21.
"House? House, pick up, I know you're there."
House lowered the volume on the television as he listened to the message currently being left on his answering machine.
"It's Sunday morning, where else are you going to be? ...Okay, you might still be asleep but even you don't usually sleep this late, so pick up will you?" There was a sigh. "All right, I just wanted to find out how last night went, but since you're apparently not in the mood to talk right now maybe I should call Cuddy instead, because I'm sure she'll have some interesting things to say. Or, hey, your parents are still in town, aren't they? I wonder if they'd want to meet me for brunch..."
House rolled his eyes at what was fast becoming the longest answering machine message of all time, and finally reached over and grabbed the phone handset from where it was lodged between two couch cushions.
"You're such an old lady," he said, bringing it to his ear. "When did you have that double testectomy, anyway? I would have sent flowers."
"And you're so very predictable," came Wilson's reply. "What are you doing, sitting on the couch watching TV with the phone ringing away right next to you?"
"I'm sitting on the couch, eating a bacon and egg sandwich, watching foxy boxing with the phone ringing away right next to me," he clarified. "Why, what are you doing?"
"I'm making a smoothie."
"Oh, you sound busy. I'll let you get back to it."
"I called you, remember?" Wilson jumped in before he could hang up. "Come on, how'd it go last night?"
House took a defiant bite of his sandwich. "Great," he said, mouth full. "Lots of fun had by all. We're doing it again next weekend."
"Okay, and how'd it really go?"
last night
His collar was too tight. And his tie was ugly. He really hated getting dressed up. Especially for something guaranteed not to be any fun.
Wilson had come over beforehand, ostensibly because House needed to borrow his car to drive his parents around. In reality he knew Wilson just wanted to enjoy his discomfort. It was Wilson who had badgered him until he put on a tie. He also suggested shaving, which made House think he'd been talking to Cuddy.
He'd stalled for as long as possible, but finally Wilson got him out the front door. Then after dropping Wilson back at his place, and picking up his parents from their hotel, they'd arrived at the restaurant only a little late to find the Cuddy women waiting for them at the bar.
His mother greeted Cuddy like she was her long-lost daughter. There was hugging. He tapped his cane on the floor and thought about how he might use it if anyone tried to hug him tonight.
Although looking over at the elder Cuddy, he was getting the impression she wasn't exactly the hugging type.
"Mom, this is Greg House, and his parents, Blythe and John." Cuddy was smiling as she made the introductions, but he could see the apprehension behind the warmth of her greeting. She was nervous.
"Eve Cuddy," the matriarch said as she came forward to shake their hands one by one.
He didn't wonder what she saw when her sharp gaze travelled over him appraisingly. A tall, scruffy, middle-aged guy with a cane to match his limp - that was what everyone saw. The shrewd look in her eyes as she sized him up, however, did make him wonder what Cuddy had been saying about him.
The social security set exchanged pleasantries then and he cast a longing look towards the bar as he stood there, tugging at his collar.
Cuddy stepped to his side. "Look at you," she said, beaming up at him. "You look good."
"Thanks. You look fat. Have you put on weight recently?"
Her smile turned to chagrin. "I thought you were going to be nice."
He snorted. "Not to you."
She gave the ceiling a long-suffering look before returning her gaze to him. "Fine. As long as you turn on that considerable charm for my mother I don't care what you do."
"Fine. And you don't look fat. You look... like you're trying to impress someone. It's not me, is it?"
"It's not you," she told him without missing a beat, and then added pointedly, "Nice tie."
"What, this old thing?"
He took a moment to mentally curse Wilson and his stupid, ugly ties. He threw in some extra vitriol for all shirt collars, too, as he reached up to pull at his again.
"You're getting it all crooked," she scolded, and suddenly she was batting his hand away and straightening his tie, frowning in concentration as she fussed over him. "There," she said finally, "Now leave it alone." Her hand smoothed down over the front of his chest before she stepped back.
On one level he was aware that the parentals had almost certainly just witnessed that, which couldn't be a good thing. On another, he couldn't help noticing how her perfume was lingering in the air she'd just occupied. It was different from the light, unintrusive scent that usually followed her around at work.
She was definitely trying to impress someone.
"Oh good," she said, looking away, "I think our table's finally ready."
