IEatCherubs

‘And what can I get for you, darlin?’’ you say to the Ghoul who was walking up to your bar table. His eyes were carefully covered by his hat. 

‘The strongest you have’ his thick accent echoed, ‘I gotcha, cowboy’ you respond back to him. Any of the people who were lurking about in your bar bailed as soon as he came in. His boots heavy to the ground sounded like a warning for them to leave.

You appreciated business nevertheless, so long as it suited and your life wasn’t at risk. His presence didn’t seem like he wanted to harm you in particular. 

Opening up one of your many cabinets filled with alcohol, you reach for one of your oldest and strongest whiskeys. 

He did not ask for it on the rocks, but it was what he was going to get. You wanted to ensure he tasted how rich it was. You loved people actually enjoying the drinks you made. 

The Ghoul hears the ice hit the glass, you chose one that was bigger than your usual serving size for this particular drink, you could tell the cowboy needed it.

Taking the cup as soon as you put it in front of him, the Ghoul lifted it to the hole in his face, then he raised it ever so slightly to you before taking a big gulp of it. 

With a great exhale after drinking most of what was in the cup, the Ghoul felt instantly refreshed. Out of his peripheral he sees a wooden box being slid across the bar table from you, his eyes catch yours, a grin on your face as you prepare a drink for yourself. 

The Ghoul opens the box and sees the cigars neatly laid inside, he takes one out, putting it to his lips. It had been a while since he indulged in something like this. His hand reaches into his coat pulling out his lighter, then igniting the cigars end.

He pushes it back to you, his lighter now on top of the box. After you were finished with making your cocktail, you lean on one of your cabinets, taking sips of your drink and small inhales of your now lit cigar. 

You decided to enjoy the suddenly quiet night. The Ghoul had known who the previous owner was of this bar, he liked this new management. You did odd jobs around the bar, the Ghoul catching glimpses of you every so often. 

Soon the locals saw that you were not phased by the Ghoul, so they returned still remaining cautious. You left your cigar burning at the ashtray you now had placed in front of the Ghoul. You started to serve and take care of those who returned to your bar. 

What impressed the Ghoul the most was that he did not have to speak much to you, once his cup was empty, you were there to refill it. A gesture he took notice of. 

Without moving his face, his eyes continues follow you, noticing every time you would adjust his hat. There was laugher coming from the opposite side of where he was sitting. 

The way you acted with them showed the Ghoul you knew them more than just regular customers. He watched you laugh and then shake the hand with one of the guys there, as if you had just made a deal. 

Trying to be inconspicuous, you make your way over the Ghoul. His gaze did not move from his glass of alcohol he had in front of him. 

‘How’s everythin’ goin’ sweetheart?’ you ask him, he finally looks up at you, he gives a nod of approval.

‘Look, long story short-’ you pause for a moment, the Ghoul sensing you trying to hold back your giggles. You pick up your cigar, most of it had been smoked by the Ghoul in your absence. You took in a long drag, letting it sit in your mouth before blowing it back out. 

‘-they bet 500 caps that I wouldn’t be able to get your cowboy hat and actually wear it…’ you smile cheekily to the Ghoul, a neutral look stared back at you. 

‘So whaddaya say, cowboy?’ your eyes pleading, ‘hmpf… 500 caps?’ he lets out under his breath. You nod slowly, trying to keep a straight face. 

‘Come on, next drink will be on me’ your hands together now begging this Ghoul. The silence between the both of you hung in the air for a moment.

The Ghoul huffs at your audacity. It amused him at how immature this whole set up was. He gazes at you for a while longer. 

Your eyes widened as he took it off his head and handed it to you. Taking it gladly you look over to your friends, who looked as equally as shocked.

‘Well shit’ one of them say. Like a queen putting on her crown, the toughness of his hat rested around your head. It was slightly big and you tried not to move around too abruptly so that it wouldn’t fall off. The smell of the Ghoul now surrounded you. 

You took on a new persona, the hat really gave you a confidence boost, something your drunk customers appreciated.

Someone would holler an order at you, the Ghoul watched you tip your hat to them and mimicking his accent, ‘comin’ right up’ you would yell back. 

You never forgot about the Ghoul though, you would light up cigarettes for him in your mouth and hand it to him. He took it without words, just a nod that you appreciated. 

Whilst doing your rounds around the bar, you would find the Ghoul looking at you for brief moments. But the times that your gazes would meet, you would tip his hat to him.

You had no idea who this Ghoul was, your friends said that he might be the bounty hunter everyone stayed clear of, which was why the bet was so high, no one really thought you could pull that off. 

As you’re tidying your bar, the sounds of chatter slowly disappears, you look up trying to understand why. 

Three unknown men stood in the middle of your bar. This was the type of business you did not want. 

‘May I help you fellas?’ trying to opt for the peaceful way to deal with the trouble before you. 

‘Just looking for a certain Ghoul, our group had some trouble with him not too far from here’ one of them says. Their faces ridden with annoyance. 

‘Don’t think they’re here fellas’ you say keeping a smile on your face. They did not like that response.

‘You sure about that? I think I see a radiated bastard sitting right there’ he points his gun to the Ghouls back. The Ghoul senses your charming hospitality turn into hostility very quickly. 

‘Don’t make me repeat myself’ your eyes slipping from beneath the hat, a sight the Ghoul grinned at. 

‘No need to protect him lady, we can deal with him outside your bar-’ his words cut by the sound of the shotgun reloading behind the bar you stood in. 

Staring down the barrel of your shotgun, the men drew their weapons to you. 

Without hesitation you shot the man standing in the middle, two more gun shots were fired but not by you. 

The Ghoul blew the smoke from his gun, then turned back to you, ‘sorry about that sweetheart’ he smirks at you. 

You tip your hat to him, ‘mind if I keep the hat on for the rest of the night, cowboy?’ you respond back. 

He nods back to you, the smirk not leaving his face. 

After the theatrics of the shoot out, the bar returned to its lively self. You ordered your friends to get rid of the bodies, ‘the more you help, the less caps you owe me’ your voice laced with sarcasm. 

They did not fight back as the sting of them owing you that much was enough reminder of what they got themselves in to. 

Soon when the bar became more quiet, you came and sat next to the Ghoul. ‘Thanks for tonight’ you say. The Ghoul takes another sip of one of the many drinks he has had since walking into your bar. 

‘No problem’ he says in a low voice. ‘Do you give ladies your hat often?’ the alcohol now hitting you and giving you all the courage to ask him a question like that. 

He huffed and shook his head, you nodded with a grin now pulling at your lips. ‘Special I guess’ you say, knowing you’re pushing the limits with him. 

The Ghoul looks at you this time, your eyes peeking from under his hat. He smacks his lips and doesn’t respond, but you understood.

As you were reaching for his hat to take off, ‘don’t’ was all he said. 

────﹒♡﹒────

“The Spider.” Reached his ears. Making him perk his head up. Passers on the street at this very hour. First waving their rolled up newspapers with blessings. Then slowly lowering their movements. Swallowing nervously at the person he was carrying. Lifeless in his arms. The Spider felt you slip a bit, pushing you back up.

Some men removed their hats for him. Others bowed their heads in respect. The Spider tried to ignore them. Focus forwards, pushing further step by step. Carrying you through the streets. He didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a failure. A failure for you. The person he trusted the most. The person he felt slip away from him lately. 

Carrying you for most parts of the city, he finally reached your apartment. Undergoing the exposure of an identity he had tried to deny himself for so long. With no power came no responsibilities. Now he could no longer bury him.

The very man that made him give up so long ago. Shifting the position of his hands, he slowly let go of you with one. Bringing it up. Web shooting out. Sticking to the fire escape. Holding you as tight to him as possible, he slowly allowed himself to be pulled up. Feet losing touch of the ground. 

His feet thumped loud on the fire escape when he reached your level. Shoving your window up with a good push. Sneaking inside. He let out a shuddering breath, bringing you safely to your room. Laying you carefully down. Joining you on the mattress.

Carefully removing his mask, placing it on your nightstand. Admiring you with his true eyes. Moving a lost strand of hair aside. “I am truly sorry.” He spoke with a dry mouth. Clasping his hands around yours. Bringing it closer to his lips. Brushing your knuckles with his thumb before leaving a tender kiss there. 

Placing your hand back down, he caught himself staring at your lips. A pulsating range shooting through him. A breathless shudder. Tearing his gaze away, falling on the mask beside him. Slowly picking it back up. Staring thoughtfully at the two eye patches. Fabric rubbing between his fingers.

He must be the reason…the reason for the kiss. There was no denying that the Spider was loved. You must have been terrified. Then a savior came. No one would’ve let the opportunity pass. Humorously chuckling at him, it must’ve been so. It must be so that you had a little crush on the Spider. 

Then his smile faded. How could he ever bring the news to you? The news that he was leaving for good with Cat. That you could no longer find safety with the Spider. Reilly dug his hand in his inner pocket, taking out an envelope. Lay it carefully on your nightstand. “Forgive me for having no courage to say goodbye.” His words fleeting in the air.

“I…I…” Gazing down at you, watching your careful breathing made him swallow hard. Tearing his gaze away with a heavy heart. “I hope you can forgive me one day.” Pushing himself up, he fumbled the mask nervously in his grip. Letting out a deep breath. 

Your eyes fluttered open. Groaningly pushing yourself up by your elbows. Looking curiously around to your new surroundings. Your own apartment. Not a soul around. Scratching your head, you wondered how you had gotten here.

Suddenly your eyes fell upon the thick envelope on your nightstand. Taking it, you brought it to your lap. Opening it, ignoring the amount of cash within. Ruffling through it for another purpose. At the back, a white paper folded. A note. Taking it out, you unfolded the note. Sputtering out sobs at the signed name. Ben Reilly. 

You deserve everything. Stained with ink. Three simple words. Clutching the note to your chest, your tears rolled down. Choking on your breath till you found enough air to let out a sorrowful scream. He was a coward.

The money told you enough. He was leaving. Ridding himself of his presence in your life. A permission you had not given him. The past weeks fleeting through your mind. Was the wedge between the two of you the cause for this? 

Reilly panted loudly, arriving at the station. Eyeing the clock by the wall, he was within time. Catching his breath when passing through the crowd. Glancing left and right for a sign of Cat. Gently moving people aside that dared to come in his view of search. Turmoiling with a hasty breath where there seemed to be no direct sign of her.

