do not approach

You sigh and run a hand over your face, feeling your skin so freaking dry it’s scratchy. Great. That’s what you get for skipping one week on the skincare routine. With a heavy grunt—which sounded like a truck driver after smoking three boxes of cigarettes, damn you, Jack Daniels!—you turn on the bed only to find it empty on your side. Yeah, that’s just typical. A man who is able to sleep every night among this wreckage must have some serious underlying emotional issues.

Then, you feel it.

The sting.

The pain.

“Jesus, motherfucker—” 

The gravelly sound leaving your own throat makes you pause and frown even deeper in confusion as the blinding ache radiates through the whole extension of your quadriceps. How many bottles of scotch does it take to turn your voice this deep? And this fucking sensation in your leg, like someone chewing aggressively on your flesh? Gosh, it hurts like a bitch. You’re halfway into another mental curse when you look down and freeze, not finding your body there, but long, masculine limbs and an ugly scar on the right thigh. You shriek in absolute horror and the pain throbs again, prompting you to jump in reflex and fall off the bed with a weighty thump, similar to a bag of potatoes hitting the floor.

“What the fuck!?” You scream this time, your inexplicably rough and manly tone much more evident now.

This has to be a dream. No, no, no, more like a nightmare! Fuck! Your hands find the sides of your incapacitated leg while you groan desperately again. Taking sharp breaths through your nostrils, you glance at the mess around you with manic eyes, arms flailing up toward the bedside table to try and fetch an orange bottle of pills. You don’t even know what it is—you just need this damn hurting to stop. A set of keys and some condom packages hit the ground whilst you snatch the medicine clumsily, opening it and shoving a handful in your mouth without thinking twice.

Your relief, however, is short-lived until you read the label, spilling the chewed pills all over your legs violently. Vicodin?! You have been clean from opioids for three years, you can’t fucking take—Jesus, whose body is even this?! Scrambling across the floor and attempting to sit up amidst the striking twinge in your femur, you roughly scrub your tongue from the bitter and chalky taste, panting heavily. Your mind works overtime to make sense of what the hell is happening. 

Think. Maybe it really is a dream, who knows? You do tend to have some dramatic hangovers from time to time… but even your dreams are usually in third person. And you’re just not some random guy in them. You shake your head once and haul your lengthy body up in a swift motion, hissing when your thigh stings in protest. You limp pathetically in the direction of what you infer is the bathroom, searching erratically for a mirror. Perhaps if your brain sees the actual face of whoever this is and realizes it’s not you, you’ll wake up… 

You look at your male fingers and scoff in disbelief once more, touching the scruffy grey beard and wincing slightly at the dull soreness still bothering under your waist. You finally stare at your reflection in the mirror to reveal Dr. Gregory House glancing back at you. What the actual fuck?! The prick from diagnostics who makes the hospital a living hell to work in?! Wait a minute—this is too real to be a dream. And honestly, all of a sudden, it doesn’t seem like a nightmare at all, but rather your chance to get revenge in the name of every good citizen who works at Princeton-Plainsboro. 

This is the golden opportunity. You could actually have some fun before finding out whatever the hell happened to your own body. A wicked smirk paints your lips slowly, although it disappears when the bathroom door rattles abruptly. Another loud and impatient knock echoes against the wood and you jolt at the sound. 

The game is afoot.

“House! Open up. If you’re pretending to be dead to get out of clinic duty, Cuddy already said she’ll double your hours.”

The door opens anyway, because James Wilson has long since stopped respecting House’s boundaries. He stands in the doorway, car keys in one hand and a travel mug of coffee in the other, giving you a skeptical glare. The sight is ridiculous, you’ll give him that: you’re only wearing a pair of House’s visibly worn black boxers, suspiciously not leaning on your cane, studying your own figure in front of the mirror as if you’d just hit puberty and were curious about the changes, fingertips still touching the stubble on your cheeks faintly. He looks down at your leg and his eyes turn into thinner slits.

You display a rushed smile in the blink of an eye, shoving him out of your apartment with a newfound masculine force while thoroughly ignoring your sore thigh. “Jimmy! Make yourself at home. I’ll be there in a second.” 

You limp back into the bedroom and slam it shut so hard it makes James flinch behind you. As you get dressed, a phone vibrates furiously on the floor. It’s your own phone number on the screen, albeit since you’re not messaging yourself, it’s painfully obvious who it is. You unlock the device to be bombarded with a barrage of messages. House—supposedly trapped in your body, as far as you know—is handling the situation with his signature lack of grace.

08:14 AM: What did you do? Did you lace my coffee? If this is a prank, I’m going to implant a catheter in your sleep

08:15 AM: Why am I short? Why is everything too high up?

08:17 AM: I just tried to clear my throat and sounded like a Disney princess. Fix this.

08:19 AM: Also, your metabolism is too efficient and my right leg doesn’t hurt. It’s deeply unsettling. Get over here before I start testing your blood for rare pathogens just to pass the time

Outside the door, you can hear Wilson pacing, his voice drifting in over the noise of shifting fabric. “Did you really just call me Jimmy? Unironically? And since when do you announce that you’ll ‘be there in a second’ instead of throwing a metaphorical flashbang and running the other way?” He knocks on it thunderously again. “And why aren’t you using your cane? Did you find another illegal treatment that surely is going to be lethal in a couple of weeks?”

Once fully dressed in House’s wrinkled, ugly clothes, you push the door back open deftly, gripping the cane tightly with hectic eyes despite the plastic smile glued on your lips. “I’m trying out new methods. Natural ones. They’re healthier.” You limp past James, not giving him time to process your clipped wording. “Also—you drive. I’m... renouncing my license. Temporarily. Let’s go.”

Wilson stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the hallway. He stares, brown orbs darting from your cryptic beam down to your hands, looking for a hidden camera or a punchline. “You’ve given up Vicodin”, he repeats leisurely, flatly, his tone bathed in incredulity. “The man who once performed surgery on his own leg to avoid a drug test is now a wellness influencer.”

You shrug, still limping in an agitated manner. “People change, Wilson. Now let’s go.”

James turns and walks briskly to keep up as you head toward the front door. He grabs your shoulder to spin you around, genuinely alarmed. “Okay, House, seriously. What did you take? Are you having a stroke? Did you find a lump?” He peers closely into your blue gaze, checking your pupils. “You love driving that motorcycle like a maniac. You only give up control when you’re either completely wasted or planning a felony. Which is it?”

Pause.

This is your chance.

“I’m… in love.” You let out a shaky, lying, theatrical wheeze, eyes gleaming with fake tears. You pull out House’s phone from your pocket and show Wilson your own picture—the one you just saved from your Facebook account. “Look at her. That’s the love of my life right there. I’m changed.”

Wilson blinks at the photo of your real body and gazes up at you, repeating the movement at least three times. His expression transitions from concern to profound and exhausted perplexity. He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh that’s been building up for a decade.

“She’s... very pretty, House.” Wilson says carefully, the way one speaks to a patient who believes they are talking to Napoleon. “However, I’m afraid that’s not love. That’s a manic episode. Or a neurological event.” He pulls open the door, gesturing for you to walk out ahead of him. Before you can reply, he holds up a hand decisively, “I’m driving you to PPTH, but I’m taking you straight to Radiology for an fMRI. I’m eighty percent sure you have a tumor pressing on your frontal lobe.”

CHAPTER II: THE SPORTS CAR

You managed to escape Wilson in the parking lot when he looked away for a brief moment, limping so stealthily into the Diagnostics Department, a crippled ninja surely would’ve been jealous. You arrive at House’s office and peer at every single corner with big, bright blue eyes, akin to a little kid in a candy shop. Huh. So this is where all the money has been going into, whereas you’re forced to eat the radioactive menu from the cafeteria downstairs with your crew. No wonder House thinks he owns the place. 

You exhale, playing around with a random marker between your forefinger and thumb, and take a seat in the leathered chair behind the desk. A shiver runs up your spine and your leg twitches in pain, still you soldier on, determined to ignore it and focus on making the best out of your House ride. Noise comes from the other room, catching your attention, and you smile kindly as the team approaches. 

“Hello, guys!”

Foreman, Chase and Cameron are distractingly dispersed in the glass-walled office, flipping through patient charts. At your very polite, very un-House greeting, Chase freezes mid-pen-click. Cameron lowers her clipboard, her eyes filled with immediate maternal concern. Foreman is the first to dare speak, his brow furrowed. He looks over your shoulder as though expecting Wilson to be standing there, holding a straightjacket. 

“Did you finally get high enough to appreciate dry-erase boards?”

“Are you feeling okay, House?” Cameron chimes in, taking a step forward. 

Chase snorts, reclining in his chair. “He’s screwing with us. He probably hid a dead fish in the air vents and is now waiting for us to smell it. What’s the case, House? Or are we just here to admire the architecture today?”

You open your arms dramatically, a sadistic smile spread across your lips as you stand up and limp to their table, “I’m just in love. Can’t I be happy?” You lean on your cane, staring at the whiteboard and rubbing your stubbly chin thoughtfully. “Mmm. Pink looks better. Chase, get a pink board to replace this one, would you?”