There was a hostess coming their way with an armful of menus and they were soon being herded across the dining area. He got her attention again with a hand at her back.
"You look nice," he offered in a conciliatory tone. "I like your shoes."
It didn't have quite the desired effect.
"I don't have another sign on my back do I?" she asked suspiciously, slowing to a halt.
He sighed. "No, I like to keep public humiliation where it belongs. In the workplace."
She reached around to check her back anyway, and then, mollified, started moving again. "What was that about all week, anyway, all those little surprises?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, having no desire to go into his reasoning. "I get bored."
"So I've noticed," she muttered, tossing him an amused glance as they reached the table where the others were waiting for them.
"What were you two talking about back there?" the older Cuddy asked curiously.
"Sports," he said, at the same time Cuddy said, "Work."
They looked at each other. "I'm a Flyers fan," he covered, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the moment. "She calls it work. I call it a privilege."
Eve Cuddy favoured him with a raised eyebrow - a dubious expression that was eerily familiar.
Her daughter just sighed. "Shall we sit down?"
The hostess was standing by politely and as they moved to take their seats she started handing out menus and informing them of the soup de jour.
That was when he noticed that he and Cuddy had been relegated to one side of the table - his father taking the head while his mother sat beside Mama Cuddy across from them. Maybe the three of them had decided he and Cuddy would want to sit together. Or maybe they figured this arrangement would be best for observational purposes.
He could feel it. They were being judged. It was like they were a couple of teenagers about to head off to the prom.
But he wasn't above doing a little manoeuvring of his own, and he pulled out the chair next to his father for Cuddy - creating an effective conversation barrier between him and his old man.
Cuddy, not catching on to the genius of the move, looked at him askance before thanking him warily and sitting down.
"I wasn't raised in a barn," he told her, taking his own seat. "Ask them, they'll vouch for me."
"No barns," his mother attested. "Although there was that one place in Nebraska - remember John? When Greg was just starting to walk? The base commander's wife was quite a character -"
"A real loon," his father interjected under his breath.
"She had the strangest collection of pets, and let them run wild - oh, thank you," she paused as she was handed a menu. "Anyway, one day I was in the yard hanging out laundry, and I turn around to see Greg about to be adopted by a stray goat."
"Adopted?" Cuddy laughed.
"Or eaten, I guess - it was already chewing on his bonnet. Greg was just sitting there, didn't seem at all bothered by the whole thing. In fact, it wasn't until I ran over to pick him up that he got upset. 'Goat' was one of his first words."
He winced, shifting in his chair. Only his mother, he thought. No one else would get away with telling precious anecdotes about him.
No one else knew any.
"You're embarrassing the boy," his father said.
"Sorry," she apologised immediately. "My one and only baby story, I promise." She smiled at him and he forgave her.
Only his mother.
"You're a military man, John?" Cuddy Sr. spoke up politely.
"All my life, Ma'am," came the reply. "Been retired now..."
He sank back in his chair as the small talk continued around him. He toyed with his menu and glanced over at Cuddy, who was still grinning as she perused the salad selection.
He leaned over slightly and said under his breath, "Stop enjoying this."
Her smile widened and she murmured back, "That's the cutest story I've ever heard."
Which he took to mean 'not a chance'.
He was acutely reminded that this was all her idea, this dinner, and if he was suffering, it was her fault.
"Good idea, stick with the salads. Did I mention you're looking kind of hefty these days?"
She didn't look up at him, just sighed. "Read your menu."
"Baby stories - unavoidable when you get two families together," Wilson told him. "Trust me, the awkward first meeting with the in-laws is always exactly the same. If no one brought pictures of you naked in the bath, you got off easy."
"Easy? That's easy for you to say. I had my mother telling baby stories and Cuddy cackling evilly next to me, and her mother sitting there appraising me like a damn stud horse -"
"What was she like, Cuddy's mom?" Wilson asked, completely ignoring his list of grievances.
He huffed, disgruntled. "Just like her daughter. Except older, and scarier, and with no sense of humour."
"Oh, that sounds like a winning combination."
last night
It was his mother who suggested they all forgo wine with their meal, since Cuddy couldn't partake.
As it turned out, she and Cuddy were the only ones remotely amused when he suggested ordering a bottle of tequila so they could all do body shots instead.
