#Greg house fanfiction

[kittenlittle24]

Chokehold

Request: f!reader is part of the diagnostics team and one day, they realized that one of the cases they were handling involved a physically abusive parent, which started the patient’s condition. Reader went to confront the parent, which in turn made the parent attack her, and then Dr. House saw this and came in to save her. and then some fluff? and yes, house and f!reader is secretly in love with house @schnitzelbutterfingers

a/n: I based it on s2 e13 but also changed it to fit the request better, I apologize it’s short I had a real writing block.

Btw, gifs aren’t mine! Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Masterlist

“A 15-year-old model was given by her father before taking the stage at a big fashion show. After walking out, she gets into a violent confrontation with another model, then collapses on the runway.” Cameron presents.

“The tox screen shows she has been taking heroin.”

House ordered a rapid detox procedure thinking the drugs are masking another disease and that we don't have time to wait four weeks to find out. Formen and Chase explained the risks to her father, who agreed to the procedure. They put the patient into an induced coma. She later went into cardiac arrest, of course, they revived her. They explained to the father that if they bring her out of the coma before the detox is over, she will be in extreme pain.

When the girl came out of the coma, she showed signs of short-term memory loss, which House diagnosed as PTSD as the result of sexual abuse from her father.

Cameron of course went straight to Cuddy who called child services, however, you were the lucky one to be cornered by the dad.

“You called child services on me?! I do everything for her! She’s my daughter!”

Slowly you tried to walk away as you denied till your back hit the wall, then you knew you were screwed. He was so close to you, that you smelled his breath and felt his spit splattered on your face as he continued to yell, you hoped one of the nurses would come by already and call security but the next thing you knew he had his hand around your throat, grasping his wrist you tried to move it away, the tears in your eyes blocked your sight, your chest starting to hurt.

He stopped as quickly as he started and fell to the floor. Falling to your knees as well you looked up to see House standing behind him, his cane raised.

“What did you do?” You rasped out.

“He was choking you!” He argued as he helped you up and the security guards lifted the assaulting man.

He took you to his office where he examined you.

He lifted your chin gently and looked at your neck where you already started to bruise.

“Might want to wear a turtleneck,”

You nodded, “Why did you come to check on me? You were supposed to be in the clinic and you never visit patients.”

“Teen model? The perfect excuse to avoid clinic.”

Grasping his arm, “House.”

“I had a bad feeling about the dad, I had to make sure you were safe,” he whispered.

Stepping closer to him, “You were worried about me.”

He nodded once.

Stand on your tip toes, you cupped his cheeks and leaned forward, slowly placing your soft lips on his, giving him plenty of time to stop you.

Instead of stopping you, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer.

[michelle-is-writing]

Surprise, Surprise, Greg House

Word Count: 1.1k~

Surprising Greg at work is always fun. Most of the time, he's messing around with the items on his desk until I walk in which ultimately causes him to perk up right away. I'm always happy to see him, and going by the smile that pops up on his face when he first sees me, Greg is happy to see me too. Plus, it always helps that we've been together for several years too.

"House, you have a guest," Wilson states, quickly popping his head into the doorway of Greg's office before popping right back out. Watching him walk back to the elevators, I wave at Wilson before opening Greg's door.

"Surprising," I hear Greg mindlessly mutter before I walk in. Once he sees me, he lightly smiles and changes his words. "Not surprising," He corrects himself, sitting up in his chair. "But pleasant."

"I brought you lunch," I tell him, gesturing to the bag in my hand with a smile. Placing the paper bag on his desk, I sit down in the chair across from him with his desk separating us. "That way you don't have to steal anyone else's."

"You know me so well," Greg chides, placing the magazine in his hands down before opening the bag of food. Taking all of the contents out of the bag reveals two sandwiches and two bags of chips with a bottled drink for each one. "Funny," He notes. "These are the things I would have stolen from Wilson."

Laughing at his sad, yet true comment, I separate everything out and place a Reuben sandwich in front of each of us, Greg already digging into one of the yellow bags of potato chips. "I'm glad I got to come see you today," I confess, the sight of the food making me feel a little sick. "I have some... great news to share."

"Oh, really?" Greg asks, looking up at me. I nod, smiling as he pushes his chair back a little. "Well, then why don't you come over here and tell me all about it?" He suggests with that ever so sly smirk.

Knowing what that means, I gently roll my eyes and stand from my chair before walking over to Greg and sitting on his lap. Instantly, he wraps his arms around me and holds me close, leaning up a little to kiss my lips. This is one of the very few ways Greg shows his love. He always says it's because he gets to hold me closer to him, but I think it's just because I'm sitting on his lap.

"You know," he begins his sentence, nibbling at my neck. "With one simple movement, you instantly have me at your will. How odd is that?" Greg questions me, his voice sultry and low. Smiling at him, I lightly giggle before pushing him away enough so he can look straight at me.

"Greg, I need to tell you something," I state, my voice a bit serious. Even though I'm trying to keep a straight voice without letting my excitement show through, I keep my smile in hopes of him not getting worried. I hope this news finds him well, and it doesn't make him mad or angry... I don't know what I would do if he left me because of it.

Leaning back in his swivel chair to look at me, he continues smiling while running his hand up and down my side. "Go on," he encourages me, his blue eyes staring into mine. "I'm listening, my sweet."

My cheeks slightly blush at the endearment before I look away, sudden nervousness hitting me. "I'm, uh, I'm..." Just as I begin to speak, I choke up before sighing. "I'm pregnant, Greg," I fully answer him, having the guts to look him straight in the eye as I do so.

He takes a moment to listen to me, only to fully realize what I'm saying within seconds. In shock, he stares at me with wide eyes before breaking out into a nervous chuckle. "You're serious, right?" He asks, making my eyebrows furrow. My reaction causes him to become worried as his smile drops. "Please don't be joking," Greg begs, placing his hands on my arms.

His words slightly... befuddle me. Is the cold and emotionless House actually excited about me being pregnant? For him to question me to make sure I'm not joking makes me... I don't know what it makes me actually.

Does Greg want a child? I know we didnt plan this little one, but there's no going back now. I mean, Greg is quite a few years older than me and I would've never thought he'd want a kid this late in life, but Gregory House is Gregory House. If there's one thing that signifies Gregory House, it's that he's weird and unusual, and he never conforms to what is socially acceptable.

"No, I'm not joking, Greg," I tell him, placing his hands on my stomach. "There's a little baby right here," With Greg staring up at me with big eyes and an equally big smile, tears quickly make their way to my eyes. "You're going to be a father," I whisper, leaning forward and placing my forehead against his.

A few moments of silence pass before Greg grins and wraps his arms tighter around me. In a quick turn of events, he stands up with our feet planted on the ground and his arms still around me, a giggle falling from my lips as he does so. Before I know it, Greg is moving my shirt up to place his hands on my barely swollen tummy, resting them there as I hug him to me as well. “Thank you,” He murmurs, smiling before connecting our lips in another kiss. At the same time, he moves his hands to my waist to hold me there, his hold reflecting the passion behind our kiss.

[springdaydreams]

Gregory House x fem!reader (platonic?)

Warnings : none

Summary : Greg finds out something interesting about you.

Authors note : Not the biggest fan of this, could've been better, but the idea wont leave my head so I wrote it.

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

Today was particularly rough, your coffee machine broke down so you had to settle for the crappy coffee in the breakroom, the cafeteria had ran out of your favourite chips, a patient puked on you so you had to change your clothes and by god's grace, all the anti-vaxxers in Jersey decided to come visit you today. Sitting down you let out a sigh, your feet hurt and your head felt like it was being pounded by an anvil closing your eyes in hopes for a fifteen minute shuteye, slowly drowning out the noises of the busy hospital. Suddenly your pager rings, the shrill noise cutting through the room, letting out a sharp exhale you take the pager in your hands and look at it, it’s a page from the NICU, nothing uncommon.

Standing up you rush out of the room, reaching the NICU, the nurse fills you on the patient, a seven month premature baby suffering a sudden attack of patent ductus arteriosus, as the baby flailed around trying to take breaths that he couldn’t catch, you’re held a scalpel your gloved hand tightening around the handle of it, bringing the sharp edge scalpel to the baby’s chest, just as you were about to make a cut the baby stopped breathing. Taking a deep breath you set the scalpel down “time of death?” “Twelve twenty am.” “I’ll go tell the parents.” Removing your gloves you walk out of the NICU towards the maternity ward, walking into the patient’s mother’s room “are you Miss Hennock?” “Yeah, what happened, is he okay?” Biting your lip, fighting back tears, “your son has passed on twelve twenty am.”

“What? How?”

“He suffered from patent ductus arteriosus”

“no no no, that can't be possible.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The mother broke down in tears. Her screams could be heard by the whole floor, walking out of the maternity ward, the screams still playing in your mind, stopping by a pillar. You rest your back on the pillar, closing your eyes as tears threaten to spill, hugging your body for comfort. After a few seconds of solitude you hear the familiar tapping of a cane, opening your eyes you see Greg House walking, as he reaches you he stops and stares, staring back at him “what?”

With no response he goes back to walking to wherever he was going.

After fifteen minutes of peace the screams of someone interrupt, sighing you decide to go up to the roof. Just as you were climbing the stairs, you reach the breakroom, opening your locker you take you alcohol flask, walking to the roof you sit down on the edge, taking in a deep breath, you open your flask and take a big sip after 15 minutes and a half empty flask you hear the door open, looking back you see House limping towards you.

“Why're you here?”

“You looked like you wanted to die down there, was hoping you didn’t.”

“Awwww, you care about me.”

“Considering you’re slurring, I would like to consider you’ve finished that flask.”

“No, there’s still some.” You shake the flask.

“ So what happened down there?”

“Oh, nothing important.”

“You were on the verge of tears, someone definitely died.”

“Why do you sound so sure?”

“The last time I saw you cry was when one of your patients had died.” he says affirmatively

“Maybe my mom died?”

“Your mom’s been dead for seven years”

“How'd you know?”

“I like snooping, so what's so special today?”

“Nothing just a NICU accident.”

“That's why you're crying?”

“You know what House, lemme tell you a story, sit down” you pat the spot next to you “your crippled leg must hurt.”

As he sat down, “So what's this story about?”

“About ten years ago, in my third year of medical school, I met a man with the prettiest grey eyes, like the clouds on a rainy day.”

“Where is this going?”

“Sush, so we get to talking and a few months into dating he proposes to me and I say yes” “Want some?” you push the flask towards him.

“Yes” he takes the flask from you.

“So anyways, we get married and a few months later I get pregnant, we were so happy”

“You were married?”

“A few months into the pregnancy I start noticing he had started to become distant with me, coming home later than usual, leaving early, talking about that one new nurse that started working at the hospital, so one day i decide to visit him in the hospital, going around the hospital I couldn’t find him so I start to go back when I hear voices in a broom closet and when i open it, I see him and the new nurse he kept talking about, eating eachothers faces.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He notices tears welling in your eyes.

