There was something in his eye, there must have been. Because when he stood at the sliding glass doors of the hospital entrance and watched his friend leave, he could have sworn a warm droplet of water trickled down his cheek. Too lonely a drop to be sweat, too salty to be a leak in the hospital piping. It was raining outside, and inside as well. Raining for him, raining for Wilson.
He wasn't crying, oh no. The Earth was. He just happened to share an emotion or two with it. He wasn't even capable of tears.
Right.
It didn't matter that the savage argument that they had shared had driven yet another crack into their friendship. It didn't matter that that Wilson had tried his best to hurt him with his words, that House had pretended it didn't matter. He didn't let on that he actually cared, that the accusations the man had made were truth. He was Gregory House, and he didn't care.
Maybe that was why he almost wanted to open the door, run after him, tell him he was sorry.
He placed his hand against the window, palm flat against the barrier that held them apart. It wasn't just a window, it was a divide between their respective worlds. He knew Wilson reveled in the freedom that he had outside his job, cooking for the joy of it, spending time with friends and family. Wilson had a life, the interactions that he worked so hard to upkeep.
House had the hospital.
He had made it his world, the only thing that really mattered to him. There were cases, rushes of adrenaline threaded with fear and urgency, a wave of power that made the numbing effects of his Vicodin redundant. He didn't need to hide when he had a case to absorb himself in.
Distractions. That was it. He lived on distractions - the bigger, the better. Anything to keep his mind from the pain. And not just his leg, no, also the obligation that the rest of society placed on those who stood out, the social pressure that cut into his own private sense of morality. The drugs cut him off from the pain, and his job allowed him to stand separate from people. The disconnection he maintained allowed him to see without being blinded by moral obligation.
And sometimes it was lonely. He learned to live with it. It only hurt as much as his leg, after all, and the Vicodin…
…The Vicodin could take care of them both…
Maybe that was why he opened the door. Because without the pain, nothing mattered.
And if nothing mattered, he couldn't get hurt, right?
So what was the purpose of emptiness?
He knew he needed…
He needed to need.
Sometimes the hurt was the only thing that kept him knowing he was there.
Maybe that was why he turned back.