theatrical_muse: Passing
Passing. 1,900 words. PG. Spoilers for Birthmarks (5x04).
The mood was still sombre and the the podium occupied by an officer from his father's regiment when House returned to the viewing room. Wilson followed behind him, a sheepish look on his face; people were throwing them curious looks, having heard the commotion of glass shattering in the room next door.
Still not boring, House had told him when his friend had thrown the bottle of alcohol at the stained-glass window, and for a few moments he and Wilson had actually started laughing. The deep-bellied, stomach-aching kind of laugh that left a person breathless and gasping for air. They'd needed it, a good laugh - one that cleared the months of tension between them. House had known in the back of his mind that laughing at a funeral wasn't something anyone was supposed to do, but maybe he was laughing away the tension of his father's death, too. Laughing away all those years of shame and disappointment, laughing away the sadness he felt deep inside about the fact that his dad was gone. Of course, he still hated his dad. At least, he wanted to hate his dad.
But the laughter had eventually subsided to a dull, cramping ache knotting House's stomach up and Wilson had said they needed to return to the funeral before someone came looking for them. "You're gonna have to pay for that, you know," House had said, nodding to the broken window.
"I know, I know," Wilson had impatiently replied, shoving House forward to the door with shoves against his shoulder. "Let's just get back out there before my not being boring becomes a new apprehension order instead of the reason we came here, which was to pay respects to your father."
"He's not my father," House had grumbled under his breath. But he'd led the way back to his seat, met with a questioning, if not suspicious look from his mother. But then she'd laid her hand on his where it was resting on his thigh.
"Are you okay, Greg?" she asked softly, leaning close to his ear.
"'Course I'm okay, Mom."
He could tell in the way she scrutinised him that she wanted to ask if he was telling the truth - because he could never lie to his mom, no matter how much he tried - and what on earth had happened in that room back there with Wilson? He ignored her, however. He upturned his hand beneath hers so they were palm to palm and he let her hold his hand. Next to him, Wilson was fidgeting with his tie, his ears and the back of his neck still red with self-awareness that everyone was watching him. House ignored him, too, and focused on the officer still up the front, praising John House as a highly esteemed colonel in the marine corp. Perhaps, had his father been a better father to him, House would have been proud of him. Perhaps right now, he'd be feeling crushed instead of a strange emptiness. It didn't really matter now, he supposed. His dad was dead. Nothing could change the past. He wanted to believe that coming to the funeral - being dragged to the funeral, thanks to Wilson - didn't mean a thing.
He blanked out through the rest of the service, his mind wandering over the case his team was puzzling over back in Princeton with memories of his childhood slipping in under the radar every now again. His dad playing ball with him when he was six years old in the backyard - he'd given House a mitt and had crouched on the other side of the yard, tossing the ball to him. House had only had the coordination of a six year-old and he missed almost every toss. But the ones he'd clumsily caught earned him praise from his father and he'd thrown the ball back with haphazard skill, a toothy grin on his face. Or the time his dad had taken him fishing when he was eight. House had hated fishing. He'd found it boring, sitting on a small dingy in the middle of a still and deserted lake with nothing but the space between him and his father, a couple of fishing rods and a bag of bait. They'd ended up not catching anything and House was busting to pee by the time his dad rowed them back to shore. But he'd never forget the way his father patted his shoulder as they approached the car and said to him, "I had a good day with you today, son."
The squeeze of his mother's hand still clutched in his brought him back to the present. The service had ended and officers in John's regiment were getting ready to carry the coffin on their shoulders out to the hearse. "We're in the first car," Blythe whispered to him. Then she'd gripped his hand tighter, enough to make him look at her. Her eyes were wide, almost pleading. "You are coming to the burial, aren't you?"
"Mom..." he began.
"Please. For me."
He really didn't want to go. Wilson had overheard, though, and House felt an elbow nudge against his ribs. He chose to ignore Wilson. "I have an important case back home that I have to--"
"Please, Greg. Just one more hour. I know I probably won't get to see you again for a long time after this."