With a shaky voice and a tight chest you continue, “so we had an argument and then he apologised and I thought everything would go back to normal, but it did not, we started to fight more he started to act weird and one day we have a huge argument like plate smashing and yelling, the argument gets so big he threatens to kill himself. We’re standing in the kitchen, he's holding a knife to his neck, i'm standing a few feet away from and we’re yelling and suddenly he cuts his neck, blood spraying everywhere the stress from the event puts me into early labour, I somehow manage to call 911 and then everything was a blur.”

“You are going to regret this in the morning.”

“The next thing I remember is holding my dead baby in my arms.”

He was rendered speechless.

“That's why I was crying, do you miss Stacy?”

Taken aback by the sudden question, he looks at you “yeah, why?”

“I miss him a lot, I loved him and he had to love me, somewhere sometime between the cheating and lying.”

“Stop” he gets up “you’re drunk.”

You smile at him, “I'm sad.”

“Aren’t we all sad?”

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

fin

[drabbles-mc]

At Least

Greg House x James Wilson

Written for the 2024 Hurt/Comfort Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, drug use

Words: 2.4k

A/N: wrote this for an exchange and i finally get to post it here! if there are any house md fanfic readers on tumblr, i hope you enjoy! 🫡

“So no one has heard from House?” Wilson asked as he stood in the doorway of the lab.

Everyone was shaking their heads, giving their version of, “No,” as an answer. None of them were looking at him at first, though, too wrapped up in the tests that they were doing. It wasn’t until Foreman realized that Wilson was still lingering in the doorway that he looked away from what he was actually doing. He still didn’t say anything, instead just giving Wilson a pointed look, eyebrows raised.

Wilson took the cue. “And that wasn’t concerning to…anyone?”

Foreman laughed, one that was more cruel than it was humorous. “Why would it be concerning? When is House not avoiding doing work at all costs? Why do you think we’re all here and he’s not?”

Wilson was trying not to take the bait, trying to keep his voice even. “But you haven’t heard anything? Not even a phone call just to distract you?”

“Nothing,” Foreman confirmed with a shake of his head.

Wilson sighed. “Right.”

He wanted to have more to say, but he came up empty. Instead, he finally turned and headed back out the door to leave the rest of them to their work. Work that House had assigned to them and not bothered to follow up on. That was as strange as any of it. Even if he didn’t really care how the patient was doing, even if he knew in the back of his head that his team wouldn’t have an answer yet, he’d still follow-up. Most times he did it just to chastise them, but it was still a follow-up. The silence was making Wilson uneasy.

The rest of House’s team was going to be trapped in the lab for the foreseeable future, no matter how late it was. Wilson wasn’t resigned to the same fate, though. He promptly headed back to his office to grab his jacket and the rest of his things, and then started for the parking lot to leave. There was a split second when he got into his car when he lied to himself, told himself that he was going home. But once he got to the first stoplight, he knew that he had to give up the act. Throwing his directional on, he turned and started to make his way towards House’s place.

He saw the motorcycle parked out front and that gave him a tiny shred of comfort. At least he was probably home. Once he found a spot to park his car, Wilson quickly made his way towards House’s front door. He was digging his keys out as he walked, but he still stopped at the door and knocked out of courtesy. Something House wouldn’t know anything about.

After a second round of knocking Wilson used his key. He announced himself as he pushed the door open. “Let the record show that I did try knocking.”

He walked deeper inside, looking at the living room as he did. Nothing really seemed out of place. There were a couple takeout boxes on the table, but that was about as normal as it got with him. The television was on, the volume low but still audible. The frown on Wilson’s face grew deeper as he continued to wind his way from one room to the next. When he didn’t see House in the kitchen he knew that there was only one place that he would likely be, and Wilson was afraid of what he might be walking into.

The bathroom door was ajar, and he could see the light creeping out through the gap. He found himself taking deep breaths as he got closer. He was trying to steady himself, prepare himself for whatever might be on the other side of the door. He reached forward, resting his fingertips against the door, ready to push it open. Instead, he pulled his hand back, closing it into a fist, raising it getting ready to knock.

“Don’t you dare knock on that door,” House called out from the other side, voice raspy with pain and exhaustion.

The breath that Wilson let out turned into something that almost resembled a laugh. Nothing about the situation was funny, per se, but there was humor to be found in the relief. The lack of House’s incessant childlike behavior and sarcasm were what alerted Wilson’s concern in the first place. To hear it, even if he was on the receiving end of it, was a relief. Nothing could ever be simple with House.

Wilson pushed the door open to find House sitting on the floor. He was contorted in a way that didn’t look like it could be comfortable at all.  But then again, House lived in discomfort, so he wondered if the bizarre position on the floor really made anything that much worse.

There was a sheen of sweat across House’s forehead, the collar of his t-shirt slightly darker than the rest of the fabric from the sweat on his neck. He was leaning back against the side of the tub, one arm braced against the toilet bowl’s edge.

“So you at least heard me knocking at the front door, then,” Wilson said as he stepped into the bathroom.

“Yeah,” House winced as he tried to shift positions, “and I didn’t answer. Most people would take that as a hint to go away.”

“Most people,” Wilson walked and crouched down in front of him, “wouldn’t be wondering if you were dead or just on a bender in here.”

House lifted his hands lamely in lieu of not wanting to expend the energy to hold his arms out. “Not dead.”

“I see that.” Wilson looped his arm underneath House’s, getting himself ready to bring House back up to his feet. “Doesn’t even look like a fun bender, either.”

House managed a chuckle as Wilson practically dragged him up to his feet. He tried to use his good leg to assist, but the drugs had him strung out in a way that even when he was trying to help it wasn’t doing either of them much good.

“It was fun at first,” House said when the two of them were finally, somewhat safely, upright. “I don’t know how we ended up here.”

“Imagine that,” Wilson said, sarcasm coating each word, “having a hard time remembering things while you’re on drugs.”

“I’m on drugs all the time and my memory is fantastic.”

Wilson knew better than to give House the debate that he was looking for but he still did. That was always the crux of their relationship—Wilson knowing better but giving in to House anyway. “You’re not on these drugs all the time.”

“You don’t even know—”

“Oh come on,” Wilson said, exasperated as they crossed the threshold into House’s bedroom. “Don’t give me that. Like I don’t know.”

“That why you came over. You just knew?”

Wilson plopped House down on the edge of his bed rather unceremoniously. Wilson wanted to be childish, to turn this back on House. He wanted to flip the script, tell House that now he was the one who knew exactly why things were happening, why they were in the situation that they were. It was worry, of course. There was always going to be worry. But there was something else too. That was the part that House knew but never talked about.

“Your team said it had been a suspiciously long time since you last harassed them,” Wilson said instead. “Figured I should stop by. Not often you give up the opportunity to be a giant pain in their ass.”

House chuckled because he knew that Wilson was right. The two of them sat on the edge of House’s bed for a moment, close enough for the outsides of their legs to be pressed against each other. Wilson had his hands clasped in his lap, head hung low as he studied the way his fingers were interlocked. It wasn’t anything interesting but it kept him from staring intensely at the man sitting on the bed beside him.

He wasn’t looking at Wilson either, not at first. His gaze was completely focused on the floor beneath their feet. He felt him starting to lean too far forward, and while he knew that Wilson would catch him if he went too far, he managed to catch himself first. His hands landed just above his knees, fingers gripping and arms locking out just in time. It kept him from falling, and the feeling of his fingers slipping between the outside of his thigh and the outside of Wilson’s got Wilson to turn and look at him.

Wilson almost pulled away out of reflex but then he remembered where they were. What would the point of it have been? He cleared his throat, looking back and forth between House’s face and his hand. “Did it help, at least?”

House scoffed, giving a small shake of his head. “Yeah, I’m cured. That’s why you had to pick me up off the bathroom floor and drag me across my apartment.”

Wilson rolled his eyes before letting his gaze drop back down to his hands in his lap again. “No, I had to pick you up off the bathroom floor because you’re strung out on drugs. I meant did it at least help with the pain? At all?”

“Why? If I say yes are you going to give me a pass to do—”

“I’m asking because, surprisingly, for some reason unknown to me or anyone on the face of this planet, I care about what happens to you. I care even if you don’t.”

House’s expression sobered up for a moment even if the rest of him didn’t. Sighing, he said, “It’s already coming back.” He saw the wounded puppy-dog look in Wilson’s eyes and he knew that he was in no place for whatever platitudes he was about to get hit with. Stopping them before they started, he switched up his tone and said, “The high was fun for a while, though.”

It worked. Wilson’s shoulders dropped and so did the topic. Placing his hands on the edge of the mattress, Wilson stood up off the bed and started walking towards the bedroom door without another word.

House wouldn’t really be able to blame him for leaving. He wasn’t giving Wilson any reason to think that he wanted him to stay. Still, despite all of that, he called after him, “Just going to go, then?”

Wilson shook his head but didn’t turn around. “Wouldn’t make it that easy for you.”

House watched until he’d disappeared out of sight. With a deep sigh and more effort than it maybe should’ve taken, he shimmied himself farther back onto the bed. He didn’t put the effort in to get under the covers, but just being able to sink back down against the pillows was a relief. His leg being welcomed by the soft mattress instead of the hard tile floor of his bathroom was another bonus, too.

When Wilson walked back into the bedroom, he had a glass of water in one hand while he was loosening his tie with the other. He handed the glass of water to House, pulling his tie off over his head once he had both hands free. He tossed it off to the side before undoing the top two buttons on his shirt.

“Water with no pills to wash down?” House goaded.

Wilson raised his eyebrows as he undid the buckle of his belt. “I don’t think you need to be taking anything else at this point. No more washing down. Just worry about,” he gestured vaguely, “washing out.”

House had to chuckle quietly at that. He took a sip from the glass in his hands as he watched Wilson set his belt out of the way too once he’d removed it. He sat down on House’s side of the bed before leaning down to untie his shoes—small comforts but nothing large like having clothes there to change into or borrowing anything of House’s. Once they were off he sighed and got up to walk around to the other side of the bed. It was his side but neither of them ever really called it that. He sank down on the mattress and mirrored House’s position—not under the covers but still slouched back against the headboard.

After taking another sip of water from the glass that Wilson had given him, House set it on the nightstand beside his bed. Sinking down a little farther on the bed, he looked over at Wilson and waited for him to do the same.

Wilson didn’t hesitate long enough for it to really prove whatever point he wanted it to. Sinking down he let himself face House. The light was on but neither of them seemed bothered enough by it to get up to turn it off.

House resituated himself, looking up at the ceiling instead of over at Wilson. He could still feel the way that the other man was looking at him though. Letting his eyes close, he asked, “Just going to lay there and stare at me all night?”

Wilson’s lips twitched into a tired smile for a moment. “That is the level of attention you usually want from me.”

House smiled too. “Doesn’t mean you need to be so obvious about it.”

