| |
Fun At Funerals
by gena
Why bring House? Because he's......
Fun at Funerals
"Okay, what's the life and death situation?"
"Death."
"Death and death?"
"No, just death."
House canted his head to the left and when that failed to produce clarification, closed his left eye. Nope, Wilson still wore that annoying mixture of resignation, exasperation, irritation and - something else ending in "tion" he couldn't think up right then. "Let me reiterate this for people just joining in," House said. "You call me up in the middle of Veronica Mars gibbering something about life and death, insisting I haul my crippled ass out of my comfy chair and drag it all the way to your place -"
"We live five blocks apart-" Wilson interjected only to be shot down by a withering glare, well half a withering glare since House still had one eye closed.
"- and then stare at me with a "tion" face and tell me it's all about death - there is no life." He stamped his cane for emphasis and waited for an explanation.
"I didn't say there was no life," Wilson said and House mentally added mortification to his list of "tion" endings Wilson favored. Wilson frowned, eyes distant as he tried to find his place in the argument again. "Listen, I called you because this is an emergency. Uncle Peter is dead, Mildred called and said he was eating soup and just fell over dead."
"Uncle Peter!" House forgot himself for a moment and reached out to clutch Wilson's shirt front. "Uncle Peter is dead? Wait a minute," he asked, "Did I know Uncle Peter?"
Wilson shook his head. "No, but you would have liked him. He was a complete bastard."
"Sounds terrific." House nodded a couple of times, silently urging Wilson to get to the point of this excruciatingly boring exercise in dead family relations. "And this all means......."
"I need you to go with me."
House nodded again. "Where?"
Wilson went back to irritation or it might have been exasperation - sometimes it was hard to tell. The eyebrows usually gave House a clue but once in a while, especially in low light, they looked remarkably similar. "To the funeral."
House thought about nodding again but the image of those little dogs in the back of old people's car windows stopped him. "So Uncle Paul drops dead in his soup -"
"Peter."
"I don't care if it was Mary," House said, "I'm just not seeing the connection between your dead uncle and me. Is it a Jewish thing? Do your people have to bring a date to a funeral?"
Definitely exasperation this time - eyebrows drawn down in the middle but with a little lilt on the right one, left eye slightly narrower than the right. "Uncle Peter wasn't Jewish. He wasn't even my uncle. He's Sharon's uncle."
"Second Wife Sharon? Why the hell would you go to a former in-law's funeral? Sharon's family hated you," House, being a good friend, pointed out, "They loathed you, wished you evil and probably would have laughed if you got cancer, for cheating on her. I think I remember something about castration with a rusty knife if they saw you again."
"Uh, yeah, well," Wilson crossed his legs, shifting uncomfortably. "They were upset -"
"No, the Bride was upset with Bill, Sharon's family was the poster family for homicidal rage when they found out about your cheating."
"They were upset," Wilson repeated, "but her uncle made me promise that when he died I'd attend his funeral."
"A fine yarn," House said, slapping Wilson's knee as he levered himself to his feet, "worthy of campfires and 'smores and yet so irrelevant I find myself nearly comatose."
"He hated them as much as they hated me," Wilson hurried on, "He wanted me to attend his funeral to irk his family." House pursed his lips, the wheels in his head turning at lightning speed. Yes, there existed an amazing potential for amusement here. He saw from Wilson's suddenly relieved expression that his friend had correctly read his own expression. Time to up the ante. House lifted a brow and smiled, pleased when Wilson paled. "House, please. I just need moral support - not your arsenal of antisocial behavior."
"I'm a complete package," House explained, "Supportive yet psychotic."
"Ohgodohgodohgod," Wilson mumbled, head in his hands.
"No use asking Him for help now," House pointed out. "Road Trip!"
The funeral took place in Cheesequake a small town sixty miles from Princeton. Dressed in his best suit - the pressed one - and wearing a tie he had stolen from Wilson's closet, House insisted they leave hours before the service would begin so he could "scope things out". Wilson spent the short journey chewing the inside of his lip and shooting House pleading looks. House spent it alternately laughing like a maniac and waving at passing cars - sometimes he combined them much to the horror of unsuspecting motorists. It got so bad Wilson started mentally rehearsing the speech he would use on any state trooper foolish enough to stop them - trying out phrases like "rapidly escalating dementia" and "chronic temporal displacement". They reached the tiny hamlet and pulled into a gravel lot behind the Cheesequake Baptist Church and Pizza Parlor. The church parking lot could hold fifty cars; it was empty when House and Wilson arrived. "Park in the back," House said, "We can make a fast get away."
"Are we going to need to make a fast get away?" Wilson asked afraid that they might.
"Not sure. What's the local ordinance say about drugs and firearms?" Wilson did the pinching the bridge of his nose thing that House found endearing. "Kidding, Wilson," he said with uncharacteristic gentleness. Wilson glanced up and he winked. "I forgot the pistol. However, I did bring extra drugs." He'd never actually seen the blood drain from someone's face. Fascinating, really. "Come on, let's see what this one-horse town has to offer." He set off limping at a pace that forced Wilson to hurry. Cheesequake had nothing of real interest to House or Wilson but the same didn't hold true for its residents. They were treated to the mesmerizing sight of two well-dressed men, one walking with the aid of a sturdy cane, poking through the books at Rita's Reads, gazing in the windows of the Tractor Supply, wandering the isles of the Sack-n-Save, and seemingly have some kind of running argument; both gesturing wildly, and the younger one occasionally wearing a horrified expression.
