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House is so fucked up. The constant pain, the constant misunderstandings, the constant pushing people away. He knows he’s an asshole who doesn’t know how to express emotions, and sure, sometimes it’s purposeful, but even when he’s trying to be a decent person, he still fucks it up. There's a reason he's always wearing long sleeves.
It started when he was 13. No friends and undiagnosed stuff made hurting himself the only way to express his emotions. He’s not an emo teen anymore, though. And yet the horrors persist. Just joking. Kind of. His life still sucks, especially now that the only things keeping him from constant excruciating pain are opioids. That people keep trying to take from him (looking at you, Tritter).
So that is why he is curled in a ball in the cramped supply closet with a blade to his wrist, watching the blood flow lazily. He hears a commotion, and someone tries to open the door. He stays silent until he hears a key jingling in the lock. Then “I’m in here! God forbid a man shits in peace,” he says.
“Why are you in a closet??? I need some paper towels. Someone knocked over a patient’s water bottle,” says a familiar voice. Cameron, maybe?
“Go away, I’m busy.”
“With what?? On second thought, never mind. Have fun, I guess?”
House lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He didn’t care if anyone knew about his . . . habit, but Cameron would make A Thing™. It would make them even more caring, and it's already giving him allergic reactions, like a significant increase in sarcasm. That's totally a symptom of being allergic to kindness, he doesn’t know what you’re talking about! The door opens. Dun dun DUNNN. It’s Cameron. And his arm is still bleeding. Whoops. They're staring rather obviously, unusual for them. They usually have more subtlety. They slowly approach him, like he’s an animal at risk for fleeing.
“What happened, House?”
“Nothing. I’m fine, good, awesome, fantabulous. You should go, though. People will start to talk,” House says, “Two people all alone in a closet together? Tsk tsk tsk.”
“Unless you want the rumors to have any truth behind them? I’d be down for that,” he adds, checking them out.
“You actually need to shut the fuck up. This is not a time for jokes. Do you have something to take care of those?”
“...no.”
They give him an exasperated look and leave, probably to get some actual medical care. He takes the opportunity to down some more Vicodin. And the whisky he was hiding in his jacket. But he doesn't have a problem at all! He’s just a depressed alcoholic with a cutting problem, but aren’t we all?
Huh. They're already back. And the clock shows it's been ten minutes. He would have sworn it's only been a few seconds.
Cameron attempts to clean the fresh cuts, but House brushes them off, slurring his words, says, “I'm fine, you can go.”
“Oh! You're fine! That's awesome! Because everyone knows fine people hurt themselves all the time!”
He acquiesces, lets them do their doctor thing while he dissociates and stares blankly at the mops. Finally, everything is done, his arms are bandaged and safely hidden under his signature long sleeves. They stare at him for a moment before retreating silently.
Oh well. He can’t think right now anyway.
After a few hours of staring blankly at a wall, Cameron comes in again. House glances over, sees who it is, and turns back to the wall. They walk up to him, put a comforting hand on his back.
“Are you okay?”
“What do you think?? Does it look like I need your help?? Just go.”
They start to turn, before saying, “You aren’t the only person who’s dealt with this.”
House scoffs, “Sure. You ever known anyone so fucked up they purposely cut themselves? Stop offering pointless platitudes and go find me a case.”
“Bitch, I do it too.”
He turns around in shock—he wasn’t expecting Cameron of all people to be a fucking cutter. They seemed so . . . well adjusted. By the time he processed this very unexpected information, Cameron had left. He limped out of the closet, hoping to find them and learn more. He’s been needing a new case. Cameron is sitting at the cafeteria table, staring off into space with a plate of uneaten French fries sitting in front of them. House sits down and steals a few fries, staring at their blank face.
“I didn't mean to say that. If you don’t say anything about it, I won't tell Wilson,” Cameron says slowly.
“Har har har. You seriously think Wilson doesn't already know? I can't hide anything from that man. I won’t tell anyone, but you should get some help or something.”
Cameron glares at him for a few seconds and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like hypocrite under their breath.
“Fine!” they say after a few moments of deliberation, “But only if you go to therapy too.”
He immediately scoffs, “No way. I would rather die than talk about how mY FeEliNgS aRe vALid with a fucking shrink.”
Several days later, House walks into a building, the Princeton Plainsboro General Counseling. Yep. They convinced him to go to therapy. He’s an asshole at first, as usual, but therapists kinda have to put up with you and he becomes less of an asshole and learns sorta how to be nice. Still a sarcastic son of a bitch most of the time though. Some things never change.