Walking alone in the dark, aligning each step with the moonlight on the pavement. He dreams of walking, on two legs, without a cane, only two healthy legs and him. Persuaded by his fears that dreaming is dangerous, he only dreams when he sleeps. In the daytime he is rational, brilliant, sarcastic and reasonable, probing people for illnesses and pinpointing the roots and reasons. What he can't have he searches to trace in others: tenderness, total trust in someone, belief in another human being, hope that some day it will all get better.
A bat flies by and grazes his face with the wind from its wings. Abandoning himself to the night, he walks on. Trees, those nightly watchmen with ghostly limbs reaching for the good and bad alike, silver dust paving the straight road, these are his only companions. No sound in his ears, no feeling in his heart, only endless tranquility. What he leaves behind can hurt him no more; yesterday's pain is absorbed by the calm presence of certitude. He knows where he is, he knows what he wants. Fear does not exist, as he strolls serenely closer and closer to his goal, the yet unknown, the blissfully unshaped reality.
Waking up, he finds his teeth are rattling in the cold. When he pulls the blanket up from the floor the pain in his leg makes his breathing stop for a second. He wipes his sweaty forehead, then reaches for his pills, deliberately placed next to his bed on the night stool. Swallowing one he leans back, waiting for the sweet deliverance. He remembers the land of never to be, what he had and will never have again. At times he wonders why the affliction, why the fact that he is ruined physically and emotionally. He does not believe in fate, let alone an almighty god, so destiny as such is a non-existant abstraction, never to be conjured up in cases of hopelessness, where no one can be blamed. There is always someone to blame. Things happen because people make them happen. He racks his mind, struggles to find the original scapegoat he can lay the blame on. Eventually he always ends up thinking he is the one culpable for his own misery. Blaming Stacey, or Cuddy, or Wilson, or his father for his genes, or the mad constellation of all of this doesn't make his situation any more pleasurable.
Dawn is approaching, lugging a new day in its heavy sunrise-luggage. House is thinking: coffee, toilet, shower on one leg, dragging himself to work, buying new pills, facing the day with all of its minute, irritating details. And she won't be there. Day off. He has no idea how he will survive the day.
Cameron shuffles into her bathroom, half asleep. Her hair is a mess, her eyes baggy from the double shift, her skin has gotten slightly saggy and dry. No wonder he doesn't like me, she thinks. Yawning, she remembers he had requested a day off from Cuddy. For what purpose, she has no idea. As far as anyone knows in the department, he doesn't have a life, so why any time off work? Well, maybe he wants to rest. Or call someone. A woman to entertain him. From his past jokes she knows he is not shy and she also understands his needs. She combs her hair, pulling it into a tight pony-tail. She cannot help it, her mind is already dwelling on the grievous and yet exhilarating image of House lying in bed, a woman on top of him, slowly moving and giving him spasms of delight. She dissects the scene, she relishes the sight of his face, the rapture in his eyes, the moan filling his lungs and shaping his mouth, desire overwhelming him, his hands encircling her naked hips, pressing her closer to his own body, his powerful frame lifting them both to higher pitches of pleasure. Before she realizes that it is herself she sees making love to him, she succumbs to the desire that gets out of control: she leans to the wall and her hand substitutes for all the things she wants so dearly. Her orgasm is quick and painfully lacking real fulfilment, and then she stands there, panting, with shaking knees, and wonders if she is becoming ridiculous. Then, remembering the day, the work, at least twelve hours without seeing him, she sobers up and starts choosing her clothes, the layers of concealment that keep most of her to herself, lest someone should take advantage.