My Folly, a house, m.d. fanfic

My Folly

A/N: This just popped into my head after watching "5 to 9" tonight and I decided to type it in and see how it went. I have no idea if this little story(?) makes any sense, but, I figure, what the heck? I only live once so I'm putting out there for you to read. I'm open to any kind of review so long as it's constructive and not personal, so please review and give me your thoughts. Thanks!

The Loft is empty when I arrive home. Wilson has already left to attend a birthday party that we both were invited to, but quite frankly I hate parties of every kind. I never know what to say and how to behave like a normal person and I end up feeling like an idiot. My best friend knows that and didn't pressure me to attend. I'm not certain whether that's because he is respecting my feelings or if it's because he is afraid that I will just make an ass of myself again and embarrass him. Either way I don't really care. The only part that bothers me is spending the night at home alone. I've spent many years living by myself, but I have always hated it. It's too easy to become bored when I 'm alone and without something to distract me. I begin to muse about how pathetic I am to be alone because no one wants to be around me. I go over and over in my head all the reasons why I 'm worthless and life is worthless. My misery gets to a point where I can't stand it anymore; I used to pop too many Vicodin and wash them down with too much booze in an attempt to turn my mind off for a little while; I don't have that escape route anymore—or rather, I don't want to take that escape route anymore. I seek out peace but never find it. At least living with Wilson gives me a source of distraction so if I can't find peace then at least I have something else to focus on.

For some reason, Wilson likes me. For years I've tried to figure out why and while I've formulated a few theories I have never been able to come to a conclusion. It's not like I'm a good friend to him. I hate to listen to him when he bitches about work or home, especially when it pertains to something I'm not doing or should be doing around the Loft to contribute my part. I take advantage of his easy-going nature and pathological need to care for and protect me on a daily basis, then mock him for caring. I trick him into paying my way everyday but do I ever offer to do the same in return? Of course not! Why would I? He never demands it and rarely complains about being taken advantage of so there's no pay-off for me to behave any differently than I do. I give him a licking but he keeps on ticking, always coming back for more. He needs to come back—it's a compulsion he isn't able to resist. I'm enough of a bastard to keep feeding that compulsion. If I were a good friend, I wouldn't do that.

Without Wilson around I'm like a lost puppy looking for my way home. I have no idea how to occupy my time or amuse myself. I'm antsy and I can't relax until he gets home again. If that isn't pathetic I don't know what is. So it begins now—the negative self-talk, the obsessing over my faults and failures instead of focusing on my positive attributes and successes. I simply can't accept the fact that anything I do is good enough to make up for the jerk that I am. I wish I could—it would make my life so much easier—but I can't.

I came home today needing to talk to the one person I know will actually listen. In fact he's always harassing me about not talking enough. This just happens to be the day when he's not available to me and I kind of resent it. I know I have no right to, but I do anyway.

I'm so confused, mixed up, and angry at myself for allowing her to do it to me again. When I say her, I'm referring to Cuddy. When I say 'do it to me again' I mean cause me to care for her. She was in so much trouble when the insurance company turned down her ultimatum. She had been so certain they would have taken it immediately and they hadn't. I purposely followed her around all day to keep an eye on her, to make certain that she was okay. I saw the discouragement in her face, the defeat that was filling her eyes and quite frankly it frightened me. This was not the Lisa Cuddy I loved to hate and hated to love—or was that I hated to hate and loved to love? No, no, I'm quite certain I had it right the first time. I tried not to care. I tried not to be drawn in by her need, by her fear, but who am I kidding? I will always care for her, even love her, even if doing so is the worst thing in the world I can do. She's had my back on so many occasions when what I really deserved was to fall flat on my ass for the crap I've done. I can't help but feel loyal to her for that. Sure, we're no longer a potential romantic pair and since the medical convention we're not even friends, really, but I'm indebted to her and I really want us to be friends again. I miss our banter, our bravado. I miss our love/hate relationship. I miss her.

