Some devil is

Stuck inside of me

I cannot set it free

I wish, I wish I was dead and

You breathing

Dr. Gregory House, the most sardonic doctor in the weird-enough-already state of New Jersey, stared at the yellowing strip of photographs that he held in his hands. Stacy and he had gone to see Mission Impossible II. It was House's choice and Stacy had not been pleased, but she put up with it to be with him in a darkened movie theater. He didn't remember if he even saw any of the action film. He remembered the taste of Stacy's lip-gloss—cinnamon—and feeding her popcorn. It was supposed to have been a crappy movie anyway.

Why, why did these women insist on hunting him down and wanting to make him their "boy toy?" He was a curmudgeon and he liked it that way! Being alone and bitter did suck, he admitted, but it freed him from the restraints of having a woman around. There was no one to buy flowers for and no one on whom to waste money. He could turn up his music and listen to it as loud as he wanted. He was free.

Although he considered himself "free", another part of him wished that he wasn't so…free. Love was essential to the human spirit and no matter how hard he seemed, even he could not prevent the emotion from wanting to course through his veins. But he had another part of him that was his defense mechanism and pushed people away. Rejection protected his derelict heart.

House considered Cameron first. She was beautiful. She was nice. She liked him and apparently needed him. Yes, he found it exhausting to be hounded by a beautiful woman when he himself was not at all beautiful. Detached sarcasm saved him from being swallowed by insecurity.

Yes, Greg House insecure. Especially around women. He could handle them with some stupid comment and bad attitude, but facades were two-for-one every weekend at the Home Depot. Cameron made him wear his masks, because she was aggressive. He loved her intelligence and passion, but he was scared because he was not in charge of the situation and the last time that had happened…

Well, the last time that had happened he left with a crippled leg and a broken heart. Stacy had worn her stiletto boots and trampled all over the organ when she left. She liked being in power, too. She liked wearing her black mini-skirt, knee-high black leather boots, and tight black sweater when breaking up with men. It was her way of mourning and saying, "ha-ha, look at the loser who fell for me and actually believed I loved him."

Oh, yes, Stacy was a real feminist all right. She was a lawyer extraordinaire and a self-proclaimed "ball-buster". He liked to match wits with her. Verbal fights and then tussles in bed—how fun it had been when he still had a functioning leg and a woman with whom to sleep.

But now, he was different. Why? He didn't really have an answer. Yes, the leg was a terrifically large part of it, but so was Stacy. He was different—did he need the ball-busting attitude of Stacy or did he need the comforting, let-me-fix-you attitude of Cameron?

God, it was a shame he had broken his damn magic-8 ball when he had thrown it at Chase the one day for being too much of a smart-ass. Shit, what to do? Cuddy would tell him to sleep with either one—just come back with a better bedside manner. That and a better attitude towards clinic work. Wilson would tell him to send whomever he didn't sleep with over to his apartment—Wilson would be in it for the sex.

Well, Wilson wouldn't be in it for the sex. Wilson lived a sad life, just like House did. A domineering wife was no fun to go home to night after night, especially when your job was diagnosing people with a horrific disease. No, Wilson was in it for something more. Something he could convince himself into believing was more than meaningless sex.

Cuddy, he also knew, lived an empty life. Time after time, when he needed her good alcohol stash, he found her downing the expensive wines by herself. Always wine, he noted, no cosmos or martinis for her. She liked the layers in the wine—too bad most of the men she ended up with were one-dimensional and left her seeking solace in her drinks.

Yes, they all lived very sad lives here. Some of them put on the cheerful mask in front of patients because they knew these people needed help. House, unlike Cuddy and Wilson, preferred to let his patients see his cracked veneer, the uneven surface, and the flaws…

So, he decided to go off to find Cuddy or Wilson, whomever he stumbled on first. He flung the old photo booth pictures on his desk, grabbed his cane and stood up quickly. He strode to the door, but turned around to snatch a marker and a sticky-note on his desk.

When House left his office, he left the door cracked open and wrote on the yellow Post-It "Gone Fishin'", and he stuck on his door to humor/piss off the gods. Maybe they'd decide to strike him down so he wouldn't have to deal with ex-girlfriends, starry-eyed admirers, or annoying hypochondriacs in the clinic. He knew he wouldn't be that lucky. He decided to look for Cuddy first.

He took a few turns and arrived at her office. The blinds were closed and the door was also shut. He pushed on it and found himself watching as Wilson and Cuddy sat on the floor with a bottle of win between them, laughing hysterically. Cuddy's face looked naturally blushed for once, not full of all the make-up crap, House noted. Wilson's tie was loose and he seemed to be having a good time. House tapped his cane on the floor three times. He regretted his need for attention, but there was alcohol on the floor, for God's sake. What was he supposed to do? Stand there and watch as those two drank it all?

"Oh, God, Dr. House is in the house," Cuddy giggled furiously and Wilson smiled at her.

"Jesus, Wilson. I didn't know you were screwing her. When you said you had a hot date I thought you meant a nurse."

"What do you want, House? Lisa and I were enjoying a nice bottle of wine. Do you mind?"

"I do, seeing that, as your superior, Dr. Cuddy here might lavish preferential treatment on you if you and she became involved."

"Aw, someone isn't getting laid enough. You should have taken Cameron while you had her. She's cute," Wilson told House.

"Now, now, boys, more than just two of us can enjoy the wine. I have another two bottles stashed away. I keep them for times like these, when I like to get my doctors helplessly drunk."

"Just give me a bottle and let me go back my office."

Cuddy stood up from the floor. She smoothed down her hair and her skirt. House noticed that her shoes were off and she was padding around in her stockings. She went to one of the cabinets lining the wall and opened it. She took one of the cheaper looking bottles out and stuck it in front of House. With the wine in front of him and seeing his two friends having a good time without him, he'd prefer not to ruin their enjoyment with his own miserable problems.

"Stay here and drink with us, Greg. Be sociable for once."

"No."

"Yes."

"Sleep with me?"

"No."

"Goodbye."

"Greg, don't be an asshole," Wilson reprimanded.

"Don't suck up, James."

"Fine, fine, your loss, though. Dr. Cuddy and I were just going to play some

cards. I don't supposed that would entice you into staying?"

"Strip poker would."

Cuddy and Wilson looked at one another. To save their friend and lose their dignity or to lose their friend and save their dignity?

"Fine," Cuddy and Wilson said simultaneously.

House snickered and eased himself to the floor.

"Oh, by the way, the cane counts."

Cuddy shot him a withering glance—even through all the haziness of the wine, she still had some sense. Wilson had a glimmer in his eye—Cuddy, undressed. House also was thinking the same thoughts—anything to get his mind off of his female problems.

They didn't know, though, that Cuddy liked to spend her weekends in Atlantic City at the poker tables.

She was looking forward to seeing House humble for once and Wilson free of all clothes. She smiled and started to deal.