Blythe always had a way of making him feel guilty, touching the spots in him that made it impossible for him to turn her down. He sighed, then nodded. "All right," he murmured and he wanted to roll his eyes in frustration but the brief flash of gladness that crossed her face compelled him to keep it to himself. As the coffin was carried slowly down the aisle, House stood up and led Blythe out after them. Wilson stayed in the seat; House exchanged a look with him just before he joined the procession.
The coffin was carried out through the front lobby to the grey day outside. House and Blythe lined up by the door with the minister and House shook hands with mourners and well-wishers, each of them apologising for John's passing and commenting to him what a good man he'd been. Variations of 'you must miss him terribly already' were offered as empty condolences, all at which House smiled with stiff politeness to and thanked them blandly for coming. Wilson was the last in line, his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets and his tie loosened by his collar. He drew a hand out of his pocket and offered it to House.
"I'm sorry, House," he said.
House refused to take his hand. "No, you're not."
"Believe what you want. Are you going to the burial?"
No, House wanted to say. He looked askance at his mother, which was all the answer Wilson needed.
"Good," he said. "She'd want you there." Wilson patted him on the shoulder and stepped across to Blythe. House watched her clasp Wilson's hand in both of hers, thanking him for bringing her son. She then reached her arms up around his shoulders and gave him a grateful hug. Wilson patted her back and moved onto the minister, complimenting him on the lovely service.
Blythe turned to House when Wilson and the minister stepped outside. "I'm so glad you came, Gregory," she began.
"Mom, don't start."
"You don't know what it means to me that you came. I thought I was going to have to do this all on my own." She sighed, clasping and wringing her hands together. House suddenly realised how tired she looked. Tired and old. Frail. It was like the weight of the world had lifted off her shoulders and now she was left with nothing but aching bones. "I've been doing this on my own for so many years."
House nodded. "I know," he replied quietly.
"I keep thinking it's going to be lonelier now he's gone but... maybe I've been lonely all along."
Her eyes reddened slightly with tears and House did roll his eyes this time at the sheer awkwardness of seeing his mother cry. More than that - the guilt of her admitting how alone she felt and the fact that he'd been absent all these years. She dabbed furiously at her eyes and forced herself to get a grip. He wanted nothing more than to step around her and get into the hearse, to get this burial thing over and done with. But when he heard her sniff, he hesitantly relented.
"Come here," he said. He reached his free arm to her and tugged her into an embrace. She settled her cheek to his chest and wrapped her arms around his middle, and he held her around the shoulders with his hand rubbing her back. When was the last time he truly hugged his mom? He couldn't remember. But everything was familiar about her - her perfume, the hairspray she used, the floral scent of her makeup. That same ache he'd felt back in the viewing room, thinking about the few good memories of his dad, clutched at his chest again. He didn't want to miss his mother but sometimes he missed her more than anything. He missed being that young boy who could go to her for hugs whenever he was sad or even happy. It was beginning to sink in that he'd lost his dad. He frowned. He wanted to hate his father because hate was all he'd known for John. Yet he felt hollow, like a piece of him was missing.
"I'll be okay, Mom," he murmured, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.
The words sounded so lame to his ears. He didn't know what else to really say, though. He glanced up at the door when it opened and gave the intruder a sharp look - Wilson, who'd probably come to check up on him, to make sure he hadn't escaped. His mouth was open to make some kind of announcement but upon seeing House and Blythe, he shut it and gave a single nod. He stepped back and quietly closed the door after him.
Blythe pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again. "Look at me, being silly," she scolded herself in a quiet voice. "Your father wouldn't have wanted me to cry over him like this."
House stepped back, trying to shake the hollow feeling away from him. He had a small clipping of John's skin tucked away in his pocket. When he'd get home, he'd test it and prove he had no reason to feel the way he did because the paternity test would come back negative. The feeling wouldn't shake, though. "You're not being silly," he replied. "You're being a wife who lost her husband. It happens."
Blythe chuckled dryly as she fetched a tissue out of her purse. She wiped under her eyes and gave herself a small shake. "Come on. They're waiting for us outside."
House nodded. He wished he could just hit the road with Wilson and go home, put this whole thing behind him. The last thing he wanted was to stand around his father's grave, trying to dissect the reasons why he felt the way he did. But he held his arm up for Blythe and she took it with a watery smile. He pushed the door open and led her out into the cloudy afternoon.
