was treating Cindy Kramer a few months ago? I know how hard this is for you. But you were right."
You've done everything you need to do except tell your patient he's dying. She was right too, to advocate for her patient. But, damnit, she's not right about me. Nobody is.
"Cindy who? Doesn't ring a bell. Keep the patient sedated until the biopsy results come back."
"Why?"
"Because he's an asshole. Unconsious asshole is considerably easier to control."
"Why didn't I think of that? Imagine--being around a man like that day in and day out," remarked Foreman sarcastically as he rose to leave. House refused to acknowledge the jibe and turned his back. Cameron and Chase followed their colleague out of the office.
"Chase," House called, too softly for the other fellows to hear, stopping the young doctor at the door. Chase paused but neither spoke nor turned to face him.
"It sucks. You know that, right?
Chase now stared back, but gave away nothing. "What does?"
"You didn't miss anything," House offered significantly. It was not lost on House that, by his own choice, his fellow hadn't had the opportunity to see his own father before he'd succumbed to cancer. Had not even been permitted a "sod off" for the road.
Said Chase: "Yeah. I did."
ooooooooooo
I wonder if he'll say "thank you"...Ten bucks, no...
House opened the door to his father's room and saw a uniformed man in his early fifties standing bedside. His dad had shown some improvement since he'd been extubated. The two men shared a laugh; House had missed the joke.
"Am I interrupting?"
"Speak of the devil. Greg, this is Captain David Hunter. Dave, this is my son. Captain Hunter here was my RIO during my last tour in Vietnam--just a kid, weren't you, Dave?-- and my aide for ten years, up until I retired. Greg, in a rather nauseating irony, is now my doctor. Come to check my pee, son?"
Captain Hunter strode toward House, extending his hand. House noted with some annoyance the unconscious glance at his cane. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. House. Your father's told me a lot about you."
"All good I hope." House remarked dryly.
"I just came by to drop off some...personal things." A garment bag and a small duffle had been laid by the bed.
"I can come back..."
"No, Davy was just leaving, weren't you, Dave? Be sure and say hello to Blythe on your way out."
"Yes sir, I will... Good bye, sir... Dr. House."
House hobbled into Hunter's forsaken place at the side of the bed. An awkward moment passed quietly between father and son. Finally John broke the silence. "David's a good man."
"Seems it. Devoted. Obedient. The son you never had."
"Can it, Greg."
House regretted the barb when he remembered the news he had come to deliver. "I have your biopsy results."
"You pulled a nice stunt, running your tests while I was unconscious."
"I'm a stunt-puller. That's what I do. I can't believe that would shock you."
"Oh yeah. I'm shocked." John House was clearly nothing of the kind. "I told you before. I don't need your tests, or your diagnosis."
"Dad, you can be stubborn at home with Mom, but you're in my house now, and I'm drunk with power, so--"
"Greg--" John began impatiently, then stopped, eyes closed and creased, the skin of his face drawn tight.
House's eyes darkened imperceptibly. "Are you in pain?"
"I can handle it."
"That's not what I asked."
"I'm fine, Greg."
"Fine."
John's breathing became easier and he opened his eyes. "I'm not being stubborn. Gimme that." He reached out his hand and snatched the chart.
"Dad, you're not going to understand--"
"Adenoid cystic carcinoma."
In the nanosecond during which House was stunned, he did the math. "Metastasis to the lungs."
"Well, that's new, anyway."
"How long have you known?"
"Over a year."
"Mom has no idea."
"I'd like to keep it that way. I don't want her to worry."
"I can't lie to her."
"Tell her then. I can't stop you."
House had opened his mouth to retort when Cameron swept breezily into the room with a fresh bag of saline. "Good to see you again, Mr. House. How are you feeling?" Perfect timing, as usual.
"That's Colonel House, if you don't mind, missy."
House couldn't help himself. "And this is Dr. Cameron, Dad." Oh, crap. House frowned at Cameron's look of astonished gratitude. John House's smirk told him his father hadn't missed it either.
