Visiting Hours, Chapter 2
Chapter: Two
Summary: House's mother makes a surprise visit, but House is ill-prepared.
Words: 1,199
Warning: Spoilers for Season 6 "Broken" and Season 5's "Birthmarks".
Disclaimer: I'm weird, not crazy.
“How are you dear?” asked Blythe House pleasantly, as though her unexpected appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. (She had an uncanny ability to make the most uncomfortable circumstances somehow bearable: a fact that he had, in his adult years, forgotten.)
“Mom…” For some reason he was breathless, as though he’d run several miles; though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to run. “How’d you find me?” he managed to demand of her hoarsely. Instead of answering her direct question, those were the words that flew like a bird desperately escaping its cage from his mouth.
While she blinked back at him with surprise at his improper greeting tactics, he chose this moment to take her physiological health in. It had been months since he’d seen her last; the last time being when they’d both been in attendance at the wake of his father’s funeral. In the awkward silence that followed his abrupt interrogation, he couldn’t help but notice that she looked considerably much thinner than he remembered. Her eyes still glowed with the volatile, domineering yet charming spirit she’d always contained, but the skin around her jaw and cheekbones seemed slimmer and almost sunken in; in spite of himself, it terrified him. He bristled at the sight of her numerous wrinkles that had sprung up during the months since their last parting, and couldn’t help but take note of the dark circles under her eyes. The doctor in him wondered if she was taking care of herself; the son in him acknowledged that, yes, his mother was older---much older it seemed, to the point of becoming almost unrecognizable.
She was dressed in her best blouse and white designer slacks and if it weren’t a Saturday he’d think she was stopping by on her way to church. Her cheeks were painted a soft red with the rouge she’d always used on herself before going out in public, and he could tell where the lines of eyeliner began and ended in just the right place, with the fine touches of a delicate artist’s hand. He couldn’t help but wonder why she always felt the need to dress up so formally before coming to visit him; it made him incredibly uneasy, but knew that if he told her as much she would abruptly turn her back, get in the car and drive back home.
As he stood there, she not giving him an answer, he continued to puzzle over just how she had found out where he was living, unless…An image of Wilson phoning his mother from the hideout of his office sprang instantly to mind, and a dark anger began to spread itself quickly through him.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Blythe, always polite, clearly did not want to pester as she remained poised in the doorway, trying to crane her neck so that she could see past him. Her nosiness was a trait that had always irked him, and even now, as an adult, it still managed to get under his skin.
“Well, you’re here now,” House mumbled half-under his breath, “why not? Might as well have you in for tea.”
“You’ll have to excuse my not calling ahead,” said his mother, for once seeming to be aware of how awkward a situation she’d created, as she followed him from the foyer as he lead her into the living room, “I’m a bit forgetful these days.”
Against his best efforts not to, House secretly wondered if this meant she was beginning to develop the symptoms of Alzheimer’s; though he knew it was foolish to jump to conclusions. Even so, the words couldn’t help but instigate a small leak of anxiety.
“Sit wherever you like,” House informed her as she stood in the living room looking about, as though she were lost; or perhaps critiquing his living space. “The couch is most comfortable,” he added, regretting the statement immediately---for the more comfortable she was, the longer she’d stay, and then he would never be able to rid himself of her oppressive presence.
“Thank you,” replied Blythe and took her seat on the couch, smiling up at him gratefully, while daintily patting the empty cushion beside her. “Will you sit down with me dear? I can’t wait to catch up with all that you’ve been through.”
House automatically felt goose bumps lift up on his skin. Oh shit…now she’ll want to know what I’ve been doing for the past year. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to know that her only son had been committed to a mental institution for three months, after having hallucinated his best friend’s dead girlfriend and deluded himself into believing he’d slept with the Dean of Medicine. (It was embarrassing enough that he had to know it himself.) He hardly wished to comprehend what she’d think of him if she knew; it was almost too horrible a thought to imagine.
“Wilson called you?” House inserted rhetorically, instead of giving into her curiosity.
“No, hon, it wasn’t him.” It was Blythe’s turn now to look slightly ill-at-ease, which was very uncharacteristic for her and surprised House in spite of himself. “It was actually…oh how do I say this? It was your psychiatrist that called.”
Surely he hadn’t heard right. “What ?” was all House could meekly respond, and he stared at her in a daze, almost speechless. His breath was caught like a fish in his throat, and he felt the room spinning, his stomach turning queasy as he imagined the phone conversation between them. “You’re…joking, right?” he demanded, “Tell me you’re joking!”
“No I’m not honey, I’m sorry,” said Blythe, frowning with what House could only perceive to be guilt written all over her face; exaggerating the crow’s feet spreading like veins out from her eyes.
“Oh, hell.” Feeling sick, House bent over, feeling a dull headache began to relentlessly assault his temples. Trying to ward off the queasy feeling in his stomach, he attempted to message the agonizing pulsating throbbing of his brain. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled before the words could be stopped, feeling all of his energy simply slipping away. “I don’t know why he did that…I didn’t mean to worry you---” he choked out, before his throat became too tight to allow him to speak.
“Greg,” Blythe half-laughed, and he glanced up sharply with alarm at her laughter, “Don’t be silly! You’re my son, and you’ve gotten help…you were where you needed to be. Nothing else matters.”
But it did matter, and he knew it. He knew he would never forgive the man who claimed to be trustworthy for calling his mother behind his back. He had no right. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” he whispered through gritted teeth, shoving himself up with a desperate urge to run as she sat there silently waiting for…what? He didn’t know; didn’t want to know. All he knew was that he was going to be sick, and right there on the floor---if he didn’t move fast.
Without another word he strode brusquely from the room, headed into the bathroom, shut the door quietly so as not to wake Wilson---making it just in time before he vomited his guts out.
