IT’S ALWAYS THE DAD
IT’S ALWAYS THE DAD
By: Masked Maiden
"I'm sure his mom's a piece of work!
Only a mother could do that much damage."
~ Foreman, from 2x05 "Daddy's Boy"
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The rubber bottom of his cane slightly bounced as he tapped it against the
floor. To him, there was almost a kind of soothing comfort hidden inside the
sound. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
So he focused on it, it being the only sound that kept the silence at bay, to
the point it flooded his ears.
He did the same with sight, and the dark spot still embedded within the fibers
of the worn carpet was the perfect distraction. It still had the faintest tinge
of red, despite how thoroughly the cleaners had scrubbed and shampooed. Not
that it mattered to him. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
There was a time when he considered buying a rug to put over it, but he decided
not to. He’d grown fond of it. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It was a part of him, just like his cane.
“What the hell’s that?”
As for the visitor standing only a foot away, pointing at the stain, House
couldn’t say he was fond of him. The inanimate objects had shown him more
stability and support than the man he shared half of his DNA with. He was never
the rock House could lean on; he was more like the rock that tripped him. On the
day he became old enough to live on his own, House detached himself from that
man, breaking the weak, damaged bond they had to one another. He made a promise
to himself that there would be no more rocks in his path.
“That would be blood,” House finally answered.
Thump-thump.
“You mean to tell me they still haven’t replaced this carpet for you?”
“They did. I asked them to put the old carpet back. I like the old carpet. It’s
mine.”
In response to that, John House asked the same rhetorical question he’d asked
his son many times before: “Are you crazy?”
An expressionless curl of the lip appeared and disappeared quickly from House’s
face, showing he was not amused. He ignored the question, since his father
already had his own opinion and didn’t really want to hear someone else’s.
Thump-thump.
“You mind telling me why you’re here?”
John’s lip curled as well, though more from annoyance. He kept waiting for his
son to make eye contact with him, to acknowledge his presence, even though the
chance of that happening was slim to none. House would keep staring at that
spot, until one of them left the room.
“I’m really here to meet some old war buddies,” John said, pointing out his
actual reason for traveling to Jersey. “But
your mother’s been worried about you. She hasn’t heard from you since
Christmas. I thought I’d check to see if you were still alive.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m still breathing. I’m fine.”
“Are you? When you got shot, you didn’t tell us until three months after the
fact. You didn’t tell us about the rehab, we had to find out from Wilson. How do we know
you’re fine? Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”
“I got a dog a few months ago, but that only lasted a week.”
Thump…
John stepped over to the reclining chair in the corner and stood over his son,
staring at the side of his head, though wishing he could grab that face and
turn it towards him. But instead, he yelled. Harshly.
“Could you give me a damn straight answer for once?!”
Tink-tink.
The knuckles of a fist lightly tapped on the glass. As the door opened, John
took a couple steps back, almost like a child before he was blatantly caught
with his hand in the cookie jar. House lifted his eyes to see who the new
visitor was. In a mixture of disguised relief and more obvious dread, he saw it
was Cuddy.
“Um…” Cuddy was careful with the words she chose to say. (Though from the
second of hesitation, House already knew she either heard something or saw
something.) “I know I must be interrupting something, but there’s a certain
patient at the clinic and I need a consult from House.”
“Ah.” John nodded and suddenly began to laugh, a bit forcibly, to somehow hide
his incriminating behavior. He could act rather pleasant when he needed to. “I
understand. My son’s quite the genius around here, isn’t he?” And just for good
measure, he slapped House on back, just as a normal father would do if he was
genuinely complimenting his child.
House just stared at Cuddy.
“He’s saved a lot of lives,” Cuddy replied. “You should be proud of him.”
That statement of praise received another nod from John, but there was no
verbal recognition. He took one quick, last look at House and then crossed the
room. He grabbed his coat from the rack by the door, draped it over his arm,
and exited the office, leaving House and Cuddy an in awkward silence.
“… How much did you see?”
Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, faltered with her words again and then decided
to be as truthful as she could be with House. “I saw enough.”
“So is there really an emergency at the clinic?”
“… No.”
“Well, good, because you know how much I despise the clinic.”
“House—“
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
House gripped tightly onto his cane and pushed himself to his feet, in a motion
of painful ease he’d grown accustomed to over the years. He hobbled over to his
employer, standing directing in front of her, and he continued to stare at her.
He gave her the eye contact he deprived his father of. After all, in his
opinion, such a gesture was a privilege. There were very few people who had
earned the right for him to give them his full attention. But from the wavering
specks of a particular emotion appearing in her blue eyes, Cuddy was about to
lose that right.
“Don’t give me your pity.”
Once he said that, House walked out of the room, leaving Cuddy alone, wondering
what to do now.
======
Fin.