The mood was still sombre and the the podium occupied by an officer from his father's regiment when House returned to the viewing room. Wilson followed behind him, a sheepish look on his face; people were throwing them curious looks, having heard the commotion of glass shattering in the room next door.
Still not boring, House had told him when his friend had thrown the bottle of alcohol at the stained-glass window, and for a few moments he and Wilson had actually started laughing. The deep-bellied, stomach-aching kind of laugh that left a person breathless and gasping for air. They'd needed it, a good laugh - one that cleared the months of tension between them. House had known in the back of his mind that laughing at a funeral wasn't something anyone was supposed to do, but maybe he was laughing away the tension of his father's death, too. Laughing away all those years of shame and disappointment, laughing away the sadness he felt deep inside about the fact that his dad was gone. Of course, he still hated his dad. At least, he wanted to hate his dad.
But the laughter had eventually subsided to a dull, cramping ache knotting House's stomach up and Wilson had said they needed to return to the funeral before someone came looking for them. "You're gonna have to pay for that, you know," House had said, nodding to the broken window.
"I know, I know," Wilson had impatiently replied, shoving House forward to the door with shoves against his shoulder. "Let's just get back out there before my not being boring becomes a new apprehension order instead of the reason we came here, which was to pay respects to your father."
"He's not my father," House had grumbled under his breath. But he'd led the way back to his seat, met with a questioning, if not suspicious look from his mother. But then she'd laid her hand on his where it was resting on his thigh.
"Are you okay, Greg?" she asked softly, leaning close to his ear.
"'Course I'm okay, Mom."
He could tell in the way she scrutinised him that she wanted to ask if he was telling the truth - because he could never lie to his mom, no matter how much he tried - and what on earth had happened in that room back there with Wilson? He ignored her, however. He upturned his hand beneath hers so they were palm to palm and he let her hold his hand. Next to him, Wilson was fidgeting with his tie, his ears and the back of his neck still red with self-awareness that everyone was watching him. House ignored him, too, and focused on the officer still up the front, praising John House as a highly esteemed colonel in the marine corp. Perhaps, had his father been a better father to him, House would have been proud of him. Perhaps right now, he'd be feeling crushed instead of a strange emptiness. It didn't really matter now, he supposed. His dad was dead. Nothing could change the past. He wanted to believe that coming to the funeral - being dragged to the funeral, thanks to Wilson - didn't mean a thing.
He blanked out through the rest of the service, his mind wandering over the case his team was puzzling over back in Princeton with memories of his childhood slipping in under the radar every now again. His dad playing ball with him when he was six years old in the backyard - he'd given House a mitt and had crouched on the other side of the yard, tossing the ball to him. House had only had the coordination of a six year-old and he missed almost every toss. But the ones he'd clumsily caught earned him praise from his father and he'd thrown the ball back with haphazard skill, a toothy grin on his face. Or the time his dad had taken him fishing when he was eight. House had hated fishing. He'd found it boring, sitting on a small dingy in the middle of a still and deserted lake with nothing but the space between him and his father, a couple of fishing rods and a bag of bait. They'd ended up not catching anything and House was busting to pee by the time his dad rowed them back to shore. But he'd never forget the way his father patted his shoulder as they approached the car and said to him, "I had a good day with you today, son."
The squeeze of his mother's hand still clutched in his brought him back to the present. The service had ended and officers in John's regiment were getting ready to carry the coffin on their shoulders out to the hearse. "We're in the first car," Blythe whispered to him. Then she'd gripped his hand tighter, enough to make him look at her. Her eyes were wide, almost pleading. "You are coming to the burial, aren't you?"
"Mom..." he began.
"Please. For me."
He really didn't want to go. Wilson had overheard, though, and House felt an elbow nudge against his ribs. He chose to ignore Wilson. "I have an important case back home that I have to--"
"Please, Greg. Just one more hour. I know I probably won't get to see you again for a long time after this."
Blythe always had a way of making him feel guilty, touching the spots in him that made it impossible for him to turn her down. He sighed, then nodded. "All right," he murmured and he wanted to roll his eyes in frustration but the brief flash of gladness that crossed her face compelled him to keep it to himself. As the coffin was carried slowly down the aisle, House stood up and led Blythe out after them. Wilson stayed in the seat; House exchanged a look with him just before he joined the procession.