The room falls into a suffocating silence. Chase’s jaw literally drops. He blinks at the whiteboard, then at you, intensely bewildered. “House, they don’t even make—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “No. I’m not doing that. You’re trying to see how far you can push us before we quit.”

Foreman crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. “You’re in love. With what? The pharmaceutical rep who brought the free samples?”

The glass door slides open with a melodramatic whoosh. Standing there is you—well, your real body. Except now, it’s wearing an oversized, crumpled hoodie, a pair of old sneakers three sizes too big, and a look of murderous fury. House-in-your-body stomps inside, trips lightly over the threshold, since he isn’t used to your lighter mass yet, steadies himself on a chair, and points a trembling, feminine finger at your face.

“You”, House rasps out of your mouth, vibrating with a hilarious mix of your natural tone and his bitter cadence. “In my office. Now.”

Cameron gasps, looking between you and the angry young woman who just stormed in. “House... Who is this? Is this the girl?”

You look down at your own figure and grin widely, delighted at the sight of him fuming, and glance back at your team. “She’s my girlfriend, guys. This is (y/n). Say hello, baby.” You pull him closer casually, kissing your own soft hair.

House-in-your-body goes rigid the second your arm wraps around his shoulder. His eyes widen in comic horror. If looks could kill, you would have spontaneously combusted into a pile of ash right there. “If you ever touch me again”, House growls, a threatening hiss that sounds incredibly bizarre coming from your own face, “I will find a way to induce a stroke in your Broca’s area so you can never speak another word.” 

You scoff in response and he aggressively elbows you in your newly acquired, aching thigh—hitting the exact spot with pinpoint medical accuracy—and wrenches himself away from you, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. You groan silently at the hit and behind you both, the team is experiencing a collective neurological meltdown. 

“Girlfriend?!” Chase blurts out, taking turns at blinking at your current middle-aged demeanour and your actual body. “House, she’s... you’re... Is this a mid-life crisis? Did you buy a sports car too?”

“House, this is highly inappropriate”, Cameron says, flushing a scandalized red. She gazes at House-in-your-body with immense pity. “Miss, are you okay? Are you being coerced? If he’s withholding medical treatment or manipulating you—”

“The only thing he’s manipulating is my sanity”, House snaps in your thin voice, turning his glare onto Cameron. “Shut up, Cameron. And Foreman, stop looking at my chest, it’s creepy.”

Foreman throws his hands up in defense while you sigh and run a palm over your beard, blue eyes moving between all of them rapidly. You mumble to House, squinting a bit, “you should be happy you can actually come more than once in a row, now. Idiot.” You roll your eyes and limp back into your office, barking at Chase one last time. “Pink board! Do it!”

Chase’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again, but no sound comes out. “What the—”, he mutters under his breath, stumbling backward out of the room. “I don’t... where do they even sell those?!”

Foreman follows suit. “I’m leaving. If Cuddy asks, I’m doing rounds in the clinic. Anywhere but here.”

Meanwhile, House-trapped-in-your body stands frozen for a minute, processing what you said. His jaw tightens and his naturally downy gaze flashes with shock and competitive irritation. He trudges after you, his gait still uncoordinated, shoving your private office door shut and cutting the team off from the madness.

CHAPTER III: THE FACE OFF

House hisses, pacing around the desk while failing to adjust to the swing of your hips, “first of all, orgasming repeatedly in a row is anatomically inefficient and, frankly, a waste of cardiovascular stamina. Second of all—how dare you?!” He leans impossibly closer, crossing your arms and glaring daggers at you. “We have a massive problem. I woke up, tried to scratch my beard, and hit smooth skin. I tried to stand up, and my center of gravity was completely thrown off by... these”, he gestures vaguely to your breasts with a scowl, causing them to wiggle along. “And then I look in the mirror, and instead of a brilliant, ruggedly handsome doctor, I see you. Do you have any idea what this means? I can’t write prescriptions. I don’t have a medical license in this body. And worst of all, Cuddy is gonna think I hired a hooker to do my clinic—”

“Hooker your ass, you bastard.” You snarl, pointing a long finger at your own chest, though you’re still mildly amused by his annoyance. “I’m a nurse in this hospital and if you weren’t such an arrogant prick, you would know that!”

“Well, boo-hoo!” He yells back, shrieking in a high-pitched voice whilst he gets in your grumpy face. “Newsflash: I don’t care who you are, I just want my body back! How do we reverse this?!”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, sitting in his ergonomic chair and putting your feet up on the desk, utterly unbothered, hands resting behind your head. “Your body is actually pretty nice, you know? Limping is fun. I might even wanna stick for a while here.” You smirk only to spite him further. “Enjoy the catcalling on the street while it lasts. I’m sure it will figure itself out.”

House-in-your-body is about to pop a blood vessel in your perfectly healthy forehead. He gets in your space, slamming your hands down onto the wood and leaning over you with a glower that looks remarkably fierce on your features. “Limping is fun?! Oh, sure, it’s a blast. Just wait until three hours from now when the weather changes and that ‘fun’ dull pain turns into a flaming iron spike driven into your femur. Let’s see how much you like staring at the drywall at 3:00 AM while your brain screams for synthetic opioids!”

He straightens up, letting out a frustrated breath through your nose. He catches a glance of his own reflection—your reflection—in the glass pane of the office door, and shivers. He turns back to you threateningly when the sound of a loud beep echoes amidst the silence of the office. 

You smile wolfishly. “Oh, seems like Cuddy wants to see me. I can’t wait.” 

House’s look darkens. “Cut the crap. We have a deadline. You have to go down there this instant. If she sees me looking like this, she’ll have security throw me out. And if you go in there acting like a cheerful tourist in my skin, she’s going to drug test you. Which brings me to my next question…” He taps his chin with your finger sarcastically. “Since you’re currently piloting my nervous system... How bad is withdrawal hitting you right now?”

You keep grinning, shaking your head. “Man, I’ve lived for years with a broken nervous system. Talking to a stranger and being chased by a lion has no difference to me. Trust me, my mind is stronger than yours. I’m used to pain myself.” A few drops of cold sweat slide down your temples, although you deliberately refuse to take notice of them. “Fine. I’ll go see Cuddy. When I’m back, we’ll find a way to fix this. Deal?”

You move for a handshake, gazing at him unblinking. The sheer audacity of your words and the gesture makes House’s ladylike jaw set for a second. He wants to argue, dissect your medical history, mock your bravado and lecture you on the neurochemistry of addiction—but then he sees it, regardless of your best efforts; the subtle sheen of perspiration breaking out across your forehead. The feeble, involuntary tremor in his own slender fingers. The withdrawal is, in fact, starting to knock on the door. His expression shifts from anger to something begrudgingly observant. He stares into his own blue irises, seeing your stubbornness looking back at him, and lets out a drained laugh out of your lips.

His tone drops into a quieter register. “Generalized anxiety doesn’t quite equal a chemical dependency, but you get points for theatricality.” He reaches out, your gentler palm grasping his calloused one, squeezing it hard enough to make a point. “Deal. But the second you start seeing hallucinations of giant, talking rabbits, you crawl back here.”

“I’ll be fine.” You grumble disdainfully, gripping your cane until your knuckles turn white to drag along his bulky frame impatiently. 

He steps back, fixing the oversized hoodie. “Remember: Cuddy breathes through her nose when she’s lying, she’s wearing a push-up bra because she has a meeting with the board later, and if she asks about the clinic, tell her you were busy saving a kid’s life. It always buys you ten minutes.”

You roll your eyes and limp down the hallway, the cool sweat making your shirt stick to your back, yet you push through. “I’ll be fine.”

CHAPTER IV: THE DETOX

Cuddy doesn’t look up from her paperwork when you swing the door open. “House, you are two hours late for your clinic shift, Wilson says you’re acting like you’ve had a lobotomy, and someone just reported a woman matching the description of a ‘disheveled cheerleader’ stealing a construction worker’s lunch outside.” She finally glances up, her eyes narrowing as she takes in your figure, the thick sweat on your brow, and the restless energy in your blue irises. She leans back, crossing her arms. “Alright. What’s the scam? And why do you look like you’re about to vomit and run a marathon at the same time?”

“Vicodin detox. I’m giving it up.” You say gruffly, doing your best House impersonation. You wave a dismissive hand at her, limping inside and slamming the door shut behind you. “Am I here because Wilson can’t handle me having a girlfriend? Tell him to grow up. I have a case right now. Spare me the dramatics.”

Cuddy freezes. The pen in her hand stops moving abruptly. She stands up from her desk and flattens her palms on the woody surface, peering at the salty water on your wrinkled forehead. “You’re detoxing. Again. And you’re telling me willingly instead of hiding in a hotel room or screaming at me for cutting off your supply.” A look of exhausted skepticism washes over her before she hardens. “And, right. The cheerleader wearing your clothes from 1998. Wilson said you were acting like a manic teenager who just discovered organic kale.”

Your breath hitches microscopically as your vision starts to blur. You gulp and keep scowling, your tone deadpan, “he’s just jealous. Like I said, gotta go.” 