He could’ve gone home. Or he could’ve slept on the couch instead. House was at least going to make it through the night without any further issues as long as he didn’t get out of bed and get into something else. And, judging by how much Wilson had to help him get to the room, he had the inclination that House wasn’t going to be getting up and going much of anywhere until late the following morning. The aftermath of this wasn’t going to be worth whatever momentary relief he got from it—it never did. But it never stopped him, and it never stopped Wilson from showing up.

Instead of coming up with another line of banter, Wilson reached over with one arm, draping it across House’s pillow above his hand. His fingers just barely brushed through the other man’s hair, but Wilson could tell that he felt it. By morning his slacks would be wrinkled and his other arm would be wrapped around House’s middle keeping them wrapped tightly together. But for now, Wilson just waited, and watched, and pretended that he wasn’t fighting off the same sleep that House slipped into so easily now that he was there.

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

[zvdvdlvr]

— late night therapy?

🩻 synopsis. late night conversation, greg wants to know why you’re with him of all people.

🩻 warnings. suggestive content, foul language.

“Why do you like me?” 

Y/n looked up from her book. “What?” 

“I’m old. I’m a cripple. I… literally have two friends and no people skills. I know my amazing fashion sense and long, hard wood is enticing, but by golly, if those are your only standards-“ 

Y/n closed her book. She noticed the television was off, Greg had been clearly been thinking about this for awhile. Not only that, but his jaw was clenched, and his left eye was just slightly narrowed- all indicators of (over)thinking. “Besides the fact your ruggedly handsome and extremely masculine voice makes me purr like a motorcycle?”

At least y/n’s comment made Greg crack a smile. “Yes, besides the obvious,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side.

“Because… you’re one of the only people who calls me out when I’m wrong. One of the only people who can put up with me. One of the only people who makes me laugh, with your morbid, dry, perverted humor,” y/n listed. 

House turned these over in his mind. Why, though? Why would such an amazing, smart, sexy wonderful woman settle for an old cripple? “Wilson thinks you could do better,” he drawls, not actually knowing if Wilson thinks this. 

“Do you care what they think?” Y/n asks, quick to notice the change in Greg’s voice. The way his eyebrows furrow, his Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes narrow even more.

No. “Do you?” 

“I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you,” y/n shrugs. “You’ve always got me, if that’s what you’re thinking about. I can’t imagine my future without you in it, I guess.” Y/n tried her best to play of the sentiment, but Greg was already smiling widely at her statements. 

“Is this, like, a hint? Am I supposed to propose now?” Greg asks, tapping his finger to his chin. 

“Oh so you’ve got a ring?”

Scoffing, House looks away from y/n’s piercing eyes. “Oh, shut up, you.”

“Make me,” y/n’s teases. 

Greg tsks. “I would but I’m pretty sure my hobble steps would immediately turn you off. As fast as a light switch.”

“Oh goody, does that mean if I go over there I get to be on top tonight?” Y/n asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Get over here and see, you weirdo,” Greg chuckles, opening his arms for a woman he knows would place her faith in him forever, even if he knew he didn’t deserve it.

[that-anxious-enby]

why are there non-smutty hilson fics? if i wanted to see 2 old men live together, flirt, and have intense homoerotic tension with no payoff, id just watch the show???

[realbeefman]

house would put a tracker on wilson’s car to monitor where he is at all times but. then wilson would find out and start purposefully fucking with him. como he’ll leave the tracker in the parking lot of a strip club while he goes grocery shopping and then watch house lose his mind later over why wilson went to the strip club and didn’t invite house along

[gigireece16]

my parents

[gegewrites]

Dr.house- working after hours. (Smut)

Currently obsessed with this man, he’s been in my dreams for the past 4 days. Barely edited. I’m not a Med student, I’m a film kid. So my two hours of spotty research are prob not all that right.

5/21/23

Your pov-

It was about twelve am, maybe even one. I was sitting in Dr.Houses office. Seated directly in his chair, my elbows resting on the glass top desk, my chin sitting on top of my hands as I looked down at the file in front of me.

Our current patient, Craig Sanders, forty-five, male. He travels often for work. Earlier today he had a heart attack at home, in the garage. Pronounced dead for 7 minutes. Gotta be some kind of record. He’s loosing vision and feeling in his limbs, loss of memory but none of it stays. It comes and goes.

Because I had clinic duty today I didn’t get to fully focus on the patient, only for the beginning. I got to view the scans quickly but was paged to the clinic, so now I’m catching up.

I didn’t look up when the glass door opened, it knew it was house because who else would just walk into a office that has its blinds closed, let alone at 1 am.

“In my chair, now I really can’t ignore you.” He commented, I gave a light scoff as ket my eyes at the paper, not really reading it, just thinking,”shouldn’t you be home?”

“Shouldn’t you?” I looked up at him. he was standing in front of the desk, leaning on his left leg, his grip of his cane shifting, he gazed down at the file in front of me.

“Touché.” He stood for a few seconds longer before we walked away. I didn’t watch him, but I heard his bottle of whiskey open as he poured it into a glass.

“How much sense does this case make to you?” I asked, leaning back in the chair, we was leaning against the desk behind me glass in hand,”his heart is finally semi stable, so It’s not having sn effect of anything at the moment, but , his brains loosing funct-“

“I think I’d be able to think better if you got out of my chair, hiked that pretty skirt up, and sat down on me.” He clicked his tongue,”Should really get my brain going.”

I was kind of taken by surprise, house and I have fucked more times then you can count on one hand. In The Broom closets, his car, his house, on his piano, but never in his office.

I knew from the moment I walked into the office today this skirt was gonna get him. pencil skirt, stopped just above my knees. A dark grey so you could see any lines, which he didn’t. I caught him looking on more then one occasion.

Earlier/11 am-

Houses Pov-

My grip on the head of my cane shifted as I watched (l/n) write on the board. Her writing on the board was fine, she’s been here for nine years, she knows what she’s doing and she picked up this patient. But, I couldn’t keep my eyes in the board or my attention on foreman, Cameron, or chase. No, my eyes and brain were more focused on her ass. I’d occasionally look the board or around to cover it but I kept getting pulled back.

Pencil skirt, Dark grey, tight…and short.

It’s not like she hasn’t worn pencil skirts before, I’ve seen her with one hiked up around her waist as she gets it from behind. first “date” two years ago actually. Wine Red. Nice color on her.

You see this one, this one was different. usually you can see panty lines under tight clothing like dresses or skirts, she’s usually got a slight thong line, and I’ve been looking for it.

“What do you think?” I was taken out by (l/n) question. I looked at her, hands sturdily placed in her hips, and I looked at the white board.

Memory loss, weakened heart muscles, low blood cell count, numbness in fingers and toes, and loss of eye sight, intermittently.

Those were just the main ones.

“EKG, stress test, keep an eye on his ECGs.” I stood up,” get all the cardiac makers. Dementia, Alzheimer’s, and multiple sclerosis. Let’s start there.” They didn’t move, just looked at me,”move, I have to get to the clinic or Cuddy will have my balls.”

“Alright.” Foreman said as he got up from his chair, Cameron and chase followed. (l/n) stuck around for a bit and looked at the board before she followed.

“Hey.” I called to catch her attention, she stopped and looked at me,”that new?”

“What?”

“The skirt, it’s nice.” I let my eyes fall from her face to her hips, where her black button up was tucked in. She grabbed her white coat from the chair at the end of the table.

“Thank you.” She smiled as she turned around,”I saw you looking the whole time,” she started to walk away,”we all saw.”

“Hard not too, especially when it seems like youre not wearing anything under it.” I followed her into my office, she was already at the open door.

“I am, it’s just thin.”

Now-

Your pov-

“Perfect, just Fuckin perfect.” He groaned, relaxed into the rolling chair, his hands placed on my waist. His finger tips pressed in and out of my clothed skin. My pussy was clenched around his cock, buried inside of me as I was sitting tightly on his lap. My thong moved to the side. The record player was on, playing one of his blues records, mainly instrumental.

He popped two of his Vicodin right before he yanked up my skirt, he was definitely enjoying all of this right now. The door wasn’t locked, but the blinds were closed. A little risky considering Wilson is still around, his wife is gonna be mad when he gets home but he’s got reports to do.

I went to rock my hips to get some pleasure but his grip stopped me.

“Greg.” I sighed out and he hummed, pressing his chest against my back.

“Just sit, go over the information.” His hands ran up my shirt, over my breasts as he started unbuttoning it, exposing my skin and black bra. His lips kissed my neck, his beard tickling my skin as he untucked my shirt from my skirt,”you changed a hair product.”

“My conditioner.” I answered as I switched between tests, comparing and contrasting, trying to make things fit.

He stopped talking after that, running his hands up and down my sides, grazing over fabric and my skin.

I drowned out into the music and the feeling of his cock deep inside me, the littlest shift and he’s rubbing into my gspot. He was relaxed back into the chair, glass of whiskey in his hand as the other held onto my waist.

I looked over to the light board, scans of his heart and brain trying to pick it apart from where I was seated…at least I was. I stopped paying attention when I felt his hand slip from my waist, down to my thigh. His middle finger slipped through my lips and started slowly rubbing my clit in a circular motion.

“Please don’t stop.” I begged out in a breath.

“But what’s the fun in that?” He leaned forward, putting his glass in the desk while making sure he was pressed firmly inside me, making a pitiful whimper leave my mouth,”look at his temporal and parietal lobe in the lateral view,” he turned the chair, I grabbed onto the arms,” along with his cerebellum in the inferior view. Look hard.”

“It’s dying, we know that.” My voice had a slight shiver to it, my legs were also starting to tremble, he still hasn’t stopped rubbing my clit.

“Why?” He started rubbing harder, I was getting wetter, my walls fluttering around him, I stayed nearly silent, besides the small gasps which were starting to turn into moans,”he’s started loosing control of his limbs, impulsive reflex’s cause by the brain, loss of vision intermittently, why?”

“Brain death?” My eyes shot from the lateral view to his inferior view,”His brain stem…he had a heart attack a-alone….” My breathing became deeper,”took the family two minutes to get to him, another five before the para-Ah fuck- medics came.” I answered,”the brain lost oxygen when his heart stopped.”

“Alright, keep going.” He rocked his hips up into me, being extra sure to use his good leg only. Now I was feeling it, my hips started rocking down onto him, his finger was moving fast and hard, I could feel my mind slipping from me.

“There’s no-othing we can do.” I kept the moan that was trying to escape out, wouldve felt wrong saying it with a moan.

“Sure it’s brain death?”

“Yes greg.” My eyes closed on their own, my back arched slightly. He stopped moving, completely,”fuck, come on.” He grabbed into my waist, keeping me still.

“You wanna cum, then give me the right answer, his brain is going to die if you don’t. Key word, going. It hasn’t yet.” He spoke close to my ear,”this is why clinic duty sucks, you get lost in the progress of a patient.”