Cameron cleared her throat awkwardly. "Uh, Dr. House, the--your--chem panel results are back."
House moved to come around the bed, hand extended for Cameron's file. He turned the corner too quickly, slamming his thigh painfully into the metal bed rail. His cane pitched across the room as he lost his balance, leaving him clinging to the rail to keep from falling to the floor. Cameron rushed to assist him; he stopped her with a glare.
"I'm fine," he said, gritting his teeth. "Send for a repeat CBC and PaCO2 level."
Cameron retrieved his cane."Are you sure--"
"I said--I'm fine," he hissed, snatching the cane. "Bye!"
"Dr. House--"
"Cameron, get out!" House's anger was paralleled only by his embarrassment. Cameron, mercifully, did not speak again, and left the room. House pretended to make a note on the chart while he caught his breath.
John sneered. "You mean Dr. Cameron, don't you, Dr. House?"
"Go to hell." House hobbled toward the door. He needed Vicodin desperately, but he wasn't about to give his father any more ammunition.
"Soon."
House stopped short, a wave of guilt washing away a measure of anger, but none of the pain. "Dad...what do you want from me?"
John rolled his eyes. "Christ, Greg, what do you think?...Nothing. I don't want anything." John seemed to think of something worth mentioning; he tilted his head.
"Greg-- do you respect your staff?"
House blinked at the non sequitur. "Depends who you ask."
"I know that story. I invented it. You push them, you harangue them. What do you tell them when they make a mistake or offer you an excuse?"
House saw where the dialogue was headed. "That's different."
"What do you tell them when you screw up?"
"Nothing. I said, that's different."
"How is it different?"
"I was your son! I needed a father, not a drill sergeant!"
"I just wanted you to be prepared," John sighed wearily. He hesitated. "I know you've had a rough time...with your leg."
"Not your problem."
"He accuses. You kill me, Greg," John chuckled, causing an eruption of coughing. "I'm the one dying, and you want my pity."
House felt his blood rise hot to his face. "I have never asked for your pity, or your help. Not that it would have done any good."
"You're an idiot, Greg. Don't you get it? You can't pity a man and respect him at the same time. Shit happens to people. It is not my fault that you're unhappy. You've made your own bed. So did I."
House blinked. Respect? One word. He'd turned his back, speechless and frustrated, when a question he'd never considered occurred to him
"Were you happy, Dad?"
"I've had no cause to complain."
"Goddamnit, that's not what I asked!"
"Greg, take a pill, for god's sake." John's voice dripped sarcasm. House's hand was already in his pocket. The hand froze there, knuckles white, gripping the bottle of Vicodin.
"I always got a kick out of that look." John mused.
"What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. You and I are a lot alike, aren't we?" It wasn't a question. House felt the beginning of a wry smile break the furious tension of his face, telegraphing surrender.
"Why do you think I've never had children?"
John sighed. "I know you hate me, son. I can live with that. I suppose I'm not the penitent sort."
Me neither. House didn't answer.
ooooooooooo
"When I was young and they packed me off to school
And they taught me how not to play the game,
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success,
Or if they said that I was just a fool..."
House was drained. He'd held his mother while she cried, upon hearing the diagnosis. He'd told her the cancer was treatable, and not to worry. She hadn't believed him. He had waited for hours, while Blythe watched John sleep. Finally, when visiting hours ended, he'd convinced her to get some sleep herself.
"Promise me you'll take care of him, Greg," she'd begged him, eyes raw.
I promise, Mom. I'll be right here. I promise.
Drained. His feet nodded, propped up on the desk. His fingers circled the rim of an empty rocks glass, while half-closed eyes counted the holes in the drop-ceiling. Ian Anderson sang on through the scratching of a needle on vinyl.
"How d'you dare to tell me that I'm my father's son,
When that was just an accident of birth..."