“Wait.” Cuddy walks around her desk, stalking after you like a tiger targeting prey. She smells like expensive perfume and her eyes remain sharp, analyzing your posture minutely; the way you’re leaning on the cane ready to drop, the obvious shaking in your knuckles. “If you’re actually detoxing, you belong in the ICU or at home, not pacing my office pretending you care about a case.” She softens but a fraction into professional worry, though her suspicion is still dialed to an eleven. “And if this is a lie to get out of clinic duty so you can go play house with a girl half your age…” Lisa steps right into your personal space, gazing up into your orbs. “I will personally run the tox screen. Open your mouth. Let me see your tongue.”

A shiver of panic comes up your spine and you pull away from her harshly, limping a few meters back. “You’re not my doctor.” Your frown deepens and you blink through sweaty eyelids. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll just take the day off to shake this off and you can punish me with extra clinic hours later.” 

“House! I am the Dean of Medicine, which means I am exactly your doctor when you’re sweating through your jacket in my hallway—”

You pull the door open forcefully and limp away without waiting for a response, taking difficult, strained breaths out of your nostrils. Cuddy tries to sprint behind you, her voice rising in volume, but you’re already reaching the elevator.

CHAPTER V: THE EGO TRIP

When you reach your office again, the withdrawal symptoms punch up a notch. Your thigh feels like it’s being squeezed by a heated vice, and a rush of nausea hits your stomach, making the fluorescent lights overhead look too bright. You push the glass door open to find House-in-your-body sitting at the conference table. He’s found a stash of candy in one of the drawers and is eating a lollipop with a look of profound boredom, swinging your legs back and forth. His eyes sharpen at you stumbling in, pale and sweating, 

“Well, look at that. You survived the gauntlet”, House grunts, tossing the lollipop stick into the trash. “Though from the looks of it, your ‘mind over matter’ theory is currently getting its ass kicked by my liver.”

You huff sharply and fall with a thud on the ground the next second, your once blurry vision now turning pitch black, an excruciating pain hitting your quadriceps muscle. You don’t say a word, balling your hands in tight fists and breathing heavily, wheezing loudly. Sweat drips like an open faucet from your face. House scrambles out of the chair and crouches next to you.

“Hey—hey!” His tenderer palms press on the side of your neck, checking your racing pulse. His orbs turn clinical as he reads your almost unconscious figure. “I told you, your brain might be tough, but my autonomic nervous system is a junkie. Your blood pressure is spiking.” He grabs your shoulder, trying to roll you onto your side so you don’t choke if the nausea wins. “Breathing, focus on the breathing… Four seconds in, four seconds out. Don’t fight the leg, you can’t win a wrestling match with a damaged femoral nerve.” He glances up at the glass doors, realizing the team or Cuddy could walk by at any second and see Dr. House collapsed on the floor while a nurse barks medical orders at him. He reaches into your jacket pocket, his fingers anxiously digging around until he pulls out the amber prescription bottle of Vicodin. He pops the cap off and stares at the white pills, then looks back down at your sweaty features. “Alright, ego trip is over.” House mutters, pressing a pill into your trembling lips. “Take it. If you stroke out in my body, I’m stuck in this one forever, and I refuse to live the rest of my life dealing with a slow metabolism.”

You glower at him, azure irises now red and watery, your jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack under the pressure. You swallow the pill in silence, closing your eyes and breathing in deeply as he commanded. House watches you with a tense, analytical gaze, not moving away. He keeps your small hands firmly anchored on his trembling shoulder until he hears the ragged sigh that means the medication is starting to coat your frayed nerve endings.

The excruciating spike in your leg gradually dulls from a screaming siren to a throbbing ache. The cold sweat continues to bead on your forehead, however, your fists start to uncurl, your digits twitching once the synthetic opioid binds to his starved receptors. House lets out a relieved breath he didn’t realize he was holding, leaning back on the leg of the conference table. He looks down at his own rugged, sweat-soaked figure with a mixture of pity and anger.

“Welcome to my world.” House murmurs sternly, lacking his usual sarcastic bite for just a moment. “It’s a terrible place to visit. I don’t recommend buying real estate there.” He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, then gazes up at the glass walls of the office, checking for the team. “The Vicodin will buy us about four hours before the ghost in the machine starts screaming again.” He hums, shifting back to business. “Which means we have exactly four hours to figure out how the hell a random nurse and a random cripple managed to swap souls like a couple of teenagers in a bad Disney movie.” He leans in closer, his womanly eyes locking onto your borrowed blue ones. “Think. Before you woke up in my bed with a ruined leg and a bad attitude... what’s the last thing you remember doing last night?”

You sit up against the wall, your bad leg stretched out. There’s nothing of the lightness from before. Your expression is unreadable and pensive. “I was at home. Had dinner. Did the dishes. Slept early.” You mutter, glancing ahead as you think. “I had this headache two days before, like a pressure around my forehead. Sometimes sipping water worked, sometimes an anti-inflammatory pill, but it stayed there. Except that last night before I woke up like… this.”

House watches you unblinking as you describe the timeline, his medical brain clearly translating your words into symptoms, firing off hypotheses at lightning speed. He doesn’t interrupt, his own lips pulling into a tight line as he processes the details. “A pressure headache”, he wonders out loud, tapping your fingers on your knee. “Bilateral? Frontal? Non-pulsatile?” He shakes his head before you can even answer, answering his own question. “Doesn’t matter. A headache doesn’t swap cortical signatures between two people thousands of miles apart. Unless…” He stands up, using your body’s legs with a bit more stability now, and starts pacing the small room, his mind clearly racing.

You follow his movements with your eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“I had a headache too.” He rushes, seeming caught up in an epiphany. “Two days ago. A throbbing tension right behind my eyes. I assumed it was a standard-issue hangover or Wilson’s nagging causing an aneurysm, so I ignored it.” He walks over to the whiteboard, picks up a black marker, and writes ‘HEADACHE’ in big letters. He pauses, stares at it, then sneers dryly. “A synchronized neurological anomaly. Two days of prodromal symptoms, culminating in a simultaneous REM sleep event where our neural pathways somehow... cross-pollinated. It’s impossible. It defies every law of physics, biology, and common sense.” 

You blink once in confusion. “What—”

He tosses the marker onto the table and struts back over to you, crouching down so he’s at eye level. “We need data. If this is a biological phenomenon—some kind of electromagnetic or parasitic event that affected us both—there will be a trace. I need to run a full toxicological panel, an fMRI, and an EEG on both of our bodies.” He points at your chest. “You need to use my hands to draw my blood, and I need to figure out how to get you admitted for an unauthorized brain scan without Cuddy calling the cops. Are you steady enough to hold a needle, or am I going to have to talk you through how to find a vein in my scarred-up arms?”

“I can handle it.” You stand up with some effort and grab your cane, limping toward the hallway again and instructing briskly, “steal some hospital clothes to blend in and meet me there. Make sure no one sees you.” 

You step inside the elevator and press the floor button. House only gives you a crisp, ironic two-finger salute as the doors slide shut.

CHAPTER VI: THE WHAT?

House turns stealing clothes into an art form. Within five minutes, he locates a cart near the maternity ward, swipes a pair of light blue hospital scrubs, and ducks into a staff bathroom. Your body fits into the unisex outfit significantly better than it did into his oversized clothes. He rolls up the sleeves, wraps the drawstring tight around your hips, and ties your long hair back with a stray rubber band he found in his pocket. He checks his reflection in the mirror, adjusting your lips into a cold, professional frown. 

Down in the basement, the thick fluorescent lights hum. You navigate the corridors, your memory of the hospital layout guiding you to the quietest imaging suite. The giant doughnut-shaped machine sits in the center of the room, casting a dim glow. The door clicks open and House slips inside, closing it noiselessly behind him. He looks around, his eyes skimming the control console before landing on you.

“Nice work avoiding the hounds.” House quips and walks to the machine without ceremony. He takes charge pronto, his medical instincts overriding the total absurdity of the situation. “Alright, you first. Sit on the table.” He moves over to the computer screen, his fingertips flying across the keyboard with a familiarity that belongs solely to him, setting up the parameters for a high-resolution brain scan. “I’m going to look at my frontal lobe and thalamus to see if there’s any electromagnetic resonance or abnormal neurotransmitter dumping.”

You lie down, staring blankly at the ceiling. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the MRI machine echoes inside the room for twenty long minutes, a mechanical heartbeat filling the silence. Inside the tube, the claustrophobic purr is intense, but you hold still, allowing the magnets to map out the complex and scarred labyrinth of Gregory House’s brain. When it eventually whirs to a stop and glides you out, you sit back up slowly. Your leg has stiffened up from the lack of movement, an already known dull ache going down your thigh. You ignore it deliberately, keeping your blue eyes fixed on House.

House-in-your-body, on the other hand, looks focused in those blue hospital scrubs, leaning over the console. The green and blue light of the monitor reflects in your own eyes. His fingers, unaccustomed to the touch of your hands, tap a rapid, anxious rhythm against the edge of the desk. He doesn’t say a word for a moment, merely scrolling through the gray-scale cross-sections of his own brain. Eventually, he lets out a short exhale from his nose. He glances up from the screen, equally frustrated and fascinated.