The comment earned him another arch look from across the table and an impatient throat-clearing from his father, who then looked over at the kid waiting on them and ordered a round of club sodas.
Once the kid had scuttled away with the promise of a speedy return, Cuddy looked up from her menu, saying, "The salmon looks good."
"Oh, should you be eating fish, Lisa?" her mother spoke up immediately, and then without waiting for a reply, turned the question over to him. "Should she be eating fish?"
Beside him, Cuddy bristled. This was interesting, he thought, and went to answer but Cuddy got there first.
"I actually decide what I can and can't eat, Mom," she said, a definite edge to her voice. "And fish is fine - especially salmon, it doesn't have the high mercury levels some other types of seafood do."
"Actually," he began, the opportunity to needle Cuddy too good to pass up.
She stopped him with a look. "I wouldn't say one word about the damn fish if I was you," she said.
He blinked at her for a moment, and then looked back down at his menu. "Guess I'm having the chicken, then."
"Cuddy's mom," he informed Wilson, "Doesn't trust her little girl's judgement. Doesn't approve of her lifestyle choices, either. Which drives said little girl crazy. I really liked her."
"You know, they say all women end up just like their mothers."
"Not necessarily a bad thing - Mama Cuddy's one smokin' sexagenarian." He smirked, picturing the face Wilson was pulling on the other end of the line.
"There's something disturbingly Oedipal about this thing you have for older women."
"Don't worry, it's only gross if it's my own mom I want to sleep with."
"Good information to have."
"Something every boy should know," he quipped.
"Yeah," Wilson drew the word out, and then added distractedly, "Hold on a second, I'm blending."
The next few moments were filled with loud food-processing type noises. House spent the time finishing the last corner of his sandwich and sucking barbecue sauce from his fingers. His attention, meanwhile, was drawn back to the television, where a busty blonde was getting whaled on by a tougher, not to mention hotter, Latina.
"Boxing is truly the sport of kings," he said as soon as Wilson stopped liquefying his food.
"That's horseracing."
"Yeah, but jockeys don't have a habit of losing their bikini tops at crucial moments."
"You're in a good mood."
Wilson's carefully casual comment had him rolling his eyes. "Was," he corrected. "Right now there's this nagging pain in my ear..."
He just wanted to be left alone to watch a badly staged, vaguely pornographic girlfight in peace - was that too much to ask? Not according to Wilson, apparently.
"You're not all grouchy - not any more than usual anyway - and you're not hung over, because if you were you wouldn't have answered the phone no matter what I said. Or if you did, it would have only been to tell me to piss off. So that means you didn't drink yourself to sleep last night, which is always a good sign. Dinner can't have been that bad at all."
"It wasn't. My mother's got a knack for smoothing over awkward social situations. And Cuddy's no slouch in that department. There was a lot of small talk, a lot of polite questions about the baby I didn't have to contribute to in any way. They spent the entire first course discussing nursery colour schemes. And by 'they' I mean everyone lacking a Y chromosome. Did you know red is the new blue?"
In that annoying way Wilson had of sometimes being astute, he said, "And then what happened?"
"Many things. I think we covered public versus private schooling at one point..."
"What happened that you're obviously avoiding telling me about?"
"You do realise we're not teenage girls. We don't need to analyse every moment, every little thing everyone said. This was not a date with the cutest boy in school. Well, maybe it was like that for Cuddy - she's totally got a thing for me, you know. And her daughter's been known to cast her eye my way from time to time..."
"Oh I don't know, you manage to dissemble like a teenage girl all right."
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. But I'm officially referring to you as 'Jenny' from now on. And that toenail painting thing you've been trying so hard to keep a lid on? Hospital-wide memo first thing Monday morning."
"Fine. Now do you want to stall some more or -"
last night
Cuddy was good at this. It was the reason she had the board eating out of her hand most days, the reason donors threw money at her. She just had to smile and pretend to be polite and charming and competent. Diplomatic powers engaged, game face on.
It was the exact opposite of how he operated, of course, but he wasn't stupid enough not to appreciate it - he did when it was working in his favour, at any rate. And right now, it was. She was handling the three of them, allowing him to sit back and enjoy his chicken, which wasn't bad at all, somehow combining walnuts and raspberries without tasting like crap.
