Sorry for the wait guys, had so much on. Anyway, have the next part here for you, thanks for the feedback so far!


Reluctantly, House had left Cuddy's house for his apartment later in the day. He would have quite happily invited himself to stay, but he had run out of Vicodin and though he never would have admitted it, he himself wanted some space to think. He didn't like to use the word happy, but he was sure that a relationship with Cuddy would bring meaning to his life. He'd even settle for being less miserable, something he was in no doubt that Wilson would appreciate. Nevertheless, it didn't change the way he felt about his father, and somehow, despite everything, he still found himself preoccupied with thoughts of this.

What House hated the most was the way thinking about it made him feel weak; human. Deep down he knew he owed his mother an explanation, but going to the funeral was just too much. There was nothing he wanted more than to just pretend his father didn't exist, and now that he was dead, it would be made easier. Somehow, the memories brought to the forefront of his mind made everything unbearable.

Sighing, House immediately swallowed a couple of Vicodin the moment he walked through the door. He was just about to turn the television on, when he heard the doorbell ring. Limping back over to answer it, expecting to see Wilson standing there, he got the shock of his life when he realised it was his mother.

"Greg," She said with a smile on her face, though House noted the redness around her eyes, telling him she'd been crying.

"Mom," He couldn't help but register his surprise at the fact Blythe House, his mother, was standing on his doorstep, carrying an overnight bag. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," she told him. "After all, you're all I have left now."

Opening the door wider to allow her to enter, House didn't know how to reply to that. He chose to just nod, accepting her words but not appearing as though he wanted to comfort her. He did, he truly did, but he just couldn't bring himself to say what a great man his father had been, when there was nothing more of a lie than that. At the same time, he had to be careful; lying to his mother was a risky choice to make when she could read him like a book. One of the few people that could, House wasn't sure whether to love her or hate her for this.

"How long are you planning on staying for?" House asked, genuinely wanting to know.

"Just tonight," She answered, taking a seat on the couch, where House sat next to her. She placed her overnight bag on the floor next to her. "I'm flying back tomorrow. I was hoping you'd join me."

"I can't, mom. Short notice… time off… you know how it is," He said in what he hoped was a regretful voice.

"Surely they make exceptions for this sort of thing?" Blythe insisted.

"For regular doctors, yeah," He replied, "But I'm in demand… you know what I mean."

"No I don't, Greg," She frowned at him, trying to read him. "What's this really about?"

"Nothing," House denied. "I just can't get the time off. And besides, I was never that close to dad anyway."

"That's not the point!" Blythe exclaimed. "He was your father! Where is your respect? I know that you're miserable, that you make no effort to form relationships or… or…" Upset, Blythe stopped speaking, trying to compose herself.

"Mom," House hated seeing her like this, the one woman whom he would never ever lose respect for. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not," She insisted. "If you were sorry then you would do the right thing."

Looking into his mother's eyes, House didn't know what to do. For once he had a conscience, one that actually mattered. Wherever his mother was concerned, the rules were different. He didn't want to appear harsh, uncaring. He wasn't exactly a great son, but that didn't mean he had to go out of his way to make things worse than they already were. "I know I'm not what you want for a son," He said openly. "But he was never what I wanted for a father."

Wiping her face, Blythe frowned. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

House paused. He hadn't wanted to do this, he really hadn't, but he couldn't see that he had any other choice. "He wasn't exactly the nicest person when I was younger," He said ominously.

"In what way?" Blythe persisted, wanting details, wanting to understand what this was about.

"Just… things. He overstepped the mark too many times." House tried to explain. "He wasn't as perfect as you thought he was."

"No one's perfect," Blythe dismissed House's words with a wave of her hands.

"Yes, but he had more faults than most," House couldn't help but say.

"So do you," Blythe retorted. "And I'd still go to your funeral, you're my son. And therefore, you should go to his funeral, because he is still your father. He always will be."

"Well, that's debateable," House muttered.

"Excuse me?" Blythe asked incredulously.

"Forget it," House mumbled.

Blythe didn't know what to say, confused by her son's words. "Look, I still don't understand."

"You don't want to," House told her. "And I'm sorry, but I won't go to the funeral, no matter what you say. If you want to spend some time here, or for me to visit in a few weeks then that's fine, but…"

"I think I'll go now," Blythe stated, interrupting House. "There's bound to be a decent hotel around here somewhere."

"Mom," House sighed. "Look you can stay here, you're welcome to."

"I'd rather not," Blythe said sharply. "You've made your feelings towards your father clear, and I'd rather not be subjected to any more discussion about it right now."

"Then let's not talk about it," House said, almost pleading. "But stay mom, you shouldn't be on your own right now." He was acting like a different person, but there was something in his mother that brought about such a personality change in him that it was scary. It was why he didn't want Cameron to officially meet them for more than a few minutes. Hell, it was why after dating Stacy for five years she had only met them once. He knew that people would mock him for acting like a real human being, but the truth was; being cruel to his mother was something he would never ever do. No matter what.

"Greg," His mother said, her voice slightly softer. "What else is there to talk about?" And with that, she stood from her seat, and picking up her bag, she left the apartment.