“Well, the good news is my brain doesn’t have a tumor”, House spins the monitor so you can see it, pointing at a specific structure. “The bad news is... look at the hypothalamus and the prefrontal cortex. There’s an anomalous hyper-metabolism right there. The glucose uptake is off the charts, but there’s absolutely no structural damage.” He stands up and crosses his arms in deep thought, his gaze narrowing as he looks at you sitting on the table. “It’s like someone took a jumper cable, hooked it up to our neural pathways while we were sleeping, and forced a perfect, inverted synchronization. It’s a quantum entanglement of the central nervous system. Which means…”

“We’re fucked?” You scoff, rubbing your thigh mindlessly with a weak wince, the mental stress from the day catching up to you.

“Maybe not.” House walks over to the table and leans back on it, studying his own tired features. “If we want to flip the switch back, we have to recreate the exact physiological state we were both in last night. The headache was the buildup. The sleep was the catalyst. We need to induce that exact same neural pressure, and then we need to go to sleep. At the exact same time.” He tilts his head, a dark smirk playing on your shapely lips. “Which means, nurse... you and I are going to have to share a bed tonight. And considering how much my leg hurts when the Vicodin wears off, you’re gonna be a terrible spooning partner.”

When you open your mouth to fire back a witty reply, you see House curl up and grimace as if he’s been kicked out of nowhere, touching his right side just over your ovary. House freezes mid-breath, his face turning an interesting shade of pale as he continues to press his palm securely over his lower right abdomen. 

You sigh, helping him sit back down. “Yeah, it’s always the worst before the period comes. You get used to it. Mostly. Don’t lie down or stand. It gets worse.”

His brow furrows in a look of deeply offended betrayal as he listens to your casual explanation. “The what?” He gasps out, his voice straining amidst another violent cramp. He gazes at his midsection like his own organs have just plotted a mutiny against him. “A cyclical shedding of the uterine lining? Are you kidding me? I am dealing with a systemic neural entanglement, a crippled leg, a crippling drug addiction—”

“Yeah, yeah, life sucks.” You roll your eyes and watch him with a bored, if attentive, expression. “Stay still.”

He lets out a ragged huff but follows your advice, staying strictly in a seated position near the edge of the examination table. He grips the thin mattress, his knuckles white as he breathes loudly. “This is ridiculous”, he rumbles, even if he notices staying seated actually does keep the strain from spiking. He shoots you a glare, his tone laced in irony, “I have spent the last fifteen years managing an infarction of the quadriceps and this feels like someone is trying to twist my internal organs into a balloon animal. Your pain tolerance is either terrifying or you’re a masochist.”

“It’s called being a woman. Don’t be such a pussy.” You grin in satisfaction, despite tracking every one of his winces silently. “Stop moving so much. Stay still.” Your voice becomes commanding this time, akin to the way you instruct rebellious patients.

He leans his head back on the wall, taking slow, measured breaths, his mind visibly attempting to analyze the neurochemistry of prostaglandins while suffering from it. “Fine.” He groans at last, wiping a stray tear of physiological frustration from his eye. “We find a couch. We find some ibuprofen—real ibuprofen, not my poisoned candy stash—and then we map out the synchronization schedule, but if I start craving pickles or crying at insurance commercials before midnight, I am sedating both of us until tomorrow.”

“Ibuprofen doesn’t work. A heat pad or nimesulide does the trick, but it usually only stops after the period blood comes. Since I had processed food last night, it’s gonna be a bad ride for the pain. Cysts and all that.” You shrug. “Sorry.” 

In spite of your scorn, you warm up your rough hands and set them flat on the spot on your own underbelly. House goes still—finally. His orbs snap wide open, glowering down at your large fingers resting on the blue hospital scrubs. At first, he wants to slap your hand away. However, almost immediately, the steady warmth from his old palms starts to seep through the fabric, relaxing the tense, spasming muscles beneath. House blurts out an involuntary pant, his shoulders dropping an inch as the sharpest turn of the cramp begins to settle.

His glance shifts up from his belly to lock onto your middle-aged figure. That bitter sarcasm in his eyes morphs into a clinical curiosity. “High sodium and sugar triggering a big prostaglandin release and systemic inflammation… And cysts? Great. So I’m currently piloting a hormonal minefield with functional ovarian cysts. No wonder your frontal lobe had a pressure headache two days ago, your endocrine system was throwing a temper tantrum and my hypothalamus picked up the signal.”

“You’re such a crybaby.” You snort, massaging your own flesh delicately. “All men are, I guess.”

“Shut up.” He whispers, riding out the pain numbing effect of your makeshift heat pad. He closes his eyes for a brief second, letting the heat from your hands do its work, a rare silence settling over him. When he opens them again, he looks rather tired himself, but the relentless brilliance of Gregory House is still burning behind your irises.  “Just… keep your hands there.”

You smile ever so slightly and sit down beside him, stretching your bad leg whilst still holding one hot palm over his abdomen. “You know, I used to think you were a massive dick just for the sake of it, but now I can see why you’re snappy all the time. The pain is annoying. I feel the urge to snap.” You muse, studying him closely. He opens his mouth to protest the insult, but you’re faster, “how about you? What feels… different?”

House rests his head back on the wall, gazing up at the white ceiling tiles. The warmness remains seeping into his body, keeping the violentest cramps at bay, yet he seems contemplative as he processes your question for a lengthy minute. He takes a deep breath, expanding your lungs, feeling the way the air fills your chest without the familiar tightness he often carries from decades of chronic stress.

“It's quiet”, House admits, lacking his signature rapid-fire edge. “My brain usually feels like a dial-up modem trying to download a supercomputer’s worth of data while someone is screaming in my ear. Right now? It’s... spacious. I can actually think about one thing at a time without five other thoughts trying to murder it for dominance.” He turns his face sideways, looking at his own body with quiet amazement. “And the lack of peripheral noise is staggering. My right leg doesn’t feel like a bomb is about to go off in it. I don’t feel the phantom itch of a nervous system that’s been marinating in opiates for fifteen years.” 

You hum along, taking it all in. “That’s funny, considering I used to be an opioid junkie myself because of the cramps.” House stays unusually silent, so you conclude, with a gravelly sigh, “now you know the ‘mind over matter’ thing wasn’t just me wanting to feel superior—though part of it was, sure. I was actually terrified of feeling the high again. I am terrified right now, this minute.” You confess, rubbing tender circles to heat up his stomach.

House stares ahead solemnly. “My body is too far down the hole. A withdrawal at this point could kill me.” You only grunt and he adds, searching your eyes again and returning to his cynicism, “by the way, your emotional baseline is completely off. Your body clearly wants to feel things. I looked at a poster of a missing dog in the lobby and my chest tightened. My frist instinct was to figure out a way to mock the owner, but my brain’s chemistry tried to force me to empathize. It's exhausting.” You smirk and he shifts faintly, his brow furrowing involuntarily as another wave of pain hits his lower belly. “It’s like driving a sports car with overly sensitive steering. One wrong turn and I’m going to start bonding with Cameron over her feelings.” He shudders dramatically. 

You shake your head in amused disbelief. “And here I was spending all my life trying to feel something and failing every time. Only bad feelings came and I eventually gave up.” 

You haul him up, holding his arm as you limp carefully to the exit, and House stops mid-grunt, eyeing you with sudden intensity. The incoming dry retort about your ovaries dies on your lips. The diagnostician in him takes over, reading the flat cadence of your voice, the hefty sigh, the deep-seated exhaustion behind your sentence. He doesn’t say anything while you steady him, although his posture changes once more. He leans into your support to take the pressure off your aching abdomen.

“Anhedonia”, House offers, abandoning the mockingness altogether. “Your brain got so tired of processing the bad ones that it flipped the main breaker to protect itself. Classic defense mechanism.”

“Sure thing, doc.” You push the doors open, dragging your own body with an imperceptible grimace at each uneven step you take.

House matches his milder stride to the click of his own cane in your hand, uncaring for your obvious defensive dismissal. “You think you’re failing to feel, but your body is actually a hyper-reactive tuning fork. That’s why it feels so loud to me—the machinery is all there, fully functional, just idling in the dark because you turned the volume knob down to zero.” He cuts a glance at you, a cynical yet surprisingly soft grin appearing on his face. “Though, if you wanted to feel something, choosing my nervous system is a spectacular structural error. This body doesn’t do good feelings. It does agony, varying degrees of spite, and the temporary chemical numbness of a synthetic poppy.”

The elevator doors chime open, empty and waiting. House walks inside with you, pressing the button for the garage. You rest both hands on the cane, shoulders slumped at the striking heaviness of carrying his body around for so many hours. “You’re too pessimistic, doc.”

House rests his shoulder on the metal wall of the elevator when the doors slide shut and snickers, “I’m realistic, Freaky Friday. But fear not… Tonight, you get to experience twenty years of unmedicated, agonizing panic-responses all at once. If that doesn’t jump-start your emotional baseline, nothing will.”