“Mr. Reilly.” A woman’s voice called out. Reilly breathlessly spun around. An elderly woman approached with a elderly man by her side. Reilly took a wary step back. “If you are looking for her, she is not coming.” The woman spoke. Reilly’s eyes fell on the man beside her, holding up a gun by his hip. 

“If you would be so kind.” The woman said, gesturing behind her for him to follow. The metro rolled in. Doors opened as late night passengers got out. Brushing past them. Doors closing once more, metro rolling further. The station slowly emptied. “Please Mr. Reilly.” The woman gestured once more for him to come.

Reilly got in motion, following along. Glancing one last time at the empty station. A witness to love’s death. There was no blood, no body, there was nothing left. A bitterness that tasted sour in his mouth. An empty promise that died with love. 

For the past few days, you had tried to ignore his office. Without him the agency wasn’t worth it anymore. Packing things up. From behind your desk, you removed the frame from the wall. Letting your fingers brush caringly over it. A picture of Reilly and you in front of the building. The first day of the detective agency. A marking of beginning.

The pitied smile faded, attention drawn to his office. Hoping if you stared long enough, you might hear him from the other side. Yet that was not true. The sound of the door made you snap out of it. Robbie returned from the dark room with a box under his arm.

He set it down by your desk. Rubbing his thumb nervously over his lips. “Do…do you want me to pack it up?” He offered to unburden you from the heavy task. Swallowing the knot in your throat down, you shook your head. Putting the frame away in the box before you. “No…I’ll do it…” Replying to his question.

You ignored Robbie’s smile of pity. His hand finding a way to yours. Shuddering out a breath, you placed another hand over his. Squeezing his fingers in comfort. Removing his hand from underneath, he cleared his throat. “I’ll, I’ll put these in the car.” Bending down to pick up a few boxes. 

You nodded, rushing to open the door for him. Closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh. Gaze gliding over to his office that had collected nothing but dust for these past few days. With buckling knees, you ventured closer. Taking the handle. Hesitating. Preparing yourself for the heavy burden. Bursting it open.

You knew he wouldn’t be here, but your heart dropped anyway upon the disappointment. The lingering smell of old smoke, bringing you fond memories. Memories that stirred up a laugh with tears. Ready to clean out his office, you paused upon hearing the door. Heels clicking on the floor. This was not Robbie. 

Tensing your jaw, you turned around. Closing his office behind you. Pulling your nose up at Cat. “Y/n… we need to talk….” Cat began. You scoffed loud, returning to your desk. “Didn’t you leave with Reilly?” Telling her with a distaste. “I…I didn’t…” Cat shamelessly answered, batting her gaze down. Your eyes widened.

If Reilly didn’t go with her, then why was he not here. “Y/n…” Cat started once more, moving a hand to you. Shaking your head, you pulled your hand out of her reach. Detesting her with every fiber of your body. She was the cause for the wedge between Reilly and you. “I…I haven’t heard from him for days now…I might have made a terrible mistake.” Cat explained further. 

Your jaw tensed, slapping her across the face. Cat shuddered out a breath in shock. “That was for Ben.” You told her. “I deserved that.” Cat answered with a soft clearance of her throat. Tensing your jaw once more, you slapped her once more on the other side. Cat’s breath huffing with shock. “You think this is some kind of game to you?” Raising your voice at her.

“He’s in love with you!” You called out. Cat batted her gaze down, revealing to you enough. There was never true love within her and she had abused it. Angry, you scoffed loud. You should’ve seen it coming that a person like her doesn’t know the true meaning of love. Raising your hand once more, Cat’s breath shocked, hands up to protect her face. 

Slowly you clenched your hand into a fist. “Get out.” Voice composed but raging from within. Cat nodded shakily, backing away to the door. Pausing there. “I…I am truly sorry.” She spoke. Screaming in a rage, you grabbed the vase from your desk.

Throwing it in a fit her way. Vase splintered against the door. Cat vanished. Lowering yourself to the ground, the ground gave way underneath you. Hand clutched to your chest, crying loudly. Where was Ben? 

--------------------------------------------

You were the complete opposite of everything House stood for.

You were warm, openly affectionate, and spent your days navigating the messy, fragile realities of human lives with genuine empathy.

Nobody understood how the two of you worked, but the entire hospital had long since accepted that you were the only person allowed to cross his invisible boundaries.

You would routinely wander into his diagnostics office when your caseload was slow, leaning over his shoulder to steal half his lunch or dropping a soft kiss on his temple right in front of his deeply uncomfortable fellows.

​But when your lutheal phase rolled around each month, the dynamic shifted into a highly specific, unspoken routine.

The mattress shifted, the heavy, familiar dip of Gregory House rolling out of bed usually acting as your cue to start bracing for the morning.

But today, the alarm hadn’t even gone off, and the mere thought of planting your feet on out of bed made you feel tighten with a sudden, ridiculous wave of despair.

You blinked against the grey morning light filtering through the blinds, pulling the duvet tightly up to your chin.

Your body felt like it had been filled with lead overnight. Your lower back was humming with a dull, persistent ache, and your stomach let out a hollow, demanding growl that felt entirely personal.

From the doorway of the bedroom, the uneven clack-thump of House’s cane echoed against the baseboards. He paused, leaning heavily on the handle, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he took you in.

Normally, by this time, you were already halfway through your morning routine, offering him a bright, affectionate kiss or teasing him about whatever abrasive comment he’d made before his first cup of coffee.

But today? Today, you felt like a raw nerve.

House didn't say a word.

He just stood there, his gaze tracking the tight grip you had on the blanket, the slight puffiness around your eyes, and the way you immediately averted his gaze.

He knew your cycle better than you did.

For a man who claimed to despise human connection, his observational skills were terrifyingly when it came to you.

He could map the hormonal shift by the exact day you stopped laughing at his offensive jokes and started looking like you wanted to throw a coffee mug at his head—or sob into his chest. The luteal phase. The annual, monthly descent into purgatory.

"Get up" he grunted, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "You’re going to be late. Cuddy’s already complaining about a backlog of discharge summaries"

You let out a small, pathetic whine, burying your face in the pillow. "I'm hungry" you mumbled, your voice muffled by the down comforter. "And everything sucks"

"The tragedy of biology" House remarked dryly, turning on his heel. "Eat a cracker. Move your ass"

It felt cold. It felt mean.

A tear actually leaked out of your left eye, dampening the pillowcase. You felt so incredibly unloved in that exact second.

Ten minutes later, you finally dragged yourself into the kitchen, wrapped in his oversized shirt, expecting to find him gone or at least ignoring you.

Instead, House was sitting at the counter, a travel mug of coffee in front of him.

Beside it sat a plate with three thick slices of sourdough toast, heavily slathered in butter and a thick layer of strawberry jam, alongside a small bowl of pre-sliced strawberries.

He didn't make a big deal out of it. He didn't even look up from his Game Boy.

"The toaster was acting up. Made too much" he said carelessly, tapping the buttons with his thumb. "Eat it so I don't have to throw it out"

You knew for a fact the toaster only held two slices at a time. He’d run it twice.

The knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. You walked over, sliding onto the stool next to him.

Instead of eating right away, you leaned sideways, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder, seeking the comforting, familiar scent of wool, coffee, and vicodin.

You needed the physical contact like oxygen today.

House stiffened slightly, but he didn't pull away.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh, shifting his weight so you could lean against him more comfortably while he continued to play his game with one hand.

"You're suffocating me" he muttered, but his shoulder dropped, anchoring you against him. "Eat your toast"

The hospital was a battlefield. By 2:00 PM, you were completely drained. As a social worker, your job required an immense amount of emotional labor, and today, your reserves were at absolute zero.

You had spent the morning dealing with an aggressive family refusing to accept a nursing home placement, followed by a heartbreaking case in pediatrics that nearly had you weeping right in the middle of the corridor.

Your stomach was roaring again, demanding carbohydrates and sugar with a vengeance. You were irritated, your skin felt entirely too tight, and you just wanted to crawl under your desk and hibernate.

You walked into the Diagnostics conference room, hoping to find a quiet corner to decompress.

Predictably, the ducklings—Chase, Foreman, and Cameron— were huddled around the whiteboard, arguing over a differential diagnosis.

House was sprawled in his regular chair, his feet propped up on the table, tossing his red and white ball into the air.

"Oh, good, look who it is" Chase muttered, looking stressed. "Maybe she can talk some sense into the family in 4B. They won't sign the consent form"

"Not my problem right now, Chase" you said, your voice sharper than usual. You tried to keep your tone level, but the irritation bled through.

Without saying a word, you walked straight past the conference table, approached House, and practically collapsed against his side.

You buried your face into the rough wool of his blazer, letting out a heavy, thoroughly exhausted sigh.

​The three instantly froze, their pens hovering over their pads. Chase cleared his throat, subtly looking away, while Foreman looked, braced for House to snap at the sudden intrusion.

​Instead, House didn't even miss a beat.

With an effortless, quiet familiarity, he wrapped his large arm around your waist, anchoring your weight against his strong side to support your fatigue.

"Out" House barked, his eyes fixed on his fellows. "All of you. Your incompetence is giving me a migraine, and your faces are annoying. Go look at the patient's spinal fluid again"

"House, we need to discuss the—" Cameron started.

"Out!" he roared.

The trio scrambled, grabbing their files and practically fleeing the room.

As the glass door clicked shut, the silence of the room rushed in, and with it, the heavy weight in your chest. You stood in his space your shoulders trembling slightly.

You felt terrible, you felt exhausted.

​"Rough day?" he murmured, his voice a low, private gravel meant only for you.

Despite his gruff words, his actions were incredibly gentle, entirely attuned to what you needed.

House lowered, looking for your face, his eyes softening in that incredibly rare, private way that he only ever allowed you to see. He gave you a soft kiss on your temple.

"Lock the door" he said quietly.

You let go of him, walking to the door to do what he said.

You turned the lock.

When you turned back around, House was reaching into his small kitchen office.

He pulled out a large, brown paper bag from the bakery down the street—the expensive one with the artisan sandwiches. He tossed it onto the conference table.

"Wilson ordered too much food again. The idiot thinks he can eat a whole pastrami on rye and a side of potato salad. He left it in my office" House lied seamlessly, his voice casual.

You walked over to the table, opening the bag. Inside wasn't just a sandwich.

There was a massive, loaded roast beef sandwich with extra cheese, a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, and a giant, decadent chocolate fudge brownie wrapped in cellophane.

Wilson hated pastrami, and he definitely didn't buy chocolate brownies.

You looked up at House, your vision blurring instantly with hot, heavy tears.

