Chapter Text
It was just past midnight when Gregory House rounded the corner behind Princeton-Plainsboro, his cane tapping a steady rhythm on ice-crusted pavement. He wasn’t out for a stroll—he never was. He’d left the hospital in a fit, annoyed by clinic duty and humanity in general, and now he was angry-walking through alleys to burn off steam before resorting to Vicodin.
His leg ached like hell. Sharp, radiating pain that had been building all day, right from the moment his smug bastard of a boss had called him out in front of everyone--again. A sarcastic job about "limping behind on deadlines" that drew polite chuckles from people too cowardly to look him in the eye.
House had smiled, the way you do when a dog snarls and you don't have a stick.
Now he limped through the city's backstreets with a half-dead cigarette in one hand, his cane in the other, and no clear direction in mind. He didn't care where he was going. Somewhere loud. Somewhere dark. Somewhere not his life.
He wasn’t expecting the grunts. Or the muffled punches. Or the sound of someone collapsing against a dumpster.
House slowed, eyes narrowing. He turned the corner and found them—In the dim light cast by a flickering streetlamp. two men in tailored coats loomed over a third, who was curled on the ground like a heap of dirty laundry. The third man looked homeless--layers of threadbare clothing, gray bears, skin like wax paper.
One of the well-dressed men raised his boot and stomped down hard.
House didn’t do heroism. But he did do righteous indignation.
“Hey!” he barked, voice cold and sharp. “Medical opinion: if you break his ribs, he won’t be able to scream when the cops get here.”
The men looked up. The one with the shaved head took a step back. The other--a tall man with sharp eyes and a silver watch--just narrowed his gaze.
"Hey monsters! I am calling the cops!," House dialed 911, raising his phone to show his screen. "Hello dispatcher, a man is being attacked being the Princeton-Plainsboro teaching hospital.
Shaved Head bolted without a word. The other didn't move.
You don't know what this is," the man said calmly. "You should leave."
House's leg screamed with every heartbeat, but he didn't move. "You should too," he said.
The man's face tightened, and then he picked up a glass bottle from the ground. His footsteps echoed in the alley as he advanced.
House stood his ground. His mouth was dry, his hands clammy. But something in him, something old and sour, refused back down.
He didn't like bullies. He didn't like suits with blood on their shoes. And right now, pain and rage made a pretty good armor.
The man raised the bottle.
CLANG
The homeless man, now shakily on his feet, brought down a dented trash can lid on the attacker's back. The suited man staggered, cursed, and turned--just as the alley lit up red and blue."
"Police! Hands where we can see them!"
Too late.
The homeless man raised the lid again, wild-eyed--and they tased him. He crumpled instantly, twitching as the electricity danced through his body.
The suited man vanished into the dark, slipping around the corner before House could even shout.
One officer knelt over the homeless man while the other approached House. "You call this in?"
House nodded.
"You okay?"
He looked down at his throbbing leg. "No," he said flatly.