CHAPTER VII: THE SYNC

The apartment is illuminated merely by the orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds and the scent of coffee, old books, and dust settles around you. By now, House’s taken the pills as you both lay down to wait for the phenomenon that promises to reverse your bodies back to their rightful owners. The heating pad is plugged in, humming against his neatly medicated abdomen. Navigating the awkward angles of his stiff thigh, you make sure his cramping torso is settled in the dark. 

After a moment of complete quietness, you take a deep breath before pulling House-in-your-body over you—careful not to hurt your bad leg—and cupping his face, “is the pain gone?”

He lets out a surprised pant and his body relaxes into yours, the tension in his shoulders lastly draining away once the medication and the heat begin to blanket the inflammation. “Yeah”, comes the murmur. He looks up at you in the shadows, blinking patiently as the exhaustion of the day reaches him. “The vice is loosening. Your smuggled Latin American NSAID actually works.” 

He rests his head back down on your chest, his ear pressed over his own heart. For a long moment, all that can be heard is the synchronized pace of your breathing—one heavy and ragged from the slow-creeping withdrawal, the other light and steady. “My leg is starting to hurt again.” You admit, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

House’s fingers lightly grip the fabric of his own old shirt. “Seems like your mind over matter theory is about to face its final exam.” You can’t help but snort humourlessly and he moves a tad, ensuring his weight isn’t directly on your damaged femoral nerve, automatically adapting to the pain he knows all too well. “Close your eyes”, he orders, even if the bite is gone, now replaced by a hypnotic drowsiness. “The window is opening. Think about the pressure. Think about the headache. Let’s see if we can trick the universe into putting us back where we belong.”

You hold him tightly, hands sweaty, locking him in place. House’s eyes widen in the shadowy bedroom as you pull him down by the jaw, finding your own lips for a bruising kiss. It’s not soft or romantic. It’s a chaotic clash of teeth and friction. A deliberate attempt to feel something—anything—to anchor your mind amidst the oncoming storm of his body’s withdrawal. The taste of cold sweat, iron, and medicine hangs heavily between you. 

House resists in the beginning, his muscles tensing up in shock, but once the kiss deepens, an uncontrollable gasp escapes your throat. His feminine hands grab the front of his own worn jacket, holding you closer, matching the rough rhythm of the kiss with an urgency of his own. It’s toxic, driven by adrenaline, fueled by two broken minds trying to survive the night. Reality starts to spin when the physical sensation triggers an aggressive spike in your shared neural pathways. The throbbing in your leg flashes into a blazing heat, while the strain behind your blue orbs builds up to a deafening crescendo, mimicking the exact crushing headache from nights ago. 

House tears his lips away, forehead glued to yours as your vision begins to blur into dark edges. He rasps, his voice fading out, a violent ripple of vertigo putting you both under, “That’s... one way... to create a spike…”

The streetlight outside fades to black and your consciousness slips into absolute darkness. You wake up one minute later. Through the shadows of the bedroom, you see the ceiling from a different height. You look down. There are the lined features of Gregory House, graying hair messy over the pillow, his jaw slack. You’re still on top of him—in your own body now. You feel it right away; the absence of pained nerves down your quadriceps. That phantom ache of a missing piece of muscle has vanished, only the soreness of your lower stomach and the lingering warmth of the heating pad beneath you remain. 

You exhale shakily once and lean down to kiss him deeply again—hungry, craving—before he can fully blink his blue eyes open. This time, it’s different. There is no battle against a failing nervous system or perspiration from a crippling opioid addiction, just the grounding reality of your own skin, your own lips molding into his, tasting the weak bitterness of the Vicodin still on his tongue. 

House tenses up once more, his consciousness snapping awake at the feel of you in his mouth. He instinctively reaches up, gripping your waist to push you off, until the fog of sleep clears and the screaming agony in his right thigh floods back into his brain, a low groan escaping the back of his throat. He stops fighting it and, instead, his fingertips dig into the fabric of your scrubs, pinning you there for one breathless second longer before he harshly turns his head to the side, breaking the kiss. 

House gasps for air, his chest heaving as he glares up at you, blue eyes sharp, watery, and rimmed with agonizing pain. “Get... off…” He struggles, clutching at his right thigh with white knuckles as he curls slightly on the mattress. “My leg... feels like it was... run over by a semi-truck. Which means... it worked. You’re you. I’m me. The universe is a miserable, predictable piece of garbage—”, he lets his head fall back, sweating buckets when his pain takes its throne back. Notwithstanding his pitiful state, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Next time you want to jump-start a neural network... just use a toaster in the bathtub. It’s less crowded.”

You chuckle and kiss him one more time, slower, swiftly slipping a Vicodin into his dry mouth. You hug his body fiercely, showering him with wet, wild kisses. This is something you never felt in your life. An emergency to feel him close. House, for his part, is caught totally off guard under your affectionate assault. When the smooth, unmistakable texture of the white pill slips between his teeth, his jaw relaxes. He swallows it with a practiced gulp, never breaking the contact. A vibrating hum rumbles in his chest. 

You pull back just enough to keep smooching his face, raining softer kisses across his jawline, his cheek, and the bridge of his nose, his rigidity finally begins to give way. His large palms find their way to your hips, not to push you away, but simply to anchor himself on the mattress as the physical warmth of your body—and the promise of the incoming chemical relief—begins to numb away the worst parts of the ache.

House huffs in your hair, sounding thick with somnolence. He lets his arms wrap loosely around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He only holds you into his arms for a while, his breathing gradually syncing up with yours in the dark apartment. The terrifying vulnerability of the last twenty-four hours fades into the background, leaving merely the silent noise of the heating pad.

“Don't get used to this”, he whispers into the darkness, tracing the fabric of your scrubs. 

You laugh, the muffled sound hitting his chest and causing him to shiver. You caress his lower back soothingly, grimacing a bit as your right side pokes with a stubborn cramp. You search his lips, swallowing his defeated grunt. The calloused hand on your hip slides upward lightly, his digits pressing into the small of your back in kind, pulling you down to deepen the contact. Without breaking the kiss, his other hand migrates from your waist, setting his palm flat on the heating pad over your belly. He applies a clinical compression there, using his own weight to help soothe the spasming muscles, mirroring what you did to him earlier.

When you pull back for air, he doesn’t immediately let go. His blue orbs open slowly, hooded with a mix of sluggishness and the first velvety waves of the Vicodin kicking in. The defensive walls he normally keeps bolted shut are all down, making his rough figure look unusually soft in the amber glow of the streetlights.

“Equal opportunity suffering”, House concludes, lips still brushing yours with a smug grin. “My leg is numb, your uterus is angry. We’re a walking advertisement for physical therapy and hormonal regulation.” He shifts his thigh a bit, finding a comfortable angle, and rests his chin on top of your head, his chest rising and falling unhurriedly. He adds quietly, his hand keeping you warm, “go to sleep, Freaky Friday.” 

Your eyelids fall shut the next minute.

CHAPTER VIII: THE MORNING WOOD

That temporary peace from the medicines evaporates when your eyes snap open from a quick nap with what seems to be an echo of his leg pain. It’s as though you can feel what he’s feeling at that exact moment. You sit up with a strangled gasp, your hand flying to your right thigh. There is no physical injury there, your skin is smooth, your muscles intact, but your nervous system is shrieking. The ghostly ache attacks you lividly, flawlessly mimicking the sensation of an infarction, and your breath catches in your throat. 

Beside you, House flinches violently himself, a guttural curse ripping his vocal chords. He grips his lower abdomen, older fingers clawing at his shirt as his jaw locks in a brutal grimace. His blue eyes also crack open in horrified confusion. “What the fuck—” He breathes, another pang of pelvic pressure assaulting his own nerves. He shoots you a look in the shadows, pale and covered in sweat, before rolling onto his back, fists clenching as he processes the terrifying neurological attack.

“What is happening?!” You squeal, the air not being pumped properly to your lungs due to the force of the throb in your femur.

“The physical swap reversed, but the cortical bridge didn’t collapse”, he mutters rapidly, scrambling to categorize the anomaly while simultaneously dealing with a fucking menstrual cramp in a body with XY genotype. “It’s a residual synaptic echo... Our thalamic pathways are still… entangled… A quantum hangover! Every time my nociceptors fire… a pain signal, your brain intercepts a mirror frequency, and… vice-versa.” He laughs painedly, eyeing the ceiling, thoroughly offended by the laws of physics. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I get my leg back, but I also inherit a monthly biological calendar, and you get a lifetime membership to a phantom dead muscle. We didn’t fix the machine. We just turned it into a party line.” He forces himself to sit up, leaning back on the headboard, eyes locking onto yours with a grim focus. “We need a nerve block or a massive dose of central nervous system depressants to make the frequency drop. If we don’t sever this feedback loop right now, your brain is going to register my baseline pain permanently, and I’m gonna end up crying over a commercial for laundry detergent—”

You cut his spiralling with a dire chuckle and an aching moan. Then, you feel it; the madly testosterone effect of a palpitating erection, regardless of not possessing a penis. You grasp your pelvis needily, in a frenzy, kneading your own flesh with another moan, even if it is purely sexual now. “Oh, Jesus, what—”

When you look over at House, he’s feeling what you’re doing to your body as if you were touching his own. Each compression point you find in your pelvis prompts him to squirm in a different angle in bed. His chin drops with a soundless whimper and his head snaps around to glower at you, blue orbs blown wide. Every spot your hands find on your own flesh, his breath hitches in his throat. His fingertips twitch on the sheets, his chest heaving as the neural feedback hits his nervous system like a live wire. Every touch of your fingers on your skin is registering in his brain not as a visual, but as a direct tactile feeling on his own groin. His system is decoding your frantic movements and mirroring them impeccably onto his anatomy.