The sheer comfort of the gesture, the subtle, quiet way he looked out for you without ever making you feel like a burden or forcing you to ask, completely broke through your defenses.

"Hey. None of that" House said, his voice dropping an octave as he saw the tears spill over your cheeks.

He walked to you, leaning heavily on his cane as he navigated around the table toward you. "I didn't buy the brownie for you to cry on it"

"I hate hormones" you sobbed softly, covering your face with your hands. "I feel like a crazy person"

House reached out, his large, rough hand grasping your wrist and gently pulling your hands away from your face.

He didn't mock you.

He didn't offer a medical lecture on estrogen and progesterone drops.

He just pulled you into his space, tucking you against his chest right there in the middle of the Diagnostics office.

He wrapped his free arm securely around your waist, holding you tight against him, letting you ruin his expensive shirt with your tears.

His chin rested on the top of your head, and his grip was firm, grounding you against the chaotic storm in your own body.

"You're not crazy" he murmured into your hair, his hand giving your hip a reassuring, affectionate squeeze. "You're just hungry. Eat the damn sandwich"

You didn't need to be told twice.

Sniffling, you let him guide you down to a chair.

Then, went to his whiteboard, picked up a marker, and began scribbling medical data of his case.

You unwrapped the roast beef sandwich with slightly trembling hands. The first bite was nothing short of a religious experience.

The salt, the carbs, the rich cheese, it felt like it was actively repairing your frayed nervous system.

House kept his back to you, the rhythmic, soft squeak of the marker acting as a comforting white noise.

He was giving you space to caveman your way through the food without judgment.

But every few moments, you’d catch his reflection in the glass.

He wasn't looking at his fake diagnostic tree; his eyes were tracked entirely on you, monitoring your breathing, checking if the tension was leaving your shoulders.

By the time you were halfway through the chocolate brownie, you felt human again.

The irrational urge to weep had receded, replaced by a heavy, cozy drowsiness and a overwhelming surge of affection for the stubborn man standing a few feet away.

You set the plastic wrap down and wiped your hands. "House"

"If you're going to apologize for weeping over baked goods, save your breath" he said, caping the marker with a loud click. He turned around, hooking his cane over his forearm. "It’s a well-documented medical fact that chocolate regulates the emotional erraticism of the female hominid. I merely saved Plainsboro from a domestic dispute"

"Come here" you said softly, ignoring his deflection. You held your arms out, your natural warmth returning in full force.

When you were in this phase, your need for love and reassurance was a physical ache, and you weren't about to let him hide behind his sarcasm.

House stared at your open arms like they were a trap.

He rolled his eyes, a theatrical display of immense suffering, but he closed the distance anyway.

Supporting his weight with his cane in one hand while his other arm slid behind your back, pulling you firmly against his chest.

You placed your hands on the back on his neck, pulling him down so you could face him easily.

His forehead resting on yours.

You lifted on your tip toes to kiss him.

It was slow.

Soft.

Full of affection.

He let out a low, gravelly hum in the back of his throat—a sound he only ever made when it was just the two of you, away from the prying eyes of the hospital.

The you pulled back.

"Better?" he muttered against your lips.

"Much better" you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline. "Thank you"

"Yeah, yeah. You're bleeding my bank account dry with that bakery" he grumbled, though his fingers gently stroked the nape of your neck, a surprisingly tender gesture that sent a wave of comfort straight down your spine.

"Now get out of my office. I have a clinic shift to avoid, and you look like you're about to fall asleep on my desk"

You smiled, the heavy cloud finally lifting. You gathered your trash, gave his hip a playful squeeze, and unlocked the door.

As you walked down the corridor back toward the social work department, your body still felt heavy and tired, but the hollow, lonely ache in your chest was entirely gone.

The autumn air bites at your skin the moment you step outside, but you need this—just five minutes away from the conference room, away from the endless differential diagnoses and Foreman's increasingly frustrated sighs. The team is taking a break anyway, and you've earned this cigarette after the morning you've had.

You barely got the lighter to your lips when you hear the familiar thump-drag of House's cane against the concrete behind you.

"Well, well. Look who's slowly killing themselves in the great outdoors," comes that distinctive voice, dripping with mock concern. "You know, there are faster ways to commit suicide."

You take a long drag and exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate in the air. "Says the man who pops Vicodin like Tic Tacs."

"Touché. But at least my addiction serves a medical purpose. Yours just makes you smell like an ashtray and gives you premature wrinkles." House limps closer, his blue eyes studying you with that calculating look he gets when he's working out a puzzle.

"Your bedside manner really is legendary," you mutter, but you couldn't help the slight smile tugging at your lips. This is just House being House—the insults are practically terms of endearment coming from him.

A particularly sharp gust of wind cuts through you, and you couldn't suppress the shiver that runs through you. You've been in such a hurry to escape the stuffiness of the hospital that you forgotten how much the temperature had dropped since morning.

House notices immediately, of course. He notices everything.

Without a word, he shrugs out of the black leather jacket he's wearing—the one he always wears when he rides his motorcycle to work, the one that makes your pulse quicken every time you see him in it, the black leather hugging his shoulders in a way that was utterly distracting and makes him look dangerously attractive instead of like the sarcastic diagnostician you work with every day.

"Here," he says gruffly, holding it out to you.

You stare at the jacket, then at him. "What?"

"It's called a jacket. People wear them when it's cold. Revolutionary concept, I know."

The leather was still warm from his body heat when you slip it on, and it smells like him—a mixture of his cologne and something indefinably House. It's too big on you, the sleeves hanging past your wrists, but it was perfect.

"This is..." you start, genuinely touched by the gesture. House isn't exactly known for his acts of kindness, and the fact that he'd noticed you were cold and actually done something about it made something warm bloom in your chest. "This is really sweet of you."

House's expression immediately shifts, his jaw tightening as if you'd just accused him of something. "Shut up before I take it back," he snaps, but there was no real heat in it. "I just don't want to deal with the paperwork when you die of pneumonia. Wilson would make me feel guilty about it for weeks."

You bite back a grin, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. "Right. Purely selfish motives."

"Exactly." He's already turning to head back inside, but you catch the way his eyes linger on you for just a moment longer than necessary, taking in how you look wearing his jacket. "And if you get ash on it, you're buying me a new one."

"Noted," you call after him, taking one last drag of your cigarette before stubbing it out.

The leather jacket was still draped around your shoulders when Wilson finds you later that afternoon. You know that look—the one that says he's already pieced together some complicated emotional narrative that you weren't ready to admit existed.

"Nice jacket," he says, his tone deliberately casual. Too casual.

You raise an eyebrow, daring him to say more.

"Something you want to say, Wilson?" You challenge as you finish writing in your charts, fully aware of how transparent you weren't being.

Wilson's smirk widens—that infuriating, knowing smile that means he saw right through you. "Not a word," he smiles, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

You roll your eyes. "It was cold. He had a jacket. End of story."

"Absolutely," Wilson agrees, his tone suggesting anything but agreement. "Purely a practical matter."

House leans against the nurses' station. His attention is entirely on you. You are down the hall talking to Chase about something—probably the cardiac complications in room 314—but House couldn't focus on what you were saying.

All he can see was how his leather jacket looks on you. The way it hangs from your shoulders, still too big but somehow perfect. The way you absently tugg at the sleeves when you are thinking, a gesture that makes something tighten in his chest. You've been wearing it for hours now, and every time he catches sight of you in it, his mind goes places it definitely shouldn't during work hours.

The jacket makes you look... his. Which is ridiculous, because you weren't his anything. You were his employee, his diagnostician, someone who happens to look unfairly good in black leather. But watching you gesture animatedly to Chase while wrapped in something that still smells like his cologne makes his imagination wander to scenarios where you wearing his clothes was a much more regular occurrence. Morning coffee in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his shirt and his boxers. The jacket discarded on his bedroom floor after—

Snap. Snap.

"Earth to House." Taub's voice cuts through his increasingly inappropriate daydream. "The patient? Remember him? Guy who might actually die if we don't figure out what's wrong with him?"

House blinks, refocusing on Taub's expectant face. "Right. The patient." He glances back down the hall, where you were still talking to Chase, then forces himself to look at the file in his hands. "What were we talking about?"

Taub follow his gaze and smirks. "Let me guess—nothing involving differential diagnoses."

House shoots him a look. "Don't you have lab results to analyze or something equally boring?" he grumbles, but his voice lacked its usual venom. Despite his irritation at being caught, his eyes keep wandering back to you, until you and Chase walk further down the hall toward the cafeteria.

"Already pulled them," Taub replies, clearly enjoying himself. "But I'm starting to think our patient isn't the only one with heart palpitations."

"Very funny," House mutters, finally tearing his gaze away from you to glare at the other man. But even as he tries to focus on the case, he could feel Taub's knowing smirk burning into the side of his head.

A few hours later, Cuddy storms into House's office without knocking, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. House doesn't even look up from his GameBoy.

"Could you be any more obvious?" she demands, crossing her arms.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," House replies innocently, not taking his eyes off the tiny screen. "But if this is about the time I diagnosed that patient by throwing differential diagnoses at a dartboard, I maintain that was a legitimate medical technique."

"Your jacket, House. She's been walking around this hospital wearing your leather jacket for the past six hours. Half the nursing staff is gossiping about it."

House finally looks up, feigning confusion. "My jacket? I hadn't noticed." He glances down at his arms as if just realizing he wasn't wearing it. "Huh. Wonder where that went."

Cuddy's jaw tightens. "Are you sleeping with her?"

House pauses his game and lookes up with that infuriating smirk she knew too well. "Not yet."

"House—"

"What? You asked a question, and I gave you an honest answer. That's what you're always telling me to do, right? Be more honest with people?"

Cuddy pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is exactly what I was afraid would happen when I hired her."

"Afraid of what? That I might actually show a human emotion? That someone might look good in leather? The horror."

"Don't be stupid," Cuddy snaps. "You know exactly what I mean. She's a good doctor, House. One of the best diagnosticians we've seen in years. I won't let you mess that up because you can't keep it in your pants."

House finally sets down his GameBoy, giving her his full attention. "You're assuming I'm the one who would mess things up. Maybe she's the corrupting influence here. It was cold. She looked cold. I had a jacket. It's called basic human decency—though I realize that's a foreign concept around here."

Cuddy stares at him for a long moment. "Since when do you care if someone is cold?"

"Since never. Which is why this conversation is pointless."

"House—"

"Look, if you're worried about workplace drama, don't be. We're both adults. We can handle whatever this is or isn't without it affecting patient care." He pauses, then added with a slight smirk, "Though I can't promise the same about Wilson. He's been practically vibrating with curiosity all day."

