I was never interested in being a friend of Greg House. He's a hard man to convince though, and somehow we ended up with this. A twisted game that you could hardly call a friendship, but there it is. I don't turn to him very often. I have other people to go to if I need, and I usually do. He doesn't have anyone else, and he's proven that time and time again by coming to me when he knows I don't care. Not as a friend would, anyway.
I can't deny that I care about people, I hate when people thank me when I tell them they're dying, but someone has to tell them. I do it because even if they're alone, they know someone cares about them. I don't have to fake the sincerity in my apologies to families, either. I'm not a coldhearted son-of-a-bitch. Not the way he is. I don't like to see wounded people, bastards or not, and I suppose that's why I stick by House.
He came to me today, to tell me the Ketamine treatment might be failing. I pretended like what he was saying was complete crap, but it's not. He's probably right, we always knew there was a possibility of failure. In fact, he was the only one who didn't believe in that possibility. He came to me even though he knows we're not friends. He calls me Jimmy and we joke and scheme but it's not friendship. It's me enabling him yet again. There's nothing in this friendship for me, I don't want any insight into the tangled mess of his mind. He gives it to me anyway, and I pretend to listen. I can't let him get hurt, so I give up something so at least he thinks he has someone in this world. Someone who will remember him after he drinks and drugs himself into oblivion. I sacrifice a little bit of my own happiness to make sure that he's not entirely unhappy. Like I said, I don't like it when people hurt.