“Stop—” House chokes out, losing his gruff composure. He grips the edge of the mattress while an involuntary shiver ripples straight up his spine. “Pull your hands away right now! You’re looping the signal—” A dark flush creeps up his neck, his own palms balled into fists to keep from imitating yours. “It’s a sympathetic arousal response”, House insists, his eyes tightly shut, teeth grinding as he fights his body’s reaction to your massage. “Morning testosterone spike... combined with the residual cortical bridge... your brain is translating the male vascular congestion, and my thalamus is processing your tactile input. It’s a closed circuit... if you keep doing that, you’re going to short-circuit both of our brains!” He glares at you in a haze of desperation. “Hands off the merchandise! Yours and mine! Breathe out. Focus on the leg pain, on the cramps, on anything else before we accidentally induce a synchronized neurological seizure—”

You open your mouth to speak, however, with one blink, you’re back in his body. You roll your eyes incredulously and snap, “oh, motherfucking shit—” You feel the same throb in your—his—cock, a violent, shivering urge. You growl and clumsily shove your hand inside his pants, massaging his dick and rubbing it hard and fast. “God, fuck, yes—”

House, trapped in your body yet again, wheezes as the world flips for the third time. One second he’s fighting a ghost tidal wave of testosterone in his own skin, and the next, he’s sitting flat on the mattress in your tenderer body, looking through your lady eyes at his own familiar form twisting on the sheets right beside him. “Fucking stop—” He yells in your throat, drowning in frustration and physical overload.

You aren’t listening. Your palm works his rigid, aching length like a goddamn teenager discovering the joys of masturbation. Meanwhile, the sensory feedback doesn’t just stay on his side of the bed. Every single friction-filled stroke of your hand rubs straight into House’s brain where he sits inside your skin. He collapses sideways onto the pillows, clawing pathetically into the bedsheets as the pleasure overloads your own nervous system. Loud groans come out of your mouths and his eyes roll back. He tries to pull you away from his groin, still the unmitigated rush of dopamine and nerve firings completely paralyzes his motor control. 

You pant, overwhelmed by the feeling. “God… House—” You can barely breathe. His cock pulsates furiously in your warm hand.

The bedroom walls around you seem to vibrate. The pain of his crippled leg, the sting of your ovarian cramps, and the driving conflict of the phantom arousal all smash together into a single entropic frequency. The boundary between where you end and House begins dissolves entirely. With one final, devastating, pounding stroke, a violent spasm rips into his body. You arch off the bed with a breathy shout, and at the same time, House screams out of your lungs once the explosive release echoes across the bridge, triggering a synchronized, full-body neurological crash. For a brief second, the world shatters into static and the two of you drop like a stone into a deep, heavy, absolute darkness.

You huff weightily as you stare down at your trousers, now immensely soaked in semen. You glance back up at House and touch your own chin, with an apologetic, perplexed, though still aroused, look. “Did… you feel that? It was so fucking strong.”

House is lying motionless, his hair plastered to his forehead, damp with sweat. He is gazing blankly at the ceiling, chest moving with shallow hitches. Then, unhurriedly, your lips twitch. An exhausted breath escapes him. He turns his head on the pillow, his expression numb. “You just used a high-voltage jumper cable on our shared thalamus. I didn’t just feel it. I think I can currently see the fourth dimension.”

“Talk about an out-of-body experience.” You scoff, running a hand over his stubbly face tiredly.

House attempts to sit up, yet his limbs are comically uncooperative, trembling from the shattering dopamine and adrenaline dump that just ricocheted through his brain chemistry. He collapses back down with a moan and mumbles, eyes closing as he tries to blink away the lingering neurological static, “that was actually a systemic, cross-cortical seizure of the reward pathway. My brain—or your brain—just dumped a lifetime supply of endorphins into a single three-second window because the feedback loop kept multiplying the signal.” 

“You’re saying we’re lucky to have survived?” 

He stares at his own wrinkled face with a look of defeat, his tone flat. “Something like that. The voltage of that release seems to have fried the bridge. My cramps are down to a zero, but I’m currently trapped in a body that has been compromised by a teenage-level testosterone spike, and I’m pretty sure you just ruined my favorite pair of trousers. Get up and clean yourself up before I figure out a way to sue you for neurological assault.”

You snicker with his raspy voice, but don’t get up from the bed. You place a warm palm on your pussy without thinking, leaning closer, savouring the arousal coming from him now. “You’re burning up.” You note huskily, stroking your own lower lips through the hospital scrubs. 

In the lingering fog of the adrenaline dump, the neural link flares right back to life with undenying speed. House’s back arches off the mattress as the feedback hits him akin to a physical blow. He growls out of your throat and tries to pull back, though halfheartedly, “you’re playing with a nuclear reactor. The bridge didn’t fry, it just went dormant until you touched the dial again...” The precise friction of your hand mirrors perfectly onto his own system, sending a fresh surge of stimulation down his spine.

Your next words are firm, confident, unyielding in his hoarse tone, “take off your clothes, House.”

Despite the hectic pace of his breathing, House doesn’t move away. His shaky hands reach up, wrapping around the collar of his own worn jacket, dragging you down until your lips are practically brushing. “If I take these clothes off, we aren’t going back to sleep”, he spits, in a mix of indignation and undeniable desire. “And given the current state of our shared nervous system, if we keep this feedback loop going, one of us is going to end up in the ICU with a blown synapse. So either move your hand... or finish what you’re starting before I lose my mind in your body.”

You grin and slide two slender fingers into his now bare sloppy grip. You use your thumb to press your own clit with the specific technique that works on you, panting hotly into his lips. “Does that feel good, baby?” You purr amongst another distinct tug of pleasure in his penis.

House’s breath hitches when you rub the spot precisely. The tailored sensory input detonates in his brain. He experiences the same hyper-tuned pleasure mapping of your own anatomy, magnified by the testosterone spike of his own body. His teeth dig into his lower lip enough to draw blood as another agonizingly good pang of pleasure hits back from his cock on the other side of the link. 

Driven by the multiplying rushes of dopamine, he holds your hand even tighter into him, his other palm coming up to cup his own bearded jawline, yanking you down for a kiss. The boundaries of who is giving and who is receiving melt away as the rhythm takes over once more. Each precise rub of your digits sends a signal of ecstasy straight to House, which bounces back to you as a thump of raw arousal in his pants. It’s a closed, escalating circuit of pure sensing.

He rocks his hips upward, helpless against the technique you know best. “Don’t you dare stop, Freaky Friday…”

You bump his clit with all the masculine strength you possess now, the wet slapping sounds echoing obscenely inside the walls of his bedroom. You nuzzle your own smooth cheek, leaving loving kisses on his every pore. “That’s it. Just let go.”

House blurts out a broken cry, swirling into overdrive. His legs thrash on the bedclothes, hips and thighs flexing wildly. He is panting, sweating; teeth griding to keep from losing consciousness at the sole volume of dopamine flooding the circuit. The psychological surrender snaps the final thread of his control at your whisper. A violent, catastrophic convulsion travels down your body. House screams into your mouth, his whole frame stiff and shuddering as an explosive, multi-layered orgasm obliterates his mind. 

Concurrently, the massive feedback flood slams back across the bridge into his own anatomy. Your vision explodes into white-hot static as his cock quivers beneath you, a secondary, violent release tearing into his trousers. The synchronized overload is too much for the neural pathway to sustain. The world tilts suddenly, the sloppy sounds and hot breaths morphing into a dead silence as the circuit fractures, pulling both of you down into another profound and unconscious dark.

You wake up in your own body again, looking up through the dim light at the ceiling of the apartment. House’s draped over you precariously and you let out a long, slow sigh, fluttering over his graying hair as you touch his cheek delicately. His lanky frame is dead to the world, one of his hairy legs tangled between yours, scruffy features buried in the crook of your shoulder. The metallic scent of sweat and dried fluids hangs in the cool morning air. 

At the sound of your voice, House groans. He doesn’t open his eyes right away. Instead, he flinches, brow furrowing as the pain on his right thigh floods back in. He shifts his weight clumsily, his joints popping, and blinks his blue eyes open eventually. He is staring at your collarbone, his face a few inches from yours. He doesn’t pull away yet, just listening to the unglitched beat of your heart under his ear. He lifts his head from your neck, blue eyes bloodshot as he gazes down at you. The manic neural feedback is gone; there is no phantom throb, no shared echo. 

