"It's not
What you thought
When you first began it
You got
What you want
Now you can hardly stand it though,
By now you know," Aimee Mann

We sit there for a minute just staring and not saying anything. A minute passes, two, ten, half an hour, an hour, and then two hours of complete silence go by.

"Why did you do that?" House asks, finally, after about two hours of silence. I don't know what I was planning to do with him, or what I thought scaring him like that, hurting him like that was going to accomplish. I knew what was wrong with him, at least I had a fairly good idea anyway, but I put exactly the wrong kind of pressure on him anyway. I just knew that something was wrong and he wouldn't tell me. I had to know how much pain he was in, why he wouldn't tell me; I needed the truth.

"I don't know," I whisper. He looks up after a minute. House shifts his gaze to the floor. He opens his mouth, and then closes it.

"It's not what you think," he tells me for about the fifth time in two days. He lifts one of his knees to his chest, hugging it, reaching for the pill bottle.

"I don't think that's such a good idea." He laughs when I say that, but it's not a good sounding laugh. I'm really worried about him when he laughs like that.

"As of right now, I'd say your judgment sucks, so I don't give a fuck what you think about anything, especially this." I watch helplessly as he takes them, his whole body seems wobbly and he's not even trying to hide it from me anymore.

"I think I trigged something in you, a memory, of something that happened to you as a kid. I went about things in the wrong way, but—."

"You wanted the truth, needed it, would do anything to get it?" I nod. "Welcome to my world. It's not what you—I said that before I haven't I?"

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want too, but I think it might help." He nods slowly. "Do your parents know?"

"You can't tell them! You owe me that much after this morning," he says turning to me and speaking with actual power for the first time since I attacked him.

"I don't even talk to them, but—I won't say anything, ever." House looks at me suspiciously and then moves his chair closer to mine. "How old were you?"

"Don't talk. I can't do this if—if you keep on interrogating me. You've met my father. He's not the kind of guy who would give me lots of—attention. I was just a lonely kid, too smart for friends my own age, too obnoxious. When I was eleven we moved to a base in California. We were only there for eighteen months, I don't really remember where it was."

He stops, turning his head away, but then he sort of leans back against me, his head on my chest. I know he's lying about not knowing where they had lived, but I'm not going to push him any more. I want to hold him, kiss his head, tell him I love him, but he asked me not to talk and I'm not sure how he would respond to me touching him right now.

House reaches for my arm, pulling it around his body. My shirt is wet. He's crying. I lean forward to kiss his head but then stop. It's not a good idea. For a while, a long while, we just sit here. "This chair s not comfortable. If I'm gonna do this I should at least get to lie down or something."

I practically have to carry him to the couch, but then we sit down he seems better. He lies with his head against my chest. "This is better. I think it is anyway. I'm sorry I kicked you but I couldn't—I couldn't—I thought you—I didn't know what else to do." I nod, and feel even more like crap than I did before. "Tell me something so I know that you won't try that again."

"I'm not sure how much my word—my promise—is worth to you right now, but I swear on, my life, on everything that I won't do that, ever. I'm sorry." House gives me this look like he understands but right about now I'm not sure how much he could understand anything.

"There was this science teacher. A young guy, he realized that I was smarter than the other kids in my class, and he offered to give me some extra help, these tutoring sessions after school. He—at school, in a classroom with a couple of kids from the high school. But I was—well you know what I am. I uh—I wasn't…let's just say I wasn't getting along with the older kids, bug surprised and he offered to show me stuff, just him and me. God that was stupid. I just—I don't have to finish this story do I? Because if anything is gonna make me wanna—well I uh—stupid, stupid," he starts hitting his head with his hand. I can't let him keep doing that. I

"Stop that, you're going to hurt yourself, a lot. Please," I lean forward, kissing the top of his forehead, rubbing the back of his hand softly. He pulls away from me at first but then stops fighting. "I'm sorry. I'm not going to hurt you, just don't hit yourself, okay?"

"I don't think about him a lot, almost never, I almost never think about him. I never told—I mean. You can't tell anyone."

"It wasn't your fault. You were, what eleven? Twelve? People aren't supposed to do that kind of thing with kid. I mean, how many times did this happen?" House shrugs.

"About—do you remember the last time I—I wasn't trying to kill myself. But he came into the clinic for some stupid thing. He didn't even remember me, but I knew and it all just came back. All I wanted was to forget. I wanted it to stop."

"What did you say to him?" House looks away. "I'm sorry. I never, and you never told anybody?" He shakes his head. "How could your parents not know?"

"I was a jerk and a sullen, quiet, obnoxious, creep before I ever even met him. After he—there wasn't much of a difference. There. I told you. Happy now?" I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him, or do. I just. I wanted to help him but I think I made it a lot worse. I think I brought everything back.