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Bub

The Taxonomy of Disappointment

The restaurant was the kind of place Gregory House loathed—a establishment that prioritized the "ambiance" of muted beige over the quality of its scotch. It was quiet enough to hear the clink of silverware against porcelain, a sound that usually vibrated through House’s skull like a rhythmic hammer, but tonight, the sound was drowned out by the grating, baritone drone of John House.

"The steak is overdone," John said, not looking at the meat, but at his son. He sat with a posture so straight it suggested a rod of cold iron had replaced his spine. "But I suppose precision is a lost art in this generation. Much like discipline."

House took a slow, deliberate sip of his Macallan, the amber liquid burning a path of temporary numbness through his system. He didn't look at his father. He looked at his mother, Blythe, who was currently rearranging the peas on her plate with a desperate, fluttering anxiety.

"It’s a lovely place, Greggy," Blythe whispered, her eyes pleading for a ceasefire. "It’s so nice to see you. You look… tired. Are you eating enough?"

"I’m a doctor, Mom. I’ve mastered the art of biological fuel," House replied, his voice dry. "And I look tired because my job involves solving puzzles that would make most people’s brains leak out of their ears. It’s a side effect of being useful."

John House snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Useful. You spend your life chasing zebras and popping pills like candy. You walk like you’ve given up before the race even started. I saw men in the service lose both legs and still stand taller than you do on your best day."

House felt the familiar, hot prickle of a sensory spike. The smell of the overcooked steak, the dim yellow glow of the wall sconces, and the unrelenting pressure of his father’s disappointment were coalescing into a singular, throbbing headache. He shifted his leg under the table, the muscle screaming in protest.

"Luck," John continued, leaning forward. "That’s what you have, Gregory. Pure, unadulterated luck. You have a leg. You have a career. And yet, you treat your mother and me like an obligation you’re trying to settle. You won't even reach out. We have to hunt you down just to get a meal out of you."

"Maybe I don't reach out because I’m busy enjoying the silence," House snapped. "It’s a rare commodity when you’re around."

"Disrespectful," John barked. "Always hiding behind that cane and those smart-mouthed remarks. If you had spent half as much time on your character as you did on your diagnostic manuals, you might actually be a man I could be proud of."

The air in the booth was becoming "spiky." House could feel the frequencies tangling, the white noise of the restaurant turning into a high-pitched whine in his ears. He gripped his cane, his knuckles white. He was seconds away from a shutdown or a blowout, and he wasn't sure which would be more satisfying.

"Oh! The trout here has a very interesting bone structure. It’s almost vestigial!"

The voice was high, airy, and entirely out of place.

House froze. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The scent of peppermint and a faint, lingering trace of formaldehyde preceded the man.

Arthur Monet appeared at the end of their booth, clutching a laminated menu like it was a sacred scroll. He was wearing a t-shirt that had a picture of an anglerfish on it and a pair of corduroy pants that made a distinct *zip-zip* sound as he moved. His shaggy black hair was a disaster, and his glasses were tilted so far to the right they were practically horizontal.

"Gregory!" Monet beamed, his head tilting at a sharp angle. "I didn't know you frequented establishments with such high-density carpet. It’s very good for dampening the acoustic reflections of the silverware, isn't it? Though the lighting is a bit 'yellow.' It makes everyone look like they have a mild case of jaundice."

House stared at him, caught between horror and a strange, hysterical relief. "Monet. What are you doing here? This isn't a morgue, and that isn't a cadaver."

"I’m hungry!" Monet said, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world. He looked at John and Blythe, his head snapping to the other side. "Are these the parental units? The genetic precursors? Oh, I see the resemblance. The brow ridge is very similar in the male specimen. Though the scowl is much more developed in the elder."

Blythe blinked, her mouth falling open. "Oh. Hello. Are you a friend of Greggy’s?"

"I am his pathologist," Monet said, sliding into the booth next to House without being invited. He squeezed House against the wall, oblivious to the concept of personal space. "I study his failures. And his leg. His leg is a masterpiece of necrotic architecture. I’m Arthur Monet. I live in the basement."

John House looked at Monet with the expression of a man who had just found a cockroach in his soup. "A pathologist? You work with the dead."

"The dead are very honest," Monet replied, picking up a breadstick and examining it with clinical intensity. "They don't lie about their symptoms, and they never complain about the seating. You must be John. Gregory talks about you. Well, he doesn't 'talk' so much as his blood pressure spikes by twenty points whenever your name is mentioned in the proximity of a stress-test monitor."

John’s eyes narrowed. "I don't know what kind of circus my son is running at that hospital, but you are remarkably unprofessional."

"Thank you!" Monet chirped. "Professionalism is just a costume people wear to hide their lack of data. I prefer to be transparent. For instance, I can tell you’re currently experiencing a significant surge in adrenaline. Your carotid artery is pulsing at a rhythm of ninety-eight beats per minute. Are you angry, or is the steak just that difficult to chew?"

"He’s my father, Monet," House muttered, rubbing his temples. "He doesn't do 'data.' He does 'discipline' and 'disappointment'."

"Disappointment is a fascinating emotion," Monet said, finally biting into the breadstick. It made a loud, echoing *crunch*. "It’s the gap between an idealized projection and a biological reality. You," he pointed the breadstick at John, "have an idealized projection of a son who is a soldier. But you have a son who is a zebra. You’re trying to fit a striped equine into a horse-shaped stall. It’s inefficient."

