angelfirenze wanted another one...
lurking
The pills talk to him. They chatter perfect words, form a perfect world, one that isn't delicate at all, one that won't shatter (unless she comes back), one that isn't made of glass. There is nothing behind Gregory House but pain, sarcasm, anger, bitterness, and snark. Nothing vulnerable, nothing hopeful. The pills tell him that. The pills made him that. Promised him. You are nothing but…
(Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth)
There is no compassion in him, nothing loving lurking behind the glacier-blue eyes (hazed over with exhaustion and irritation, bloodshot lines stretch out arms to the gray sky), no reasons or thoughts or anything but his brilliance, alone with his brilliance, always there as he scans the whiteboard and watches and rain and sees a thousand patients come and go (you made a difference in their lives, the pills tell him, but they will never make a difference in yours) and not one of them means anything to him.
("The game is done! I've won! I've won!")
In the end he always figures things out.
("The game is done! I've won! I've won!")
He awakes in the middle of the night from a dream of beautiful music and almost wants to break his hand all over again; it shakes as he reaches for the bottle, the pills already chattering insanity and hopelessness and irritation and snark and bitterness and pain, oh pain…gone (almost) after he swallows that pill.
(Don't think about her. About how you turned her away. Turned happiness away. Think of…of…)
Sleep. The dreams he doesn't dream anymore.
Work. The coffee Cameron makes, and the worried glances she's shooting him (females worry too much, it's a default setting for them). He's worse lately. Always deteriorating, always falling. His usual irritation increases tenfold. No music can drown this out (except at two-forty-six in the morning, trembling fingers playing ivory and ebony, voices harshly whispering to take the damn pills and let the pain go…).
He is the pain.
Cuddy passes him in the halls and his usual snark, upped a bit, is released on her (worse than Cameron sometimes, but Cuddy is on his side, mostly) and the look she gives him makes him wish he cared, makes him wish that somewhere deep down in his bitter hard heart the lurking compassion would be able to come out and overthrow him, wishes that there wasn't a constant reminder, the steady tap, tap, tap…
Take the damn pill.
Dry-swallow the Vicodin. Watch the pain recede. (Mostly.)
(Footfalls echo in the memory)
Ask for pleasure, answered with pain, always pain, more pain, never-ending pain, sharp pain, shooting pain, dull pain, heartache, heartbreak…
(He doesn't know if he wishes he cared anymore, only swallows one more midnight relief and lets the physical pain wash away, if only for a few moments longer.)