“What?”

“He had a heart attack, we know that. The heart attack is not closely connected to this, so get that out of your head.” His tone was stern,”he’s slowly declining at the moment, recount his history, what does he do for work?” My eyes shifted around as I thought,”is your brain going dead by how deep my cock is inside of you? Should I take it out? Let you think?”

“No!” I yelped out,” he travels for business but he gets his shots.”

“Not all.” He reached to the desk and then handed me the folder whilst pulling me flush against his chest, his palm pressed to my lower stomach as I flipped through to find his travel history,”were was he a few months ago?”

“Mexico.”

“What vaccine is he missing?”

“I don’t know.”

“He got sick in Mexico, had what seemed like a cold, so he was required to get a flu vaccine by his work. It’s not on the list he didn’t feel like he needed to list it.” I blinked a few times.

“So it’s from the vaccine?” The recorded fades out and started playing a new song. He grabbed his glass of whiskey.

“Ding ding.” He threw back the rest of the glass and put it on the desk,” AMAN, found mostly in children. It causing damage to the nerve fibers, which instead of staying in his limbs, progressed to his brain-“

“Which was set off by the heart attack? Being dead for that amount of time set off his immune system?” He rolled his hips into me.

“What do we have to do?” He took the file from me and put it back on the desk,”we don’t act within the next 2 hours, he’s gonna die”.

“His brain is being paralyzed which is mimicking it dying,.plasmapheresis or IVIG, remove the antibodies from the blood.” His finger went back to my clit, regaining the speed and pressure from before.

“Perfect.” He started moving my hips so I started moving them faster, rocking up and down,”oh fuck.”

It felt like electricity was shooting up my spine, simply having his cock inside me gets me so worked up. Moans left my mouth with no warning or control. Slick coated the inside of my thighs and the sounds coming from where we were connected were obscene, but they turned me on even more.

“Gotta start doin’ this to you more, so fucking wet.” He groaned,”Fuckin squeezing me,”

I couldn’t respond, just nodded quickly while ecstasy started taking over my body, my nerves felt like they were on fire. I just kept riding him , my brain focused on finally reaching my climax.

“Greg, m’ close.” I sighed out and he let out a throaty groan. his breathing became a bit faster and so did my movements.

“I can feel it.” His index finger joined his middle finger as he rubbed my clit harshly and quickly,”I know you’re there so just let go. Cum all over my Fuckin cock like I know you want to.”

“Perfect!” I moaned out as my muscles tightened, my grip on the arms of the chair were tight, knuckles turning white. I threw my head back, my eyes were clamped shut, my movements started slowly so he took hold of my hips and kept my pace for me, even with the lack of pleasure to clit, my orgasm was still running through me.

I felt his cock start twitching, his groans becoming louder and more noticeable.

“Hope you took the pill this morning.” He commented, his nails digging into my skin as he finally came. Spilling deep inside of me, keeping most of his cock inside as he filled me up.

Soon he stopped moving me, kept me sat on his lap as his arms wrapped around my waist, holding his hands together as I grabbed one of his wrists. We were both catching our breath in the dim lit office. My body had a tremble to it, and he placed a kiss against my shoulder.

“I’d love to sit here and savor the feeling of your amazing pussy, but I have to clear a businessman’s blood so his brain can start working again.”

I let out a sigh as I shakily got off of him, his cock slid out of me and immediately I felt his cum drip down the inside of my thighs. I grabbed the edge of the desk as he fixed my thong and pulled my skirt back down. I turned around and leaned against the desk as he stood up fixing his boxers and pants.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he grabbed his cane and started walking away,”we’ll go to my house tonight.”

He left me with that, the door closed behind him and he walked away to the patients room. I sat down in the chair, my thighs pressing together and my head resting on the head of the chair. I don’t think working after hours is gonna be such a bad thing anymore.

[alilixx]

Heyy could u write a greg house x reader

Shes a doctor or prob a surgeon and its like season 1 ep 13 , she gets sick and needs a heart transplant or something like that but she doesn’t want to then house convinces her coz he likes her and house lies for her so she can get the transplant and they used to flirt before and all but after that they confess about liking each other and start dating ☺️ thanks

IM SOO SORRYYY SCHOOL STARTED AGAINNN SOO LESS TIME FOR WRITE FANFIC BUT I WILL TRY WRITE FOR EVERY WEDNESDAY AND WEEKEND <33

Surgeon!FemReader x Gregory House

You had already noticed unusual signs for several weeks. At first, it was just fatigue. Nothing more. You convinced yourself it was due to your endless hours in the operating room, those sleepless nights that kept piling up. Just a bit of exhaustion, something every surgeon knows well. But the palpitations intensified, followed by slight dizziness, then that crushing sensation in your chest, as if your own heart was fighting against you. You eventually ran a series of tests, discreetly, hoping it was nothing.

But the results didn’t lie: severe dilated cardiomyopathy. Your heart, your most precious instrument, the one that allowed you to save lives day after day, was betraying you. But you refused to believe it.

Today, as you sat in House’s office, surrounded by his diagnostic team, you were desperately searching for a way out, an alternative explanation. Something that would prove this was all a mistake. After all, you were a doctor, you knew diagnoses were never infallible.

"I want your opinion," you finally said, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from what was coming next. "I did my own tests, but I want to be sure. Maybe I'm too involved to see things clearly."

House looked up, intrigued by your direct tone. "Too involved? You mean, too much in denial."

Cameron stepped forward to review your results, her eyes scanning every detail. "The echocardiograms clearly show dilatation of the heart chambers. You already have a heart murmur, you’ve felt it, haven’t you?"

You frowned, hesitating to respond. Of course you had felt it. But admitting it would make everything more real.

"I want to believe it’s something else," you murmured, your voice betraying, for the first time, a hint of vulnerability. "I’m a surgeon. I can’t... afford to have a failing heart."

Foreman shook his head, pragmatic as always. "You can’t afford not to act either. If you let this get worse, you won’t even have the chance to enter the operating room next time."

You looked away, your throat tight. Fear was rising inside you, a fear you hadn’t felt in a long time. You had always been able to control everything, every incision, every move. But now, it was your own body slipping through your fingers.

House, as always, wasted no time twisting the knife.

"It’s fascinating. You’d rather believe that all this will resolve itself, as if your heart is just going to miraculously decide to heal. Spoiler alert: it won’t." He tilted his head, scrutinizing your face. "But I’m curious. Why consult my team if you’ve already done the tests yourself? Looking for validation or an excuse to do nothing?"

His sarcasm irritated you, but you knew he was right. "Because I want... I want to be sure."

"Sure of what? That you’re dying? Let me confirm it for you, you are. Now that’s settled, we can move on to the next step: you’re refusing the only solution that could save you because you’re afraid of losing control. Interesting, but not surprising."

"I’m not afraid," you retorted, more to convince yourself than to answer him.

House didn’t believe you for a second. He moved closer, leaning his cane against the edge of his desk.

"You’re lying to yourself." His gaze pierced through yours, as if he could see past all your defenses. "You’ve seen how many transplants fail. But you’ve also seen how many succeed. So why condemn yourself when you know you have a chance to make it?"

Silence fell over the room. His words struck you deeper than you wanted to admit. You had spent months running from this reality, pretending it was just a passing episode. But here you were, sitting in front of specialists who left you no escape. That’s when House chose to play his final card.

"I’m going to ask you a very simple question." He sat back behind his desk, tapping the file of his favorite patient: you. "Do you want to die just to stay loyal to your own arrogance? Or do you want to live long enough to annoy me even more?"

You felt a strange warmth rising to your cheeks. House hadn’t spoken those words with his usual cynicism. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you knew he genuinely cared about you. And that thought unsettled you more than anything else.

You lowered your eyes to your trembling hands. You were a surgeon, a strong person. Yet, for the first time in a long while, you felt vulnerable. And House had seen it from the very beginning.

The silence in House’s office was heavy after the intense discussion about your condition. The diagnosis was now certain: a heart transplant was your only chance. Yet, one question remained, one that had been haunting you. If you were really going to undergo this operation, there was only one person you trusted enough to put your life in their hands: House.

So, in a rare moment of vulnerability, you took a deep breath and asked the question you had been dreading from the start.

"I want it to be you. You’ll be my surgeon."

The team exchanged stunned glances. House, however, remained silent for a moment, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you. Then he let out a dry laugh.

"Me? No. Bad idea. Very bad idea."

You frowned, stung by his reaction. "Why? You’re one of the best doctors I know."

House straightened up, pressing his cane against the floor before fixing you with an unusually serious look. "I’m not a surgeon. I diagnose. I play with ideas, I take risks, but I don’t hold a scalpel over living patients. I don’t do surgeries."

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He was so confident, so skilled at solving impossible cases, and yet, here in front of you, he seemed hesitant. You stepped closer to him, determined to understand.

"Are you afraid of messing up?" you asked, your voice low but sharp.

House let out a sarcastic laugh, but you sensed a certain nervousness behind his tone. "No, I’m afraid of killing someone because of my damn leg and my trembling hands. If you want someone to do this surgery without screwing it up, ask a real surgeon."

His rejection hurt you deeply. You had opened up to him, and he was pushing you away without a moment’s hesitation. You felt anger rising within you, mixed with the pain of a feeling you didn’t want to name.

"I thought I could trust you," you whispered, your eyes burning with disappointment. "But I see I was wrong."

Before he could respond, you turned on your heels and left the office, leaving House and the team behind. The sound of your footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as you walked towards your own uncertain future. Your heart was pounding painfully, both physically and emotionally. He had rejected you when you had offered him your fragile trust.

A few days later, you found yourself in the pre-op room, your face calm, but your mind in turmoil with conflicting emotions. You had finally accepted the transplant, even though it terrified you. Another surgeon had been assigned for the operation, a competent colleague, but not House. His refusal still haunted you, the abrupt way he had pushed you away, as if your life meant nothing to him.

The medical team busied themselves around you, but all you could hear was a dull hum, lost in your thoughts. An anesthesiologist approached, and as you lay down on the operating table, a strange sense of calm washed over you.

Then, in the haze of preparation, something caught your attention. A voice, familiar, behind the masks and caps.

"Start the anesthesia. We’re going ahead with the transplant."

You weakly opened your eyes. It was House.

Your heart skipped a beat, as if, even before the surgery, he already knew how to unsettle you. You tried to move, to speak, but the anesthesia was already taking effect. Everything became blurry, but you heard his voice clearly, that deep, slightly rough voice that comforted you despite yourself.

"Sleep now, it'll be fine. You’ll be alive to yell at me later."

Then total darkness.

You woke up in a hospital room. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, and you felt a dull ache in your chest. But more than that, you felt your heart beating. A new heart. A strange sensation, both comforting and unsettling.

You slowly turned your head, and to your surprise, you saw House sitting in the corner of the room, his gaze fixed on you. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes locked on yours with a new intensity, almost worried.