He caresses your lip tenderly. “The machinery is quiet”, he muses, dropping into a rare, grounded tone. “Your brain is idling. Mine is back to its usual, miserable dial-up noise.” He allows his head to fall back down onto your shoulder with a defeated sigh of his own. “We survived.”

Later that morning, in the kitchen, you’re eating House’s cereal mindlessly in your underwear. You feed him a spoonful, sitting on his good leg and watching him crunch on them readily. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—you got some extra clinic hours coming up next week.” You quip, slipping your thumb between his lips teasingly.

House halts his chewing mid-crunch, his eyes narrowing. The spoon is left hovering in mid-air and he peers at you as if you’ve just told him Cuddy has sanctioned a mandatory, department-wide seminar on emotional intelligence. Then, when your finger slides into his mouth, he gives you a deliberately deadpan look, teeth clamping down on the pad of your thumb to make his point. He doesn’t bite hard enough to break the skin, but it’s a firm, stubborn warning. He leisurely sucks the remaining sweetness of the sugary cereal off your skin, letting go with a soft, cynical pop.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve using my mouth as a pacifier while dropping an administrative pipe bomb on me”, House grumbles, reaching past your waist to grab his coffee mug and taking an aggressive gulp. He shifts under you, ensuring your hips are settled on his left thigh, his good leg taking the tension while his crippled one hangs loosely off the side of the kitchen chair. He leans forward, his coarse chin resting on your bare shoulder, blue orbs tracking the pace of your breathing. “Tell me you didn’t”, he begs dramatically against your skin, hand securely anchored on your hip. “Tell me you used that brilliant, hyper-reactive brain of yours to lie, cheat, or fake a highly infectious tropical disease to get me out of work. Please.”

You laugh and suck on his earlobe, “I’ll make it up to you with a blowjob every morning before you go to work. Deal?”

House’s air hitches in his lungs once your lips find his ear, a sharp intake of breath escaping his nostrils. The boldness of the offer causes a crack in his cynical armor, azure irises flickering with dark amusement and shameless interest. He takes another intentional sip of his black coffee, the mug clicking on the Formica countertop as he sets it down. His digits dig into you in a grounding manner.

“Every morning?” House weighs, a husky vibration rolling into your ears. He tilts his head, giving you a sideways look. “That is a legally binding verbal contract and I expect precise adherence to the syllabus.” A characteristically wicked grin cuts across his features. He reaches behind you, grabbing another spoonful of the cereal and shoving it into his mouth with an obnoxious crunch, never breaking eye contact. “Deal”, he hums around the food. “But if you miss a single Tuesday, I’m personally assigning you forty hours of data entry in the pediatric wing.”

CHAPTER IX: (IN) DA CLUB

On Monday morning, everything supposedly goes back to how it was before the whole body swap thing… except now you have slept with the prick from diagnostics four times. Sober. Willingingly. And you’re really not sorry—House, on the other hand, is still struggling to comprehend the seemingly impossible phenomenon without anyone thinking he’s crazier than what his reputation already says. His restlessness, in other times so draining to you, now serves as a nice balance to your casualness when it comes to the situation. Surprisingly, being with him seems almost like the whole point of this cosmic joke. And you’ve chosen to embrace it fully. 

Golden opportunity and all.

The glass door clicks open, but it’s drowned out by the thumping, mid-2000s bassline of 50 Cent rattling the cheap speakers. You’re wearing sunglasses inside House’s office whilst In Da Club blasts from his old radio, chewing calmly on a Twizzler and mumbling to the song with your eyes closed. House limps into the room, cane clicking melodically on the linoleum in a vain attempt to match the tempo of the bass. He stops at the edge of his desk, leaning heavily on the rubber tip of his cane, and looks down at you. 

You’re still sprawled in his comfortable leather chair, rocking your pink scrubs, none the wiser of his presence. He stands there for a full twenty seconds, simply watching you, his face a mask of exhaustion. Without saying a word, he reaches out with the handle of his cane, hooks the cord of the radio, and yanks it forward. The plug flies out of the wall socket and the heavy bass dies, leaving behind only the ambient hum of the hospital ventilation system. 

You frown at him through your sunglasses, with vigorous chews. “Buzzkill.”

His voice cuts through grumpily, similar to a dull saw, “if you’re going to squat in my office and sabotage my reputation, at least choose a track from this decade. He leans down, using two fingers to gently slide your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, forcing you to gaze up at him. He has a chart tucked under his arm and his blue orbs are flashing with that everpresent spark of annoyance. “Cuddy just cornered me in the lobby. Apparently, ‘Dr. House’ signed up for a double shift in the pediatric clinic starting in exactly thirty minutes. She was so touched by my sudden burst of humanitarian spirit that she almost cried.”

You raise your brows a bit, unimpressed, “and?”

House straightens up, gesturing toward the door with his chin, a dark smirk tugging at his lips. “Which means you have one second to get your hands under my waistband, because I’m not treating a single runny nose or listening to a screaming toddler until you fulfill your end of our little bureaucratic compromise. Chop, chop.”

You laugh out loud and snatch him closer by the belt, wiggling your brows more playfully. “Sit down, Limpy.”

House blurts out an “oof!” at the unexplainable masculine grip of pulling him forward. He stumbles just an inch, cane clacking loudly on the linoleum floor until he stabilizes himself, and there is a hint of that analyzing gleam in his azure irises. Sometimes the link seems active on both your ends, though nothing underwhelming like pain. Minor details. He glowers down at you, but the dangerous grin betrays his irritated expression. “You’re lucky I’m a cripple.” 

House hooks his cane over the edge of the desk with a sharp clack and drops clumsily into the leather chair right next to you, his good leg taking the brunt of the impact. He leans back, spreading his legs slightly and resting his hands on the armrests, looking at you with dazed anticipation. The faint noise of the diagnostics department outside the glass balcony feels miles away.

You position yourself on your knees, meticulously undoing his pants, “mmm, eager boy.”

His thumb traces the edge of his belt buckle where your fingers are still wrapped as he scoffs and grumbles, “you’ve got exactly twenty minutes before Cuddy comes looking for her star pediatrician.” 

You fit his cock in your mouth with practiced movements at once, servicing him with familiarity at this point. House’s breath catches in his throat and he pulls your hair to guide you, with halflidded vision. Between sucks and licks, you mumble, “I was thinking... Since we have this neurological connection now, can I somehow make your pain better? The leg, I mean…” You gulp around his base and hold there, eyes watering, yet you’re in complete control.

House’s knuckles turn white in your strands. The intense warmth of your throat forces a ragged whimper from his lungs, his whole body going. His head falls back on the headboard of the seat, blue orbs squeezed shut as he fights to keep his composure. When you glance up, you can see the veins in his neck straining. He stays still for a while, just riding the ripple of tension, his fingertip lightly caressing your temple as he squints down at you with an almost vulnerable expression, exposed by the physical intimacy and the wild scientific implications of your question.

Slowly, his eyes blink open fully, blown out and dark with that weird mix of pleasure and focus only he can muster. He murmurs, incredibly thick, gravelly, stripped bare of sarcasm, “you…  you want to play doctor with a broken thalamus?” He lets out a breathless snicker that turns into a ridiculous groan as you shift your mouth but a tad. “Theoretically”, he starts, chest heaving as he compels his brain to function among the dopamine fog. “If the cortical bridge... if it left a residual pathway—which we know it did, by the way, you just yanked me like I was made of polystyrene—you wouldn’t be erasing the pain. You’d be absorbing a percentage of the nociceptor feedback. Like a... a neurological sponge.”

You keep gulping around his glans, attentively listening, words muffled, “but?”

He reaches down with his other palm and strokes the tense line of your jaw, his touch unexpectedly tender. “You’d feel a fraction of the infarction”, he whispers with a shiver, his blue gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that burns. “A dull, ghostly ache in your thigh every time my leg fires a flare. It’s a terrible medical trade, (y/n). You’re giving me a nerve block... and paying for it with your own comfort.” He leans in, his breath hot against your face. A softer smile finally touches his lips, though his look remains serious. “If you’re actually crazy enough to try to calibrate the dial... you have to focus on the rhythm. Right now. Ground the feedback loop while the dopamine is high.” He slides his hand down to the back of your neck.

You huff and concentrate on feeling the throb in your right thigh. The floodgates collapse. It feels just like an infarction—a ruthless, grinding pressure that mimics his dead muscle tissue, but it’s tangled hopelessly with his own unadulterated pleasure. It keeps hitting you akin to a shot in the leg and you roar around his cock, blowing him harder, desperately, demanding his release. The ache is a wired mess of sensations with the arousal from his dick coming unswervingly into your bloodstream. 

House’s head snaps forward, his eyes cracking wide open. He produces broken wheeze at the dramatic drop in his own baseline chronic pain—a sudden, cool emptiness in his right leg where the agony often burns—coinciding wholly with the aggressive surge of your relentless suction. He chokes out at the same time you absorb the blow. The loop multiplies the stimulation and the ghostly pain into a deafening neurological storm. 

