The Irrelevant Bug, Chapter 7
When House didn't make it home after the phone-call, Wilson had started to worry.
When he wakes up the next morning, and House still isn't home, he worries even more. Feeling entirely useless, lost in a strange town, and car-less, Wilson rationalizes that House is, despite evidence to the contrary, a grown-up. There's obviously some stuff he needs to work through and Wilson knows better than to try to get in his way.
Stirring what feels like the fiftieth cup of coffee he has made since their arrival, Wilson places the mug next to a second round of drinks. As he carries the tray through to the living room, he runs through the introductions that have been made, desperately trying to remember a list of strange names.
Wilson feels completely out of his depth. Usually, he has the necessary social skills and professional gravitas to cope in any given circumstance, but right now, he doesn't mind admitting that the full weight of expectation of House's Aunt and Uncle, a policeman, the funeral guy and Blythe's friend, is a bit too much.
"Here we are," he says as he hands around the drinks, "I really don't know where he's got to. I'm sure he'll be back soon."
A mumble of disbelief sounds round the room and Wilson realizes that for these people, actions speak louder than words; House's largely consisting of absence. That he should be entrusted with the responsibility of his mother's funeral doesn't sit easy with this crowd given the appalling lack of arrangement so far.
Thankfully, Mary seems to be on his side and rescues him from a wall of stony faces.
"So, James, how about I organize the flowers? Maybe that would get the ball rolling"
"Oh, that would be great. I uh, don't think Greg actually gets on very well with flowers." It sounds lame as it leaves his lips but once he has started, it doesn't seem right to stop.
"We've informed the rest of the family anyway. We just need to finalise the arrangements. Has Greg decided on when..?" House's Aunt Sarah asks.
Wilson doesn't know how to say diplomatically that House has been missing for two days and he suspects, has been busier with a bottle of liquor than making any kind of progress with his mother's funeral. He mumbles some kind of hedging nonsense and drops his head, embarrassed.
House's Aunt fills the silence left hanging in the air and turns to the policeman, "Do we know what actually happened yet?"
"I'm not at liberty to say at this time. Until I have spoken to Dr House-" the self-righteous, meaningless words feel like a slap to Wilson's face and he winces in response; something is very, very wrong with this whole thing.
"Surely you can tell us something?!" House's Uncle cuts him off, earning a good hard stare in the process.
"Until I have spoken to Dr House, her next of kin, I can't tell you anymore than we already know. Mrs House ran out into the road and was knocked down by a metallic blue SUV travelling at twice the speed limit."
Hearing the plain facts repeated back like that makes Wilson feel like this is all happening to someone else's family. He's seen this type of thing on TV, he's delivered bad news to thousands of people but when it hits so close to home, it just doesn't seem right.
"But you're here because you do know something more?" Wilson can't leave it alone.
"Sir, until I have spoken to Dr House, I am not at liberty to say."
By the use of his professional title, Wilson can tell that the policeman is expecting some kind golf playing, Ralph Lauren man in general practice to come and deal with this whole thing, take the weight manfully.
This then is the exact best time for House himself to come stumbling though the front door, swearing, twelve kinds of disheveled and stinking, so rendering any explanation for his disappearance completely unnecessary.
"Hi honey I'm home!" he slurs jubilantly as an icy gust of wind follows him.
Wilson doesn't need to hear any more to know that House is drunk. Rushing into the hall, he grabs at House's arm and squeezes probably a little too hard.
"What do you think you're doing?" he hisses, "Where the hell have you been? I've been worried, not to mention-"
"Woah there skipper! Relax, had me a little drink issall, one for the road as they say- whassa matta?"
"Your aunt and uncle are here, your mother's friend is here, a police officer is here, the funeral guy is here – want me to go on?!"
"S'okay, I'll just go on in and-"
"You will go nowhere except for upstairs until you're sober again." Wilson interrupts and points House in the direction he wants him to go in. "What happened to your face? Where's your cane?"
House paws at his cheek, shrugs his shoulders and hauls himself up the stairs, painfully. He seems to be moving quicker than should be physically possible making Wilson quirk an eyebrow in contemplation.
When Wilson reaches the front room to make some sort of excuse, he hears the reason for it.
House pukes his guts out and the assembled visitors can hear each and every sorry groan and wretch.
"Right… think I'll just go and take up some water."
House's Aunt steps up to the plate. 'Honey, you have enough on your hands here, why don't we come back later on, say around six?" she silently questions the assorted faces in the room, then checks back to Wilson. "Why don't I just stay here and give you a hand huh? Looks like you're going to need it."
"That sounds good, thanks." As he speaks, the visitors stand, readying to leave. They troop past him one by one and he suffers several sympathetic pats on his shoulder. He rushes them out through the front door accompanied by the sound of House's never ending retching in the bathroom upstairs. "So, sorry this didn't quite go to plan. Glad to have met you, see you later on."
Wilson turns to Sarah with a wild look in his eye. He really doesn't know what to do. Sure, he's seen House drunker than this before but Wilson has always had some sort of control of the situation; be it geographic or moral. Right now, he feels like a salmon; hopelessly flapping against the strength of the tides crashing against him.
"Let me go up James?"
There is such a kindness in her voice that Wilson can't help but be drawn into her comfort. For all of House's prickles, it seems there have been women in his life letting him lean on their softer edges. Wilson knows or knew - it was never easy to work with the tenses when death was so recent - that Blythe had been something of a rare species; not many people would have put up with both House senior and junior.
He starts to clear the cups and plates from the living room, knowing that if he sits still for too long, all of this will come crashing down around his ears. He cringes each time he hears House release a fresh wave of poison into the toilet bowl and longs to hear exactly what Sarah is saying. All he can make out is the pitch and tone of her voice muffled through walls and floorboards, striking hammer-like against the retching and groaning of a man in distress.
As usual, House had done his best to make sure any possible sympathetic overtures are washed away by asinine, teenage posturing. As usual, Wilson knows that this factor alone is the expression of the inexpressible; Samson's hair left like a razed field in September, Icarus' wings a pool of wax in the sun.
House is down, and he has no idea how to bring him back to life.
Gosh, sorry! I made a huge error because I went and tried to fly without my trusty beta. Note to self, never rely on own mind… it doesn't work. Iyim, you are a true marvel.