"I knew you were stubborn, but you really outdid yourself this time," he said, without a hint of humor.

You looked at him, still too weak to speak. Then, slowly, you remembered what had happened before the surgery. He had refused. You had been hurt. But now, he was here.

"You... operated on me?" you finally murmured, your voice hoarse.

House gave a slight nod, avoiding your gaze for a moment. "Yeah. I didn’t really have a choice, apparently. Everyone’s incompetent except me." But there was something else in his voice, an unspoken admission.

You tried to sit up, but the pain in your chest made you wince. House immediately stood up and moved closer to you. "Take your time. Don’t be stupid."

You stared at him, still in shock from what you had just discovered. "Why? Why did you do it when you said you didn’t want to?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because..." He paused, searching for the right words. That wasn’t like him. "Because I couldn’t let another surgeon kill you. If someone was going to save you or lose you, it had to be me."

He looked straight into your eyes, and this time, you saw the fear behind his usual cynicism. The fear of losing you, the fear of failing. It wasn’t just about the surgery, it was about feelings, the ones he didn’t want to admit, but which were so clear in that suspended moment.

"You were scared," you said softly, a slight smile on your lips. House looked away, grumbling. "I’m not afraid of anything. I’m just smarter than everyone else."

But you knew. You knew he had taken this risk because he cared about you, even if he would never say it outright. You placed your hand on his, a simple gesture, but one that spoke for you. And, against all odds, he didn’t pull his hand away.

The days following the surgery were filled with moments of uncertainty and relief. Each steady beat of your new heart was a promise that life would go on, a victory against fate. But something lingered, like a palpable tension between you and House. He came to see you almost every day, always with his usual sarcasm, but something had changed.

That morning, you woke up with the same familiar pain in your chest, but this time it was different — the pain of healing. You slowly sat up in your bed, observing the soft light filtering through the hospital curtains. Your body was still weak, but each day felt like a small victory. And despite the fatigue, you were more clear-headed than ever.

The door to your room opened gently, and of course, House walked in, leaning on his cane with that familiar limp you knew so well. He stared at you for a moment, as if assessing your condition, then casually remarked:

"How’s my favorite patient? Still alive, apparently."

You managed a smile, even though part of you still wondered why he could never be serious for more than a few seconds. "I’m doing well, Greg. And you know it."

He raised an eyebrow at the sound of his name. That wasn’t something you used often. Usually, you always called him "House," like everyone else.

He came closer and sat in the chair next to your bed, letting out a sigh. "Well, that’s good news. I would have hated to explain to the team that I messed up my best patient. That would be bad for my reputation."

You knew he used humor to mask something deeper. A silence settled in, almost comfortable, but filled with unspoken words.

"Why did you decide to operate on me?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. "I hurt you when I asked, but you did it anyway."

House looked away, as he often did when faced with a question that was too personal. He tapped his cane against the floor, searching for words or perhaps a way to sidestep the answer.

"It was a challenge. I couldn’t let another surgeon handle such a complex operation, especially on someone as annoying as you." He smiled, but his gaze betrayed something else, something more sincere. "And I guess I was a little afraid you’d slip away from me."

This confession took you by surprise. You knew House wasn’t the type to openly express his emotions, especially not with such direct words. You watched him in silence, your thoughts swirling. He had taken a huge risk by operating on you, not just medically, but emotionally.

"I’m not going to slip away from you, Greg," you murmured. "Not now."

His eyes settled on you, softer than usual. "Not now," he repeated, almost to himself.

Initially, it was supposed to be temporary. Just long enough for you to fully recover from the surgery, for your body to adjust to the new heart, and for you to be closely monitored, "just in case." House had insisted, almost casually, on this option.

"It would be stupid to leave you alone. If something goes wrong, I’d rather have you in my sight, not on the other side of town," he had said, as if the decision was purely pragmatic.

You had hesitated. Living at House's, even temporarily, seemed risky, given the complexity of your relationship. But somewhere, you felt that beneath his usual cynicism, he genuinely cared about you. So you had agreed, thinking it would last just a few days, maybe a week or two.

The first night at his place was strange. His apartment, which you had visited a few times before, felt more welcoming than you had imagined. A blend of old and modern, of perfectly organized chaos, typical of House. Medical books stacked everywhere, piano sheets scattered about, whiskey bottles casually left on the coffee table. You felt like an intruder in his space, but he made no effort to make you feel otherwise.

"Make yourself at home. I don’t have silk pillows or almond milk, but there’s unlimited Ibuprofen," he had said, settling onto his couch with a glass of whiskey.

That first night was calm. House kept an eye on you from the corner of his gaze, even though he pretended to be absorbed in an old documentary. Despite the strangeness of the situation, a certain serenity had settled in.

The next day, as you began to get used to this new arrangement, someone knocked at the door. You weren’t expecting visitors, especially not this early in the morning. House, already up (for once), went to open it, and you immediately recognized the familiar voice of James Wilson.

"Hey, House, I brought donuts. I wanted to talk to you about a case..." His voice cut off abruptly as he entered the living room and saw you sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in hand.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Wilson looked at you, then at House, then back at you, as if he had stumbled upon a scene he couldn’t quite comprehend.

"What the... ? What are you doing here?"

You gave a slight smile, a bit embarrassed, while House, completely unfazed, grabbed one of the boxes of donuts that Wilson had brought.

"She lives here. Well, temporarily," House replied before taking a bite out of a donut, as if the situation was perfectly normal.

Wilson stood there, speechless for several seconds. "You... you let her live with you? You?"

House shrugged. "It’s easier for post-operative monitoring. And besides, she’s not unbearable. Well, not all the time."

Wilson blinked, still in shock. He slowly sat down on a chair, setting down the other box of donuts. "That... that’s so unlike you, Greg."

"Well, maybe I’ve changed. Or maybe it’s just convenient." House made a dismissive gesture, but you could see that even for him, this situation was still new.

Wilson gave you a questioning look, searching for answers. You simply shrugged, an amused smile on your lips. "It’s temporary, really."

Wilson shook his head, clearly disturbed but also amused. "If you tell me he let you choose a movie last night, I think I’m going to faint."

You laughed lightly, and even House cracked a small smile, despite himself. The tension slowly faded, and Wilson relaxed, even though he continued to shoot you incredulous glances from time to time.

Days passed, and what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement stretched on longer than expected. There was no specific date for your departure, and House didn’t seem in a hurry to see you go. In fact, he even seemed to enjoy your presence, even if he categorically refused to admit it.

One evening, as you settled into the couch with a blanket over your knees, House sat down next to you without a word. He turned on the TV and flipped through channels until he found an old black-and-white movie. It had become a routine: you spent the evenings together, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging sarcastic comments about what you were watching.

It was in this tranquility that Wilson made his second appearance at House's place.

"I brought wine," he announced as he walked in, looking noticeably more comfortable with the situation this time.

You smiled, shifting a bit to make room for him. House raised an eyebrow. "Wine? Since when do you bring wine to my place?"

Wilson shrugged. "I thought we could celebrate... I don’t know, this strange normality?" He glanced at you as if to make sure everything was okay.

The evening went off without a hitch. The wine flowed, sarcasm flew, and Wilson, despite his more serious habits, allowed himself to be caught up in the relaxed atmosphere. The movies changed on the screen, but soon it was the discussions that took over.

"I have to say, I’m still surprised you let her stay," Wilson remarked, casting a glance at House.

House, lounging casually on the couch, responded without really looking at Wilson. "It’s not so bad. She doesn’t bother me too much. Unlike you."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I bring you wine, I do my best not to invade your space, and this is how you thank me."

You laughed, shaking your head. "He doesn’t know how to do anything else, James. You know him."

"That’s true," Wilson replied with a smile. "But anyway, I’m glad you’re recovering well. He seems to be taking good care of you."

You turned to House, who was clearly avoiding your gaze. "He’s doing what he can," you said softly, but with a smile in your voice.

House pretended not to hear, focusing on the television. But in his silences, you could feel that he was getting used to this new life.

Days passed, and what was supposed to be a temporary living arrangement quietly settled into a routine. Little by little, you had begun to integrate into House's daily life, and he, without a word, had allowed you to do so.

One evening, after a long day at the hospital, you got home before him. House had sent you a terse message: "I’ll be late. Bistro operation in the kitchen." You smiled at his words, already imagining what that meant.

Tired but determined not to let it get you down, you began rummaging through House's kitchen cabinets. He had everything, but nothing was in its place. A controlled chaos that, surprisingly, made sense to you. You grabbed some vegetables and an old skillet, determined to prepare something before his return. The kitchen was a place where you could lose yourself in simple tasks, away from the complexities of your work as a surgeon.

A few dozen minutes later, as you were focused on a sauce you were preparing, the door opened. House entered, looking tired but intrigued by the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

"Are you pretending to be a chef now?" he said as he approached you.

You smiled without turning around, continuing to stir the sauce. "I thought it would be a change from pizza boxes and whiskey."

House leaned in slightly to smell what you were making, nodding his head in approval. "I suppose that works for me. But if it’s bad, you’ll hear me complain for days."

You chuckled softly, knowing very well he meant it half-seriously. He made no attempt to push you away from the kitchen; on the contrary, he grabbed a knife and started slicing the bread, his movements precise despite the cane that always lingered nearby.

The scene was almost domestic. House, with his usual sarcasm, and you, focused on your sauce. You didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a certain peace in these simple moments. You sensed that he was getting used to this new dynamic, even though he was still incapable of admitting it out loud.

"I have to admit," he finally said, slicing a piece of bread, "you’re not doing too badly for a surgeon. Maybe it’s time to change careers."

You gave him an amused look. "You say that now, but just wait until you taste it."

"Oh, I fully intend to critique every bite."

He was smiling slightly, but you could feel the bond growing a little stronger with each shared meal, each simple task completed together.

It had been a long time since you had left the operating room, but you didn’t miss your home at all, and House understood that... well, House is House.

A few weeks later, after several similar evenings, you had finally made official what was happening between you. It hadn’t been a grand romantic declaration, far from it. As with everything involving House, things had evolved naturally, in a sort of unspoken agreement that was becoming clearer and clearer. One evening, as you were both settled on the couch, he had placed his hand over yours, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do you mind if we drop the ‘temporary’?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

You felt your heart race, even though the question was posed in that casual tone that characterized him. You squeezed his hand slightly in response, your smile overshadowing the answer you didn’t even need to say. Indeed, it was his way of asking you to be his girlfriend.

The following Monday, things were different, but not enough to shake up the universe of Princeton-Plainsboro. You had decided to keep nothing hidden, but without making it a topic of conversation. After all, it was impossible to hide anything from House’s team.

Wilson, of course, was the first to react. When he saw you enter the hospital together that morning, he furrowed his brow, an expression somewhere between amusement and surprise.

"So, it’s official? You finally made it official?"

True to form, House simply rolled his eyes. "Officially? If it makes you happy to label it that way, then yes."