The problem was he was bored. Cuddy was working the baby angle for all it was worth and that's all anyone had talked about since the appetisers had arrived. He was having to come up with ways to occupy himself. The task had become easier once he realised if he leaned an inch to his left and tilted his head just so, he could see down Cuddy's dress. No mean feat on its own; dinner with the parents obviously rated as a cleavage-free zone in her mind and her neckline was a lot more demure than he was used to. A shame, if he had to sit down with her for a few hours, the least she could have done was give him something he didn't have to risk a neck cramp to look at.
"Have you decided on any names yet, Lisa?" his mother was saying as he scraped up compote with his fork.
"I haven't given it much thought, really."
Liar, he thought. Cuddy was a girl. She'd probably had names picked out since she was eight years old.
Her next words confirmed it. "Maybe Abigail, though, for a girl," she mused. "That was my grandmother's name, on Mom's side."
There was general assent that this was a nice name. He was just pleased to have called it.
He took another bite, this time going for the squash that accompanied his chicken, and as he chewed he realised that Cuddy's purse was buzzing discretely. She hadn't noticed, and he grabbed it from where it was hanging over the back of her chair and handed it to her.
"Somebody wants you," he said.
She went digging for her phone and checked the display, already pushing her chair back from the table. "It's the hospital," she explained. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse me for a moment."
His father barely had time to get halfway to his feet before she was gone.
"Are you as much of a workaholic as my daughter, Greg?" The question came his way as soon as they'd all watched Cuddy hurry from the dining room.
"Well she sets the bar high, but I do my best."
Mom laughed softly. Dad didn't come right out and say he was really a lazy SOB, but still felt it necessary to provide a more balanced view of the work ethic he'd ascribed to most of his life.
"My son's always worked smarter, not harder."
He kind of wished Cuddy had been there to hear that. Of course, as far as he was concerned, genius never took a break. So it was only fair if he did whenever he happened to feel like it. If certain people didn't see it that way - what did they know? He was smarter than them, anyway.
Cuddy was gone awhile and when she returned she didn't look happy.
"You don't have to go in, do you?" her mother asked as she retook her seat. "At this hour?"
"No, there's nothing I can do right now, anyway," she replied soberly.
Since nothing much happened at a hospital on a Saturday night other than routine patient care and emergency procedures, he could only surmise, "Someone screwed up? But not so badly you have to rush over there and convince recently bereaved family members not to sue."
She hesitated before explaining. "One of our surgeons apparently forgot he was on call tonight, and when he was paged to assist with a procedure, he showed up drunk. Fortunately someone realised before he got near the patient but..." She trailed off with a shrug.
"Oh, someone's ass is so fired. Who is it, Ayersman?" he asked hopefully.
She gave him a look. "Just because you don't like Dr Ayersman -"
"You don't either. Guy's a jerk."
"That doesn't mean I'm jonesing for the man's career to be over."
"Who was it then," he pressed, "Naylor? Whatshisname - that new ortho guy with the glasses?"
"Dr Feros? No." She sighed and reluctantly admitted, "It was Simmons."
"Ouch. Guy's got a rude awakening scheduled for tomorrow morning, along with the hangover."
"Whoa, wait a minute. Simmons? You're kidding," Wilson broke in.
"Try to focus, would you? I can't tell the story if you keep interrupting with frivolous questions."
"Sorry. Of course your narrative flow is the important issue here, not the criminal negligence of one of our colleagues. What was I thinking?"
"Oh Jenny, who knows what goes through that pretty little head of yours sometimes. Now, where was I?"
last night
"Ouch. Guy's got a rude awakening scheduled for tomorrow morning, along with the hangover."
"Does this sort of thing happen often?" his father asked, soldier's sense of duty rankled.
"Occasionally there are problems," Cuddy admitted. "It's a high-pressure environment, substance abuse isn't unheard of. Luckily, in this case, since he didn't treat anyone, the matter can be handled internally."
"Quietly, you mean," he scoffed. "Simmons should lose his license. Publicly and humiliatingly."
"Since we don't know all the details, I'm not going to speculate on what action should or shouldn't be taken."
She said it mildly but he heard the underlying warning. In her eyes he was the last person to talk about practicing under the influence. In his own defence, it had only been a couple of times, and he never so much as popped a pimple, let alone tried to perform emergency surgery on anyone.
Unless she was talking about the vicodin. In which case he did stuff like that all the time.
