A/N: So I felt like doing a pair of death fics. This is the first one, the second will follow. I don't know if it's any good, really. Meh.
No slash intended. Please read and review.
Listen to "Your Hands are Cold" from the Pride & Prejudice OST.
Empty
House sits in the dark for an unknown amount of time. He leaves the light bulbs dead, the shutters pressed closed, the phone unplugged. He remains in his armchair, staring into the blackness that still wasn't strong enough to pull the silence out of him. He doesn't know how long it takes him to fall asleep. When he wakes up, he knows nothing has changed.
He will never remember the next two days. He will never know if he ate or slept or watched TV or left his apartment. It will forever be a hole in his memory.
On the third day, he finds himself standing in the back of the synagogue, refusing to shed his coat despite the suffocating heat and weight that doesn't exist to anyone but himself. He is left alone through the service, doesn't bother looking for or noticing Cuddy or his team. If they came, they stay hidden.
He doesn't understand, as he stands listening to the mourners reciting Kaddish, why he feels nothing. His chest is a chasm, a gaping, empty space. He stares coldly at the rabbi, the strange words sliding away unheard and uncared for. He is the first one to disappear back outside, once the service closes, and he doesn't wait for the others before pulling out into the street.
The burial is quick. House watches from afar, half-hiding behind an elm. Rain drizzles and kisses the gleaming cherry wood, the bundle of lilies. He waits until the crowd disperses, even for the mother to be pulled away by her only remaining son, as she sobs fruitlessly. He waits, and he doesn't move even once he is alone. He stares hard at that casket and the petals, hands still buried in his coat. His eyes fall away, his face softening, and the rain does not cease for his pain.
Slowly, he limps forth, the silver arch of his cane glinting with water beads. He stops when he is close enough that he can touch a lily if he outstretches his arm, his gaze failing from those perfect farewell gifts. He can't imagine, he thinks wordlessly. He can't fathom going home. He can't fathom going to work again. He can't believe that he'll ever do anything again. He is going to stand right here – for eternity.
No more teasing, he realizes. No more stealing cafeteria chips. No more petty arguments and no more arbitrary prescription refills. He feels himself smile for some reason. At least he has Steve McQueen. Yeah, that's right. Steve McQueen. They had never joked around about Steve...
He wrinkles his nose, still smirking, as he realizes his face was wet. The rain is heavier. He almost wants to take the lilies home and put them in a vase – to protect them. He should protect them.
House shifts his weight and lifts the cane, tapping the casket's side.
"That music I ordered came in the mail this morning," he says. "The piece you told me to get."
That lily who already won his attention flinches – too many raindrops. House feels them cooling his shoulders. He can't stop smiling.
"I'll play it – tonight. I'll make tuna casserole, your favorite."
The lily stares. House wilts a little. He stops smiling, pauses, and shakes his head, looking up into the gray and shutting his eyes for the rain. He taps his cane against the casket's side.
How does he say it? It doesn't even matter anymore. He won't bother. He turns his back on the lilies, including the watchful one. His stride is steady and sure, until he reaches the elm again. He leans against it for a long while, sagging in the rain and shaking. The lily faces him. Always.