Wilson smiled, a little too pleased with himself. "I knew this would happen, but I have to say, it’s impressive that you held out this long before admitting it."

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, amused by the dynamic between the two friends. "He has his moments of resistance," you added jokingly.

But the real test came when you arrived in the diagnostic room, where House’s team was already gathered. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman were discussing a new case, but they all looked up when you walked in together.

Chase was the first to react, his eternal smirk in place. "Oh, I see. That’s why we all stayed until midnight last week. You had ‘personal’ plans."

House stopped, crossing his arms with a piercing look. "You’re right, Chase. And if you keep talking, you’ll end up with the chore of sanding the autopsy room again. Unless, of course, you want to find yourself a social life."

Foreman cracked a playful smile while Cameron seemed half-surprised, half-envious. "So... you’re together?" she asked with a mix of shyness and curiosity.

You exchanged a glance with House. You hadn’t discussed how you were going to handle this with the rest of the team, but it seemed it was already out in the open.

"Yes," you replied simply, with confidence. "We’re together."

Without missing a beat, House added with a smirk, "But don’t worry. It’s not going to affect my desire to make your lives miserable."

You had gotten into the habit of cooking together from time to time, even though House continued to tease you about your culinary skills. You also spent many quiet evenings talking about everything and nothing or simply watching movies in silence.

One evening, as you were chopping vegetables in the kitchen, House approached you and set a glass of wine on the counter.

"Looks like we’ve become boring, huh?"

You laughed softly, setting down the knife. "If that’s what you call boring, I’m perfectly fine with that."

He looked at you, a smile softer than usual on his lips. "Well, as long as you’re okay with it, I guess I can get used to the boredom."

It was the first time he admitted, without sarcasm or dark humor, that he enjoyed this new life together. And you knew that behind his facade was a man deeply attached, even if he showed it in his own way.

[kittenlittle24]

Career day

GIF not mine, comment, like and reblog!

Masterlist

You were in the middle of a meeting when your assistant knocked on the door and gave you a note that your daughter’s kindergarten teacher was on the phone. Checking the time, you frowned, it was exactly pick-up time, meaning your husband still had half an hour to be considered late and if she was sick it was close enough for a parent to arrive that she wouldn’t call to update you about it.

You apologized to the present in the room and exited to take the call.

Thanking her before hanging up, you turned to your assistant, “Could you please clear the rest of my schedule? I have to pick up my daughter from the hospital after this meeting.”

Nodding, “Is she alright?”

“She is, her father won’t be for long.”

Stepping out of the elevator you marched straight to the glass-walled office. You saw your daughter sitting in the conference room, at the head of the table with the team surrounding her and the department head making a drink in the kitchenette, his back facing you. She was her dad’s spitting image, brunette, with light blue eyes and, a gorgeous bright smile, as opposed to him though, her smile rarely left her face, whereas he had a permanent scowl.

“Mommy!” The young girl called excitedly which made House turn sharply and grimace.

You entered the office and embraced your daughter who ran to you. You kissed her temple and told her to go wait in the adjacent office.

You stood up and crossed your arms, “You didn’t think her teacher would call me when a strange man comes to pick her up?”

He sat down at the table next to the blond doctor, “Chase isn’t a stranger. Wilson was busy so I couldn’t ask him.”

“Smartass, you’re her father, you are the one supposed to pick her up!”

Sighing, you shook your head before you went to your daughter. You grabbed her backpack and took her hand in yours. You were about to leave when he called after you, “That’s it?”

You turned to him, “I’m not in the mood to argue in front of your team.” You stated before you walked out.

You drove home with your kid in the back seat, you looked in the rearview mirror and smiled at your daughter.

She was staring out the window humming some tune from a cartoon her dad showed and you disapproved.

You were in the midst of making dinner when you heard the front door open and your daughter run to greet her father. You smiled slightly but lowered your head to hide it.

House walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water before he leaned against the doorway, “Are you still mad at me?”

You put your hand in the air to indicate a little bit before turning to take the food out of the oven and taking it to the table.

You both sat down in your usual seats, you and him across each other and your daughter between you, sitting at the head of the table.

She gave a piece of paper to House, who paused eating and asked “What is this?” With a mouthful.

“I have a career day tomorrow, I want you to come.”

Swallowing hard, he put down his fork and sat back in his chair.

“Don’t you want your mom to come?”

She shook her head animatedly, “Mommy’s job is boooring.” She replied stressing the o and making you chuckle.

He drew in a long breath, “No, now eat your dinner.” He stated as a matter of fact and continued eating.

She lowered her head before mumbling she was full and rushing to her bedroom.

“Greg!”

Ignoring you, he picked up the plates and took them to the sink.

You stood up and followed him, putting your hands on your hips as you watched him place the plates in the dishwasher.

He turned to face you and leaned against the counter.

You pointed your finger at him, “You need to start acting like her parent. You don’t pick her up, you spend endless hours at work. I love you and I love being married to you, but if you don’t start being a father to that girl, we’re done.” You warned and left him standing staring after you.

You entered your daughter’s room and sat down on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair and kissing her temple.

“Maybe Uncle James would like to come to career day, he’s a doctor too. I can call him now, he’d be so honored if you ask him. ”

She sniffed and shook her head, “I’m tired.”

Nodding, you kissed her forehead softly and wished her good night.

You shut the door quietly behind you, looking towards the living room, you saw him sitting on the couch, legs up on the table and a glass of bourbon in his hand. You sat down to him, took his glass, and downed it before dropping your head back on the backrest.

“She doesn’t need the kids picking on her for having a crippled dad.”

You turned your head to look at him, “She needs her dad to act like he gives a damn.”

He took the empty glass from you and picked the bottle from the coffee table and poured another finger.

“She doesn’t care about your leg, she idolizes you.“

And it was true, your daughter was convinced that House could do nothing wrong, he was her hero, ever since she was a baby, she was a daddy’s girl.

“She shouldn’t.” He whispered and drank his drink.

You sat up and rubbed his back, “But she does. So please, don’t screw up.”

You leaned to kiss the corner of his lips before you went to bed, he puckered his lips to kiss you back but didn’t turn his head, distracted by his thoughts.

The next morning you got up to make a quick breakfast and wake your daughter up, your husband stayed in bed which wasn’t unusual for him since he never went to work before ten am.

You helped her pick her clothes and get ready, brushed her hair, and braided it.

“I called Uncle James, he’s so thrilled.”

She sighed and nodded, making your heart clench.

You walked together to the kitchen to see House eating a bowl of cereal, wearing a suit.

You raised your eyebrows in surprise at seeing him awake but didn’t get the opportunity to question it before a knock was heard on the door.

House beckoned the little girl toward him with a quick hand movement while you went to open the door.

Wilson hugged you as he entered, he walked straight to the kitchen in search of the girl he considered a niece.

House pushed his bowl with the half-eaten cereal to his daughter and handed her the spoon before he stood up to greet his friend.

“Good Wilson, you’re right on time to drive us.”

“Us?”

Holding onto his thigh, House limped a few steps towards the two of you, “You’re taking the car, you don’t like it when I drive her on the bike and I definitely can’t walk with her to school; bum leg.” he stated and pointed to his leg as if you didn’t know about it.

Wilson sighed and moved to take a seat next to your daughter. You crossed your arms across your chest, eyebrows raised and lips in a straight line.

He closed the gap between you, kissed your cheek, and murmured in your ear, “Relax, I’m not going to screw this up.”

You grasped his bicep before he got the chance to pull back.

“Wilson stays in the class with you and makes sure you don’t get into trouble.”

He nodded, “Deal.”

Smiling you kissed his lips before you called, “Daddy is doing career day!”

Cheering, she jumped off the chair and ran to hug him.

You looked at Wilson who was smiling at the sight before looking at you, you signaled with your pointer and middle fingers in a V turned at you then at House in a watch him gesture.

He dropped his smile and nodded.

Upon reaching the classroom, the kids took their seats, House and Wilson sat in the back with the rest of the parents.

House leaned to whisper to his friend, “This is your last chance to steal my identity.”

“You don’t think your daughter will notice?”

The teacher called his name and with a frown at Wilson, he made his way to the front of the class.

Tapping his cane anxiously before centering it in front of his body, “I’m Dr. Gregory House. I’m the head of the diagnostic department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and most proudly,” he paused his introduction to look fondly at his daughter, “I’m this ankle biter’s dad.”

[michelle-is-writing]

Christmas, Dr. Gregory House

Word count: 1.8k~

Warnings: mention of sex, House being House

"It's a marshmallow world in the winter," I sing, stringing lights on my apartment's Christmas tree. "When the snow comes to cover the ground," I sing the next verse of Brenda Lee's song before turning toward Greg with a smile. Sitting on the couch, the salt and pepper haired man sips at a small glass of eggnog (with a shot of whiskey in it, no less) while staring at the tree with a bored look on his face. Even when he sees my smile, he still remains there with a frown.

"Greg," I state his name, his blue eyes flickering up to mine. Seeing that I have his attention, I smile. "Come help me set up the tree."

"Why? So we can just take it down two weeks later?" He asks, making me sigh, my smile now a frown to match his. I love Greg, but I absolutely hate his pessimistic views - and with it being the week of Christmas, I will not let his negative opinions ruin anything.

"Fine," I say to him, placing the string of lights down beside me. "If you don't want to do that, then do something else for me," He raises an eyebrow in question at me, waiting for me to finish. "Come dance with me."

All of a sudden, he breaks into a dry laugh before stopping all of a sudden with his usual frown. "Have you forgotten?" He asks me, holding his hands over his crippled leg. “Crippled, if you haven’t noticed.”

Rolling my eyes with a smirk, I nod at him. "How could I forget?" I ask him, "There isn't a moment that goes by that you don't use it to your advantage," with that, I let out a fake thoughtful sigh. "And there isn't a moment that goes by where I don't say 'no' to you on getting on top."

At my response, he tilts his head sideways while staring at me with squinted eyes like a child would if you teased them. At his behavior change, I smile once again before walking over to him by the couch. Serves him right for being a smart ass all the time, and finally, I said something he had no clap-back to.

"I don't want to break dance or anything like that," I tell him, taking his rough and big hands into my own smaller ones. "I just want to slow dance with you."

For once, he slowly smiles up at me before standing up with a little help from me. "Okay," He says, stumbling a bit as he tries to stand up straight without his cane. "We'll dance - but if I fall, I'm taking you down with me."

Giggling at him, I nod and kiss his lips for a short second before we wrap our arms around each other and start slow dancing. The next Brenda Lee song that comes on is a slower and sweeter song that I enjoy a lot. Greg on the other hand doesn't really care for anything Christmas, so he could give two thoughts less.

"Rockin' around the Christmas Tree at a Christmas party hop," I sing in a light voice, watching as Greg continues to smile and stare at me. "Mistletoe hung where you can see, every couple tried to st-" I continue on, until abruptly being cut off by Greg's lips on mine. We continue to kiss each other for a few seconds until pulling away, a smirk resting on Greg's face.