She wasn't talking about that, though. The number of times she hadn't accepted 'but I'm high on a controlled substance' as an excuse not to do clinic duty told him the vicodin did not, in fact, count.
Still, he decided not to push the point any further - he was, after all, trying to be nice, and thought he was doing admirably all things considered. She, meanwhile, had picked up her fork and was returning her attention to the last few bites of her salmon. It was then that his father sat back in his chair, wiping his hands on his napkin.
"So," he said, giving Cuddy a shrewd look, "You're my son's boss. How does that work?"
Cuddy looked up, puzzled, not answering immediately as she was busy working on a mouthful of food.
"I mean, isn't it a problem," Dad was clarifying, "In your position?"
He watched Cuddy's face, eyes widening as she realised what his father was talking about. Not that he'd seen this coming, either, but it was hardly astonishing coming from the old man.
"Well," she said, after finally managing to swallow, "There are rules in place, of course, but -"
"But this isn't the military," House broke in, unwilling to let Cuddy have all the fun. "And even in this age of political correctness gone mad," he mockingly lamented, "A guy can still knock up his boss and get away with it."
"Greg." His mother gave him a mildly disapproving look.
They'd all stopped eating by now. This had drawn the attention of their acne-ridden attendant who began gingerly removing plates as the discussion continued.
Cuddy spared House a look, then took a deep, fortifying breath. "The rules we have are intended to protect against harassment, and favouritism," she explained carefully. "Greg's position is tenured, which means any change in his status is subject to review."
"In other words, she can't just up and fire me, no matter how often she threatens to."
"Or how good a reason I have," she shot back.
"It can't look good," his father pressed, unamused.
"It never looks good for the woman involved." This was the elder Cuddy's dour contribution to the conversation.
It, he mused. A nice way to talk around the subject.
"There's no injured party," Cuddy explained tightly. Her game face was starting to slip. He could tell she was not nearly as unaffected by this line of questioning as she seemed. "So unless someone lodges a formal complaint -"
"After everything you do for that place, they certainly owe you more respect than that." Mama Cuddy again, showing a little maternal solidarity.
Cuddy sighed. "I'm sure it won't come to that."
"Yeah, I'd like to see someone lay a charge of inappropriate conduct on you," he said. She looked over at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm serious," he went on, indicating her with his thumb, "We're talking bitch slap city. She's the least inappropriate person in that place."
"The difference between us being that I don't see that as a bad thing," Cuddy said dryly.
"We've got doctors performing surgery under the influence," he reminded her. "Doctors running around after nurses and interns half their age. Doctors self-medicating, sleeping with patients, all sorts of really unethical stuff. Two grownups with no conflict of interest accidentally procreating is the least of anyone's problems."
"Couldn't have said it better myself, actually," Cuddy said, looking rather surprised to be agreeing with him. "Look," she went on, addressing the three of them earnestly, "I know this seems so... out of the blue. We're both very set in our ways, and obviously this is going to be mean big changes. But we've known each other for years, we work well together - I think we can handle this, don't you?"
He realised this last part was addressed to him, and further realised that he never should have gotten involved in the discussion in the first place. Now suddenly she was looking at him all expectantly and we? Who was this 'we' she kept talking about?
Fortunately, he was saved from asking by the return of their waiter.
"Would anyone care to see our dessert menu?"
He raised a hand eagerly. "Yeah, over here. Nothing for her, though," he added, indicating Cuddy with a tilt of his head. "She's been piling on the pounds. Someone's gotta put a stop to it."
"It's all making sense now."
He rolled his eyes. "Right, the world according to Jimmy - sorry, Jenny. Let's hear it."
"You enjoyed it."
"Dessert? Okay, I'll confess, the chocolate torte was to die for."
"Cuddy was the one under fire from your dad, not you, and that meant you got to swoop in and defend her like a knight in... slightly tarnished armour. And you enjoyed it."
"Ever considered having your own talk show? You'd be a natural."
"It's why you're functional this morning instead of recovering from alcohol poisoning."
He huffed in frustration, annoyed that Wilson wouldn't let it go. "You want this to be all about Cuddy and my unrequited love for her," he accused gruffly, "Because then you get to don your relationship guru hat and talk me through my secret pain. Which conveniently distracts you from your own tragic circumstances and the oh so tricky truth - that you can help everyone but yourself."
