Title : Insomniac
Disclaimer : I don't own House. I wish I did. But I don't.
Description : House doesn't like to sleep. That's it. Very short. No shipperness. But if you must, I feel that Wilson is his soulmate.
At three o'clock AM, he's sitting in front of the piano, watching rain hit the window. It's dark, and he can't see, but that hardly matters. He likes fumbling around in the dark. That way, if he trips or falls, that means it was because of the dark. Not the leg or the cane or the pills. And, yeah, he's alone, but c'mon, he has some dignity, you know.
He takes another swig of the glass in front of him, sighs, watches the rain. He's going to have to drive to work in that. Joy. Takes another swig. Switches on the radio. Dylan. Man can't sing, but can write some damn good lyrics. Makes Greg House nod off.
Insomnia. He heard that word for the first time when he was ten, and thought it had something to do with drugs. Now he knows it's a sleeping condition. Doesn't bother him much. So he stays up all night. Who gives a fuck? It's easier to sleep at work, anyway. And there's the bonus of Boss Boobs-sorry, Dr. Cuddy-getting in a pleasant tizzy and throwing things. Delightful.
He smiles ruefully at the thought of work. Cameron, who brings him coffee, with that horribly slave-like expression (not that he doesn't like being worshipped); Foreman, who could be so intelligent, but House wants to break him before that (cause it's fun!); Chase, who's just too pretty and annoying to be worth anything. And Wilson, who he can bitch to.
Uh-oh. Glass is empty. He goes to the kitchen to refill it, only to remember that the last of it's at the office. Fucker. He settles for vidocin instead. Delightful things, those little white pills. Miracles, those babies. He returns to the piano, leans the cane against the bench, and begins a hum-drum sort of melody.
An hours passes. And another. And soon enough, Dr. House leaves for work.