Summary: House's mother makes a surprise visit, but House is ill-prepared.
Words: 1,199
Warning: Spoilers for Season 6 "Broken" and Season 5's "Birthmarks".
Disclaimer: I'm weird, not crazy.
“How are you dear?” asked Blythe House pleasantly, as though her unexpected appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. (She had an uncanny ability to make the most uncomfortable circumstances somehow bearable: a fact that he had, in his adult years, forgotten.)
“Mom…” For some reason he was breathless, as though he’d run several miles; though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to run. “How’d you find me?” he managed to demand of her hoarsely. Instead of answering her direct question, those were the words that flew like a bird desperately escaping its cage from his mouth.
While she blinked back at him with surprise at his improper greeting tactics, he chose this moment to take her physiological health in. It had been months since he’d seen her last; the last time being when they’d both been in attendance at the wake of his father’s funeral. In the awkward silence that followed his abrupt interrogation, he couldn’t help but notice that she looked considerably much thinner than he remembered. Her eyes still glowed with the volatile, domineering yet charming spirit she’d always contained, but the skin around her jaw and cheekbones seemed slimmer and almost sunken in; in spite of himself, it terrified him. He bristled at the sight of her numerous wrinkles that had sprung up during the months since their last parting, and couldn’t help but take note of the dark circles under her eyes. The doctor in him wondered if she was taking care of herself; the son in him acknowledged that, yes, his mother was older---much older it seemed, to the point of becoming almost unrecognizable.
She was dressed in her best blouse and white designer slacks and if it weren’t a Saturday he’d think she was stopping by on her way to church. Her cheeks were painted a soft red with the rouge she’d always used on herself before going out in public, and he could tell where the lines of eyeliner began and ended in just the right place, with the fine touches of a delicate artist’s hand. He couldn’t help but wonder why she always felt the need to dress up so formally before coming to visit him; it made him incredibly uneasy, but knew that if he told her as much she would abruptly turn her back, get in the car and drive back home.
As he stood there, she not giving him an answer, he continued to puzzle over just how she had found out where he was living, unless…An image of Wilson phoning his mother from the hideout of his office sprang instantly to mind, and a dark anger began to spread itself quickly through him.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Blythe, always polite, clearly did not want to pester as she remained poised in the doorway, trying to crane her neck so that she could see past him. Her nosiness was a trait that had always irked him, and even now, as an adult, it still managed to get under his skin.
“Well, you’re here now,” House mumbled half-under his breath, “why not? Might as well have you in for tea.”
“You’ll have to excuse my not calling ahead,” said his mother, for once seeming to be aware of how awkward a situation she’d created, as she followed him from the foyer as he lead her into the living room, “I’m a bit forgetful these days.”
Against his best efforts not to, House secretly wondered if this meant she was beginning to develop the symptoms of Alzheimer’s; though he knew it was foolish to jump to conclusions. Even so, the words couldn’t help but instigate a small leak of anxiety.
“Sit wherever you like,” House informed her as she stood in the living room looking about, as though she were lost; or perhaps critiquing his living space. “The couch is most comfortable,” he added, regretting the statement immediately---for the more comfortable she was, the longer she’d stay, and then he would never be able to rid himself of her oppressive presence.
“Thank you,” replied Blythe and took her seat on the couch, smiling up at him gratefully, while daintily patting the empty cushion beside her. “Will you sit down with me dear? I can’t wait to catch up with all that you’ve been through.”
House automatically felt goose bumps lift up on his skin. Oh shit…now she’ll want to know what I’ve been doing for the past year. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to know that her only son had been committed to a mental institution for three months, after having hallucinated his best friend’s dead girlfriend and deluded himself into believing he’d slept with the Dean of Medicine. (It was embarrassing enough that he had to know it himself.) He hardly wished to comprehend what she’d think of him if she knew; it was almost too horrible a thought to imagine.
“Wilson called you?” House inserted rhetorically, instead of giving into her curiosity.
“No, hon, it wasn’t him.” It was Blythe’s turn now to look slightly ill-at-ease, which was very uncharacteristic for her and surprised House in spite of himself. “It was actually…oh how do I say this? It was your psychiatrist that called.”
Surely he hadn’t heard right. “What ?” was all House could meekly respond, and he stared at her in a daze, almost speechless. His breath was caught like a fish in his throat, and he felt the room spinning, his stomach turning queasy as he imagined the phone conversation between them. “You’re…joking, right?” he demanded, “Tell me you’re joking!”
“No I’m not honey, I’m sorry,” said Blythe, frowning with what House could only perceive to be guilt written all over her face; exaggerating the crow’s feet spreading like veins out from her eyes.
“Oh, hell.” Feeling sick, House bent over, feeling a dull headache began to relentlessly assault his temples. Trying to ward off the queasy feeling in his stomach, he attempted to message the agonizing pulsating throbbing of his brain. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled before the words could be stopped, feeling all of his energy simply slipping away. “I don’t know why he did that…I didn’t mean to worry you---” he choked out, before his throat became too tight to allow him to speak.
“Greg,” Blythe half-laughed, and he glanced up sharply with alarm at her laughter, “Don’t be silly! You’re my son, and you’ve gotten help…you were where you needed to be. Nothing else matters.”
But it did matter, and he knew it. He knew he would never forgive the man who claimed to be trustworthy for calling his mother behind his back. He had no right. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” he whispered through gritted teeth, shoving himself up with a desperate urge to run as she sat there silently waiting for…what? He didn’t know; didn’t want to know. All he knew was that he was going to be sick, and right there on the floor---if he didn’t move fast.
Without another word he strode brusquely from the room, headed into the bathroom, shut the door quietly so as not to wake Wilson---making it just in time before he vomited his guts out.