Three days, fifteen hours, and twelve minutes after Wilson had officially moved in, House's world was once again turned upside down. He was in his office with Wilson, eating the other man's chips and laughing at the latest clinic story, with General Hospital playing out dramatically in the background, when he got the call. He didn't bother to check the caller ID, annoyed at the interruption, before answering with at irritated, "What?"
"Greg?" House winced, immediately regretting his earlier harsh tone as he heard his mother's soft voice on the other end.
"Hi, mom. Sorry about that. I –" he hesitated as the sounds of poorly suppressed sobs reached his ears. "Mom? Are you all right? What's wrong?" He sat up straight in his chair as a burst of adrenaline shot through his body.
Oh, honey. It's your father," his mother's voice trembled as she replied, barely keeping her composure. For a moment, time stood still. Every limb of House's body went cold as all the air was forced from his lungs.
"What happened?" he questioned, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"He had a heart attack. A couple of hours ago," she was speaking slowly, trying to break the news gently as she always did. She reminded him of Wilson when she did that. House took a deep breath.
"Is he okay?" he questioned needlessly. A tiny sob escaped his mother's throat before she answered.
"No, baby, he's not," came the tearful reply.
House knew this response was inevitable, yet it did nothing to soften the blow. He knew what his mother was trying to tell him without the words being said. His father was dead. He would never see the man alive again. He would never have a chance to make amends or find a way to prove to him that his life wasn't completely meaningless. It was funny though, Greg couldn't remember ever feeling the need to do those things before. He guessed it wasn't just dying people who made startling yet idiotic revelations about their lives.
The rest of the conversation was a blur. None of it really mattered. He pretended to listen carefully as his mother spouted off pointless information that she deemed important but House really didn't care to hear. As his mother continued, House meticulously avoided Wilson's concerned gaze while focusing his own eyes on a random area on the wall outside his glass enclosure, trying, unsuccessfully, to make reality disappear.
It was his mother's concerned voice that pulled him back to Earth, as she became worried over his lack of response. Greg reassured her he was fine, made sure she was okay, then hung up with a promise to talk to her again soon. Still intentionally keeping his eyes from even glancing in Wilson's direction, House grabbed his cane and leaned into it as he stood, his legs feeling inexplicably weaker than he could ever remember, before snagging his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on hastily, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, and starting for the door.
"What's going on?" James questioned despite House's obvious aversion. House did not break his stride, passing by his friend without acknowledgement. He didn't want to answer the question. It was as if saying it would make it all real. But things that weren't real had no meaning; they were worthless. Gregory House had no time for meaningless fiction, and his father's life was not worthless.
"My father had a heart attack," he responded emotionlessly as he pulled the office door open. "He's dead."
Wilson gave no response as House let the door close of its own accord behind him as he made his way toward the elevator but instead followed his friend wordlessly. Brown met blue for only half a second as James entered the compartment Greg had been waiting in, and House's stomach lurched at the bolt of sympathy and concern that shot from Wilson's mahogany to his own cerulean eyes. The older man held his breath, waiting for the inevasible thunder, but it never came. The rest of his friend's face and body betrayed the illusion that such a contact had been made as they faced the elevator doors, shoulder to shoulder in the familiar silence.
The days that followed had passed much like any other. They would still take refuge in each other's office when being a grown up would suddenly seem like a bad idea, eat lunch together in the cafeteria or out on the terrace, and hang out at home when work was finally over watching The Lord of the Rings again and again in a continuity of their attempt to set a world record for the highest number of times two people could watch it in a month. So far there scores were: thirty-four times for The Fellowship of the Ring,thirty-eight for The Two Towers, and they were up to twenty-four in their viewings of The Return of the King. Yes, day to day life had remained the same, but House – House had not.
James Wilson was no stranger to death. It was something that surrounded him on a daily basis. More patients died in his department than in any other – a fact he was aware of going in. He also had a large, close-knit family filled with aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, nieces and nephews, parents, and grandparents. In James' short life he had already been forced to endure the deaths of four grandparents, one aunt, two uncles, and, most recently, his young cousin. He had by now excepted that at some point those closest to him would die and found it less and less difficult to deal with as more and more loved ones perished. Wilson knew that becoming so numb probably wasn't the appropriate emotional response, but he had found that the cold could lessen the pain.
The same could not be said for Gregory House. Unlike his friend, House was not all that familiar with death. His patients simply did not die. Wilson could count the number of times House had lost a patient in the time he'd known him on his fingers…maybe even one hand. His family could almost be described as the exact opposite of Wilson's. House had no aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, or nieces and nephews. His father's parents had passed away before Greg was born, and his mother's parents died within the first year of his life. It had been his motto from the beginning of his career to never get close to a patient – a pledge he had only broken once a long time ago. In fact, if he really thought about it, House had never before experienced the pain of a loved one's death. So, inevitably, his father's passing had hit him hard, and he hated it.
He hated the gaze filled with sadness and sympathy that Cameron now constantly watched him with, hated Chase's words of empathy that he knew any better man would appreciate; hated Foreman's silent understanding and sudden overwhelming tolerance. He hated the low, soft tone in which Cuddy now addressed him as she encouraged him to take as much time as he needed; hated that he felt no compulsion to respond with a sarcastic borderline sexually harassing comment and instead merely nodded slowly before offering a quiet; "Thank you." He hated that Wilson did nothing for House to hate; hated that the man knew exactly what to say and do at exactly the right moment. House wanted to hate. By definition, hatred is the strongest emotion one can ever feel. It can block out all other feeling until your numb, and that was what he wanted – not to feel.
