Everything was dull. The dim light coming through the windows, the lonely baby grand next to his guitars, the numbing mood that hung deeply in his flat. A thin layer of dust covered everything in his living room. He couldn't. His hand fell on his cane, a constant reminder that he was miserable and in pain. The experimental drug hadn't worked. Nothing ever worked. Why did he still even try? Hope was overrated. Love was overrated.
Knock knock. Someone knocked at his door. He knew who it was anyway but he didn't care. In fact, he didn't care about anything at the moment. His thigh tingled. He hated it and popped another Vicodin, then silently put down the bottle on his desk. Please make him leave.
Then his phone began ringing, and shattered his hope of the person waiting at the door going the hell away. Again. Why did he hope?
"House! I can hear your phone ringing!"
Of course he could.
House gingerly got up from his seat and made his way to the door. He opened it without even looking. There he was, the boy wonder oncologist. Always helpful, always there for people in need. He didn't need anyone. He needed to be left the fuck alone.
"You alright?" Wilson asked. Always caring. House froze, his hand holding on tightly to his cane. "You go to lunch with Cuddy?"
"Yeah" he answered quickly - too quickly. He stared at the ground.
"How was it?" His voice was thick with concern.
He answered that his pasta was cold and looked up. He didn't look at his friend though. The wall was more interesting. And it didn't talk.
"Why don't we get a drink?" Wilson suggested. His kindness- it was more pity this time- was sickening. Suddenly, a thought struck House. He limped to his bathroom and grabbed a hairbrush.
"Cuddy's is on the way." He said, limping heavily back to the front door. He hated it. "I need to return this"
"You think she's going to have an emergency tangle?" He joked smugly, though it did nothing to ease the ever-growing tension in the room.
"It was on my mind" House answered calmly -too calmly- as he reached for his coat. "I'll get it-" he hissed as his right leg gave out underneath him, just managing to catch himself. Wilson and his constant need to care were at his side instantly.
"You okay?" he asked, his brown eyes full of worry- worry that originated from pity of course. He hated it.
House glared at him as he slowly and painfully pushed himself up again, not resting any weight at all on his right leg. "I'm fine."
"Yeah of course you-"
House had rushed out and was making his way down the corridor.
"I'm driving!" Wilson shouted as he quickly locked the door and followed his friend out.
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No one said a word in the car as they drove through Princeton. He was fine with it. He was fine altogether in fact. Wilson sometimes worriedly glanced at him; he glared back and then refocused his eyes on the road.
His thigh hurt like hell. He massaged it forcefully and took another pill. He sometimes felt like they were his only friends. They wouldn't psychoanalyse him at least. All they did was take away his pain- make him numb enough to live his miserable life and save other people's asses. Not his own of course. He couldn't be saved.
They reached Cuddy's road, a road full of lovely little perfect houses with lovely little people in them with their lovely little lives. All the gardens were immaculately looked after.
"Do you want me to come with you?" They'd arrived. Wilson had parked the car just in front of Cuddy's.
"I'm a big boy." he answered as he braced himself for the extra pain that would strike him when he would start walking.
He froze in his steps as he was limping, hairbrush in hand, and looked through a wide window into Cuddy's dining room. There she was, smiling, joking – as if he had never even existed in her life. There was someone else too. A man he did not know. House's grip on the hairbrush tightened. The man kissed Lisa.
Wilson gave him another concerned look when he saw him coming down with the hairbrush still in his hand. He seemed even more worried when House coldly opened his car door.
"What just happened?" his friend asked quickly; he was alarmed.
"Get out." The words came out of his mouth suddenly, like two bullets would jump out of a gun. They hurt. He kept his eyes cast to the ground.
Wilson didn't comply, just looking at him stupidly, not understanding. He hated it. "Get out." He said again, only louder, glaring at him.
"No" His voice was unusually firm and serious. He wasn't going to move, was he? "You're clearly mad at something and I-" House grabbed him violently by his shoulders and pulled him out of the car. People often forgot that he was strong. It was only his leg that crippled him. Wilson fell to the ground and looked up at his friend in utter shock. He hated it. People thinking he was weak.
Just when he was about to sit in the car, as he was lowering himself down, Wilson pulled him back out to face him.
"House! What the h-" House punched him in the face. Wilson stumbled backwards, pressing a hand on his now bleeding nose. Again, he went back at House. His fist flew but was caught by House. And so the two men stood there, struggling and trying to punch the other out. House, being the taller man, managed to push Wilson back slowly. Suddenly, he let go of Wilson's arm and punched him strongly in the ribs. His friend let go off him and grabbed his side, hissing in pain. House smiled smugly and made his way back to the car. But again, Wilson stopped him and pulled him back.
"Greg! Stop! Otherwise I'll have to-" House hit his already hurting ribs with his cane. Couldn't he just give up? He then saw the most angry and serious expression on Wilson's face. He knew what he was going to do, the bastard.
"No, Wilson, don't-" He yelled out in pain and fell to the ground, his back against the car. Wilson had kicked his right thigh with his knee. He grabbed his offended limb with both hands and tried to ease it but it didn't help. Tears threatened to pour out of his eyes. He shut them and hissed. His heartbeats accelerated. Wilson, exhausted but not in fucking agony, slid down to the ground next to House. Of course he knew that his friend wouldn't get up after that. The bastard.
"House, I'm sor-" he fumbled
"Fuck you!" House hit him weakly with his left arm but the fact of moving made his pain even worse. He cried out in pain again. He hated it.
"What the hell is going on here?!" Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, stood before them, hand on her hips. God, he hated it.