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line before Wilson finally spoke.
"Want me to come over there so you can beat me up in person?"
"Nah, I'm good," he said, ire subsiding.
"I mean, it's understandable - I know your unrequited love for Cuddy is a source of great frustration and angst for you."
"On second thought, come on over."
"I'm just saying, it's good to have an outlet for all your secret pain."
"Causing some not-so-secret pain would really work for me right now," he threatened casually. Then he looked up suddenly as there was a knock at the door. "That was fast," he said as he pulled himself to his feet. "What other super powers aren't you telling me about?"
"What?" came the confused reply.
"Who else knocks on my door this early - or ever, actually. I don't remember ordering anything, food or hookers."
"I'm... in my kitchen. You've got my car, remember?"
"If that's not you, here's hoping for girl scouts bearing cookies. Or hookers bearing cookies - even better."
He reached the door, put his eye to the peephole and then carefully retreated.
"Crap," he said.
"Jehovah's Witnesses?"
"Worse. My parents."
"What, are you going to pretend you're not home?" Wilson said after a moment. "Because they can probably hear you moving around. What are you doing?"
He was, in fact, leaning over the back of the couch, overturning the seat cushions.
"Hang on," he yelled back at the door.
"You haven't been sitting around in your tighty-whiteys this whole time, have you?" Wilson asked, clearly amused.
"No, but I have half-naked chicks trying to pull each other's hair out on my TV and I can't find the remote," House replied, decidedly less so.
Wilson was flat out laughing now, and he hung up the phone without another word before tossing it aside.
It was only once he'd abandoned his search and moved around the couch to hit the power button on the set that he noticed the remote sticking out from under his plate on the coffee table.
And he'd been having such a good morning, too, he reflected. Wilson had been right about that, sort of. Dinner hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been. And although parts of it were exactly as painful as he'd predicted, other parts were interesting at least, if not exactly enjoyable.
Finally managing to get the television turned off, he made his way reluctantly back over to the door to let his parents in.
last night
His dad insisted on paying once the bill arrived. The two Cuddys protested but 'it's not every day I get to treat my son and three attractive ladies to a nice meal' was difficult to argue with.
He, of course, didn't try, having had no intention of paying a cent to begin with.
Cuddy spoke up as they were all preparing to leave the table. "John, Blythe, once the baby's born I hope you know you're welcome to come and visit us anytime."
There she was, at it again. Us? Anytime? He turned and glared at her. When that didn't get her attention he lifted up his foot and planted it down on hers, which worked much better. Once she'd wrested her toes out from under his heel she turned her head to stare at him.
"I'm sorry, was that your foot? I'm so clumsy sometimes."
The evil glint in her eye told him she knew exactly what his problem was. And he had a brief moment to think that maybe all the fat jokes hadn't been such a great idea before she turned right back to face the others.
"In fact," she went on, smiling sweetly, "don't even feel you need to call first. Just show up any time. It'll be so nice to see you. Won't it Greg?"
"Oh, that'll be great," he agreed.
His mother, of course, knew that was a big fat lie, but was apparently too amused to call him on it.
"I'll just assume I'm included in that gracious invitation?" Mama Cuddy said dryly.
"No Mom, you still have to call." Cuddy's immediate response drew the first shred of humour from the older woman he'd seen yet - something he might have found interesting if he wasn't too busy deciding where to hide the body.
Because Cuddy was a dead woman.
He told her so as they were walking out together.
She just laughed. "You're so easy with your parents around. We should do this more often."
"Sure. If by 'more often' you mean 'never, ever again in a million, bazillion years'," he told her emphatically.
But she wasn't paying attention, and he followed her gaze over to where their mothers were standing with their heads bent together.
Cuddy frowned. "Are they...?"
"Yep. They're exchanging phone numbers."
"God. That can't be good."
Of course it wasn't good. Mothers conspiring against their children was never good. Especially when one of them was his and the other...
"Your mother hates me, doesn't she?" he said.
She looked at him for a moment, then sighed. "Don't take it personally. The only men she's ever liked are the ones I can't stand."
"I was nice, wasn't I?"
"You were... a lot nicer than I thought you'd be." She smiled. "Thank you. This was..."
"Don't say 'fun'. I'll have to check you for a brain injury."
