Brotherhood, contn'd...

[rivercrossing2.livejournal.com]

Summary: Wilson receives some life-changing news.
Rating: PG
A/N: Unbeta'd....anyone interested? 
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore et. al. and Fox.  What would us fanfiction writers do without such a fountain of creativity from which to inspire our own?  :) 

 
                                                  

Chapter Two: Denial  

 

In spite of his loathing for Wilson’s annoying habit of psychoanalyzing everyone, House wished he would see that his anger was misplaced…After all, it was his brother that really deserved the latter comment.  Except, there was one huge problem in this scenario: it was hard to yell at the dead.  You might as well be screaming at a gravestone.

 

Even after four Vicodin and a glass of Bourbon to calm his nerves, House was drowsy but still not drowsy enough to fall asleep.  He kept on dosing but snapping back awake.  He knew Wilson would accuse him of feeling guilty, and that this was the reason he couldn’t sleep: but House did not like to rationalize emotion.  After all, once the rhythm of sleep was thrown off course (say by a phone call) the chances of finding that rhythm again quickly was slim.   

 

By the time he managed to successfully dose off, the alarm for 9 clock shocked him awake, reminding him that it was the start of another wonderfully pain-filled day.

 

He dragged himself lethargically out of bed, absently threw on a rumpled shirt, stunned his nerves with a shot of Listerine and headed for the hospital as fast as his motorcycle would allow.

 

Cuddy was waiting there expectantly, as was often the case when he was late.  “You are twenty minutes late,” she scolded.

 

“Isn’t it a little early to be practicing discipline?” he jostled back in return.  “I know Rachel’s got some spunk for six weeks in the world, but she’s still too young for baby’s night out, old soul that she may be.”

 

“Shut up, House.  I said it before, and I’ll say it again: you are simply not impressing anyone with your shameless mockery.”

 

He blinked with sincerely confounded surprise.  “Really? I thought you enjoyed our little before-the-caffeine banter.”

 

“I’ve already had my daily dose, thank you so much for thinking of me,” she snapped, rubbing her temple as if trying to dispel a sudden headache.  “Only quarter to ten, and already I’ve got a migraine…” she muttered to herself, as he followed her into her office.

 

“Baby keep you up all night with her banchee’s wailing?” House inquired smugly, “Or perhaps you gave her to the wolves so you could get some good lovin’?”

 

“Neither.  I got a call from Wilson.”  She sank into her chair with great effort, although the softness appeared to yield no quick relief.  “He told me something….amazing.  That they found his missing brother.  Dead.  But found.” She shook her head, as though she still couldn’t fathom the concept. 

 

“I know,” House mumbled in spite of himself, secretly hoping he’d said it low enough so that she wouldn’t hear him.

 

She seemed not to hear him, her eyes misting as she recounted the news to him.  “He was a complete mess, House.  I had to talk him down from a panic attack….He kept saying, ‘They found drugs in his system….if he was so close…Why wouldn’t he contact me?’  I kept on trying to tell him that his brother had disappeared for a reason…that if he’d wanted to be found, he would have done so.  Wilson wouldn’t accept it.  He only said, ‘Each time I get close to someone, something like this happens.’  I tried to ask him to explain himself, but he immediately shut down and…hung up the phone.”

 

The word ‘drugs’ struck a sharp chord in House’s gut, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.  A flash of shame hit him; try though he might, he could not supress the feeling.  “He’s being an idiot,” House interpreted calmly.  “He still believes in the goodness of everybody.  He thinks truth holds the key to happiness, but he’s forgetting that truth is just as painful as not knowing.”

 

“He’s an idiot for caring….yeah. We all know your point of view on the subject,” Cuddy snapped wearily, shoving the drawer of her desk shut for emphasis.  “You, who are lonely and miserable and have nothing good to show for it---”

 

“—but my greatly cherished peace and quiet,” House inserted promptly, as she blushed bright crimson.  “We all have different values, Cuddy…You want someone to hold.  I want my leg not to  hurt.”  As she stood silently and fumed, he contemplated something.  “What were the drugs that they found in his system?”

 

“Cocaine….heroin…alcohol….you name it.  Let’s just say that it’s amazing he’d lasted this long.  He appeared to have a heart problem; the amount of drugs didn’t help.  Needless to say, he had liver problems as well.  They’re still trying to determine the exact cause of death.”

 

“Wilson called me too.” He didn’t know why he bothered to divulge this useless information, but yet he was providing it, nonetheless.

 

She glanced up sharply; her eyes were glistening in the slowly gathering light.  “He never mentioned it to me…”

 

“After you.  It was five in the morning.”  He began to pace, knowing that his fellows would be arriving shortly, wondering what all the commotion was about and being their typically nosy selves.  “I assume he’d probably be more considerate to you….being Dean and everything.  Apparently, to the rest of us, sleep isn’t as important.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Nothing important...pretty much everything you’d just told me.”  He figured Wilson’s hanging up the phone on him could be included in that category---he’d done the same to Cuddy---and decided it was irrelevant, anyhow; it wasn’t any of Cuddy’s business.  He staggered suddenly on his feet; the lack of sleep was increasingly taking its toll.  Feeling as though his feet were becoming gradually encased in lead, House managed to drag himself into one of the empty chairs scattered haphazardly in one corner of the office.  “He was blubbering about how his brother was flesh and blood…but he wouldn’t tell me why he cared so much about a guy who basically abandoned him.”

