Category: Angst
Summary: House and his issues.
Warning: The word fuck is used extensively
Disclaimer: The characters and the show belong to the writers and creators of House MD. I don't get any profit from this. I just like to play around with the characters. And I'm bored.

"Just face it, buddy boy. There are two kinds of people in the world. There's you and there's everybody else. And never the twain shall meet."
Six Feet Under

And even now, the rain striping the windows, slash slash slash, he could feel like he was nine all over again. Sitting on his chair in the office, clasping a ball in his hands, swivelling the chair around. Dark already. Never could hold still. Just another summer storm wetting eyes and hands and cold floors.

It was pelting by the time he reached his apartment, the four last steps somehow very familiar, thud thud thud. Eyes seemed clouded, hands barely still, hurt hurt hurt. Sit on the couch and pills and alcohol and nothinging at the TV. Life sucked, sure. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing right with that.

Until.

Slightly drunk by the time I reach the door. It's him. I consider slamming the door to his face, for he has that stance of I think we (meaning I) need to actually have a talk and I'm not feeling uncharacteristically chatty about underlying issues and comforting phrases and little kittens and puppies and sunshine and rain rain rain. He takes my hesitation as an invitation and he's inside my territory and out of my crippled reach before I find the strength to push him out of my space. He's not gonna get anything. I'm a wall. I'm China's fucking Great Wall. Impenetrable. Fuck, I'm more than slightly drunk. And he has been talking all this time while I have conducted an inner monologue of sorts. Fuck. Whatever.

Painful movement and the couch. He has rolled his sleeves and has that annoying look on his face, pouring through every substance known to man; he is a Human Caring Factory. I am a Wall. Fucking China's Great fucking Wall. I let him know this by tapping the floor unevenly with my shaking hands, barely containing my frustration for him and that annoying I purse my lips.

Something here, something there.

"You're not -­­­­ you're just gonna sit there and ignore me?" Wilson has folded his hands across his chest and he already looks defensive, with his eyebrows raised and fuck.

My eyes stretch over the floor. Floor, floor, floor. I open my mouth to provide an answer of sorts, hopefully short and simple since I'm throbbing, but I can never tell what gets me going once I open my mouth.

"Yep." Simple. Unhelping. Perfect.

His hands come free, flailing in directions.

"You, you just, you-" he doesn't seem to find the right words. I'm that bad. "You-you don't really think you have anything to-"

"-No."

He is extremely frustrated. It would be so much more entertaining if I wasn't a Human Pain Factory. Pill, pill, pill.

"So – so - the fact that you couldn't figure it out this time doesn't get to you in the slight-"

"-No." I'm getting annoyed. I'm getting annoyed at not being drunk enough to not to get up and open the door in the first place. I'm annoyed. Fuck.

"So you haven't been trying to ignore me –"

"Oh, come on! You're just trying to come up with something to distract yourself while you're having your annual realisation of your perfect life being just as fucked up as everyone else's and every time that happens, you feel the need to go all Caring and Feeling on me. I haven't gone that bald yet. Shut up."

He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it and he's already unclamping his mouth.

"Shut up!"

He sighs, resigned, fidgets in his characteristic way and tries one last time.

"This-whatever it is, it's-it's affecting you and your work." His voice rises in pitch. "And you-you can't just ignore it!"

I take a reasonable gulp of toxifying liquid, raise my eyebrows. "Watch me."

He left. I'm not thinking. I lean back on the couch, listen to the pain humming humming then bang then whirring I'm drunk and I could make him leave I'm drunk so fucking drunk drunk drunk.