The Irrelevant Bug, Chapter 4
Wilson begins his search in the bureau Blythe kept in the corner of the living room. He rifles through drawers hesitantly, trying not to disturb the order therein. He figures that if anything like a Will had been made, then this would be the best place to find it.
Somewhere in the unfamiliar background noise, he can hear the rumbling snores of House. He had turned in fairly early on and left House sitting on a chair, watching the snow as it fell and, he supposes, trying to get some kind of handle on this whole thing. He had been expecting House to still be there this morning and was surprised to find himself alone on the second day, the day everything would begin in earnest.
He knows lots of useful things about arranging a 'tidy' death; about DNRs, Living Wills, power of attorney and even has a list of all the best lawyers who dealt with that kind of stuff. The trouble being, Blythe hadn't expected to die.
As he closes the first of the desk's drawers, he hears the unmistakable thump-step of House walking across the landing above. The feint but audible splash of early morning pee and the subsequent flush of the toilet coincide with Wilson opening the second of the drawers. He moves a pile of photographs to reveal a document wallet with 'In the event of my death' written across it in thick, black marker pen. The smile across his face shows the relief he feels at having something tangible with which to begin.
Wilson leaves the contents of the folder for House to discover before heading into the kitchen to make toast and coffee. The freezing morning, despite the heat blasting from the radiators, forces the air he exhales to turn into hot puffs of vapour as he walks, as he breathes.
Lost in the minutia of morning routine, he jumps when House clears his throat in the doorway.
"I didn't hear you come down." He places his hand over his heart as some sort of indicator of shock, "I was just making some breakfast – want some coffee? Toast? Anything?"
"I might," House clears the roughness from his throat before he continues. "Might have a coffee."
He grabs the cup that Wilson had just been about to drink and limps heavily to the French doors leading out into the little garden. Wilson stands with his hand loosely formed around the now-invisible cup before he lets his arm drop to his side.
"Here, have mine by all means."
Making another drink for himself takes no time and as he swirls the spoon around, the milk he added forces the dark coffee to blend into a more palatable mocha colour. He can hear House blowing into the stolen mug and the slurp he makes resonates around the room, somehow out of place in the peace of the morning.
"So, I uh, found something in your mother's desk." Wilson stops himself throwing his hands up to protect his face for fear that House may respond to this with violence. Cautiously, he passes the folder. "I uh, think this might help you to you know, get started."
Wilson watches as House checks out the folder, opening it slowly as though it might be booby-trapped in some way.
"Right. Okay." House mumbles as peers inside, "its uh… there's nothing inside. Just this list."
Wilson takes the crisp, white sheet of notepaper and reads through all the things that should be in the folder, and aren't.
"I guess she was getting to it. You know after your dad."
"Right." House slurps again at his mug, and Wilson isn't sure what to say or do next.
Thankfully, the sound of Blythe's doorbell jangling in the hallway relieves him of his burden and he hurries off to answer the door.
Somehow, Wilson expects to recognize the person on the other side of the door and is actually surprised to find himself face to face with a perfectly pleasant, but totally unknown woman.
"Hi… uh…"
"Well now, you're not Greg, I can see that, you must be..?" At once welcoming and completely disarming, Wilson cannot help but be grateful to this woman he does not know, for pulling him from the mire of House's grief.
"I'm James, James Wilson… I uh, work with… Greg. Please come in." He gestures frantically into the narrow hallway with an ineffectual flap of his hand, trying to stem the dreadful icy blasts of wind leaking into the house.
"So, before you let me in, you should know who I am huh?!" the strange lady stomps the snow from her boots and her cheeks instantly flush red when she steps into the hall.
"Oh, well, I uh…"
"Oh honey, don't you worry! I'm Mary. I'm a friend of Blythe's. I met Greg once, a few years back." She pauses, expression turning dour and stops Wilson with a hand to his elbow, "How is he doing?"
Wilson isn't sure how to answer the question without making his friend sound a heartless man at worst and a needy one at best.
"He uh, I guess it's all been quite a shock. He uh, isn't saying very much right now. I'm uh, sorry for your loss." She nods her appreciation, and he leads Mary down the hall into the living room. When he takes her coat, he invites her to sit down.
"HOUSE? HOUSE?" he shouts. "Let me go look for him, I'll be right back." Wilson leaves Mary sitting on the sofa and heads into the kitchen to try to locate the man in question.
The coffee cups they had both been drinking from perch precariously on the edge of the worktop, splodges of syrupy brown liquid oozing over the edges. Other than that, there is no sign of life in the empty room. There aren't many ways that a man with a limp and a cane can get by Wilson without setting off myriad internal alarms so this turn of events is somewhat disconcerting. The kitchen is joined to the rest of the house by the hallway he had just gone through so that left just one means of escape, the French doors.
"He made a break for it huh?!" Mary interrupts Wilson's investigation and flips the kettle on like she's done it a thousand times. A prickle of self-righteousness scuttles down his back before he realises she probably has done it a thousand times, albeit in happier circumstances.
"I don't know him very well but I did know Blythe. If her boy is anything like her, then it may be better to just leave him be. He'll come right."
"I guess."
Wilson suppresses a million 'ifs' and 'buts' and a modicum of disbelief. If he's honest though, he probably thinks much worse of House than he ought to, especially now.
Mary and Wilson watch the hunched figure pacing out in the yard, puffs of breath punctuating his jerking, jolting movements. In the background, the kettle hisses and clicks through its boiling cycle and the glass of the cupboards mists up, forging a visual connection to the atmosphere; both inside and out.
"He needs to figure this out James, it's not every day your mother dies. Give him some space, some time. I have no doubt the relatives are about to descend on you. Be the buffer; let him do what's right. He knows what he's got to do." Mary settles her hand on his before continuing, "Be his friend James, he needs someone in his corner. I'll call later on, but if there's anything you need, my number is on the pin board there. Anything you need, you just call, do you hear?"
Wilson swallows down the knot of emotion threatening to burst out of his mouth and nods, mouth set firmly despite the tell-tale tremble of his lip.
As the front door closes with a resolutely sure click, his eyes don't leave the distant figure of House ambling around in the freezing snow outside. His mind flicks to his own mother; most likely settling down right now to a mid-morning scan of the newspapers and a piping hot chocolate. If she wasn't there, if he didn't have that safety net of just knowing she was a phone-call away…
He blinks his eyes furiously trying to suppress the prickle of tears as he pushes the pre-set button on his phone. It rings out a few times before he makes himself known with a wobble in his voice, "Hi Mom?"
The tinny sound of a mother glad to hear from her middle son pierces the cold air of the kitchen and Wilson melts into the sound of her voice as she brings him up to speed. He leans into the radiator and sucks her strength, her support though the airwaves.
House sitting on the frosty, snow-laden bench-set outside drops his head and Wilson turns away; lets him have this moment.
A little bit of thanks goes to Paolo Nutini for help with one of the lines. More thanks goes to Iyimgrace for being an all round, good egg.