Cuddy sighs, recognizing the dismissal for what it was. "Just... try not to make this more complicated than it needs to be."

"When have I ever made anything complicated?" House asks innocently.

Cuddy didn't dignify that with a response, turning on her heel and heading for the door, letting it slam closed.

The last few hours of the workday were coming to an end, and you were reviewing lab results at the nurses' station when the newbie from Cardiology approaches you, leaning against the counter with what he probably thought was a charming smile.

"Nice look," he says, his eyes lingering on your outfit. "Very... edgy. I like a woman who's not afraid to take fashion risks."

You look up from the chart, raising an eyebrow. "Fashion risks?"

"The whole leather thing. It's working for you." He moves closer, lowering his voice. "Listen, I was wondering if you'd like to grab dinner sometime. There's this great Italian place downtown—"

"She's busy."

House's voice cuts through the conversation like a scalpel, and you turn to see him approaching. His blue eyes are fixed on the kid.

The kid straightens, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "House. I was just—"

"Hitting on my diagnostician while she's trying to work. Yeah, I noticed." House moves to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His presence was suddenly overwhelming, possessive in a way that made your pulse quicken. "Don't you have some hearts to restart or something equally life-saving?"

"Actually, I was off duty and thought—"

"Wrong. You thought you could waltz over here and charm your way into her pants with your sparkling personality and devastating good looks." House's tone was conversational, but there was steel underneath. "Here's a news flash: she's out of your league."

The kid's face flushes red. "Look, House, just because you have some kind of... whatever this is... doesn't mean—"

"Whatever this is?" House steps forward, and the guy actually takes a step back. "Let me clarify something for you, Kiddo. See that jacket she's wearing? That's mine. Has been since I bought it. Now, I'm not saying that means anything, but..." He shrugs, letting the implication hang in the air.

You feel heat rise in your cheeks, caught between embarrassment and something that felt dangerously like arousal at House's blatant territorial display.

The kid looks between you and House, clearly realizing he's outmatched. "Right. Well. I'll just..." He backs away, practically fleeing toward the elevators.

House watches him go with satisfaction before turning to you, his expression shifting back to something resembling normalcy. "You're welcome."

"I didn't need rescuing," you say, though you couldn't quite keep the smile out of your voice.

"Of course not. But watching him crash and burn was the most entertaining thing I've had all week." He glances down at his jacket on you and something flickeres in his eyes. "Besides, he was right about one thing. The leather is definitely working for you." The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. You stare at each other, the tension so thick you can practically taste it. His blue eyes are darker now, pupils dilated.

Your breath catches as you watch him make his decision.

House props his cane on the nurses' station and steps forward, House's hands find your face, but he doesn't move closer. His eyes keep dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if he is memorizing every detail of this moment. The wanting in his gaze is so intense it makes your knees weak, but still he hesitates.

"You really want to kiss me, don't you?" you whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet hallway.

His thumb traces along your bottom lip, and his voice was rough when he answers. "I always want to kiss you."

The admission ;eaves you feeling a lot. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you search his face.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The question seemed to break whatever last thread of restraint he's been clinging to.

House's mouth crashes against yours with a hunger that took your breath away. There was nothing tentative about it. His lips move against yours, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You melt into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him back. He taste like coffee and something uniquely him, intoxicating in a way that makes your head spin. When his tongue traces along your bottom lip, you open for him without hesitation, earning a low groan that vibrates through his chest.

The sound of footsteps echoing down a distant corridor and you are pulling back with a gasp, your eyes wide as reality crashes back in.

"We're in the hospital," you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you try to catch your breath, not commenting about how that was the best kiss of your life. "Anyone could walk by and see us."

House's forehead drops against yours, his own breathing unsteady. His hands are still on your waist, as if he can;t quite bring himself to let go. "Right. Bad place for this."

You look up at him, taking in his disheveled hair where your fingers ran through it, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you. The sight makes heat pool low in your stomach, and before you can lose your nerve, the words tumbled out.

"My place. Now." Your voice is steadier than you felt. "I'm taking you home, and I'm going to have my way with you."

House's eyes darken impossibly further at your bold declaration, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Is that a promise or a threat?"

"Both," you say, already reaching for his hand. "Your cane. Now. We're leaving."

He grabs his cane without argument, letting you pull him toward the elevator. "Bossy. I like this side of you."

"You haven't seen anything yet," you promise, pressing the elevator call button with more force than necessary.

Wilson and his stupid ideas. Just when you were actually getting the hang of it. You even learned signing in record time! One month. One month lying in bed with more broken bones than you could count, obsessively reading ASL textbooks and watching video classes on YouTube. It had paid off. You even made other deaf friends online. God, you were searching for anything, literally anything to convince the doctors you were fine and dandy so you could finally leave that vegetable-like state they put you under. And yet… here you are again. Because of Wilson.

Oh, how you absolutely despised hospitals. Even the smell of it made you sick. You wouldn’t be surprised if it somehow contributed to the muteness and deafness—though it logically did not, since you had left two months ago and still weren’t able to hear or speak shit—but solely for Wilson’s peace of mind, you obliged to come see this friend of his who he claims to be Jesus with a cane. Sure, he could be overly dramatic with his faith in people, however, you couldn’t deny: Wilson wasn’t often wrong. And despite doing your best to adjust to the new lifestyle after the accident, there was still this fragile, helpless hope in your heart to at least get back your speech. 

“Alright, rats, circulating”, House huffs, waving his team off once the differential is done.

You watch the scene from the glass separating his office and their table, reading his lips. He turns around and his blue eyes find yours, narrowing immediately at the sight of you, a stranger, mindlessly playing with one of the wooden figures on his desk. You follow the trajectory of his irises and let go of the toy, standing up straight as he barges in.

House doesn’t bother signing, speaking so clearly and loudly you can hear the faint sound of his voice trying to reach over the buzz in your ears, “Wilson’s charity case, I presume. What is your problem, Dopey?”

You blink, shooting him a challenging look when you sign, “you don’t know ASL? I expected more from the great Dr. House.” You stare at him for a moment, satisfied at the bewildered expression on his face as Foreman, who’s still nearby, translates what you said with a smirk. You continue, “thanks, Dr. Foreman. And yes, Wilson dragged me here. He’s concerned with my health, which is obviously unnecessary. I’m just fine and dandy.” You do a thumbs up and open a tight, plastic grin.

House scoffs so aggressively it makes Foreman flinch at his side. “You can’t speak, can barely hear, yet managed to find a way to call me an idiot? Miserable and combative, you’ll fit right in.” He limps closer, planting his cane between you both, his gaze sharp and invasive, “your rigid posture screams control freak. That means you’re just picking fights with the smartest guy in the room to prove you’re still dominant because you’re terrified your body isn’t doing what it’s supposed to do.” He snatches a dry-erase marker from one of his drawers and tosses it onto the desk right in front of you. “The accident caused trauma, sure, but the sudden onset of both mutism and localized hearing loss without a massive skull fracture or total brain death doesn’t add up. Write down exactly what—”

You roll your eyes and don’t even let him finish, walking decisively toward the board in the other room. You can feel his presence behind you whilst you write swiftly. “Car. Speed. Red light. Boom. Wake up at hospital. Deaf. Loud buzz. Meds. Buzz stop. Quiet hum. Can’t speak. Words won’t come out. Still got voice.” You scowl at him, trying to formulate a sound to demonstrate. All that comes out is indeed an unintelligible, gibberish whimper.  You point to your own mouth and raise your brows, writing one last thing, “see?”

House tracks every single word, scanning each trace the moment the ink hits the white surface. The room is dead silent as his team appears again, gathering beside Foreman. They all read your statements with clinical attention, wincing ever so slightly at the forced sound out of your throat. House’s features remain cold and calculated, nonetheless, not an ounce of sympathy toward you—but with interest.

He spins around to face everyone, his cane whipping the air to point at the whiteboard. “Car versus red light. Traumatic impact. But look at the progression: she wakes up deaf with tinnitus, they give her meds and the buzz mostly stops. Then, the kicker: she has a voice, air moves through the cords, but the brain refuses to assemble the puzzle.”

Foreman frowns, leaning forward, “hysterical mutism. Conversion disorder from the trauma of the crash.”

House sneers so loudly, again, you can practically feel the vibration. “Conversion disorder is what doctors call it when they want to go home early and watch television. Next.” He looks back at you, his blue eyes drilling into yours. “You’re too stubborn for a psychological block, your brain doesn’t want to be broken. Chase, what meds did they give Dopey here in the ER to kill the ‘loud buzz’?”

Chase thinks for a second, his mouth moving smoothly, “probably high-dose steroids or IV lidocaine if they thought it was acute acoustic trauma—”

“Lidocaine.” House mumbles, a lightbulb visibly going off behind the restless azure orbs. “It blocks sodium channels and stabilizes neuronal membranes. If a nerve was firing wildly after the crash causing that roar in your ears, the meds shut it down. What if they shut down a little too much, though? Or what if the ‘boom’ didn’t just rattle the eardrums, but dislodged a tiny piece of debris, a clot, a fat embolus from a broken bone, and sent it straight upstream? Broca’s area handles word production. Wernicke’s handles comprehension… What’s right next to them?” 

Thirteen’s eyes widen. “The primary auditory cortex, they share the same vascular supply: the middle cerebral artery.” 

“Ding, ding, ding, give the lady a prize!” House turns to you once more, a smug grin matching the one you gave him earlier. “You don’t have two separate problems, but one small, stubborn squatter sitting right at the intersection of your hearing and speech. A localized ischemic event or a deep tissue hematoma masking as post-crash shock.” He straightens up and barks at the others, “get Dopey down to MRI. I want a high-resolution contrast scan of the left perisylvian region.” 

You watch their diagnosis flying around, nearly getting whiplashed by how fast it happened. Huh. Perhaps Wilson wasn’t exaggerating about the guy, after all. With a sigh and a brief nod, you hand him back his marker and narrow your gaze, gesticulating curtly, “so-called geniuses should know sign language.” 

You leave without waiting for a response. For a split second, a look of genuine, amused surprise flashes across House’s features just as your hands finish their parting insult. Albeit not being fluent, he does know a few things to patch up the meaning of what you signed. Rarely does anyone get the last word in his office, let alone someone who doesn’t use a voice to do it. He’s almost impressed. 

Almost.