So when I heard she had said she had quit, I knew that she was in trouble. My heart told me to help her even as my mind told me to run away. Since I've almost always led with my mind (and we all know how well that has served me in the past!) I decided to go with my heart. I hunted around for her until I found her sitting in her car all alone, looking so downcast and vulnerable. I knew if I tried hard enough I could harden my heart, convince myself that I didn't care and walk away unscathed but I didn't want to. I don't know why.

She was so upset that she didn't even object when I climbed into her car uninvited, as she would normally have had she not been in the trouble she was in. I knew that if I asked her a bunch of questions or tried to provoke her by being a jerk she would only wall up and keep me at a distance—so I waited for her to talk to me—if and when she was ready. As I waited I looked at her beautiful face and I felt those old stirrings surface again. I thought about what it might have looked like between the two of us if I hadn't humiliated her by telling practically the entire hospital that she and I had had sex together when in fact it was all a delusion I had made up. Sure I was sick at the time but it still had hurt her terribly and had convinced her once and for all that there was no way there would ever be an us. The door was opened for Lucas and he stepped in because he may be many things but he is not an idiot. I then remembered how it felt to hold her in my arms one night and then see her with Lucas, quite unexpectedly, the very next day. It was not only painful to realize that I had missed my chance to be with her, but I was humiliated in front of my rival, the man I had introduced her to in the first place!

I set myself up to feel that hurt again. She opened up to me, revealed a part of herself that she rarely ever let anyone else see—her vulnerability, her fear. It drew me in like a moth to a flame. I knew I was heading for heartache but I still kept flying towards her. In the back of my mind I thought that if I could convince her that I care, that I am willing to listen to her when I used to back away, that I'm not quite the same House that went into Mayfield, that she might, just possibly, maybe feel something more for me. I know, I know. It was insane. I know that now. I feel that disappointment now, just as fresh and harsh as before.

When things worked out for her in the end, I was so…relieved. I am relieved--and so very proud of her! I can't tell her that now, or ever. I can't tell her that I've always admired and have been proud of her. It's no longer my place to do that. That place now belongs to Lucas. But I find it so hard to accept it—I probably always will.

I know what Wilson will say when he comes home and I open up to him about this and how I'm still not okay and how I'm still torturing myself. He will chastise me for going to her, for opening myself up again to get hurt. He'll tell me that I've got to stop doing this to myself and he will be right.

But how does someone stop loving someone the way I love Lisa? I thought I would never allow myself to love another woman when Stacy left me but I did. How do I stop loving her and move on once again and not close myself off again to keep from hurting the way I do right now? How do I keep myself from flying into the flame when every fiber in my body compels me to do just that? How do I stop being who and what I am? I told myself that I wasn't going to do this anymore and here I am breaking my word to myself—again. I am pathetic.

I settle in on the sofa with a bag of chips and a grape soda to watch a little TV to pass the time. What I really want is a beer or, better yet, three fingers of scotch, but I'm trying to cut back on my alcohol consumption; technically I'm not supposed to be drinking at all, so I want to do my best not to make alcohol my new Vicodin. There's nothing on and not even the porn channel holds my attention for very long.

I hear the front door opening and Wilson comes in, at last. He has confetti in his dark brown hair and smells like spiked punch. I can tell he's a little tipsy and I wonder if he'll be up to a discussion tonight. He notices me staring at him and smiles as he removes his jacket and hangs it up.

"You missed a good party," he tells me as he walks into the living room and sits down next to me. "You know Rella from Urology? She had waaay too much punch and started doing the Fox Trot with Thirteen. I took photos and they're going to look great in the memo I send around the hospital tomorrow morning!

I chuckle at that, trying to picture it. Rella is one of the most straight-laced of women I have ever met. I want to make certain that I'm around to see the look on her face when she starts her computer tomorrow! This moment of levity, however, is not enough to dispel the funk I find myself in.

Wilson notices this. He looks at me with that concerned frown he gets pretty much every time he sees me. "You okay, House?" he asks me.

I'm very grateful for the opening I now have. I need to talk with my best friend, my Wilson. He'll help me figure this all out—he always does.

"No," I tell him honestly, speaking very softly. "I'm not. I've made a big mistake."