The coffin was carried out through the front lobby to the grey day outside. House and Blythe lined up by the door with the minister and House shook hands with mourners and well-wishers, each of them apologising for John's passing and commenting to him what a good man he'd been. Variations of 'you must miss him terribly already' were offered as empty condolences, all at which House smiled with stiff politeness to and thanked them blandly for coming. Wilson was the last in line, his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets and his tie loosened by his collar. He drew a hand out of his pocket and offered it to House.
"I'm sorry, House," he said.
House refused to take his hand. "No, you're not."
"Believe what you want. Are you going to the burial?"
No, House wanted to say. He looked askance at his mother, which was all the answer Wilson needed.
"Good," he said. "She'd want you there." Wilson patted him on the shoulder and stepped across to Blythe. House watched her clasp Wilson's hand in both of hers, thanking him for bringing her son. She then reached her arms up around his shoulders and gave him a grateful hug. Wilson patted her back and moved onto the minister, complimenting him on the lovely service.
Blythe turned to House when Wilson and the minister stepped outside. "I'm so glad you came, Gregory," she began.
"Mom, don't start."
"You don't know what it means to me that you came. I thought I was going to have to do this all on my own." She sighed, clasping and wringing her hands together. House suddenly realised how tired she looked. Tired and old. Frail. It was like the weight of the world had lifted off her shoulders and now she was left with nothing but aching bones. "I've been doing this on my own for so many years."
House nodded. "I know," he replied quietly.
"I keep thinking it's going to be lonelier now he's gone but... maybe I've been lonely all along."
Her eyes reddened slightly with tears and House did roll his eyes this time at the sheer awkwardness of seeing his mother cry. More than that - the guilt of her admitting how alone she felt and the fact that he'd been absent all these years. She dabbed furiously at her eyes and forced herself to get a grip. He wanted nothing more than to step around her and get into the hearse, to get this burial thing over and done with. But when he heard her sniff, he hesitantly relented.
"Come here," he said. He reached his free arm to her and tugged her into an embrace. She settled her cheek to his chest and wrapped her arms around his middle, and he held her around the shoulders with his hand rubbing her back. When was the last time he truly hugged his mom? He couldn't remember. But everything was familiar about her - her perfume, the hairspray she used, the floral scent of her makeup. That same ache he'd felt back in the viewing room, thinking about the few good memories of his dad, clutched at his chest again. He didn't want to miss his mother but sometimes he missed her more than anything. He missed being that young boy who could go to her for hugs whenever he was sad or even happy. It was beginning to sink in that he'd lost his dad. He frowned. He wanted to hate his father because hate was all he'd known for John. Yet he felt hollow, like a piece of him was missing.
"I'll be okay, Mom," he murmured, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.
The words sounded so lame to his ears. He didn't know what else to really say, though. He glanced up at the door when it opened and gave the intruder a sharp look - Wilson, who'd probably come to check up on him, to make sure he hadn't escaped. His mouth was open to make some kind of announcement but upon seeing House and Blythe, he shut it and gave a single nod. He stepped back and quietly closed the door after him.
Blythe pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again. "Look at me, being silly," she scolded herself in a quiet voice. "Your father wouldn't have wanted me to cry over him like this."
House stepped back, trying to shake the hollow feeling away from him. He had a small clipping of John's skin tucked away in his pocket. When he'd get home, he'd test it and prove he had no reason to feel the way he did because the paternity test would come back negative. The feeling wouldn't shake, though. "You're not being silly," he replied. "You're being a wife who lost her husband. It happens."
Blythe chuckled dryly as she fetched a tissue out of her purse. She wiped under her eyes and gave herself a small shake. "Come on. They're waiting for us outside."
House nodded. He wished he could just hit the road with Wilson and go home, put this whole thing behind him. The last thing he wanted was to stand around his father's grave, trying to dissect the reasons why he felt the way he did. But he held his arm up for Blythe and she took it with a watery smile. He pushed the door open and led her out into the cloudy afternoon.