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As Alvie spoke in the background, House stared up, not listening to what he continued to ramble about. On and on all he could do is rap and talk and speak and yell and shout while all House could do was stare.
A voice called out from the outside of the room. Alvie perked up.
“Hey House-acita…what’s your first name?”
House looked over at him for the first time, eyes glazed slightly.
“Why should I tell you. House-acita fits me enough.”
Alvie held up his hand in a sign to wait, then walked out of their shared room.
Turning his head back to the celing, House felt truly tired. Truly tired that he had finally made the decision to admit himself. Truly tired of seeing Amber. Tired of being in pain, missing the Vicodin that quelled all of that.
The Bus Of Heaven (or Hell) or what he continued to call it in his head stuck in there. All he could think about was Amber. How he killed her. The patient he killed. The things he had done. Wilson.
What does Wilson think of him now? Hallucinating his dead girlfriend? Nearly killing Chase? Only he knew about that. That was his burden to hold.
Fuck. He was miserable. Was he destined to be miserable forever? Hallucinating having sex with Cuddy? Cuddy would never do that. Would never want him. He was broken. An addict.
At least he was still a damn good doctor.
Tell that to the patients you killed.
Alvie walked into the room at that moment. He started to rap:
“Got a visitor for House in the house, is it a friend or a lady without her blouseee??”
Alvie held the biggest smile on his face, and House looked at him blankly.
“A visitor.”
“A visitor!”
House slowly sat up in the bed, grabbing his cane and holding himself up. He shook, and almost fell. Alvie held his hands out under house.
“Woah woah! You okay man?”
“I’m fine. Get out of my way.”
Alvie put his hands up in mock surrender and stepped out of the way, allowing House to maneuver his cane throughout the room until he made his way to the front.
Standing there, in all his glory, was Dr. James Wilson. The last person House expected to see in the hospital.
“House.”
“Wilson. Came because you have yet another over analyzation of me? Be my guest. Nothing that these shrinks haven't told me yet.”
“No House. I came here to talk.”
House stood there for a moment, shocked. He tried to cover it. “Talk. About what? About how you blame me for Amber? About how I’m hallucinating her and Kutner? About what, exactly?”
Wilson ran his hands through his hair and looked down.
“Just…to talk.” The way he spoke it seemed more to himself than to House.
In the grey room they stood in, similar to a waiting room, held bright blues and yellows on the chairs and tables. Wilson walked over to one and sat down, motioning with his head to do the same. House still stood with his head in the doorway, just staring at Wilson.
“What do you want, Wilson? To torture yourself? To talk to a miserable man like me to make you feel better about yourself about your shitty situation? What the hell do you want from me, Wilson.”
Wilson sat there, staring straight at House. His face blank, his eyes concealing whatever was hidden in his brain underneath.
“No. Your therapist reccomended that you needed familiar faces. Visitors. I declined at first. But I changed my mind.”
“For what.”
“I just…House.”
“Wilson. Answer me.”
House looked Wilson directly in the eyes, and whatever blank slate that was covering Wilson’s brain vanished. He stood up and almost toppled over with the force in which he executed the act.
“Because I care about you House. I care about you, and your messed-up self, and whatever you have going on.” Wilson nearly yelled at House, his face contorting into something familiar. The same rage House saw the day he bailed him out of jail.
He slowly limped towards Wilson. “Careful. Your bipolar disorder is showing.”
Wilson clenched his fists at his side and held his stance, continuing to hold eye contact with House.
“I care about you House. Every time I get upset at something utterly ‘House’ that you do, I remember you’re my best friend. You bailed me out of jail when I had to be in jail. You somehow convinced Cuddy to fire him and got me my job back after Vogler. You've been there for me when nobody else has, but you’ve made my life absolute living hell in the process.”
“That’s the perks of being friends with me, I’ve heard.”
Wilson stared at House for a moment. “Do you even want to change?”
House looked back. Thought about it. Every day of his life, he was in pain. Whether it was his leg, a need for something that he didn’t know what, anything, he was absolutely horrible.
“I’m miserable. I've always been miserable after my leg. I don’t know how to not be miserable.”
Wilson took a breath in and out.
“You have a chance here to make a change, House. You came here for a reason.”
“To stop the hallucinations. I never intended a change.”
Another outburst from Wilson.
“Will you ever even want a change, House? Do I always have to be worried about you overdosing in your apartment on Vicodin, quite literally drowning yourself, jamming a damn knife into an electrical socket for god knows what reason. Everyone is worried about you. I need a change House. I need a change.”
House stares blankly at Wilson, and then walks over to the seat beside him. He holds his leg and winces as he lowers down into it, keeping eye contact with his friend.
“Are you just doing this for my attention now?”
Suddenly, Wilson got up, tightening his jacket, and turning towards the door.
“You’re an ass, House.”
He opened the door, looked back once, and slammed it shut.