[[Note: I'm formatting this the way I'd gotten used to, since there are quite a few interconnected threads going and I wanted to make sure I remembered.]
House, open to Cameron[potentially a surprise visitor, if one is plotwise so inclined]
Middle-of-the-night, after his shouting match with Cuddy and his argument with Wilson. Before this thread.
Note: Some rather adult themes in this one.]
If you don't expect things to work out, if you always expect to have control, then one of two things will invariably happen: you'll either have a much easier life than the rest of the ant farm... or everything, sooner or later, is going to blow up in your face.
Gregory House understood the desire for control.
It made sense to him, made everything fall into neat little boxes, quantifiable data. Take everything that's scattered around your feet in pieces, and put it together into a pattern. Find the thing that's pushing your buttons, and strangle it into a harness, make it work for you.
Unfortunately, this time it wasn't that easy.
He'd spent the better part of the time brooding viciously about his argument with Cuddy in her office; every time he did think about it, the urge to find her wherever she happened to be at that particular time of day and smack her was deliciously tempting. He kept telling himself -- and it was the honest truth, actually -- that he was less worried about the slam to his ego than about the stupidity she was stupidly letting herself get carried away with.
And yeah, part of it might be selfish, too: she was the boss, after all. And no matter how much he pushed and provoked her, she'd kept him on the payroll: four other administrators had long ago decided that his snark wasn't worth his salary. And if he lost the job, he really had nothing to buffer him, to keep him going, nothing to keep his mind off the pain and to bolster his sense of usefulness, no puzzle to throw up between him and the world he hated so badly. No function for Dr. House.
Nothing to keep you alive, you mean. Let's be honest, here, Greg.
But that wasn't all of it, and he spent most of the afternoon and early evening fervently denying that to himself: bemused as he screwed around in his office for the last couple hours, swallowed two Vicodin with the last of the coffee, threw his crap into his knapsack and crutched his way to the parking lot; irritated as he kicked his bike up to sixty-five, then seventy, on the freeway, taking a much longer and dangerous route than he actually needed to take.
Frustrated and bitter, as he cane-paced his silent apartment, spent forty minutes pounding out his fury on the piano -- composing, scrapping, playing a random medley of notes fast and loud and carelessly -- and downed the first of many amber shots from a plastic drive-through cup. Irate, as he waited for the pain in his leg to ease, waited for the pain in his leg to ease, and finally sprawled himself out on the sofa to part pale skin with the tapered edge of a needle, dark red flowers blooming in the barrel and blessed, whitewashed relief... for a little less than an hour.
( By the time he got to irate, he already had a hand on the phone.Collapse )