"You can wear a mask and paint your face
You can call yourself the human race
You can wear a collar and a tie
One thing you cant hide
Is when you're crippled inside," John Lennon

I think that if people knew about House, about what happened to him, then nobody would give him a hard time. Between the leg and the history of abuse, there's not a person in the world that would even look at him funny. But House doesn't want anyone to know. Not that I blame him. He's ashamed, and frankly I doubt that he wanted to tell.

In these cases everything is about trust, and House can't really trust me, not after what I did to him. I didn't earn his trust. He only told me what happened because I made him, and for a guy with trust issues that's a pretty big deal. I may have effectively ended our relationship. I'm not sure.

I do know that I've hurt him. It's been a few days. Things aren't any better, maybe a little worse, but mostly House is just hurting, all over, all through his should. I wish I knew how to help him. I wish I could make all of it go away, which is all he seems to want. I've been sleeping in a chair by his bed every night, mostly because I think he's scared. It's hard to know for sure. He refuses to talk about it so for now, there's not too much I can do for him.

I wanna tell him to talk to someone, but I know he won't. I'm just not equipped to handle something this big. I hate seeing him like this, especially considering the fact that it's my fault. House has been taking more pills than normal and every time I try to talk about it he tells me it's none of my buisness, or that it's my fault and therefore I can't be concerned. I've been following him home every night, forcing myself into the apartment, just so I can keep an eye on him,

The good news is that he isn't any worse—I don't think he is. But I'm worried. I'm scared, because ever since we met him, he's been trying to push me away. He thinks he doesn't deserve to be loved, to be cared about. I'm worried because between this, and the fight over the stolen prescription pad it just might happen. It's not that I want to; I've been fighting it forever. I've been trying so hard. I love him.

"If you're going to invite yourself in every night, you might as well make yourself useful. I'm hungry." He touches my hand as I walk past, grabs me.

"What are you doing?" I stop; don't say anything. "I'm sorry. I screwed up. What I did is unforgivable, but I'm not the only one. If I were to sit down and list all of the unforgivable things I've forgiven you for, it would take all night." He squeezes tighter, not quiet hurting me, just making sure I know he's still there.

"So I'm supposed to forget that you—that you—I'm supposed to just forget about it because I've been a jerk?"

"No. I don't expect you to forget it, or forgive me ever. But I am asking you to understand why I might do it." He lets go of my hand and shakes his head. I sit at his feet, kneeling, touching his fingers softly.

"I understand why—I mean—what you were thinking but—forget it. And stop doing that. I didn't mean—it's not—stop treating me like I'm made of glass." I move my hand up on his arm, squeezing it.

"Do you want me to beat you up? Or worse? Look at me. Are you really hungry, or are you just trying to get out of this conversation."

"What conversation. I told you I don't want to talk about it." I reach up to touch his face. House doesn't stop me, but it doesn't feel right. "Oh. You mean about—we already talked about that. I'm sorry. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?" I think he means it, or he's about as a close to meaning it as possible.

He feels bad because he knows that most of my current problems are his fault. Then he reaches for me, not for my face, or hands, or arms, or even my waist. He grabs my tie and pulls. "I always wondered what these were for," he says, laughing. When House lets me go, I reach for his face, but stop, again. "I'm not afraid of you Jimmy. You haven't got the balls to go all the way through with that. In the moment I was scared but as soon as it was over, it was over."

"I like you. I love you. I need you and not just because you know all of the answers that nobody else knows. You're important to me. He rolls his eyes.

"I'm your project at best. Don't give me that look. If I wasn't like this…you wouldn't even bother with me."

"Are you kidding? If you were a healthy, normal person, I wouldn't be happier than you could ever imagine. It would be perfect." He stares at me, hard, cold, calculating for a while, as he tries to decide whether or not I'm lying to him. I'm not. He's the only one I've wanted, since the day we met. I love him, but I want him to be happy. I want us to be okay. I want him to be okay.

"If I talk to someone all that's going to happen is that I'll get diagnosed with PTSD. They put me on medication and I can't work until—who knows. If I can't do my job then I might as well not exist. And I really am hungry." House follows me as I enter the kitchen. The fridge is all but bare. A wedge of moldy cheese, two half empty bottles of beer, a splash of milk, cartons of Chinese food, and something I can't quiet identify.

"I'll go shopping tomorrow okay? I'm an oncologist not a miracle worker. You want pizza or Chinese?"

"I don't care. No. Pizza." I order and for a while we just sit there, watching each other. He gets the door, pays for the food and takes a slice but doesn't eat it. When I move my chair closer to his, he flinches. "Lift it next time. That noise is like fingernails on a chalk board." It's a bad lie but I'm not calling him on it. "I know what you're thinking but if I did find a shrink outside of the hospital it would come back and everyone would know. I can't have people knowing about this. I don't want you to know. I've seen the way you look at me now. You won't touch me anymore. It's like I'm—I dunno. But you treat me like a battered puppy. Like you think you'll make it worse or I'm going to come after you. Imagine that with Cuddy, Chase, Cameron, Foreman, nurses, techs, other doctors, lunchroom workers, the guy who sells coffee in the lobby—patients."

He's right, of course. But that doesn't change anything. He needs help. He needs someone to talk to. He needs—well that's it. I'm not sure if he'd go for it or not but it's worth a try. If I can get him to agree to this, then maybe I can help him. Maybe I can make amends for the damage I've done.

"House," I say after we've been sitting, not eating, not talking, for long enough to make the cheese congeal. "I've got an idea. What if I—what if you talk to me?" He looks up for a minute, and upon deciding that it's not a trick question, starts to seriously consider the offer. Please, I think to myself, please let me help him. Let me make it better.