However, as he sat uncomfortably in the front pew of the church with his father's open casket lying only a few feet away, House quickly realized that the human body has no gating mechanism for extreme emotional pain. There are some feelings that even the deepest hatred cannot mask. And as he sat and listened broken-heartedly to his mother's quiet sobs, holding her hand gently in his own, he even began to entertain the idea that grief may be even more powerful than hatred. In fact, though he would never admit it, the only thing keeping him from collapsing into a leaking ball of sadness like his mom was Wilson.
The younger man sat next to him in silent support, acting as House's rock and speaking only to thank fellow mourners who offered Greg their sympathy and well-wishes as House was unable to. If James had noticed the unshed tears that swam in his best friend's eyes, he never let on. He never attempted to offer comfort with empty words or a pat on the back, but he didn't so much as flinch when Greg suddenly closed the distance between their hands as they watched the casket close over John House's still body. He simply enclosed House's callused fingers in his own and squeezed gently, never looking away from the activity at the front of the church.
"Promise me something," House spoke quietly under his breath so that only Wilson could hear.
"Okay," James replied in an equally soft voice.
"Don't let them put me in one of those," Greg continued. For the first time since they'd sat down, Wilson turned his head to look at his friend, slightly taken aback by the unexpected request. House continued to stare fixedly at the now closed coffin, but he knew that Wilson would easily recognize the carefully masked fear in his eyes. James slowly followed House's gaze to where the group of men, most of them in full marine dress uniform, were preparing to lift the hollow death box.
"I promise," he said firmly, giving House's hand another squeeze. He needed no more explanation as to what his friend was asking. James could see in his eyes the overwhelming fear of being trapped in death as he once was in life; the fear of the knowledge that at the end of the day the body helplessly trapped within the confines of that dark and feeble crate meant nothing more than a really good day for a bunch of worms. "So long as you do the same for me," he continued after a moment. House half-smirked instinctively.
"Won't have to worry about it," he said dismissively. "I'm an older, crippled, former drug addict. I'll go first."
"Maybe," Wilson replied thoughtfully. "Life is full of surprises."
"Surprises suck," House complained.
"Sometimes," James agreed as they stood for the procession.
The cemetery in which John House was to be buried was practically the church's backyard. For this, Greg House was eternally grateful. This meant no ominous black hearse waiting in the shadows; no long slow drive in agonizing silence. They were already there. It was almost over. So for twenty more minutes they stood in a semi-circle around a hole and a really expensive box as the preacher Greg recognized as the one his father had insisted he allow to baptize him over thirty-five years ago quoted what House was sure were probably some very heart-felt passages from the Bible, and his mother continued to choke out what were now very unrestrained heart-broken sobs while squeezing her son's left hand with surprising strength. House squeezed back comfortingly, wondering vaguely if anyone but her would cry for him in such a way after his death, only letting go as a nameless soldier offered her the neatly folded American flag because he knew that Wilson stood faithfully at her other side, gently holding her left hand in his right.
Some emotion that fell somewhere between grief and relief filled House's senses as they finally began to lower his father's coffin into the ground, and he cursed himself for jumping slightly as a group of marines fired their rifles at the unsuspecting clouds that hovered innocently above them. His right leg was cursing him as well as he shifted his weight a little more to the left and hoped that no one had noticed his uncharacteristic reaction to the traditional salute.
When the other attendants began filing out one by one, his mother hugged James lovingly then took Greg's hand again and led him off to the side. She appeared slightly troubled and unsure, but who wouldn't be after their husband's funeral? Once they had finished speaking, Greg led her to her car and offered for the third time to allow Wilson and him to give her a ride home. She declined once again, reminded him that they would be late for their flight, kissed his cheek, and got into her car. House stood in place and watched her drive until she was out of sight before turning back to find Wilson.
He frowned slightly as he saw the younger man was still lurking near the burial site, examining the various headstones that surrounded his father's. Sighing wearily, House walked over and stood behind him.
"Find anything interesting?" he questioned in his usual tone.
"Your whole family is buried here," Wilson replied, his eyes still lingering on the carved marble below him.
"Actually, only half. My mom's family has their own little plot in Indiana somewhere. Cincinnati's reserved for House's only," House corrected, really not wanting to have this conversation.
"Huh. Who's Emma?" James questioned. Not expecting the question, House turned to see his friend crouched down in front of the headstone directly to the right of his father's. It read:
Emma Elizabeth HouseBeloved Daughter and Sister
12/25/68 – 6/11/74
"My sister," he responded, hanging his head slightly at the memories Wilson had unwittingly sent crashing back.
"You never told me you had a sister," Wilson said, looking very surprised.
"I guess we're even then," House replied shortly, wanting this conversation to end.
"She was so young," James half-whispered to no one. "Not even six. She – she died on your birthday?" The younger man finally looked up. House hesitated. He wanted nothing more than for Wilson to drop the subject. He had just barely made it through his father's funeral. Now, all he wanted to do was to get on the plane, get back to their apartment, and pretend none of this had ever happened. But Wilson had that look in his eyes – that curious, confused, and mildly sad kicked puppy look that House could never seem to deny.
"Yeah, my fourteenth," he confirmed, almost monotone, stepping closer to the marble memorial.
"What happened to her?" James questioned carefully.
"She got sick," House answered shortly, effectively ending the conversation. Wilson got the message, but House knew the discussion was merely put on hold – just like all the others. "Come on," he said, taking Wilson's hand as the younger man stood – more of an excuse to hold his hand then to actually help him stand. "We've got a plane to catch."
End Chapter 5! I hope you all enjoyed it! Chapter 6 is coming soon!