Chapter II: The Pudding

Two days later, you’re back at House’s office, wearing thick winter clothes and frowning deeply at one of his medical textbooks to pass the time. You try to read the scientific terms with headstrong determination, but it is to no avail. You don’t get shit. Your eyes are heavy from the meds he’s been prescribing you; his courtesy for the neverending buzz in your hearing. You rub your eyelids, sighing softly. Your brain feels like it’s swimming in molasses.

A sudden vibration rattles through the legs of the couch and you snap your head up. House is standing right in front of you in an instant, the fog in your mind shadowing the detail and speed of his movement. He’s wearing his usual crumpled blazer, staring down at you with intense scrutiny. He glances at the textbook in your lap, then looks back up at your face, his lips moving with slow, deliberate clarity before he yanks the book from your hands in the blink of an eye.

“Alright, Dopey, listen up. The MRI showed a lovely little shadow near your left temporal lobe, a slow-draining hematoma from the crash, putting pressure on the auditory cortex and shortcutting Broca’s area.” He taps his own ear, then points at your mouth. “Now, give me a progress report on the pills. Can you understand the words in your head yet, or is the gray matter still staging a protest?” 

You squint, as if trying to assemble your ideas into your voice again, and a raspy murmur comes out, “words…” The moment the mumbled syllable leaves your throat, House’s blue irises instantly follow the movement of your lips, his head tilting like a hound catching a scent. It wasn’t a whimper this time. It was an actual word. A poorly formed, exhausted word, but a word nonetheless. An excruciating pain spreads through your head when you attempt to mutter something else and you shake your head in frustration, signing rapidly, “this is bullshit.”

Still coming down from the high of the small win, House rolls his eyes impatiently. He brutally tosses the heavy medical book onto the desk behind him. “Oh, how delightfully tragic. Let’s all cue the violins for the broken intellectual who wants to go home because recovery is taking longer than a commercial break.” You try to respond with more signing, but he waves a dismissive hand and continues talking, pointing the rubber tip of the cane directly at your chest. “You just spoke. The meds are draining the fluid. The pressure on your left hemisphere is dropping, which means the wires are finally sparking again. Be happy.”

“I can’t even pronounce—”

House cuts off your signing again, pulling down your hands. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small orange pill bottle and rattles it vigorously, letting you feel the vibrations. “Shut your fingers up for a second. We’ll double the dosage of the anti-inflammatory and tomorrow, you are going to look at me and tell me precisely where I can shove this cane, using your actual voice.”

You glare daggers at him for a long, dragging moment before showing him the middle finger, though your shoulders slacken quickly afterwards. You’re just exhausted at this point. “Fine.” You gesticulate shortly and stand back up, walking toward the exit. You shoot him one last glance, signing with one hand before leaving, “learn it.” 

Away from your gaze, House doesn’t move an inch. He’s studying the exact spot where you just signed, his jaw set in a stubborn, thoughtful line. Unhurriedly, he lifts his left hand. His fingers twitch awkwardly, clumsily mimicking the shape of the last sign you made, trying to decode the motion with his own hands. He stops when a pair of nurses appears in the hallway and rolls his eyes at himself, roughly limping back to his desk.

Once inside the elevator, the doors close with a quiet thud you don’t hear, cutting off the view of his office. The low hum in your ears persists, yet the weight of the pill bottle in your bag feels a little more manageable now. Words. 

Right. 

Later that night, Wilson’s eating all your pudding unashamedly when you scoff abruptly and sign, “he’s an asshole.”

He pauses with a spoon halfway through his mouth, a dollop of chocolate teetering on the edge. Normally, his appeasing nature would’ve made him chastise your language if it was about any other person. However, it’s Gregory House. From the beginning of your treatment, you both have been proud members of the House Survivalist Club with a very active channel of weekly gossip, which mainly included cursing the blue eyed doctor to oblivion in your house. 

Wilson sighs with a sardonic smile and sets the plastic cup down on the coffee table. “He is an asshole. Unfortunately, he’s also a medical genius. If anyone can drag your voice back out of your head, it’s him.” He then leans back against the cushions of your couch, gently nudging your knee to keep your attention. “I know it feels like hell right now, but he’s right about these things, even if his bedside manner makes you want to strangle him with his own stethoscope.”

Someone knocks on the door. You don’t hear the sound, but Wilson’s reaction tells you it’s probably a loud, incessant bang. The next minute, the front door clicks open and swings wide, unsurprisingly. House doesn’t believe in boundaries, let alone knocking and waiting like a civilized human being. He barges into your apartment, the collar of his winter coat turned up against the cold, a snowflake melting into his messy brown hair. 

His striking blue eyes lock straight onto your figure sitting on the sofa wrapped in your blankets. He limps heavily toward you, the tip of his cane thudding rhythmically against your floor—a vibration you feel right in your core. He doesn’t seem angry; more like a man on a mission, fueled by a sudden burst of hyper-fixation. He hooks the handle of his cane over the back of a nearby chair and pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, flattening it out on the table right over your empty pudding cups, and you hold your breath. It’s a printout of an updated lab report.

House growls, leaning down so his gaze is level with yours. “The second MRI scan came back. The hematoma isn’t just draining, it’s shifting left. That means your sudden exhaustion isn’t just the meds, you’re having a localized toxic reaction to the breakdown of the blood cells right against the nerve pathway.”

Your heart sinks while reading the frantic movement of his lips. Wilson gets back on his feet in a minute, his face tight with sudden panic. “House…”

House waves him off, keeping his eyes glued to yours. “Dopey’s fine, but if we don’t clear that blockage in the next twelve hours, the tissue scars, and you can officially start practicing your finger-spelling for the rest of your life.” He reaches into his coat pocket again and now pulls out a massive, terrifyingly long syringe filled with a clear fluid.

You gulp instinctively, your jaw tightening in uncertainty of what’s gonna happen. Your hands move slowly, as if buying yourself time, “what are you going to—”

House looks at you challengingly, clearly satisfied at your rare display of hesitation. “We’re skipping the pills. Direct IV infusion of a high-potency osmotic diuretic, right here, right now.” He says casually, a dangerous, thrilled glint in his blue irises. 

Silence.

“You’re not sticking that in me without sound proof I actually need it.” Wilson translates your signing as you continue firing silently, with a frown, “you think you will intimidate me with needles? I want another MRI to confirm you’re not just making that up to get back at me for having the balls to expose your ignorance.”

For a moment, it feels like the living room is going to explode at the smallest shift. Wilson is the first to speak, clearing his throat while stepping between you both, his tone soothing, “House, maybe…”

“Fine. We’ll have it your way.” House grunts, interrupting Wilson. He shoots you one last glance, which feels almost threatening, before limping away without saying goodbye. “Tomorrow at nine!” He slams the door shut, making you flinch at the strong vibration of the sound.

Wilson and you exchange a long look. He takes a deep breath and signs with a tiny, slightly pleased grin, “that was good.”

You snort and shrug, gathering the dirty dishes from the coffee table and gesticulating with your free hand, “you ate the last bite, you wash.”

Wilson only salutes you playfully. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Chapter III: The Decision

The third high-contrast MRI confirms a tiny, stubborn clot in the left perisylvian region. It’s old, organized and trapped in a precarious vascular web. Or so they keep telling you. Since pills alone aren’t working, House has been trying other non-invasive methods—not out of the goodness of his rotten heart, obviously, but per your unrelenting, unyielding requests. 

The hyperbaric chamber around you is a thick, cylindrical vault of steel and weighty acrylic glass. Inside, the air is pressurized and completely, blissfully silent. You have no idea what it’s even supposed to do. Wilson explained it once, twice, until you gave up and decided to just go for it blindly. As if deaf and mute wasn’t enough. 

Behind the glass pane, you can see the observation room. House is pacing like a caged wolf, his expression painted with fury. He slams his cane against the floor, his mouth moving in what appears to be a rapid tirade directed at Chase and Foreman. Meanwhile, you sit cross-legged on the cot inside the chamber, casually turning the page of your book. You’re aware your calmness drives him insane. Wilson has told you so on another occasion and right now, it’s rather noticeable. Every time you lock eyes with his giving those slow, serene blinks, a visible vein throbs in his forehead. He doesn’t want your compliance. He wants a reaction. He wants you to be as terrified of your own brain as he is obsessed with it. 

And you’re just… not.

Eventually, the timer clicks down. The pressure equalizes with a long, soft hiss that vibrates through your seat and Thirteen opens the heavy hatch, offering you a hand out. When you lean forward to get up, House pushes past her, invading the decompression alcove. He plants his cane right next to your foot, standing so close into your space you can smell the stale coffee on him. 

“You’re doing this on purpose.” He accuses, pointing a finger right at your nose. “You’re channeling your inner Buddha just to spike my blood pressure.”

You mouth, tilting your head with mock innocence, “what?”

“That clot is sitting in a vascular spiderweb, choking out your speech center, and you’re treating my million-dollar hyperbaric chamber like a day spa!” He snatches the book out of your hand—something he apparently loves to do—and glares at the cover, then tosses it over his shoulder. “The tissue around that clot is starting to suffocate and if it stays there another twenty-four hours, the damage becomes permanent. So, non-invasive is dead, Dopey. We have to go in. Localized intra-arterial micro-catheterization. Chase snakes a wire up through your femoral artery, into your brain and physically vacuums the clot out. Consent.”

Your eyes instinctively search Wilson’s, who promptly comes closer and holds up a small notepad. You write leisurely and show it to House. “Risks?” 

House’s gaze darts across the page the second you lift it. He lets out a short, sharp breath through his nose, his posture stiffening. “Besides the obvious perk of permanent brain death?” He says, his jaw dancing with precision. “Risk number one: he punctures the vessel wall. You get an intracranial hemorrhage, your brain floods with blood, and you die on the table.” House steps a fraction closer, “risk number two: the wire hits the clot and instead of suctioning it out, it breaks it into three smaller pieces. Those pieces float deeper into the tissue. Best case scenario, you wake up unable to move the right side of your face. Worst case, you lose the ability to comprehend language entirely. Wilson will be talking to you and it will sound like static.” 

He pulls a sleek black pen from his blazer pocket and drops it onto the notepad, right over your handwriting. You stare at it with a somber look. For the first time since this whole thing started, you feel it: the fear. Fear of never talking again. Fear of dying on the table. Fear of saying no to the procedure and living with the suffocating thoughts of ‘what if’.

You’re completely aloof as Wilson’s voice sounds decisive, loud and clear, “everybody out.” Once the small room is empty, he pulls up a chair next to your cot, yet the small, reassuring smile doesn’t quite hide his nerves. He gently takes the pen from the notebook and holds it out to you. “You know I’ll be right there the whole time.” When you don’t sign anything in return, he says more seriously, though still warmly, “sign the forms, (y/n).”