 

“House!” Cuddy leapt from the seat, her mouth agape, astounded by House’s indifference.  “It’s his brother they found! You asked him why he cared?! He can’t help it….he’s been looking for his brother for years.”

 

“A lot of wasted time if you ask me,” House remarked, a bit too smugly for her taste. 

 

“House---Wilson’s visited every shelter in the localized area.  He’s been to all the shelters in Massachussetts, Maryland, Connecticut, New York.  He was obsessed.  Once I let him have some time off, and he used it to search the entire city of Boston.  The next vacation he could afford,  he searched all the five burroughs in New York City, checking all the spots the Midnight Runs delivered soup and clothing.  He slept on the subways, and spent one night in Grand Central Station, he told me…asking all homeless people he came into contact with.  He was desperate to find his brother…and you question his devotion?”  Cuddy threw her hands up in complete and utter exasperation, nearly losing her balance as she collapsed into the chair with exhaustion from ranting. 

 

“You think this is news to me, Cuddy? I tried to talk him out of it.  But he wouldn't listen.  He's chasing a ghost, Cuddy,”  House spoke resignedly, and she wondered how much information he knew about Wilson’s brother; if he knew more than he was letting on.  “His brother might have just died a day or two ago…but he was dead a long time ago."  

 

“You and your cynicism,” Cuddy replied, her voice cold and almost a whisper.  “You don’t care who it hurts.”

 

“You might feel sympathy for a fool, but a fool can’t tell if he wants it or needs it, so your sympathy is useless.”

 

“Go to hell,” Cuddy snapped.

 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before.  “You’re angry at me for stating the obvious, Cuddy,” he persisted, even though he knew he was treading dangerous waters.  “You feel sorry for him….I get that.  And though I hate to admit it,” House discovered himself adding haltingly, “I feel sorry for him, too.  Because of all that time he’s wasted, looking for someone who simply wasn’t there.”

 

“He was driven by the hope that he might one day be able to help his brother….save him.”  Cuddy’s anger seemed to have softened considerably at House’s words, though she still seemed troubled by something he couldn’t identify, by reading her face.  “His brother hadn’t left any clues…not one phone call in all the time he was gone.  Hope was all he had left.”

 

“Hope kills,” House stated simply, but the words felt dry upon his lips.

 

“Very comforting.” Cuddy wiped her eyes absently before returning to her seat.  “He’s going to meet his parents for the funeral.  They’re going to have a military ceremony…his brother was a Gulf War veteran.  You probably know this already…”

 

“Actually I didn’t.  Not that it makes any difference to me,” House responded coolly, though the words were a surprise to him.  He wondered why Wilson, knowing his father’s background, had never mentioned this to him.  His father had been a veteran himself, and had a purple heart to prove it.  “Where is Wilson now?” he asked, not sure why it mattered; Wilson was sure not to have any time for him, and probably didn’t want to have anything to do with him, anyway.

“In his office, wrapping things up before he takes his leave of absence.  I told him he can take a week to deal…”

 

“You’re letting him have more time off?!” House exclaimed, his eyes wide with sheer disbelief, “He already had a whole whopping six months off earlier this year for Amber.  Why don’t you just tell him you’ll find a replacement?  If people who aren’t patients keep dying---”

 

“Calm down, House.  He’s only taking a week.  He agreed to it.  I just think he needs some time to cope with the reality of the situation.  And he doesn’t need a guilt trip for it from you or me or anyone else for that matter.”  She waved a dismissive hand in his direction.  “He’s waiting for you.  I told your fellows to get started with some clinic duty….there’s no case for you this week thus far, as it is.”

 

“But it’s Tuesday…How could there not be a case yet?” House whined, shifting uneasily in the chair; trying to ignore the cramp in his side adding to the already multitudinous pain.  “Anyway, what does he want to talk to me for?  Doesn’t the hospital have grief counselors to do that sort of---”

 

“You’re his friend, House.  You’re a man who he feels to be his equal…or something close to it, anyway.”

 

He chose to ignore that comment.  “His father is a man.  Family seems more appropriate an outlet for family-related things.”

 

She faced him calmly, collectively.  “And yet, it’s you he wants.”

 

“And he says I’m the screwed-up one.”

 

“Talk to him,” Cuddy ordered simply, though she was gazing at him with what seemed a motherly affection, which gave him the willies.  “You might be able to do more good than you think.”

 

“What good did I think I could do before?” he muttered aggressively.

 

“House: stop dawdling, go seek him out and talk to him before he’s out the door!” Before he knew what was happening, she had ahold of his arm and was tearing him forecfully out of the chair, and shoving him promptly towards the exit.

 

“Harassing a cripple,” he hollared over his shoulder, loud enough so that several clients huddling anxiously near the doorway scattered like a startled herd of wayward sheep.  Cuddy ignored his threat as she pushed him through the doorway, and he barely caught his footing, only to find himself facing an astounded, gaping audience.

 

“She’s always taking risks like that,” he scoffed with a dismissive grin.  “She taught me well.” Cringing from the effort to stabalize himself, he shuffled off in the direction of Wilson’s office, ignoring their unrelenting stares.