Your hand on your cane clenches, because you see it. You could be somewhere else, being your awesome miserable sarcastic self; but you aren't, of course you aren't; after all, you are a masochistic son of a bitch. You just have to see them cuddling and fondling and-

They are happy together. Would she be this happy had you recovered?

Damn it, where's your Vicodin when you need it? That's the thought that should be running laps around your head, not those two sappy, depressed and defeated sentences. And one of them is a fucking question. Now, why don't you feel anger instead of this strange wash of grief? You aren't letting go, you never do. Not of Stacy. Wilson's right; you shouldn't be near her. All she does is give you pain. Screw you up again and again. Hug and kiss and make up with her newly recovering husband with you watching. And you know what you are feeling: It's grief over your big fat loss. You're grieving, mourning what you could have but didn't. Couldn't, mainly due to your very own idiocy. You're a retard like that. A masochistic fool, watching your ex's relief and happiness like a pervert. Why'd you do this, anyway? Does your brain refuse to understand that you two aren't together anymore, that she chose someone else over you or that you won't ever get her back?

And then, just at the right moment as always, she comes.

What impeccable timing.

"Dr. House? How's he doing?"

Dr. Allison Cameron, the highlight of your night. Exactly what you need at the moment.

You turn your gaze back to the room where the happy couple is happily having their perfect, cheesy and very much happy ending. They'll probably celebrate going through this trial, this major hardship without their marriage being damaged. You wonder how much Stacy can wait before they have sex, because they have to be careful not to hurt him after he's been through sooo much pain.

How fucking great.

"Never better."

Isn't it funny how happy they look? How relieved? Well, you can't actually see Stacy's face since her back is turned to you and you remember what a piece of art that is, and that it actually has a chance at winning against Cuddy's; but you also remember that dearest Dr. Cameron will have to say something to ruin your mood even more. She doesn't disappoint. That look on her face is much better than what she'll say: It lets you in to know what she has to say to you. What's more, you feel even worse because of what's coming out of her mouth now.

Fucking great.

"I thought you were too screwed up to love anyone. I was wrong. You just couldn't love me. It's good. I'm happy for you."

You hear a crack in her voice when she utters the word "good" and you know why: Because she's lying. Because it's the falsest, worst, most screwed up word she could've come up with to save herself from the pain that she's gonna feel anyway. Because it's never good. Never, and you aren't the only one who is aware of that fact.

She has turned around, and is already leaving you alone so you can wallow in your misery even more by watching your ex hugging her husband. As Cameron says those words with lost hope and a major heartache, all you can do is stare at her like you aren't Dr. Gregory House, diagnostician and asshole extraordinaire but Greg House, who would've cared for what she says and would've felt sorry for her. You stare at her as if you actually feel something besides your leg's pain. As if it hurts somewhere in your heart, because you know you're being an idiot, upsetting her so much. As if it hurts because what she says is right: You are capable of love.

Before your leg, before your life became hell, you would've cared. You would've felt and gone after her to tell her that this thing, whatever it is between you two, isn't one-sided. How can it be one-sided? How can she think it to be one-sided, haven't you given her enough clues—and then crushed them with the tip of your cane as cruelly as you possibly could?

Seriously, how could she think that? You must be one hell of an actor. No man with enough testosterone would be able to resist this wondrous sight. The only thing that helps you not to jump her on sight is your leg's abysmal pain. She must be an idiot if she can't see that. You know well that she's not, it's only her being what she is: Allison Cameron the foolish, naïve beauty of medicine realm.

You could've believed that you two were compatible and you would've told her that you feel attracted to her, you need her beside you; but you are afraid—scratch that, you're terrified. You hurt anyone that gets close to you: You hurt Stacy, Wilson, Cuddy, and possibly all the women you've been with. What's more, you are a real son of a bitch with no manners at all. You are a manipulative Vicodin addict who'd do anything to get your hands on a new bottle. You are a cranky old bastard. A charming one, that's for sure. On the other hand, she is a young beauty: With all the curves on the right places, soft facial features, a kind smile and playful grin, as intelligent and gorgeous as women can be, filled up to the brim with an almost sickening amount of compassion and morals. No, you two aren't compatible, not at all. Even if you were, then what? What could you do with this leg anyway? You know, in the end, you'd simply end up making her miserable. You are certain that a sado-masochistic relationship wouldn't be beneficial for either of you. So what else is there to discuss?

You most definitely need a break from all this brooding. You should go and annoy Wilson or better, Cuddy. Willingly or unwillingly, they have proven themselves to be more than adequate entertainment (distraction) many times, so why don't you go and pleasure yourself with their comical reactions at your latest exploit? That's a great idea. You would've called it "splendid" had it not sounded so annoyingly British to your ears. Peh.

Perhaps a glass of whiskey will do the job. Pranking Wilson and/or Cuddy would only serve to remind you of daily life's frivolities anyway. Alcohol is the cure for soul, they say, so go ahead, bask in it. Immerse yourself in it and you'll see.

You'll see just how good it does for your already broken being. You and alcohol, after all, are highly compatible.

—

Disclaimer: You don't own house. He owns you.

Note: From what I've learned, and correct me if I'm wrong, the word "splendid" is associated with British English. Take no offense British speakers, it's only there as... I don't know why, it's just that House is a lying, racist, irritating bastard and it's the kind of comment he'd make. So don't sue me, OK? It's the House in me speaking.

This was written when I for the first time finished House's 2nd season, which roughly translates to some centuries ago. I'm not a fan of either ships, never been, but both seem interesting enough to venture into. Maybe, if I ever feel comfortable enough to write a honest-to-God multichapter House fic with a real plot, I might even include these ships. Hmmm...

Anyway, do tell me if you liked this or offer the slightest bit of constructive criticism, people! I'm open to negative opinions as well, but try to be civil, please, flames are ridiculous. Thanks in advance!