Fic: Shades of Grey (House)
A strange little fic that was drabbled in much the same way as the last one. I blame rewatching the better half of two season.
House likes days when it rains. Not the rain itself, but the way the world feels. Not because of things like cliché romantic endings or rainbows or the fresh smell afterwards. He doesn’t have much use for those these days, can’t ever remember a time when he did. Not even for things like fires and good books. He’s not much use for curling up in front of anything. Even if it’s his TV and the L Word is on.
On days when it rains there’s always more and less of everything. More people, more noise, more meaningless interruptions. Less space, less privacy, less time to gather himself between confrontations. Nothing at the hospital is just what it is, not even a conversation. Especially a conversation. They’re battlefields with trenches dug deep and sometimes one side or the other advances a few feet but no one ever really gets anywhere. The casualties - pride, truth, trust, integrity - are discarded and forgotten, because it’s war and in war casualties are unavoidable.
Somehow, when it rains, everything’s muted - the confrontations, the sharp edge of emotion behind every exchange, even the natural boisterousness that comes with large groups and small spaces - like the colour’s been leeched out of everything and it’s all shades of grey. And House thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’s all bearable. He likes days when it rains. They never last.
House likes days when it rains. Not the rain itself, but the way the world feels. Not because of things like cliché romantic endings or rainbows or the fresh smell afterwards. He doesn’t have much use for those these days, can’t ever remember a time when he did. Not even for things like fires and good books. He’s not much use for curling up in front of anything. Even if it’s his TV and the L Word is on.
On days when it rains there’s always more and less of everything. More people, more noise, more meaningless interruptions. Less space, less privacy, less time to gather himself between confrontations. Nothing at the hospital is just what it is, not even a conversation. Especially a conversation. They’re battlefields with trenches dug deep and sometimes one side or the other advances a few feet but no one ever really gets anywhere. The casualties - pride, truth, trust, integrity - are discarded and forgotten, because it’s war and in war casualties are unavoidable.
Somehow, when it rains, everything’s muted - the confrontations, the sharp edge of emotion behind every exchange, even the natural boisterousness that comes with large groups and small spaces - like the colour’s been leeched out of everything and it’s all shades of grey. And House thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’s all bearable. He likes days when it rains. They never last.