There is a long pause, then you swallow, your hands signing softly, “maybe being deaf isn’t as bad as whatever risks I’d be taking by doing this.” 

 “It’s not bad.” Wilson concedes readily. “Being deaf isn’t a tragedy. People live full, beautiful, incredibly rich lives in the deaf community. If this were just about your hearing, and you told me you wanted to walk out that door right now, I would pack your bags for you.” His brow furrows slightly, a touch of gravity creeping into his brown eyes. “But that’s not what this is. House wasn’t exaggerating about the tissue damage. It won’t just be silence. It will be confusion. You won’t be able to read the books you love, because the words won’t make sense anymore. You won’t be able to read my lips, because your brain won’t be able to translate the shapes into meaning.”

He reaches out, carefully placing his hand over yours, and you hold it back with all your might. “I’m scared”, you mouth, an involuntary sob escaping your throat as tears blur your vision. 

Wilson picks up the black pen from the notepad once more and guides your fingers around it, with a fierce, deeply protective look. “I know. Do it scared.”

You glance down at the consent form, pressing the tip of the pen to the paper and signing your name as Wilson wipes your wet cheeks with his thumb. With another sob that turns into an annoyed, determined huff, you sign sharply, “if I die, House will have to learn ASL.”

Wilson laughs out loud and nods. “I’ll see to it.”

Chapter IV: The Surgery

The O.R. holding area is a blur of bright, sterile white and the frantic, silent movement of nurses prepping trays. You’re already prepped yourself, lying on the gurney with an IV line hooked into your arm. Wilson is standing a few feet away, talking to Chase, who is scrubbing in, and there’s House. He’s leaning against a crash cart near the door, looking entirely out of place in his wrinkled clothes among the sea of clean scrubs, chewing on a Vicodin and watching the monitors with a bored face.

While they start to wheel your gurney past him toward the double doors of the operating room, your fingers lock around his forearm. His eyes snap down to your hand, then up to your face, completely startled by the sudden physical contact—coming from you of all people. With whatever strength you have left due to the sedatives, you glance at him dead in the eye. 

You mouth the words clearly, your digits translating the sentiment into the air between you. “Thank you anyway.”

His jaw tightens and he looks away for a split second, clearing his throat and muttering gruffly, “save your breath for when you can actually speak, Dopey.”

Despite the harshness in his words, he doesn’t pull his arm back until the orderlies delicately move the gurney forward. As the double doors of the O.R. swing shut, cutting off the view of the hallway, the last thing you see is House standing there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glaring at the doors with unwavering focus. The anesthesia mask hovers over your face and a cool rush of air hits your lungs, your silent world fading into utter blackness. 

Twenty-four hours later, you wake up slowly, barely able to hold your eyes open. With an unconscious shift, you grunt noiselessly, only for an excruciating pain to attack your head the next second. A powerless whimper rips your throat in reflex whilst you grasp the sheets beneath you in sheer agony. 

It’s a white-hot, incapacitating throb radiating from the deep center of your brain to the back of your skull, the brutal aftershock of a wire being snaked through your cerebral arteries. Your fingers claw blindly at the stiff hospital bedclothes, bunching the fabric in your fists as you attempt to anchor yourself against the wave of nausea and ache. Instantly, a warm hand caps firmly over yours, loosening your death grip on the sheets.

“Hey, look at me.” Comes the soothing tone, sounding muffled, akin to traveling through a thick brick wall, but it’s there. You can hear the faint cadence of it. Through a bleary, tear-filled vision, you force your eyelids up. Wilson’s face comes into focus right above you. He looks exhausted, his surgical scrubs wrinkled. However, there’s a profound, overwhelming relief in his brow orbs at the sight of you awake and alert. “Chase got it out. You’re okay.” He mumbles, his voice breaking slightly as he pumps a button on the wall, signaling the nurse for immediate post-op pain meds. 

A sudden, sharp clack rattles through the floorboards near the foot of your bed. House reaches out with his cane and unceremoniously taps the metal rail next to your body, letting you hear the metallic ding. You wince at the high-pitched sound—it feels like it’s shredding your ears, hitting your brain directly. A small, incredibly smug smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at your reaction.

“Welcome back to the noisy world, Dopey.” 

You whine again, tugging Wilson’s sleeve urgently amidst a clumsy, weak sign, “it hurts.”

Wilson says softly, his voice sounding a little clearer to you now, though it still carries that strange, post-surgery echo, “the nurse is coming with the IV dilaudid right now. It’s going to kick in within a few seconds, I promise.”

“If it didn’t hurt, it would mean Chase accidentally lobotomized you. So, technically, your present agony is a glowing review of my diagnostic skills.” 

House lets out a characteristic rough grunt after his own words, leaning both hands on the head of his walking cane. His raspy texture somehow fits the image you had of him up until now. Although, his usual biting sarcasm seems to have dialed back but a fraction. Just then, a nurse steps up to the IV pole, swiftly injecting a syringe into your line. Within moments, the weighty warmth floods through your veins. That agonizing pain in your skull begins to dull, melting into a velvety numbness. Your grip on Wilson's sleeve loosens and your eyelids instantly feel three times heavier. 

“Hold on, Dopey.” House clutches your arm to interrupt your dozing off, which prompts a glare from Wilson. He ignores it and moves closer, manic blue orbs waiting for your compliance. “Give me one real word before you go.”

Wilson is halfway through cussing him out when you moan gently, each rasp making the pain in your brain hit back weakly, fighting off the numbing factor of the meds, “geniuses…” They both stop their silent bickering suddenly, waiting for your conclusion. You breathe deeply and gulp, your voice coming out strained, but clear as water, “should… know… ASL.”

A small smirk rests on your dried lips afterwards. Wilson’s eyes are widened in absolute, comical shock. He looks from you to House, a massive, breathless grin breaking across his own lips. He lets out a sharp, emotional laugh, burying his face in his hand for a brief second before staring back down at you with pure adoration. 

House scoffs, his piercing gaze crinkling at the corners. With a final tap of his cane against the floorboards, he turns on his heel and limps out of the recovery room, his coat billowing behind him. Once the door swings shut, you hear the distant sound of his uneven footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you in the quiet comfort of the room, with Wilson still holding your palm. 

Huh. 

There goes a whole month of learning a new language.

Chapter V: The Check-up

As the days go by, you choose to keep communicating mainly through signing. You’ve been wearing ear protection because of the present hyper-acusis nightmare your hearing is at the moment—every clattering tray or dropped pen sounds like a gunshot, thoug it means the nerves are alive—which makes your world, once upon a time so immensely silent, now bury each sound under a thick, heavy blanket. And speaking still doesn’t come easy. Your brain acts as if you’re sinking a sharp knife in it every time you try to get a word out of your throat, so you’ve been saving them up. 

The sterile glare of the clinic exam room feels a little less intimidating these days, too. After finishing your weekly check up, you shoot House an attentive look. He’s sitting on his rolling stool, idly spinning a reflex hammer between his fingers. Despite not being exactly friends, the two of you have mostly stopped arguing like epic nemesis, if only for the sake of your slow recuperation. Every now and then, however, you simply can’t miss the opportunity to tease him.

You hum, pointing at the rumpled, hopelessly creased fabric of his gray blazer. “I-R-O-N”, your fingers spell swiftly.

The low vibration catches his eye, his gaze flicking up from the medical chart. He lets out a short, dry breath through his nose—his version of a laugh, glancing back and forth between his clothes and you for a second. He leans back, resting his hands on the handle of his cane, his words coming with that exaggerated clarity he uses just for you. 

“Ironing is a conspiracy invented by the textile industry to make men feel inadequate.” He rolls the stool a few inches closer, assessing the way you hold yourself, checking for any subtle signs of neurological fatigue. “The spelling is good, your fine motor skills are sharp, but you’re hiding behind your fingers again.” When he touches his own jaw, challenging you with a tilt of his head, you can’t help but sneer, already anticipating his next sentence. “Let’s hear it, Dopey.”

With an annoyed sigh, you relent, wincing as your brain works overtime to thread two small words, “it’s… painful.” You sign this time, mouthing along with a tiny grin to ease the tension, “I got the words and you still can’t sign for shit, though.”

His diagnostic eyes follow the slight tension in your chin closely when you force the vocal cords to cooperate. He doesn’t dismiss it, after all, he knows the mental bandwidth it takes to rebuild those neural pathways. Still, as your hands start moving, translating the quick, sharp tease, House lets out a genuine bark of laughter. Your absolute refusal to let him have the upper hand is astonishing. You blink once, taken aback by the sight and the loud, uncharacteristic sound coming from him.

“Why would I learn an entire language just to talk to one person?" He fires back with crisp, theatrical precision. “That’s just a terrible return on investment. Besides, as a cripple myself, I don’t really have the spare bandwidth for finger gymnastics. Look at me. My hands are constantly busy.”

“Sure”, you sign with a quiet, unconvinced snort.

House rolls the stool back over to the desk, tossing your medical chart into the bin with a thud. “Nerves are lazy. If you keep signing, your brain will just let the vocal pathways atrophy because it’s easier”, he says, his tone shifting into something almost resembling a real doctor’s advice. “Tomorrow, you speak. Even if you sound like a broken robot.”

Your eyes accompany his movements when he turns back to you, your faces a few inches apart. You patiently reach out to take his palm and he freezes, the incoming sarcastic retort dying on his lips instantly. Then, you manipulate his clumsy, stiff fingers into a simple shape—two hands meeting at an angle, forming the peak of a roof. 

A house.

“That’s… you.” You rasp with a smile, holding his gaze for a long minute.

House doesn’t pull his hand away, much like that moment before your surgery a few days ago. He merely stares at your unbothered face, his digits memorizing the form of his own name in the silent language he pretended to despise. You, on the other hand, don’t wait around for him to recover, standing up and stepping out into the white wall hallway without another word. 

House stays behind, glancing down at his own hands. Slowly, he traces the roof-shape of the sign into the empty air, absorbed in the lesson you left. Ultimately, he also knows when he lost the battle. 

Despite the fact that Thor was your closest and favourite cousin, the pair of you were nothing alike. Sure, like him you had more strength, better endurance and more physical resilience to harm when compared to Midgardians, but personality wise? Chalk and cheese.

Where he was loud, you were quiet. Where he was the life of the party, you were a wallflower. Where he showed off his mastery of thunder and lightning, you practised your ability, to grow and manipulate plants, quietly and privately. People knew, of course, but it was never a party trick. 