"I hope you're satisfied," Wilson said once they had exited the Post Office. House had insisted on looking at wanted posters, Wilson supposed there had been a reason for doing it but couldn't fathom what it might be, especially not on an empty stomach. House had slowed his pace, his limp more pronounced than when they had begun and Wilson hadn't failed to notice he was leaning more and more on his cane. House would never admit to fatigue but that had never stopped Wilson from taking matters into his own hand. "Look, we've got nearly ninety minutes to kill," he said, checking his wrist watch, "and I'm starving. There's a caf, let's eat."
House appeared to think it over but Wilson could see the combination of food and a chance to rest were overwhelming . "You're buying."
"When have I ever not?"
House shrugged and led the way across the street to Peggy's Caf. They were greeted with a mixture of suspicious silence and nosy questions. House glared at the silent ones and made rude retorts to the intrusive questions until the whole room had reached the desired consistency of annoyed tolerance. Wilson couldn't help but smile fondly, House had a way of making sure they stood out in any crowd but were never hassled by the curious for very long. When the waitress approached, a bit warily Wilson noted, he ordered two coffees, pop, fries and two slices of cherry pie. He knew House would eat most of it, he remained slender despite his voracious appetite, burning most of the calories just getting around.
"So what makes Uncle Pete Dead Guy of the Month in your book?" House asked. He sat in the booth with his back to the window, right leg stretched out along the vinyl seat, as he toyed with the salt, pepper, ketchup, jelly and sugar containers, shoving them into various configurations. Wilson watched, slightly taken aback when House tipped over the sugar and wrote rude words with the end of his cane.
"Uh," Wilson gave his head a bemused shake and said, "he cheated on Mildred."
"Ah, solidarity," House said. "Is there a secret Cheater's Handshake so you know each other? Do you sneak out at night, wearing ugly ties for clandestine meetings - or is that just what you tell your wives?"
"You're not funny."
"That's not what my friends say," House countered, "They think I'm a riot."
"All your friends?" Wilson asked with a skeptical brow but his doubt it merely bounced off House's smug look. "It was once and she made his life a living hell for it. The whole family did. I - felt sorry for the guy. Mildred is Catholic - she wouldn't give him a divorce so she just tortured him for twenty years instead."
"Ouch!" Wilson nodded. "Guess you don't have much to look forward to." He was use to hurting Wilson but this time when Wilson flinched House cursed inwardly and looked away. The waitress delivered their order and he asked, "You want a fry?" in lieu of apology. Wilson hesitated before reaching out a tentative hand but when he took one of the greasy fries something in House relaxed. "You really liked the guy," he said.
Wilson gave a small nod, not meeting his eyes. "He was lonely, he made a mistake and they made him pay for the rest of his life. I just - I've been there," Wilson said quietly. "He didn't have any other friends."
"Always picking up strays." House craned his neck to gaze across the street toward the church. There were now cars in the parking lot, not a lot of them but a good showing. "We better get going, I want a good seat." They made it to the church and it turned out to be an uncomfortable social situation - in other words - a train wreck. House, annoyed by the hostile glares Pete's remaining family members directed at Wilson when they entered, took it upon himself to deflect them. Breaking into uncontrollable, and unconvincing, sobs he needed Wilson's help to a seat - in the front, of course. Wilson spent half his time ignoring the fixed stares aimed at them and the other half wishing he could hide because House sang the hymns at full volume and completely off key, and then pestered him with personal questions about the people sitting around them. When House caught sight of Sharon, he assured everyone within earshot that she couldn't be as frigid as she looked. It was only by sheer brute strength that Wilson kept him in his seat when the preacher asked if anyone would like to say a few words about the departed. To tell the truth, even after all the craziness he was glad House had come. If he had gone by himself, Wilson knew he would have slipped in quietly and sat in the back avoiding gazes, fleeing before anyone confronted him. House wouldn't allow that; he never did anything subtle. He'd been rude, unruly, obnoxious and offensive and Wilson knew Pete would have appreciated it.
Peter went to his rest, mourned by at least one man who understood the guilt a person could endure and another who respected the empathy it could incite. House was silent as they exited the church and remained that way thanks to the firm, painful, grip Wilson took on his arm as he steered them through the crowd and to their car. "I wasn't done," House growled, struggling to join the condolence line at the church doors.
"I know," Wilson said, "but if you want to stop for a movie and some dinner we need to leave now." It wasn't strictly true, they had plenty of time before it got late - but House looked tired, though strangely happy, and Wilson felt drained. There was only a minor incident in the parking lot, one Wilson blamed himself for after pointing out the gold Lexus his alimony had purchased for Sharon, though he supposed he couldn't have known House would pee on her tire because that was a bit extreme, even for him. Wilson hustled his friend into his own aging Volvo and admonished House with a pissy glare. "You could be arrested for public indecency, you know?"
"Oh come on," House whined, patting his lap, "Little Greg is cute, you know it. No court in the land would arrest me after getting a look at him."
Wilson resisted rolling his eyes. They drove without speaking, just listening to music on the radio until they neared Princeton and then House glanced over at Wilson who met his eyes briefly. House could see it all in those brown eyes; gratitude, understanding, compassion and - love. He imagined a scene - who knew how far into the future - Wilson in his expensive suit and silk tie, sitting in another church smiling through his tears and praying for another sinner he had loved too much for his own good.
"I'm not planning on dying - ever," House announced. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wilson start and gave him a moment to compose himself.
"No?"
"Nope, I'm staying here to torment you." He felt Wilson's smile like a gentle touch to his soul.
"That's good to know, House," Wilson said, sounding satisfied.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|