House thought of the last time his parents had come to visit. He thought of Carnell, his dying patient, and his father who had inadvertently poisoned him. A relationship built on lies, lies born of a desire to protect, to show love, to prevent pain. Lies that didn't do a damn bit of good when the chips were down. A delusion was only comforting if you decided to shut off your brain, and that notion had been anathema to House for as long as he could remember. If it's not real it doesn't mean anything. I want meaning. I could've handled not hearing it, I just needed you to mean it...
House rolled his eyes under their lids as he thought of Carnell and his father. Idiots...Dad would have said that too...damn him...
"Jethro Tull. Great album." Of course. Wilson. Wilson shook House from his reverie.
"Yeah."
"It's late."
"You're still here. I was just catching up on some paperwork."
"I can see that."
"Don't start."
"I didn't say anything," said Wilson, taking a seat across the desk. "How about a drink?"
"Good idea." House took the bottle of Jameson, filled the glass he'd been caressing, and took a long swig.
Wilson frowned. He reached across the desk and followed suit, grasping the bottle by the neck.
"Help yourself."
"Thanks."
The pair drank silently until Ian's thoughts on God had faded out, the scratching needle a melancholy metronome.
"How's he doing?"
House rolled his eyes. Here we go...
"O2 sat's at 98 on 50 percent oxygen by canula--"
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant. He's dying. I'd say he's been better."
"Where's your mom?"
"Asleep. You passed her," said House with a nod toward the hall; then, to Wilson: "The next room, with the 'Do Not Disturb' sign. I promised I'd wake her if... if I thought she needed to wake up."
Wilson nodded. "There's something else."
House shook his head. It wasn't worth mentioning. And yet...He exhaled deeply. "He thinks I'm...he said we were alike."
"I see."
"You see?" A surge of restless anger seized House, and he swung his legs off the desk, welcoming the brutal protestation from his thigh as he stood. He grabbed his cane, using the three feet it added to his arm to punish the vertical blinds. "This is useless." House whirled on his friend. "How do you stand it?"
"What?"
"The case is solved, boom, you're dying, nothing to be done, but you don't go away. You never fucking go away! You stick your thumb up your ass, paste sympathy on your face, and you sit there like an idiot, just caring. Caring, and dispensing pain meds. Months, years. Not me. Can't do it. The case is solved. There is no case."
"House, this isn't just another patient, and you know it," the oncologist countered.
"Wilson--what the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Well...you could tell him you love him, for a start."
"You want me to lie."
"It would be a good lie if it was one, but I don't think that's the case. You think your father's right about the two of you. That's why you're half-drunk and pissed right now."
"Sure. I'm a regular chip off the old block. See what it's done for me?"
"You can't hate him without hating yourself too. Do you?"
"Maybe I do," House challenged.
"I don't think so," said a nonplussed Wilson.
"What do you know about it? Why is it that you always seem to feel the need to explain me to me? You're like Shakespeare's fool, you'd think we had an audience. A narcoleptic audience at that--."
"You're the audience, House. Just call me Touchstone, The Wise."
"I like it. Just in private, though-- imagine the rumors."
"Stop evading! He can't hurt you if you don't care, right? You've loved him all along, that's what you're really afraid of."
"Stop that! I'm not a book that only the great Wilson knows how to read! Whatever you think, I don't care-- Son of a bitch!" House cracked his cane against the desk for punctuation.
Wilson's eyes widened. Not in shock, House knew. Wilson had heard what only one's closest friend could hear, and he didn't speak.
House's ears rang shrilly with a memory:
I don't care what you think.
You're a liar.
"Son of a bitch." House slumped back in his chair, his head in his hands, defeated. "So that's it then. I'm a miserable bastard. I'm my father's son, after all." And I'm scared. Now what?
Wilson remained silent. House watched his eyes and knew that despite his protestations, Wilson really did get it. Not all of it, but enough, and more than anyone else.
"I think I met Dad's 'Wilson' today," House realized wryly, popping a Vicodin.
"What are you talking about?"