Growing up, Thor, and to a lesser extent, Loki, had never allowed those in your mutual circle to tease you for your quiet and somewhat awkward tendencies. You joined in their adventures in your own way, lending your unique talents when needed, the quiet voice of reason when hotter tempers flared. What this meant though, was that when Thor decided to make Midgard his second home, you decided to do the same. 

You’d never really considered Midgardians as worth knowing – like others of your kind you’d thought them all childish and naive. However, your first meeting with his new friends – The Avengers as they called themselves – had negated your assumptions instantly. Soon, they were your new friends as well, and like those back on Asgard, they accepted you for who you were. Out of the group of them, you were drawn most to Nat and Bruce. The pair of them fully understood your need for quiet company, and when you visited, sometimes with Thor and sometimes without, you often found yourself curled up with a book on the couch in Bruce’s lab, while the scientist tinkered away on his latest project. That wasn’t to say that you didn’t join in with group activities – you did – but if you’d joined them on a mission or for movie night, you often found your social battery waned very quickly after.

There was only one thing about Bruce that made you nervous, and that was his alter-ego. The first time you’d encountered the Hulk in the flesh it was by accident. 

It had been a few days into your first visit. Thor had told you about what had happened to Bruce and how the effects manifested themselves, but you were still taken completely off guard. It was Tony’s fault, of course. The man behind the Iron Man mask was a nice guy and everything, but was also impatient, mercurial and had a mischievous streak a mile wide. 

Bruce had been showing you his lab, having clocked your need for solitude early on, and was letting you know that you could use his space as a sanctuary, when Tony had decided to pull a prank. The billionaire awkwardly admitted later that it was aimed more at you than Bruce, because you’d turned down his nosey, scientific advances the previous day – C’mon, Poison Ivy, show me what you got – and hadn’t anticipated such a strong reaction from the Green Guy.

In the middle of  Bruce showing you where he kept his secret stash of cookies, the door to the lab suddenly locked, a loud siren had gone off and the space had started to fill with smoke. Bruce’s eyes had gone wide, and you swore they’d also flashed green, as his fingers danced over the control panel.

“What’s going on, Dr Banner?” you’d asked, fear rising up in your breast, but he just ignored you, whirling around and running to the door, white coat flapping and nostrils flaring. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge, and he turned back to where you were with trembling hands. All he managed to say was ‘I’m sorry,’ before he started to transform before your eyes. He was massive, green and loud. You were used to being around tall people – Thor wasn’t exactly the smallest, and you were more than familiar with Heimdall as well — but the Hulk was big on a different scale. 

He roared at the closed door and beat his fists upon it. Even through the smoke you could see the dent that appeared. You clapped your hands over your ears and tried to shrink back into a corner, worried you were going to be trampled. You tried to call your powers, but you were inside of a Midgardian building made of metal and glass, at least twenty storeys up in the air, and the closest plants were the dead, cut flowers in a vase in the common room.

Luckily, almost as soon as it started, it all stopped. The siren fell silent, the fans started to extract the smoke and door unlocked with an audible snick. Immediately, the Hulk began to shrink, leaving a panting – and half naked – Bruce kneeling on the floor. Thor and Nat burst in, checking on each of you, even as you heard Steve shouting at Tony out in the corridor.

“Are you alright?” your cousin asked, his large hand cupping your upper arm.

“I’m fine,” you assured him. “Just a little startled by everything.”

Thor huffed. “Stark… He’s not malicious, but like a child, he craves answers as soon as he asks a question.”

“It’s okay. Really.” You shrugged off his hand and gave him a wan smile. “I remember a cousin of mine was like that once.” He at least had the good grace to shake his head as he let out a wry chuckle.

“And I learnt my lesson very quickly after your vines suspended me upside down inside the throne room. Loki teased me about that for years. I doubt any of the others would think ill of you if a similar fate befell the Man of Iron.”

You let out a snort of laughter at that. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You glanced over your shoulder to where Nat was crouched by Bruce’s side, passing him a cup of water. Appearing to sense your gaze, he looked up, his eyes catching yours for a moment, before you quickly turned away. “I think for now I’d like to go to my room and rest. You know I’m not good with too much excitement.”

It wasn’t that you completely avoided Bruce after that – you didn’t hold anything against him and he did have the best space outside of your room on Thor’s floor to hang out in – but on any mission you took part in, you chose to stay well away from the Hulk if at all possible. He was so big, loud and destructive that he just made you feel nervous, more so than other people, and you were bad enough around them. Bruce did seem to understand though, because the next time you visited his lab, tentatively poking your head around the door with a volume of a Midgardian encyclopedia in hand, you found that he’d put several potted plants around the room. However, the pair of you never spoke about the incident .

The other thing you avoided was what Tony called the ‘After-show party’ or, in Clint’s vernacular, the ‘paparazzi run’. As an Asgardian, you were used to victories being turned into spectacles, but the scale on which the Midgardians did it was dizzying. Happily, for the most part, Tony was more than eager to bask in the light of the cameras, extolling and extemporising, with Steve playing a more reluctant back up (and retreating into his ‘Cap’ persona to do so), but there was no way to completely extinguish the public’s interest in you. As the only woman on the team besides Nat, and being ‘an alien’ to boot, there were multiple times that you found yourself with a microphone or camera shoved in your face, when all you wanted to do was retreat to your favourite couch in Bruce’s lab and let your subconscious twist and twine vines up and down the walls. You knew that part of the fascination was because you had such obvious powers, but unlike Thor, you didn’t actively parade them. Your refusal to indulge the public – the same way you’d refused to indulge Tony – led to the increased interest, and you weren’t ignorant of what some of the more low-brow publications said about you. The Meekest Avenger, was how one tabloid had put it, making commentary about how you scuttled away, head down at the end of each battle. How you didn’t make appearances at any of Tony’s gala’s. At least, now that you were fully integrated into the group, the others could run interference, allowing you the opportunity to slip away more often than not when the swarm descended.

However, on this day, luck was not on your side.

Dirt was smeared down your cheek as you leant against a dented car that had been abandoned in the middle of the road. The bad guys were defeated, at least for now, and you and the Avengers were catching your breath after a battle well won. Tony was standing near Steve, face plate raised and guzzling water from a bottle that had been passed over by a grateful civilian. They were no doubt working on their press strategy, as no doubt, with the threat dealt with, the buzzing helicopters would be replaced with reporting vans within minutes. Thor and Clint were chatting, your cousin’s loud laughter allowing you to pin-point his whereabouts with your eyes closed. Clint appeared to have a slight limp, and there was a cut above his eye, but apparently that was ‘nothing’ to the accident prone archer. Considering that the scale of this threat had necessitated a ‘Code Green’, it was a miracle that the human members of the party, enhanced or not, weren’t any worse for wear. Speaking of ‘green’...

Out of the corner of eye you could see the Hulk, crouched, with his chest heaving under the influence of adrenaline and the other chemicals coursing through his system. Nat was standing with him, her small hand running up and down his arm, helping to sooth him back into Banner. For some reason it seemed to be taking longer than usual, hence you standing here out of the way – you’d go and check in on your friends once the Hulk was firmly back in his Bruce-shaped box.

Unfortunately, because you were standing apart from the others, and further away from where the centre of the action had been, it meant you were in just the right place when the reporters arrived. 

You’d closed your eyes for a few seconds, to centre yourself after the stress of the fight, only for them to snap open as soon as you realised that someone was in your personal space. Unfortunately, all your eyes could focus on was the fuzzy microphones that had been shoved under your nose.

“Can you tell us who did this?” came the no nonsense question from the first reporter.

“Err.” You darted a look over your shoulder, but the other Avengers all appeared to still be in conversation, your predicament currently unnoticed.

“What did the villain hope to gain by attacking the people here?” another asked, stepping even closer into your face, his camera wielding colleague leaning over his shoulder.

You took a tentative step back, eyes darting and your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. “Well, it’s not really my place… maybe you’d like to talk to Cap, or Iron Man?” You could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

“I don’t understand how you’re one of them,” the first one stated, gesticulating with his mike and stepping forward as well. “You seem scared all the time. How do you even manage to leave the tower? Or Asgard for that matter?”

You tried to back up again, but were halted by a wall. You wanted to shout out for one of the others, but your throat wasn’t working. What you wouldn’t give to have the same extrovert tendencies of your cousin in this moment. Or at least Loki’s acerbic wit. But the world was going dizzy and there was a ringing in your ears.

“Yeah, come on, love. You could at least give us a smile if you’re not going to give us a sound bite.”

A ripple of laughter made its way through the group, which had now swelled in number from the original three to an imposing eight. Beneath your feet the concrete started to crack, small plants growing up from them. Your rising panic was making it harder to control your powers.

Suddenly, a powerful roar rent the air, and the ground shook under your feet, as if there were an earthquake. As one, the group of reporters cried out and scattered as the Hulk ran towards them. He stopped just in front of you, whirling around and snorting, bull-like, at the scrabbling papparazzo’s, before stomping the ground, making it tremble again and sending some of them tumbling over.

“Don’t be rude!” Hulk shouted at their retreating backs, before turning back to your own quaking form. Before you even knew what was happening, he had scooped you up in one of his enormous arms and was galloping away from the scene. You continued to shake in his rigid hold, visions of the laughing reporters repeating in front of your eyes. Norns, you were pathetic. Your eyes filled with tears as your chest heaved from your shuddering breaths. Why couldn’t you be strong and sure of yourself like Thor and Loki were?

It wasn’t until the Hulk lowered you to the ground, that you realised that he’d stopped running. You looked around yourself in panic, trying to work out where you were, only to find that he’d placed you to rest on some grass.

“Tower there,” he stated, pointing out the giant ‘A’ stuck to the side of the building in the not too far distance. You glanced again at the greenery surrounding you – the grass, the plants, the trees. He must have brought you to Central Park. 

You were still shaking – from both fear and frustration – but you had to admit that the Hulk had brought you to your favourite place in the whole of New York. A place where you felt safe. “Th-thank you,” you stammered, and the big green guy’s normally angry expression morphed into one of pure joy, a broad smile splitting his face.

“Hulk happy you’re happy.”

A tentative, echoing smile danced across your face unbidden, dragged into being by his sweet, earnest reaction. “Thank you,” you repeated, “for rescuing me. For bringing me somewhere that I’d feel safe.”

“Hulk like you,” he continued, only for his smile to drop once more. “Not think you like Hulk, though.”