"What was that for?" I ask him with a shocked grin. Still smirking, Greg just looks above him with me following his gaze, a small green piece of berry filled fern hanging above us. I don't remember putting that up there...

"I thought it would be useful," Greg states as we both look back at each other. "Turns out this cripple can do a few things for his woman," He notes, matter-of-factly.

Smirking back at him, I shake my head in comical disbelief. "Out of all of these Christmas decorations, you put up mistletoe?" I ask him, receiving a shrug back.

"I like this tradition better than the rest," Greg confesses, still gently swaying us. "Besides," he leans in close, his lips close to my cheek. "It benefits us both."

In response, I can't help but slap his shoulder with a giggle. "You perv," I chide, moving to rest my hands on his shoulders while his linger on my waist. "How long has that been up there?"

"I put it up this morning," He answers with a gentle tone just before we both fall into a comfortable silence. Did I expect Greg to do anything festive during these happy times? Absolutely not. But was I really all that surprised in finding mistletoe that just so happens to be festive? Kind of. Being a little bit of a narcissist, Greg only put that up because he could use the excuse that it was Christmas themed instead of the actual reason being that he just wanted to kiss me without showing spontaneous romance - a possible weakness to him.

As we dance with each other, I quickly notice the usual bags underneath his eyes are slowly fading away and the blueness of his irises have turned more lively with brightness lively in them. In the short amount of time of being away from work, Greg is starting to look a bit younger than he actually is. Although, I do think this is due to him being away from the stressful environment that is his work. And to think, he actually took these days off for me; maybe he isn't such a narcissist after all...

During my thinking, Greg has managed to move us over near the couch while we were dancing, only to trip and cause us both to fall over on the soft cushions. Of course, he did this on purpose. Scrap my earlier thought - he's definitely a narcissist.

"Oops," He says sarcastically, "I fell," Greg points out, staring up at me with a small smirk beginning to take over his lips once more.

At his goofiness, I roll my eyes at him and lightly pat his chest a few times before moving to get up. However, when I go to move over him, Greg quickly catches me in his arms and pulls me back down to his chest, holding me close to him as if he wants me to stay where I am.

"No, no, just stay here, please," He begs, his voice resuming its gentle tone from earlier. Nonetheless, it takes me by surprise. I would have never expected Greg to say that. As I mentioned before, he'll use any excuse he can find to make it seem like he's not being romantic or sweet.

"Okay," I tell him, my eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion as I nuzzle my head further into his chest to become a bit more relaxed in his embrace. "Are you comfortable?" I ask, moving my leg away from his bad one.

"The most I'll ever be," He answers me, his hand smoothing down my hair. "Have I ever told you how great it is to lie with you?" He questions me, making me roll my eyes once again.

"Are you talking about when we’re having sex or when we do this?" I ask for clarification, making him chuckle.

"I mean like this," He answers as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "Then again, I do enjoy both situations, but I'm talking about right now," I can't help but smile as my cheeks heat up a little in response to his words, a sigh soon falling from his lips. "I've been married before and had a few girlfriends, but nothing with them could ever compare to how I feel with you. You just make me feel the best I have felt in a while," He further admits, his voice still soft and quiet with his confession.

Sighing sweetly, I shake my head against the soft material of his grey jumper before speaking. "I bet you've told all your women that," I half-joke, quickly receiving an answer back.

"No, actually, I haven't," Greg retorts, making me look up at him with furrowed eyebrows. Bright blue eyes look back at me with no emotion, yet at the same time, pure honesty. "I haven't told any other women this because it wouldn't be true, and well, I wouldn't care if they heard me say it or not," Sitting us up a bit, Greg places his hand on my cheek in a sensual and meaningful way.

"(Y/n), I love you," He confesses, his voice never wavering or cracking up. In response to his words, my eyes slightly widen as I feel my whole body become tense. "And I know I may not be the most expressive guy when it comes to my emotions, but believe me when I tell you that you have made me a better man," He adds on, his thumb now beginning to softly run over my cheek.

"Or, at least, I think I have," Greg adds, giving a soft shrug. "Ultimately, it’s you and the guys at work that would see it, so you might have to ask them just to be sure," his words make me roll my eyes that are currently tearing up, but I can't resist my smile at the same time. Once again, Greg can't let it be known that he can be spontaneously romantic at times. "They'd probably tell you I'm still an ass, but I think-"

Before he can say anymore, I move forward and press my lips to his in a sweet kiss. Of course, he kisses back instantly, but not before he smiles as well. Once we pull apart, I stare down at him breathlessly before speaking. "I love you too, Greg," I tell him, the four words I have been dreaming about telling him falling freely from my lips. "I have for a long time, but I was... I was too scared to say it."

Greg then smiles back at me and tilts his head to the side as he moves his arms down to my waist and holds my body closer to his. "Well," he says, searching his mind for a sarcastic answer. A few seconds pass until he sighs and looks back at me with an even bigger smile. "Here’s your Merry Christmas," He chimes, jokingly mocking me.

Grinning at him, I shake my head before he moves forward and reattaches our lips once more, the tune of Christmas carols playing behind us as we kiss. Maybe Greg won't be so pessimistic about Christmas anymore. I mean... we can only pray and hope so. Nonetheless, I guess it really is a Merry Christmas to me.

[di-writes-stuff]

loml

Greg House x Reader

A/N: So, I haven’t written anything in months. Whoopsies! (I have no excuse, I just didn’t want to.)

TW: It’s House. There’s your trigger warning. (Drugs.)

“Who’s gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames, if we know the steps anyway?”

This is a mistake.

That’s the only thought that runs through your head as you sit in the sterile examination room, the chair under you hard and entirely uncomfortable. It’s fitting, nothing about this will be pleasant, you knew it going in.

And yet you still did. You walked into this damn hospital, snuck around like some criminal, praying that you wouldn’t run into him before the time was right. If it ever is, it never really has been with you two. Maybe it never will be, maybe the world is trying to tell you something you’re just too stubborn to hear. How many times can you keep going back to the same broken thing?

Apparently you haven’t hit your limit yet, considering where you are.

It’s like every nerve in your body spurs to life as the door slides open and he walks in. Him, House. His eyes are glued to the chart in his hand, not really bothering to look at you. He’d treat his patients through the door if he could.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks in a way that’s so typically him you almost roll your eyes. Abrasive, cold, these should be red flags. They are, you just don’t care.

Maybe he had a point with all the masochist jokes.

You quickly refocus, clearing your throat and waiting. For what, you’re not sure. Obviously he’ll look up, recognize you as, well, you. His ex, but that’s not even close to covering whatever twisted role it is you serve in his life. On and off for…how long? Years, you know that. Two, at least, maybe more. There’s always something wrong, something ruining your chances. The drugs, the painfully obvious emotional unavailability. The same one you ignored the existence of when you decided to come here.

Then there’s you. The constant desire you have for more. More devotion, more love, more than he’s willing to give.

Or more than he can, you refuse to explore that option.

You’re fucked, simply. There’s no possible way that you two work. It’s too much conflict, more than a mouthful of pills or some hate sex can solve.

His eyes flick up and widen as he freezes. Speechless. In another circumstance you’d be proud of this. It’s an achievement after all, he never does know when to shut his mouth.

He wasn’t expecting you, not for a second. Maybe he should’ve. You’ve always been stubborn, a trait you both share. It made for some agonizingly long arguments, and some wildly good make up.

That’s the issue with you two. You are eachother. It’s why you’re so chaotic together. It’s also why you can’t be with anybody else.

“Hey.” You say weakly, and the word feels stupid as it comes out of your mouth. You’re long past pleasantries, which is exactly why you receive silence in return.

You knew he’d be like this.

You feel your face heating in humiliation anyway. At the very least, you won’t cry, you won’t let yourself.

The stinging sensation in your nose is persistent as ever.

He slowly crosses the room, sitting down in the chair next to you, a small creaking noise filling the otherwise empty silence. A thick swallow from you, the awkward drumming of fingers from him. This is painful, and for a second you hope his pager will go off. He’d bolt with an excuse, you know he would. And because you’re the same, you would too. And then you’d be back, in a week, maybe a month, and it’d be even worse.

You’ve always had a knack for self-destruction.

You both know how it ended last time. All over a stupid bet. Cuddy thought he couldn’t make it a week without Vicodin, he thought he could. Back when he was still adamant about denying his addiction. Halfway through it might as well have been torture. Deep into detoxing, and still, he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t listen as you begged him to stop being so childish, so stubborn. He wouldn’t even let you come near him, let alone help. He said it’s cause he didn’t need your pity.

In reality, he just didn’t want you to see him like that. Nobody would. Every inch of his pale, shaking frame was covered in sweat, bags under his eyes and a bloodshot gaze had him looking damn near dead.

He was sick, and he hated having to face it more than anything. The Greg House being forced to admit he was wrong. Sometimes you wondered if he’d rather die than say it out loud.

Neither of you handled it well, you never do. He was too stupid to see the obvious, see that he needed help. Needed you. And you, you were too sensitive to let it go. Let him go. Give up on any hope that this could go anywhere.

You still are, and you feel it keenly as the two of you sit in silence. His eyes are trained on you, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think the look in his eyes was judgement. But no, it’s a myriad. Confusion, anger, guilt, longing. All things he’d never admit. That’d be far too human.

“Say something.” Your voice comes out pleading, a tone you loathe on yourself.

He turns to you, his eyes tracing over your every feature like he can’t decide which one to settle on. How many times has he seen you like this? Desperate, vulnerable, because of him. He loses count. He wants to forget it, but you have to go through the motions. Pretend you’ve worked through your issues so you can live in a momentary state of bliss. Maybe it’ll last a few months this time. Could be less, if he really screws it up.

He’ll take what he can get.

“What do you want me to say?” The words come out harsh, cold, and for a moment he expects you to turn away. You don’t. Of course you don’t.

You sigh heavily, you expected it, the ice you’d be met with. You know him intrinsically, predicting his moves like the plot twists of a movie you’ve watched one too many times.

“Something, anything.” This is sad, pathetic, even. You always do this. Go back to each other, pulling out a past that’s probably better off left in the dark closet it belongs to. Still, how can you just forget? The idea feels foreign after all this time weaving in and out of one another’s lives.

Still, this is familiar, comfortable, in a way. The feigned indifference, the cold tone, the need to pretend neither of you care nearly as much as you do. It would be easier, less painless, to just move on. Have lives separate from each other.

But he’s starting to think he lives off pain. Physical and mental. It’s all he’s known for years. Why change a routine that’s become so commonplace? And even with the pain, he’s never been happier than he was with you. You understand him, and the part of him that hates that kneels to the part that needs it.

The break ups, the separation, it’s all just a low between highs. Ones he finds far more addicting than the pills sitting in his pocket.

