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Measure of a Tie
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Written for the LJ hw_fest, prompt #99: House or Wilson deals with the death of a parent. This is a snippet from a longer work, "Little Boy Blue". Thank you to jazzypom for the beta!
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At seven in the morning on the day of the funeral, Wilson arrived at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. It was a pleasant May morning outside: the dew drying on the nascent leaves, it was already sixty degrees and partly sunny, which meant it would be unbearably hot later in the day. Which was rather fitting, he supposed. Entering the hallway, he hesitated at the closed door to 221B, his finger hovering an inch away from the ringer. The funeral wasn't until two that afternoon but they still had a five-hour drive ahead of them.
And if Wilson wasn't looking forward to this, he couldn't imagine how House was feeling right now.
With a deep breath, he pressed the buzzer and waited but House didn't answer the doorbell. That wasn't unusual in itself, given the obscenely early hour (obscene for House anyway) but they would have to be on the road no later than eight if they hoped to be on time for the viewing.
After several minutes of ever-more-impatient buzzing and waiting with no response, Wilson finally let himself in with his key, wondering if he'd have to haul House out of bed and dress him himself. The unspoken or worse hovered in the back of his head, but the pounding sound of the shower massager in the bathroom was reassuring enough to settle the thought.
Nevertheless, Wilson stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet, steeling himself for whatever was going to happen today. House had had no intention of going at all; the Myers case was proving to be much more of a puzzle than even House had expected, and Wilson knew House was more than willing (indeed, even planning) to hide behind that excuse, the competency of his minions to handle it notwithstanding. Anything to avoid...
But he knew Chase had spoken to House; he'd seen Chase enter House's office out of the corner of his eye. And whatever Chase had said to House last night, it had worked; after brooding (Wilson assumed) for a long while afterwards, until the sun descended below the hospital buildings and the shadows blended with the dropping night, House had thrown pebbles at his balcony door until Wilson came out onto the patio. House had then asked Wilson, in his unique gruff way, if he would go with him to the funeral.
"Funeral's tomorrow in Woodbridge at two. Pick me up at seven." All the while avoiding Wilson's questioning gaze and staring across the common courtyard.
Wilson had nodded his agreement, effortlessly picking up on all the between-the-lines conversation, and wondered if he should kiss Chase or throttle him for forcing House's hand in the matter.
House stayed in the shower so long Wilson thought he'd have to drag him out. Glancing at his watch, it was approaching seven-thirty already; but finally the water stopped and House emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, steam billowing behind him. He was still damp but at least partially dressed in boxers and socks.
"Hey," Wilson said softly.
House looked up and met his eyes briefly; Wilson watched his face shutter closed. "Hey," he replied, glancing away again.
House quickly shrugged into the dress slacks, T-shirt and button-down dress shirt draped over the sofa. Aside from avoiding Wilson's concerned gaze he seemed to behave normally--what passed for normal with House anyway this early in the morning.
Feeling somewhat calmer, Wilson slipped into the kitchen to see if House had made any coffee. Surprise surprise--the pot was full. Would wonders ever cease? Wilson poured two mugs then came back out into the living room, sipping from one.
In the meantime, House had picked up the brand-new tie off the sofa and stood in front of the mirror to tie it. But House's hands shook as he tried to knot his tie; he kept fumbling the last loop before finishing the four-in-hand knot. Wilson watched House's hands clench and wrinkle the fabric in growing frustration, as if trying to crush it out of existence. After the third unsuccessful try Wilson couldn't bear to watch any longer, so he wordlessly set down his mug and stepped up beside him, turning House around to tie the knot for him.
House's eyes widened and he tensed at the touch of Wilson's hand on his shoulder. He knew Wilson was waiting for him (didn't he always?), he knew they had to be on the road soon, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do this. But he simply allowed Wilson take over with a repressed sigh, letting his hands drop to his sides and balancing himself on his good leg.
He squeezed his eyes shut as Wilson's fingers flew expertly around the unyielding silk. Dammit, he was growing soft. It was just a stupid tie. Though his mother adored the look of her men in ties. At home as a teenager, Blythe tied her son's ties, because he stubbornly refused to learn and John refused to buy him clip-ons. The measure of a man is how sincere he is. Clip-ons are not sincere, son.
He inwardly winced at the echo of his father's voice. This was utterly ridiculous; thirty years removed and John's comment still made House feel like an ungrateful heel. Remembering it, his eyes stung as he realized he'd never willingly worn a proper tie for her before today. He'd always fought it, resented the conformity it represented; he only gave in when he was shamed into it by John, or when he knew it would suit his own nefarious purposes. Until now; the first time he'd ever been willing, the first time he had ever wanted to wear that stupid cloth noose around his neck for her.
And she would never see him in it.
Fuck.
(We don't use that word in our house, Greg.)
House smiled despite himself , feeling instantly contrite. Yes, ma'am.
"You OK, House?" Wilson's breath puffed lightly into his face with each word.
House started, coming back into himself, then nodded reluctantly. He opened his eyes, but Wilson had already stepped back and to his side to allow House to turn and face the mirror. House looked even more haggard than usual; the effects of a long, restless, pain-filled night left his skin pale and his eyes red and a little sunken. The dove grey shirt and charcoal dress slacks hung a little loosely off his frame; but he could almost see Blythe standing beside him, smiling and nodding in approval at the tasteful blue-and-silver striped tie now knotted neatly below his collar. He could almost feel her hand ghost over his shoulder.
"I look like a rain cloud," House said wryly, reaching up to stroke one finger down the silk.
(The tie brings out the color of your eyes, honey.)
House's mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"You do like raining on other people's parades," Wilson agreed. "Would you rather be wearing black?"
"Black's for weddings and funerals."
"You are attending a funeral," Wilson reminded him gently.
"Well then at least it'll put a little 'fun' into the word by not wearing black," House retorted. "This should be fluorescent orange though. Better effect. Or at least hideous paisley and plaid stripes."
(Blythe shook her head fondly. Oh, Greg, she admonished. Stop torturing him so.)
House smirked at Wilson. "Hey, do you think I could borrow one of yours?"
Wilson ignored the jab. "It's almost eight. We have to leave now or we're going to be late for the viewing. Come on." He laid his hand on House's shoulder.
House did not move; rooted in place, he bowed his head, looking down at some odd dust mote that shimmered on the hardwood floor. An effect of the sun, he told himself. Just the sun. "I don't want to, Jimmy," he admitted at length, his voice barely a whisper. He licked his dry lips, his throat tight. "If I don't go I won't have to believe she's gone."
Wilson only nodded and swallowed, his face twisting in sympathy. He tightened his grip on House's shoulder, looking away for a very long moment. When he turned back his face was composed again, his eyes clear and voice steady. "If you don't go you'll always regret it," he said softly.
House met Wilson's eyes, and his lips curled in a parody of a smile. "Regret is something I've never had a problem with." But nevertheless he allowed Wilson to press his cane into his hand and turn him towards the door.
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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 NBC/Universal, 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.
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