Your own heart sunk to your stomach as you realised how affected he was by your avoidance.

“Not mean to frighten you, that first time,” he continued. “Sometimes Hulk gets scared.” He dropped down beside you, making the ground tremble. “Hulk not like loud sounds. Hulk not like lots of people.”

Beneath your hands, daisies started to sprout in the grass as your lips twisted up wryly. “It seems we have more in common than I thought – I’m sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. But for someone who doesn’t like loud sounds, you sure do make ‘em. It makes me nervous.”

Hulk’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of green and you realised he was blushing. You reached out your hand and cupped his face. “Maybe we can hang out some time. Somewhere quiet?”

“Yes. Hulk would like.”

You moved your hand down to take hold of his.

“Friends then? I have been told I have an affinity for green things.”

The guileless smile returned to his face. “Hulk is very green.”

“That you are, Big Guy. That you are.”

“Where were you last night…truly.” Forming the words calmly with your lips. Drawing his attention down to it. His eyes briefly widened. Watching him choke down the words he said. “With someone more important than me?” Inviting him to elaborate more.

To lay out his lies, knowing it would hurt, but you wanted to hear it from him. Seeing him about to break a sweat. Batting your gaze down, you still hoped for a lie. That lie that nobody could be more important than you. He cleared his throat softly, moving his arm down from above your head. 

“Cat…” He mustered out. It was already known to you, but that never gave away that the truth hurt like hell. Why couldn’t he lie, lie, lie. Overcome with a primal urge, you slapped him across the face. Stunned, he brought his palm up to his cheek.

Staring bewildered back at you, rushing over to your desk. “I…I don’t understand why you are so upset?” Reilly replied. Scoffing loud, you set your handbag firmly on top of your desk. “Are you truly this daft or simply pretend to be?” Calling back to him. “I…I…Y/n…this doesn’t change anything about our relationship.” 

His words almost made you gag. Relationship. As if there ever was one to begin with. There was nothing relational about it except for a chief and his secretary. The glare you shot his way, made him swallow tightly. “I…I, can’t you just be happy for me.” Pleading with his eyes.

Fluttering your eyelashes rapidly, you batted your gaze upwards. Clearing your throat softly. “Of course, Mr. Reilly…” Surrendering as there was nothing left. He exhaled content. Coming over to brush his thumb down your chin. 

Shamelessly he had asked this of you. Not seeing your emotions open and naked. Dropping down on your chair. Numbly staring before you. The smoke coming from his office prickling your eyes more. Turning around in your chair, you stared into his office.

Watching him go through paperwork as if nothing had occurred. Shamelessly pretending. Eyes drawn to the cigarette that his lips formed around. Giving it little sucks before puffing out the smoke. Swirling and bathing himself with the scent. Curling your fingers inwards, you were shameless of yourself. 

Needing him more than you wanted. Fingers pressing deeper into your palms. Needs more than you wanted. Heartbeat pulsating in your neck, the feeling only grew. Watching him. Imagining him close.

Wishing you were in that gilded cage once more. His arms as metal bars keeping you in place. His little birdie trapped for no one to watch but him. Despite trying so hard to hate him, you couldn’t. Feelings for him like a toxin. The more you received it, the easier accepting it became. 

With a gasp, you spun back around in your chair. The flicker of a warning his eyes were finding you. Thankful for the phone ringing to set your mind free. Day passing by in a blur.

Returning home to an empty bed. As cold as the coffee in the pot. With nothing but your own warmth to indulge in. Uncontrollably tears you had withheld all those hours. Cursing Cat Hardy. For having what you had desired for a very long time now. 

Paved way echoed underneath your heels. Moon above, shining in puddles. Residents of rainfall early in the day. Under lamp posts danced moths to their delight. Flapping their wings for eternal light. Drawn in by the flame. Like Icarus, reaching for higher than before.

Purse swaying before you with your loose walk. Swaying numbly in your step. Moving more to the center of the street for a vent. Ground thundering underneath you. A puff of steam emerging from the vents below. Subway making sure for a safe trip homewards. 

Heel clicking dimmed out to a complete stop. Steam evaporating with a clear view. A tall man, hands deep in his trench coat’s pocket. Hat tipped downwards for a faceless man. Heart stuck in your throat. His movement made you reverse yours.

“Where are you going doll?” His voice carried on. Gasping loud, you recognized it. Hat rising to correct your thoughts. “I just want a chat.” Hands gesturing welcoming at you. His charming smile reflected under the light. The spots on his face rougher than smooth skin. 

“What do you want?” You shouted back. Stiff at his approach. Grabbing for his hat, he held it in his hand. “You’re the secretary, right? Miss Y/n Y/l/n.” He spoke. “How…how do you know my name?” You responded with waryness. A dry chuckle leaving his throat.

“I know a lot of things, miss Y/n.” His hands found a way to his back. Circling around you like a vulture. “Like about your boss Ben Reilly.” A glitter in his eyes upon the mention of the name. “I…I don’t see how this is my problem?” Head turning to keep up with the restless vulture in himself. 

His hands gripped firm at your arms. A deep throaty groan backing his stare up. “My Cat!” He roared out. “I need him away from my Cat Hardy.” Digging his fingers deeper into your skin. Shaking you roughly. “He doesn’t listen!” Forcing his words out in a rage. The specks of roughness on his face intensified.

“I…I…I don’t know what you want me to do?” Answering with a shaky voice. “He listens to you! I need him to stay away from her!” Grip hardening on you. Glancing down at his hands they had become rough. Coarse like sand. Tiny granules rippled around with each movement. “I…I…” Heart beating loud in your throat. 

“I can’t do anything about it.” Breathing out for it was the truth. You couldn’t change anything about it. Mr. Reilly’s head was feral for the singer. A schoolboy crushing hard. Flint’s stare hardened. Wrong answer. Grunting loud, his grip released on you.

Falling with force against the brick wall. Lungs pressed against your chest, the gasp for oxygen was a trouble. Slowly setting your elbows to hoist yourself up. With little to recover, your back kissed brick once more. Flint’s grip tight on your shoulders. “Tell him to stay away from my Cat!” 

Breath shocking with the pounding in your head. Skull touching brick from another forceable shake of him. “Tell…tell him yourself.” Swallowing hard to maintain consciousness. Flint’s grip hardened on your clothing. Calling it out as he tossed you over his shoulder onto the street.

Rolling over till you came to a sudden stop. Muscles bruised up. “I tried to tell him numerous times.” Flint spoke, standing up. Clenching his fist more. Granules of sand coming together by his knuckles. “It’s laughable to him!” Throwing a punch at one of the garbage stands. Knocking the wind right out of it. 

Body startled by the noise when his fist crashed into metal. Head tucked to your chin. Flint raised his finger at you. “You! You will see to it.” Kneeling down. You tried to crawl back, but his firm hand kept you in place.

“You will see to it.” Giving you a fairly nod hidden behind his smile. “You are too hopeful.” You answered back, finding a bit of your courage back. “Not even I can change his mind.” 

Flint’s nostrils flared, knuckles up to your chin with the grip of your clothing. Fist raised to the nightless sky. “Then you have no purpose to me.” The devilish smile he devoured you with, shook you to your core. Clenching his fist more.

Jaw tensing as his eyes lost all decorum. Nothing but primal hatred pulsating through his veins. With a shuddering breath, you held your gaze on him. Here in this alleyway, you met the devil. Dead before the day is done. 

His fist came down. Life flashing before your eyes. A series of cherished moments you want to hold dear to. To value your life with those precious moments. Unsaid things swirling in your mind. Closing your eyes, you welcomed the blow.

Slowly opening them once more upon annoyed grunts. Blinking shaken at the web that had clutched around his fist. Keeping it away from your face. “Flint, you disappoint me.” Turning your head, tears swelled up. The Spider tugged the end of the web back. 

“Beating up an innocent lady, couldn’t find anyone of your own size to throw your tantrum at? The Spider mocked with clear annoyance. Flint groaned loud, pulling his fist back. Web snapped. The Spider and Flint stumble each back from the loss of contact.

“This is not your business!” Flint panted out, brushing his hair flat. “That is where you are wrong.” The Spider replied with a shake of his finger. “What can I say, I have a weak spot for ladies in dire need of help.” Shrugging his shoulder with a charismatic gesture. 

Flint gritted his teeth, running up to him. The Spider’s webs swung at him. Pinning him to the ground by his feet. Jogging up, he elbowed him across the face. Flint stumbles back. “Come on! I’m just getting warmed up!” The Spider called out tauntingly. Hopping lightly on his feet, ready for a fist fight.

Fueled with anger, Flint took several swings at him. The Spider avoided each with ease.  Angering Flint even more. Puffing with frustration, he made his way to a trash can. Lifting it up his head, tossing it towards him. The Spider leaped aside. Turning swiftly from his knelt down position. 

Eyes widening behind goggles. Flicking his wrists forwards. Web clutching to the trash can like hands. Calling it out with a hard pull. Forcing it to change course, away from you. Trash can clatter to the ground somewhere beside him.

Turning sharply to Flint, he was truly angry now. Jumping up, he fired every web he had at him. Trapping him in a tangled web. Flint raging his way out. Fists swinging around like cannonballs. Tearing free from the webs. Eyes widening at the flying objects coming his way. 

Punching them away at every might. A rain of cluttering ruin. Just too late when the lamp post knocked him right in the face. Knees giving in, allowing him to see stars. The Spider panting loudly. “Y/n!” He called out, hurrying over to you.

Kneeling at your side, he helped you sit up. “Are…are you alright?” Asking with urgency. Supporting your back. Your hands clutched onto his clothing. Trying to ignore the pounding in the back of your head. Aware of his touch deepening on your skin. 

“Are you hurt?” The Spider asked, desperate for a response from you. Hazily you pulled yourself more up by his collar. There were things you wanted to talk about. Unsaid things swirling in your mind. Afraid you’ll never be able to say them.

His hands holding you without hurting you. Keeping him at arms length wasn’t working. Things you wanted to talk about. “Y/n?” The Spider spoke, moving his palm to your cheek. Brushing his thumb upward your jaw. 

Sucking in a soft breath, you moved your shaky hands towards his face. The Spider moving it wary back. Your fingers touched the fabric, taking it. Rolling it softly upwards. “Don’t.” The Spider let out, hand firm around your wrist.

You proceeded, holding it right underneath his nose. Lips exposed. Spider taking a hard swallow. Shamelessly you gave in. Breathing in his very air before they intertwined as one. Lips settling deeply onto his. 

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