He begins tapping his cane on the floor, a restless rhythm. “I miss you.” His voice is deadpan as the words come out, and you know why. He’s being honest, his tone can’t betray how hard that really is for him. He leans his head back, letting it thud against the wall behind you in a way that makes you flinch.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s just saying what you want to hear.

You quickly remember who you’re talking to.

He lets his knee fall sideways, brushing against yours. It’s tiny, imperceivable, almost. If you weren’t so clued into everything he was doing, maybe you wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did, your eyes flicking down to the point of contact. It feels dangerous.

“I missed you too.” Your voice is shaky, quiet, pathetic. To you, at least. Most might see this as normal. A healthy display of vulnerability. You, though. This is hell. It is for him too. It’s also necessary. Maybe this is your twisted way of proving yourselves to each other, giving evidence to your devotion.

“This won’t end well.” He says, pragmatic as always. Cold, sensible. Too smart for hoping, waiting on change that’ll never come.

“I know.” And I’m here anyway. Words go unspoken, you’ve had enough honesty for today.

He sighs, and the noise is too tired. For a second fear settles in that you’re the one doing this to him. That trying to be decent. Trying to be suitable for a relationship is just too much for him to handle.

“Then why are you here?” He knows the answer, he’s not stupid. Maybe he just needs to hear it, and then he’ll get the common sense to tell you to leave. To give up on this, spare both of you the inevitable pain.

You sigh, the idea of having the explain worse than just letting the truth linger unspoken. “What if it works this time?” You know it’s stupid, and you know he’ll tell you just that. For a second you remember something your therapist told you. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. You’d rolled your eyes, told her this wasn’t anything like that. That people can change, you can change.

You stopped going to your appointments after that.

You just look at him, watch as he closes his eyes, running a hand over his face before looking to you. “For how long?” For a second, you think there’s hope in his voice, like he’s waiting for you to lie to him, say this can last forever. It probably will, you think. On and off for the rest of your lives, never stable.

“We can find out.” The words are an invitation, a reckless one. You’ll let him back in, and it’ll end poorly, and you won’t be able to be mad. You knew how this would go from the start, how can you blame him for the inevitable?

He looks to you, and you can tell he’s given up. It was always gonna happen, you wouldn’t stay away forever. No use in wasting time waiting.

“I hate you.” The words are empty. It’s his last ditch effort to push you away. He has to do it, he has to know he didn’t just let you in. Something in him has to hold onto the false belief that he doesn’t need this, that he’s indifferent. That he’s the same cold man he’s always been.

As he mutters the words he reaches out, his hand sliding over your jaw, pulling you in closer.

You smile weakly, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of the statement. You know him, you know when he’s lying, and he’s never done a worse job at it than he just did.

You’re hardly inches apart now, your lips nearly ghosting his own. Your voice is shaky as you speak, “Love you too.” As his lips brush yours, he just melts, leaning into you with a fervor he used to call lust. There’s no use pretending that’s all this is now.

The kiss ends all too soon as he pulls away, shallow breaths leaving both of you, filling the silence. You almost wonder if you should leave when his voice sounds, quiet, tentative, all things he’s normally not.

“I’m going to screw this up.” The look in his eyes is guilt for something he hasn’t even done. He will, but you ignore the nagging voice in the back of your head that says to run before he has the chance. Yes, he’s hurt you. It’s not as if you haven’t done the same to him. You know where to aim when you’re mad, and you’ve turned him to a dartboard more times than you can count.

“I’m okay with that.” For a second, as the words fall off your tongue so easily, almost instinctually, you wonder if your mother would be disappointed in you. This isn’t how she raised you. Offering some man a hundred second chances all because what, you love him? Because when it’s good, it really is so good?

Because at the end of the day, you don’t think you could do it. Leave him, live the rest of your life without him in it. You’d wonder, you’d always wonder what would’ve happened if you just gave him one more chance. And so you will, again, and again, and again.

Sometimes you wonder what your life would look like if you’d never met him. Maybe you’d be married, happy with some man who gave you far less trouble than House ever did. You curse the way you find the thought boring. He’s awful, but he’s thrilling. You might even have kids, or at least be ready for one.

You know deep down you could have a future like that, and still, all thoughts of it dissipate when he opens his mouth.

“I’m off at eight.” Self loathing drips from each word. He’s a selfish bastard, he’ll let you forgive him, and time and time again, he’ll know he doesn’t deserve it. Still, he can’t turn you down. He can’t leave. He can’t not have you. The one good thing that’s ever come out of his life. He just can’t. Not when you’re offering.

“I’ll be here.” The words are so horribly fitting. Won’t you always? Will there ever be a time he takes it too far? Or will you always go back to him? Will you always turn away from the better life, the happier life you could have without him?

Yes. It’s always yes, because deep down, you stopped wanting a life without him the second you experienced life with him. Everything else became boring, commonplace, once you’d had him. There’s nothing like House. Not a person, or drug, or liquor strong enough to come close to how he makes you feel. Nothing can make the memory fade, and nothing can replace it either.

There’s no good outcome, it’s either life alone or life with him. And so you let his fingers interlace with your own, let the sensation numb the thought that never left your head this whole time, the one that’ll haunt you on sleepless nights you spend in his bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms wrapped around you.

This is a mistake.

A/N: thank u to the taco bell fire sauce packet i quoted.

[drabbles-mc]

Not To Spoil The Ending

Robert Chase x Greg House

Written for the Fic in a Box 2023 Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, post-canon/canon compliant, light angst, pining, grief/mourning

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: I have no idea if there is an audience for House MD fanfic on tumblr but I like to crosspost my fics here from AO3 so audience or not, y'all are getting this! 😂 My first House fic and I had myself quite a fun time. Hope you enjoy!

“You’re back,” House said casually as he opened the door with the butt of his cane.

Chase looked up from the paperwork in front of him. Eyes wide and only growing wider the longer that he looked at the man standing in front of him. It’d been so long—he was finally starting to shake the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach that cropped up every time he referred to the office as his own, or the team as his own. For a brief moment he wondered if that feeling hadn’t really gone away, if it was just lying in wait and getting strong enough to give him hallucinations like this.

“Nothing to say?” House asked as he stepped farther into the office. “Not even a hello?”

The closer that he got to the desk, the more Chase had to admit to himself that it wasn’t a hallucination. House was really there. A small voice in the back of Chase’s mind was debating whether or not he was a ghost, but there was no way that this was all in his mind.

“Y-you’re back,” he finally stammered out in shock.

House raised his eyebrows, finally coming to a stop right in front of what was now Chase’s desk. “Good one.”

He was still shaking his head, still unable to process and believe what was happening. “How are you…?”

“Pretty cool, right?” He leaned onto his cane. “Not bad for a dead man.” He looked around the office, eyebrows raised. “Love what you’ve done with the place, which is,” he shifted so he could gesture around with his cane, “nothing.”

“House,” he spoke up, finally finding it in himself to sound firm, “what the hell are you doing here? We, I, I was at your funeral!”

“Well, at least one of us was.”

Chase stood up out of his chair. Raking his hands back through his hair, he walked around to the other side of the desk so that he was standing in front of House. Hardly a few inches apart and it was still hard to believe that they were both in the same space.

“What happened? Where, where have you been? What’ve you been—”

“Doesn’t matter,” House cut him off.

Even though he knew better than to be surprised by it, Chase still found himself being annoyed by how flippant House was being about the entire situation. A lot of things might have changed over the months, but clearly some things hadn’t.

“I think it definitely does,” Chase argued.

“You could at least be happy about the fact that I managed to rise from the dead. Last time a guy did that your people created a whole religion about him.”

“You can’t just sarcastically work your way out of this one.” He shook his head. He saw the way House opened his mouth to come back with another undoubtedly snarky remark and he cut him off before he could deliver it. “Don’t. After everything that we all went through. The funeral, the weeks, no, months of grief I—”

“You did not grieve for months,” House cut him off.

“Oh, no? And how would you know? Not like you were here to see it.”

For a split-second Chase realized how ridiculous it was, the situation that he was in. One of the most formative, arguable one of the most important and meaningful, people in his life was back from the dead and standing in front of him, and they were bickering. All this time he’d mourned the fact that he wasn’t ever going to see him again, wouldn’t get to say any of the things that he always swore he’d get around to saying someday. Now here he was, in the perfect position for that, and all he could do was argue with him about things that shouldn’t bear any weight in that given moment. Maybe there was comfort in falling right back into old habits, almost like they were picking up right where they could have, should have, left off.

But it was also absurd. Chase knew that—he knew that House also knew that. Once the thought crossed his mind, he was actually surprised that House hadn’t made a comment about that aspect of it all as well.

House let out a small sigh. He tucked his chin slightly down towards his chest for a moment, eyes flicking to the carpet finding their way back to Chase’s face. “Sorry you wasted all that time.”

Chase’s shoulders slumped slightly. How easy it was for House to sway him still, even after all this time. One teasing sliver of genuine emotion and Chase was ready to drop all of his frustration and anger for him. That hadn’t changed either. It got worse, if anything.

“It wasn’t a waste,” Chase finally said, his voice finally regaining some of its softness.

The momentary lift of House’s eyebrows let Chase know that his brain went to the same place it always did, an old habit that would always die hard. But the way that he opened his mouth for a moment and then shut it again let Chase know that while House was still House, that he always would be in most of the ways that mattered, some things about him had changed. Chase didn’t know what the previous months had put House through, but whatever it was, it realigned him somehow. Chase could see it in his eyes, sense it beneath his usual snark. Neither of them were the same men that they had been last time they stood face-to-face in the office that they were in once more, not completely. He wanted to ask but deep down he knew that it wasn’t going to make all that much of a difference now.

“Are you going to stay?” Chase asked after another bout of silence. “Or are you going to stay… dead?”

House shrugged. “Being dead gets boring after a while.” He paused. “Not to spoil the ending for you or anything.”

Chase allowed himself a small smile at that. “If someone was going to, makes sense that it’s you.”

House let a few beats pass before he said, “It was time for me to come back. Face it.”

“Face what?” Chase asked, like he didn’t know the answer already.

For a split second House was keenly aware of how close they were standing. He didn’t realize they’d drifted closer. There was hardly any space between them now. A fleeting thought went through his brain that this was the longest he’d been inside the office without an interruption. This was as good of a time as any to set that record, he supposed.

“Everything,” he answered.

“Right,” Chase replied with a nod. He would’ve been embarrassed at the hush of his voice if he had the time to think about it. “Where next, then?”

He shook his head. “Nowhere.”

Chase scoffed quietly. “I’m the last stop, then?”

The end of House’s mouth began to curl up into a smirk. “No.” He waited until Chase was looking him in the eyes. “You’re the first.”

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

House: Wilson and I don’t use pet names.

Y/N: I see. Hey, what do bees make?

House: Honey?

Wilson: Yes, dear?

House:

Y/N: Don't ever lie to my face again.