John House slammed his hand onto the table. "I have a son who is a cripple because he was too arrogant to listen to his doctors! And now he spends his time with lunatics like you!"

The restaurant went silent. Blythe let out a small, wounded whimper.

Monet didn't flinch. He didn't even stop chewing. He simply tilted his head so far to the side that it was almost resting on the table, staring at John with wide, unblinking eyes.

"The word 'cripple' is a linguistic fossil," Monet said quietly. His voice had lost its airy quality; it was now flat and chillingly precise. "It’s a way to categorize a person by their limitations rather than their function. Gregory’s leg isn't a failure of character, John. It’s a failure of the femoral artery. To blame him for the infarction is like blaming the sea for being salt. It’s a fundamental misunderstanding of pathology."

"I don't need a lecture from a man who smells like a graveyard," John spat. He looked at House, his lip curling. "You see this? This is what you’ve surrounded yourself with. Freaks and failures. I would rather have a son like this man—at least he seems to have some passion for his work—than a son who spends his life hiding behind a bottle of pills and a bitter tongue."

House felt a cold, sharp pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his heart. His father would rather have Monet. The weirdo. The social pariah. The man who lived in the basement.

Monet, however, let out a high-pitched, genuine laugh.

"Oh, you wouldn't want me as a son, John," Monet said, his eyes dancing with a manic light. "I would be a nightmare for you. I don't follow orders. I don't respect rank. I would spend our family dinners explaining the different stages of decomposition while you tried to talk about the 'good old days.' I would reorganize your sock drawer by thread count and then tell you that your liver is slightly enlarged because you’re trying to drown your insecurities in cheap bourbon."

Monet leaned forward, his face inches from John’s. "And more importantly, I wouldn't care what you thought of me. That’s Gregory’s only real flaw. He still cares. He still wants the gold star from the man who only knows how to give out black marks. It’s a tragic waste of a very high-functioning brain."

John House stood up, his face a deep, dangerous shade of purple. "We’re leaving, Blythe."

"John, please—" Blythe started, but one look from her husband silenced her.

John looked at House one last time. "You’re a disappointment, Gregory. You always have been. And if this is the company you keep, you deserve exactly what you have."

He turned and marched out of the restaurant, his footsteps heavy and rhythmic. Blythe lingered for a second, her hand fluttering toward House’s shoulder, before she turned and followed her husband like a shadow.

House sat in the booth, the silence of the restaurant suddenly feeling like an ocean. The "spikes" were gone, replaced by a hollow, ringing numbness. He stared at his half-eaten trout, feeling the weight of his father’s words like lead in his veins.

"He’s a very loud man," Monet observed, breaking the silence. He was now occupied with trying to stack the remaining breadsticks into a tripod. "His frequency is very jagged. It’s like a saw blade. I don't like it. It makes the air feel like it’s covered in sandpaper."

House let out a long, shuddering breath. "He’s an ass. He’s always been an ass."

"He’s a horse," Monet corrected, his head tilting to the left. "A very old, very tired horse who is angry that the world isn't a flat, grassy plain anymore. He sees your stripes and he thinks they’re scars. He doesn't realize they’re a different kind of camouflage."

House looked at Monet. The pathologist was currently trying to balance a salt shaker on top of his breadstick tripod. He looked ridiculous. He looked insane. He looked like the only person in the world who wasn't currently judging House for the way he walked.

"He said he’d rather have you," House said, the words tasting like copper.

"Because I’m a novelty," Monet said, not looking up. "I’m a puzzle he hasn't failed to solve yet. If I were his son, he’d hate me within forty-eight hours. I’m very difficult to live with, Gregory. I hum in my sleep and I keep organ samples in the crisper drawer. John wants a soldier. He doesn't want a human being. He certainly doesn't want a genius."

Monet finally got the salt shaker to balance. He beamed at it, then looked at House. "You should eat your fish. The phosphorus is good for the neurotransmitters. And you’ve had a very significant cortisol spike. You need the fuel."

House picked up his fork, his hand surprisingly steady. "Why did you come over here, Monet? You hate 'yellow' light and high-density carpet."

Monet shrugged, a jerky, awkward movement. "The air was getting too sharp. I could feel it from three tables away. It was hurting my ears. And… I don't like it when people talk about your leg as if it’s a moral choice. It’s a biological event. It’s data. And data shouldn't be insulted."

House took a bite of the trout. It was cold, but it was, as Monet said, fuel.

"You’re a weirdo, Monet," House said.

"I’m a zebra," Monet corrected, popping a piece of peppermint gum into his mouth. "And so are you. We just have different patterns."

They sat in the beige restaurant, the brilliant diagnostician and the butcher of the basement, eating in a comfortable, jagged silence. The world outside was full of horses and soldiers and fathers who didn't understand the beauty of a broken thing, but in the booth, the frequencies were finally in sync.

"Tuesday?" Monet asked as House signaled for the check.

House looked at his cane, then at the man who had just dismantled his father with a breadstick.

"Tuesday," House agreed. "And Monet?"

"Yes?"

"Don't ever tell me my brow ridge looks like his again."

Monet tilted his head, a mischievous glint behind his thick glasses. "I can't lie to the data, Gregory. But I can tell you that yours is much more aesthetically pleasing. It suggests a higher capacity for sarcasm."

House let out a short, genuine laugh—the first one he’d felt in weeks. He stood up, his leg throbbing, but his head clear. As he limped toward the exit, he didn't look for his father’s shadow. He just focused on the cool, sharp scent of peppermint that followed him out into the night.