Author's Note: Hi guys, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing whatsoever. I love reading fanfics, but the only writing I've ever done is essays in school--which by no means is an excuse for this being crap. By all means, if you think this is crap please please please say it's crap. I welcome flames and constructive criticism with open arms here. I figure if this doesn't sit well I'll leave it alone, but I did have more chapters planned if people ended up being okay with it. Thanks!
Disclaimer: I don't own House…at all…seriously
Fun With Dick and Cane
He dreamed about running.
No he didn't, but he wished that he had. If he had, it would've almost been pathetic enough to give him some vindication, or at least the idea of it. He welcomed nostalgia only for the self-pity that accompanies it, kind of like a homeless guy passing his old house and remembering a time before his life went to shit. Running made him angry, and anger gave him a reason to be the way he is…sort of. And that's why he wished he'd dreamt of running.
But House didn't dream of running, because to dream you actually have to sleep.
He officially gave up at 4a.m., after a light rain had come and gone, and the thunderous surround sound of "Die Hard" had smoldered into the muffles of paid programming. He reached a practiced arm over to the nightstand where it connected with his pills, as it had done countless times before. He took two and considered a third before deciding it was a little too early for that. He then took the comforter and tossed it away from his right side. This was typically when he decided what type of day was in store for him.
On a good day, he could make a joke—a really dirty one, the kind he'd tell Wilson right before he took a bite of his semi-exotic salad, and then he could walk off fast enough to not be bothered by repercussions of such things.
On an average day, he could make a comeback, or the perfect cleavage-dissing remark to piss off Cuddy. He wouldn't escape from the consequences, but on the average day, he didn't really want to. He wanted to take every moment he could thinking about how the dean of medicine would punish him because that was one less moment that he thought about the pain.
On a bad day, he could yell. That's because on bad days, all he was thinking about was the fact that his leg was a cloth drenched in gasoline, and that every move brought it closer to ignition. When the fire was lit, nobody and nothing could put it out.
Today someone had lit a match. He reached over and grabbed that third Vicodin.