I was listening to this song before I went to sleep one night, and the plot bunny attacked. This is a songfic, my first real one. I hope you all enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I don't own House, Wilson, Cuddy, who belong other people, or the song, which belongs to Pink.
I don't wanna be the one who laughs the loudest,
Or the one who never wants to be alone.
I don't wanna be that call at 4 o'clock in the morning
'Cause I'm the only one in the world you know that won't be home.
He lays in bed, staring at the wall without seeing it, wondering whose car alarm was going off outside and why no one was bothering to care. His mind wandered all over, touching on the most random of subjects. The phone rang vaguely somewhere in the apartment, but he ignored it entirely. It was probably just someone asking him to take on a patient, something he didn't need just now. It wasn't as if he worked there anymore anyway. He looked at the clock… four AM. He closed his eyes.
Ahh, the sun is blinding
I stayed up again
Oh, I am finding
That's not the way I want my story to end
He blinked several times upon opening his eyes, for the sun shone in through the blinds right into his face. A quick look at the clock told him that he had slept very late because he'd stayed up very late. He closed his eyes again, wishing this vicious cycle would just end.
I'm safe up high
Nothing can touch me
Why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside
You're my protection
But how do I feel this good sober?
He hated being dependent on drugs to keep him just high enough not feel too much pain and not high enough that his judgment would be hindered so he could continue to do his job properly. The latter is something he feared the methadone was not doing. He may not have had any pain, but he'd done an MRI against his own better judgment; that was no good. The Vicodin, on the other hand, let him do his job and at least dulled his pain, if only for a little while… but it sure felt good to have no pain at all…
I don't wanna be the one who has to fill the silence
The quiet scares me 'cause it screams the truth
Please don't tell me that we had that conversation
'Cause I won't remember, save your breath 'cause what's the use?
The TV, the radio, piano, guitar… there always had to be some form of sound resonating through the apartment to keep him sane. Even a phone message was enough to keep him from insanity's clutches. A tearful-sounding Wilson had earlier. Wilson was worried about him and wanted him to stop using the methadone and didn't want him to accidentally kill himself as he had nearly done several times before. He wished he could recall the conversation he'd had with Wilson outside that restaurant.
Ahh, the night is calling
And it whispers to me softly "Come play"
I am falling
And if I let myself go, I'm the only one to blame
He lays down in bed that night after a tiny sip of alcohol, not enough to kill him. All he wanted to was to go to sleep quickly. He might even have a good dream. He smiles as he falls away into sleep's embrace. He hopes he doesn't die. Wilson would be very upset with him, blame him… and Wilson would be right.
Comin' down, comin' down, comin; down,
Spinnin' round spinnin round, spinnin round
Looking for myself,
Sober.
Comin' down, comin' down, comin; down,
Spinnin' round spinnin round, spinnin round
Looking for myself,
Sober.
It hurt to come down off his high the next day. His leg hurt almost as bad as it had for those first few weeks after surgery. His head spun from the pain, but somehow, he knew it'd be worth it to have his head clear again.
When it's good, then it's good, it's all good 'til it goes bad
'Til you try to find the you that you once had
I have heard myself cry 'Never again!'
Broken down in agony just trying to find a friend
He was in so much pain from the leg that everything else in his body protested in response. He cried for the first time in a long time, vowing to never again do something so had half a mind to call Wilson just so the other man could see him in this pitiful state and feel validated in hunger for neediness… but also because Wilson's the only one who would actually care enough to come.
I'm safe up high
Nothing can touch me
But why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside
You're like perfection
But how do I feel this good sober?
Cuddy could change her mind so damn fast, and the irony was that he didn't even want the methadone anymore. He preferred the dull ache in his thigh over the fuzziness in his mind. He visited Wilson after that, who looked relieved to see him back and alive. A genuine smile lit his features, and for one brief second, he was sure Wilson would start weeping out of sheer joy. He invited Wilson over after work, and the other man grinned at him. He returned it without conviction. Wilson noticed; his own smile faltered. The two of them got drunk that night. Wilson began pouring out his soul to him, letting him know exactly how much Wilson had been worried about his friend.
"I care about you, House," Wilson slurred tearfully, "I care about you too much to lose you."
Wilson burst into tears and collapsed into him, clutching onto him as if he would leave at any moment, vanishing into thin air. In his own inebriated state, he wept with Wilson out of joy. The alcohol numbed his pain to a bearable point along with the Vicodin, he was happy, and someone who cared for him was right beside him. He knew the feeling would be gone when he woke up.
Will I ever feel this good sober?
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