Shaking her head, she stepped over, stretched up and kissed his cheek. "I'll see you on Monday," she said, and moved away to say goodbye to his parents.
He suddenly found himself facing down a very civil Eve Cuddy, who told him it was a pleasure meeting him in a tone that left him wondering where all her daughter's warmth came from.
And further wondering, as he watched the two of them, mother and daughter, walk off together in the direction of their car, whether he should have shaved after all.
His father was wandering around looking at the stuff on his shelves. His mother was rummaging in the kitchen because she didn't believe him when he said he hadn't been to the store in a while and had nothing to offer them but beer and leftover takeout.
This was why he didn't invite his parents to visit. They were in his space and they were looking at things. And he couldn't throw them out the way he could - and would - anyone else. Thankfully they were only stopping in for a short visit before they had to head to the airport. He'd even offered to drive them - Wilson's car had a full tank so it wasn't like it would cost him anything.
"You still keep up with your music, huh?"
Looking around the room - the guitars, the sheet music spread across the piano - a big fat 'duh' was really the only suitable response to that.
"Yeah," he said instead.
"Good to have a hobby."
"Yeah."
What was good at the moment, he thought, was being asked a string of inane questions that only required equally inane, monosyllabic answers.
"Won't have all this free time on your hands with a baby to take care of. They'll run you ragged."
"Well I'm not planning on being the one doing much of the running."
The joke passed right over his dad's head. Or else he just ignored it, sighing as he looked up at one of the framed album covers on the wall.
After a moment's pause his dad spoke again. "Better hope for a girl." A glance back over at him when he didn't answer. "A girl needs her mother - Lisa seems to have her head on straight at least, and if you're not planning on being around..."
"Like you were?" He wished he could call back the words as soon as he said them. There was never any point getting into it with his father. Long experience had taught him that.
"Your mother always did the best she could." His father turned to face him fully. "You think I don't regret not being there more for both of you? You think you're doing what's right - doesn't always seem that way in hindsight."
"She'll be a good mom. Kid'll be fine with her, whether it ends up in ballet classes or little league."
"I'm sure that's true. But this isn't about her, it's about taking responsibility -"
"A sense of obligation - yeah, that's a great basis for a family."
His father's eyes narrowed. "Your whole life you never did anything if you weren't already sure you could. You ask me, the only reason you're not stepping up the way you know you should, is because you're afraid you won't be able to be what this child needs from a father."
Jaw clenched tight, he stared at the floor, hearing exactly what his father wasn't saying. Coward.
"I'm making tea," came a hesitant voice from the kitchen doorway.
He looked over at his mom, wondering how long she'd been standing there. Not that she wouldn't have heard it all anyway. It was a small apartment.
And this, of course, was the real reason why he avoided seeing his parents as much as he could. Because no one made him feel the way they did, each in their own way.
"I have tea?" he said after a moment.
"English breakfast," she confirmed with a smile.
"Wilson must have left it behind when he finally got his own place. See, it could be worse, Dad - I could be thirty-seven and finalising my third divorce."
"He's just going to keep trying till he finds one that sticks, isn't he?" was his father's mildly humorous response.
He noticed his mother's stance relaxing as the tension in the room eased a little.
"I'll give you a hand," he said, making his way past her into the kitchen.
Not that she needed any help, but just so that he could lean up against the counter, pop a pill, and relax for a moment.
"Steve's a lot cuter than I thought he'd be," his mother said as she joined him, nodding towards the cage.
"Rats get a lot of bad press. They're clean, intelligent, resilient, eat just about anything - they make good pets."
Her next words weren't about Steve. "He just wants this to be a good thing for you," she said quietly.
He could hear the television being switched on out in the living room, and wondered briefly whether the girl-fighting was still on.
"What do you think?" he said after another moment passed.
"I think it already is." She smiled up at him, patted his arm and stepped away to begin pouring the tea, which had been steeping in an old, chipped teapot he'd had since before he met Stacy.
He vaguely remembered it being stashed at the back of a cupboard somewhere under a pile of random kitchen detritus. Trust his mother to find it.
"Lisa's lovely, isn't she?" she commented idly as she added a spoonful of sugar to one of the cups and stirred.
"No," he replied with a frown.
She gave him a fond look. "Don't lie, dear," she said, and passed him his tea.