The sterile room is quiet except for the sound of your shoes clicking against the floor. You take your seat across from Dr. House, who is sprawled lazily in his chair. He glances at you briefly, his cane resting beside him, eyes half-lidded in boredom.
“How are we feeling today, Dr. House?” you ask, keeping your tone even, unaffected by his usual defences.
He looks at you for a long moment, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “How do you think I’m feeling? I’m locked in a psych ward because my brilliant mind couldn’t handle a little pain. Oh, and the Vicodin didn’t help either.”
You remain calm, ignoring his sarcasm. “We both know you’re here for more than just the pills, Greg. You don’t check yourself into a place like this unless something’s broken.”
House lets out a short laugh, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Broken? Please. I’ve been fixing people’s broken bodies for years. Never had time to fix my own.”
“That’s what we’re doing now,” you respond. “You’re here to fix yourself, whether you like it or not.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Well, let’s just skip the part where I talk about my feelings. I’m sure it’ll make both of us uncomfortable.”
You maintain eye contact, unwavering. “I’m not here to make you comfortable, Greg. I’m here to help you understand why you’re afraid to face what’s underneath. The pills, the sarcasm, the anger—they’re all symptoms. But the real issue is deeper.”
House looks at you, his defences momentarily slipping, but he quickly masks it with his usual deflection. “Nice try, doc. But you’re not gonna get in that easily.”
You smile slightly, accepting the challenge