"Captain David Hunter. Davy. The very model of a modern--" House stopped, his brow furrowing. He wheeled the chair around to the computer and began typing into the search engine.
"What?" Wilson stood over his shoulder.
"Mom and Dad retired to Florida six years ago. Hunter's current billet...is... Mirimar, CA."
"So?"
"So, he got to Princeton in a big damn hurry. After Dad was admitted to the hospital."
"So, they're friends, he made the trip."
"Yeah, sure, fine. But did what did he have in the bag?"
"You're losing me."
"He said it was personal...He brought him a bag and he said good bye." House was up and limping with dispatch out of the office, leaving a puzzled Wilson looking after him.
ooooooooooo
John House stood at the foot of the bed in full dress uniform. The younger House's stomach sank. The 9mm pistol in John's hand reflected the greenish light of the bedside monitors.
"Dad?"
"I didn't expect you tonight, Greg."
House's insides groaned in total rebellion. "I didn't expect you to take a coward's way out." The goad was the best he could come up with.
"Coward?"
"You won't even tell Mom good bye?"
"You can tell her I went in my sleep."
"I can't--"
"Your mother's not strong enough to handle this, Greg."
"And I am?! Maybe that doesn't matter so much..."
"You're stronger than you think. You always have been."
House was stricken.He blinked hard; his eyes were burning. So many words attempted to cross the filter, the sentence made it, this: "Why didn't you ever tell me...anything?"
"I don't know... I didn't want you getting complacent. Maybe I... You never asked, either, you know. Stubborn."
"I suppose I got it honest," House replied, a bit too shakily for comfort.
John squared his shoulders and shook his head as if dismissing any hint of weakness. "Yeah, well... As for me, I haven't spent my life in service to be taken down by my own body. I'm not going to allow your mother to watch me wither, bathe me, change my diaper, when it comes to that, and it will. This was just a warm-up, Greg, we both know it. I'm doing this my way. End of discussion."
"Bullshit! Dad, this military pride, dying with dignity, it's insane! You think I should count my blessings! You don't have to do this. You've got time, maybe lots of time. There are treatments..." House's voice cracked slightly. "Don't you remember? Everything matters. Suck it up!
John was visibly affected. He spoke, barely above a whisper. "I wish you'd had the chance to meet your grandfather..." His resolution returned almost instantly. "We're done, Greg. I want you to leave now."
"No-- No way. I..." House could think of nothing more to say. Panic and bile swelled his throat. He flung open the door and called into the empty hallway, "Security!"
John's mouth tightened ruefully. "Well. That's it then."
"No. Wait! Talk to me."
"It's too late."
"It's not too late, damnit!"
"You're the man now, Greg." John's voice mocked him, then took on a tinge of regret. "Take care of your mother." John broke contact with House's eye. House heard the schick-clik as John pulled back the slide and introduced a round to the gun's chamber.
"Dad, wait! Dad, I--"
John was caught off guard; he stared intently at his son. "What?"
"I-- Dad...please give me the gun."
"I love you, too, son."
No!!...The report of the gunshot, like a shockwave, sent House reeling into the wall. No...you bastard...I love you...damn you... The chance was lost. The cacophony of nurses and security personnel descending upon the room was a distant swirling buzz. He was thirteen years old, running as fast as his legs would carry him, heart racing, hyper-ventilating, dizzy from the effort. House could hear a shrill intermittent ringing as his body slid down the wall and crumpled onto the floor...
ooooooooooo
...His face gleamed with a cold sweat as he jolted awake, unconsciously back-handing the alarm clock onto the floor. Jesus Christ... House ran a trembling hand through his damp hair as he tried to shake off the nightmare. He heard the answering machine pick up; he processed an ephemeral voice through the haze before his eyes.
"Hi, Greg, it's your mom. No emergency, just trying to get in touch. I know you're busy. Call soon, Dad and I love you."
His leg throbbed viciously. The clock was still beeping.
9:40. Fuck.
He was late again.