Ficlet: The Party's Over
Characters: House, Danny Wilson, OC, Foreman.Chase
Rating: PG-13 for themes and language
Spoilers: Up to 8.22
Words: Approx. 450
Warnings: Some under the cut. This was written in under 20 minutes and is unbeta'd.
Character death, violence
House got compassionate leave to attend Wilson’s funeral. Two armed escorts stayed at a respectful, if vigilant, distance. It was a gray,overcast morning. Wilson would have liked that. A gray day for a gray mood and everyone dressed in black. Foreman and Chase were there, of course, but none of the rest of the team. Wilson had requested cremation. It horrified his relatives but greatly amused House. One last “fuck you” to the family who had never been there in the first place. Danny wasn’t allowed to attend. In fact, they hadn’t told him yet that his brother was dead. The meds weren’t working and the poor bastard didn’t know where he was half the time. House didn’t visit Danny. What was the point? Staring at a virtual stranger who looked like a bloated, twisted version of his brother? Who didn’t know who this limping stranger was?
It had been tough to find a rabbi willing to do a service over a cremated body-“cremains” was the fancy new term. As he continued the sonorous bleating of an idiot who had never actually met Wilson (“this man touched many lives”) House turned to the nearest escort. “We can go now.”
As previously arranged, they drove to Wilson’s apartment so House could pick up a few tokens. There was no back door, the windows were far too high for an escape. One of the armed escorts opened the door and it swung open. To emptiness.
Most of Wilson’s furniture was gone. But the wine glasses and wine were still on the shelf. The organ Wilson gave him was under a sheet, as was an end table. Stickley, it would probably be sold at auction with the rest of Wilson’s things. The man's decorator had high-end taste.
“In the bedroom,” House said to the larger escort, Jenkins, who nodded his head. He had a buzz-cut for maximum macho. House knew Jenkins from the cellblock, and they got along okay. Jenkins followed him along the hall. The bathroom door was open. Wilson had never taken down the grab-bar over the tub. House shivered, but refused to let tears come. If he did, he would be a weeping mess. That’s not what he wanted.
The bed was gone, replaced by a hospital bed that Wilson wasted away in. There was still blood stains on the carpet from where Wilson had hacked up blood for three days before dying. The prison had allowed House to be there, but only for ten minutes at most.
The hospital bed was gone, but the dresser and endtables were still in the bedroom. Presumably none of the family felt they could deal with this room.
“Give me a minute.”
House slid open the drawer on the right nightstand. Before Jenkins or the other escort could move, House suddenly put the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.
In the nanosecond as it happened, House wondered if he’d see Wilson again.
If he did, he owed Wilson an apology.
Rating: PG-13 for themes and language
Spoilers: Up to 8.22
Words: Approx. 450
Warnings: Some under the cut. This was written in under 20 minutes and is unbeta'd.
Character death, violence
House got compassionate leave to attend Wilson’s funeral. Two armed escorts stayed at a respectful, if vigilant, distance. It was a gray,overcast morning. Wilson would have liked that. A gray day for a gray mood and everyone dressed in black. Foreman and Chase were there, of course, but none of the rest of the team. Wilson had requested cremation. It horrified his relatives but greatly amused House. One last “fuck you” to the family who had never been there in the first place. Danny wasn’t allowed to attend. In fact, they hadn’t told him yet that his brother was dead. The meds weren’t working and the poor bastard didn’t know where he was half the time. House didn’t visit Danny. What was the point? Staring at a virtual stranger who looked like a bloated, twisted version of his brother? Who didn’t know who this limping stranger was?
It had been tough to find a rabbi willing to do a service over a cremated body-“cremains” was the fancy new term. As he continued the sonorous bleating of an idiot who had never actually met Wilson (“this man touched many lives”) House turned to the nearest escort. “We can go now.”
As previously arranged, they drove to Wilson’s apartment so House could pick up a few tokens. There was no back door, the windows were far too high for an escape. One of the armed escorts opened the door and it swung open. To emptiness.
Most of Wilson’s furniture was gone. But the wine glasses and wine were still on the shelf. The organ Wilson gave him was under a sheet, as was an end table. Stickley, it would probably be sold at auction with the rest of Wilson’s things. The man's decorator had high-end taste.
“In the bedroom,” House said to the larger escort, Jenkins, who nodded his head. He had a buzz-cut for maximum macho. House knew Jenkins from the cellblock, and they got along okay. Jenkins followed him along the hall. The bathroom door was open. Wilson had never taken down the grab-bar over the tub. House shivered, but refused to let tears come. If he did, he would be a weeping mess. That’s not what he wanted.
The bed was gone, replaced by a hospital bed that Wilson wasted away in. There was still blood stains on the carpet from where Wilson had hacked up blood for three days before dying. The prison had allowed House to be there, but only for ten minutes at most.
The hospital bed was gone, but the dresser and endtables were still in the bedroom. Presumably none of the family felt they could deal with this room.
“Give me a minute.”
House slid open the drawer on the right nightstand. Before Jenkins or the other escort could move, House suddenly put the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.
In the nanosecond as it happened, House wondered if he’d see Wilson again.
If he did, he owed Wilson an apology.