House was not a kind man— not by any means. And people, especially those around him, had gotten fairly used to that. Used to his hellish personality.

But when it came to others, when it came to those who he effected. . . It was less about adaptation, and more about deterioration. The original three from House’s old team were the ones who seemed to get scuffed the most by his antics. Whilst the team had been trying to make him better, he had been actively making them worse.

Above all— Chase.

House slouched back in his chair, messy hair having the slightest curl to it as he adjusted his reading glasses, narrowing his eyes to an almost-closed degree in an attempt to read the book he’d haphazardly balanced between his computer and his keyboard.

God, was he really getting old? He supposed it wouldn’t matter, anyway, considering the fact the Vicodin would probably keep him from feeling the pains of aging.

His eyes, from behind his readers, dragged up to the glass walls between him and the hall.