I think I just like writing points of view. This is as pointless as it gets, be warned.
Five pairs of eyes on the shut door, the drawn blinds. Five idle trains of thought, five lots of attention focused on one Dr. Gregory House, M.D., five entirely different opinions.
He'd like that.
Spite.
That was why he did it, shut the blinds, blocked the door, took some sick kind of delight in relaxing with his music. He enjoyed leaving the workload in less-than-capable hands, enjoyed watching them fumble it, drop the burden, he enjoyed coming around later to make snide comments. He enjoyed watching them fail.
Him, especially. He'd been hammering on the door for ten minutes, finally given up, was standing with his head against the glass, trying to hang on.
He wasn't that good at his job. He knew that. He accepted that. He was a fair to middling intensivist, but he wasn't winning any awards. And sometimes, at night, that gnawed at him.
And he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do when the patient was showing some insane new symptom. House could solve it in three seconds, it would take Chase hours of research and a sore neck.
Research every possible symptom of neck pain.
God, he hated him sometimes.
Sadist.
And sometimes, when the rest of the team was forced to step into House's place in the team, figure out what the hell was going on without his guidance, without his leadership, without him doing his damn job...
Sometimes, it just felt like it wasn't worth it.
Escape.
That was why he did it, huddled away in his office with the blinds shut. He hated the hospital, hated the world, hated his life. Sometimes, he just couldn't face it, so he hid.
She hoped he wasn't hiding for her. Sometimes, she felt like she got through to him, for those few seconds when he didn't speak, sarcasm-free for a minute. But she didn't, she didn't. He was – he was too far gone for the clumsy efforts of a heartbroken immunologist to reach him.
She didn't like it, when he disappeared.
She hated to admit that, knew it meant weakness (weakness, ah, her one and only enemy) but she knew that – that he didn't like her. He'd said it. He didn't like anyone. except Wilson That's different. Wilson was his friend. And she wasn't.
That was the sole of the matter. He liked Wilson. He didn't like her.
Then again, no-one could get to him when he did this, once or twice a month.
And sometimes, when the bear had disappeared, when she didn't have to think about controlling her reaction whenever he made a harsh comment, whenever he was close to her...
Sometimes, it was almost peaceful.
Attention.
That was why he did it, moping in his office like a kid who had to apologize but was too rebellious.
It wasn't that he wanted to be left alone, it was that he wanted people to want to get in.
It had worked on Chase, hammering on the doors for hours. It had worked on Cameron, throwing the doors injured looks. It had worked on Wilson, with that hurt puppy look of his.
It hadn't worked on Foreman. So help him, he was going to ignore House until the man grew up.
Although when he was in there...
Sometimes, it was actually possible to do his job like a professional, not a circus entertainer.
Refuge.
That was why he did it, holed up in his office, shut all his blinds and turned on his music.
He didn't like most of his life, he hated the clinic, he hated the hospital and he hated his patients. She always felt absurdly guilty for insisting that he did his job, knowing how much it hurt him, physically, emotionally.
She shouldn't, of course. She was the Dean of Medicine.
Still.
He had his little nest, his little hole to hide in when things got too painful. She had the key, she knew how to open a door. Somehow, she never did. He functioned better, somehow, if she didn't exercise her power too much.
It was a balance, a careful one. Keep him on his toes, working the clinic, but not too much, because then he'll shut you out and there's all hope gone.
It felt like they were dancing, and sometimes, when he was holed up in there...
Sometimes, she almost felt calm.
Freedom.
That was why he did it, shut everyone out of his office and played his music.
He was the classic misunderstood teenager, hiding in his room with his music because no-one understood him.
He was the rebel without a cause, the one who needed so badly to be different, not to conform.
He remembered the interview with that teenager, grinned. They were so similiar. The lad could never have done the job, even if Cameron hadn't been persuaded to return. He was too much like House.
Then again, misery loves company. But that was Wilson's job, wasn't it?
Sometimes, Wilson felt like smashing the glass, shouting at him that this was stupid, that he didn't look cool or tragic or misunderstood or whatever his seventeen-year-old mind thought he looked, he just looked sulky and juvenile.
He never did, of course, never could. He'd pushed House, properly pushed him, what - once, twice in his life? He couldn't stand the look of reproach, the cold eyes, the sudden shocking reality thatHouse didn't actually care that much about what he thought.
The loner, the rebel without a cause.
The only thing that works for me is my job and this stupid screwed-up friendship, and neither of them mattered to you...
Sometimes, when House was hiding, and Wilson could get on with his job without being called in for pointless consults...
Sometimes, he almost wished House would stay there. And hated himself.
Inspiration.
That's what he did it for, laid on the floor in his office with the blinds shut for long hours listening to music that no-one in their right mind would match him with.
Not the happy-sappy inspiration everyone always went on about, not the sort of inspiration that led to miracles and the art that no-one, ever, would ever forget.
People would argue on the miracles. He'd argue right back. What he did, every day, that wasn't miraculous, that was just...
Diagnostics.
His job.
Inspiration, his sort of inspiration, the inspiration songs like Baba O'Reilly brought him – that was how he survived. That was – that just brought him back up to zero.
It was ludicrously depressing, if he thought about it enough, that one of the most inspiring songs written just made him normal.
It was also depressing that, now, strong pain medication just made him normal.
What was normal?
House hadn't been normal for six years.
But, sometimes, when the throbbing in his leg was diminished to a dull ache, when he could drum his fingers on the carpet, when there was nothing to look at but the ceiling and no-one to talk to but himself...
Well, it wasn't all bad.
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