Your rhythm pushes him right to the absolute precipice and he grabs your shoulders, gripping you strongly to keep you anchored as his entire lower body freezes. “Hold on... (y/n), hold on—”

You scream, your tears rolling freely down your cheeks at the raw power of it. “Oh, House, fuck—”

With one final, profound, and immaculate slide of your throat, House loses his mind. A ferocious full-body spasm assaults his lanky figure from head to toe and he arches out of the chair with a breathy shout, his semen pouring hot and heavy down your mouth. The blinding dopamine dump slams across the bridge like a tidal wave, short-circuiting the pain signals completely. For a breathless second, the sting in your thigh and the tension in his groin explode into brilliant, white static—then, the frequency closes shut with a physical pop in your ears, leaving the office dead silent except for your synchronized panting.

The leather chair rolls backward with a squeak as your shaky hands slip from the armrests. You can barely catch your balance as you attempt to get back up, your femur still aching. You drag yourself toward the sofa and collapse on it, whimpering miserably. You squeeze the stuffed arm with all your might, breath coming in quick, rushed pants. Your right leg feels packed with molten lead—a burning throb that buckles your knee the second you put weight on it. You bury your fingers into the stuffed fabric of the armrest with desperation, thinking about what you’ve just done. You’ve successfully taken a piece of his burden, but your nervous system is reeling from hostile invasion of chronic tissue damage. 

Across the room, House is sitting immoble. For the first time in fifteen years, his thigh isn’t twitching. The constant tight scowl shadowing his features has vanished. He looks down at his own leg, then up at you, stunned by the cool silence in his own body. His reflexive shock changes into a commanding panic at the sight of you practically dying on the couch. He pushes off the chair, his gait uneven but smoother than it has ever been, and lunges onto the short distance between the desk and the sofa. He drops to his knees in front of you, calloused hands clamping over your shaking fingers, forcing you to let go of the armrest.

“Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me right now!” House barks, his eyes blazing as he grabs your chin, making you meet his gaze. “You didn’t just take a fraction, your brain calibrated the threshold too high.” He can feel the tremors wracking your frame. “The dopamine dropped and left the pain pathways raw. Your thalamus is processing an ischemic phantom attack. It’s not real tissue damage in your body, (y/n)—it’s just a ghost. You need to breathe. Match my intake. In. Now.” He takes an exaggerated breath, his chest rising against yours, forcing you to synchronize. “I’m not letting you play the martyr for my damaged quadriceps, goddamn it”, he snarls, now mad at himself for even allowing this to happen. He uses his sleeve to roughly yet tenderly wipe the tears away from your pained face. 

You grunt and glower at him, trying to focus on anything but the seething pain. “House... Shut the fuck up and… give me a Vicodin.”

House blinks, but doesn’t hesitate, reaching into his jacket pocket swiftly. His digits wrap around the plastic prescription bottle, pulling it out with a noisy click of his fingernails on the cap. He pops the top open with a one-handed flick of his thumb, tips a single white pill into his palm, and presses it on your trembling lower lip. His free hand slides to the back of your neck to support you as your head shakes slightly. As the pill rolls down your throat, House doesn’t move, his large palms cupíng your bare, shaking knee, applying a steady compression to help ease your floating sensory nerves back into reality.

“The things you do for a lighter clinic schedule”, he mutters after a while, a weak beam returning to his face as he watches your breathing agonizingly begin to stabilize. “Keep looking at me. Don’t look down at the leg. Just close the circuit and let the chemistry work.”

Your shoulders drop an inch, your fingers loosening the white-knuckled grip on the cushion. You snort, wiping a few stubborn tears, “how do you feel?”

House’s own shoulders relax for the first time and a truly peculiar look touches his disheveled face. He peers down at his right leg again for a moment, his gruff voice trailing off as if he’s trying to translate a foreign language amidst a dry laugh. “I feel like someone turned off a lawnmower that’s been running inside my skull since 1999. It’s... disgusting. It’s… quiet.” He carefully pushes himself up from the floor, his movements lacking the stiff hitch defining every single micro-movement of his body. 

You sigh, smiling satisfyingly, “good.”

House sits on the edge of the sofa next to you, leaning his elbows on his knees and gazing flat ahead at the glass wall of his office. He then declares, with reluctant warmth, “you’re a stubborn, reckless, borderline suicidal idiot.” He taps the side of your knee, softening his gaze ever so gently. “Thanks.”

CHAPTER X: THE ETHER

By the time House limps—no, walks—into the diagnostics lobby the next morning, the atmosphere in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital drops. He isn’t using his cane. In fact, he’s ridiculously carrying it over his shoulder like a baseball bat, whistling a jaunty, horrifying on-key rendition of a classic rock song, his stride fluid and unhindered. That perpetual, bitter knot between his eyebrows is gone. Foreman stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the glass balcony, a stack of patient files somewhat slipping in his grip. Cameron’s mouth falls open so wide her coffee nearly spills. Chase only stares, confused eyes darting from House’s serene face down to his right leg, looking for the hidden wires or the camera crew. 

This has to be a joke.

“What is he doing?” Chase whispers, his voice filled with genuine, if laughable, panic. “Why is he moving like that? Is he on meth? Did he find a new analog? Is it a cult? The girl—”

“He’s not limping”, Foreman says with clinical dread, calculating the variables in realtime. “If House isn’t in pain, his brain isn’t busy fighting his own body, which means a hundred percent of his cognitive processing power is unallocated—”

“Oh, God”, Cameron breathes out in sheer distress, backing away toward the whiteboard. “He’s going to destroy us—”

House struts inside the office, sliding into his leather chair without a single wince, grunt, or sigh. He glances at his team, striking blue eyes bright, clear, and utterly manic with an excess of unused energy. “Good morning, my little sacrificial lambs!” He chirps in an unsettlingly pleasant register. “Fabulous day to solve some medical mysteries, don’t you think? Chase, you look lovely. Foreman, your posture is immaculate. Cameron, I’ve decided to forgive you for your bleeding heart for the next twenty-four hours.”

The three of them exchange a look of horror. “House”, Foreman steps forward cautiously, as if approaching a bomb that’s ticking backwards, “where is the pain?”

“Gone! Vanished! Evaporated into the ether!” House waves a hand airily. “A medical miracle. Or a highly successful neurological calibration. Doesn’t matter. What matters is I’m bored. And when I’m bored and hurting, I’m a nuisance, but when I’m bored and not hurting…” He leans in closer, an evil grin spreading across his weathered features. “I’m a goddamn weapon of mass destruction. Give me a chart before I start auditing your personal bank accounts for entertainment.”

Within three hours, the whole of Princeton-Plainsboro is in a state of high alert. Around noon, Cuddy bursts into diagnostics without knocking, her face pale, high heels clicking nervously against the wooden floor. She stares at House, who is presently sitting on his desk, juggling three tennis balls with unbelievable coordination and fluidity, his right leg swinging freely.

“Gregory House”, Cuddy demands, shaking just a bit. “What did you do? Wilson told me you didn’t ask for a single refill this morning. You didn’t steal any morphine. You didn’t even insult the nurse at the front desk. The staff is terrified! People are taking sick leave! If you found another illegal drug—”

“I’m merely experiencing the joy of a quiet thalamus, Lisa”, House catches the tennis balls seamlessly and gives her a smooth, relaxed wink. “You should be happy. I’m currently ahead on my paperwork, I haven’t broken any laws today, and I’m about to cure a man of a rare parasitic infection just by looking at his fingernails.”

“It's a trap”, Cuddy whispers, glaring at him with structural suspicion. She backs toward the door, her eyes locked on his now stable leg. “I don’t know what kind of game you and your girlfriend are playing, but if this is the calm before a psychological storm, I’m holding you both personally liable.”

She bolts out of the room and House only chuckles quietly, the sound low, rich, lighter like it hasn’t been in years. He tosses a tennis ball up, catching it again, and glances out the glass window, knowing exactly who is holding the other end of the wire downstairs. He pulls out his flip phone and types a quick text to you.

House:

Chase snorts at him, now glancing at his colleagues and raising his hands in a questioning gesture. “No theories, guys? Seriously?” Cameron and Foreman only exchange an amused look, so he continues, changing to full gossip mode. “Well, I heard she used to be a teacher. I mean, how is that even possible? She doesn’t say a word to us. I never even heard her voice! I thought she was mute until I saw her talking to the nurse in the front desk the other day.”

“Maybe she’s just private.” Cameron, ever the voice of reason, finally chimes in with a shrug, playing idly with her pen. “Wilson says they met when she needed some help with directions and they hit it off right away. She seems pretty normal.”

Foreman scoffs, his irises darting between Cameron and Chase rapidly. “You both are terrible at reading people, no offense. Obviously, she doesn’t deem us worthy of her attention. Look at the wardrobe. She dresses modern, which means she probably sees us as a bunch of square stuck-ups. She’s most certainly active in left wing spaces online. The clothes never lie.”

House’s marker comes to a screeching halt on the white surface of the board and he sets it down, catching the end of the conversation. He leans against the glass whiteboard, twirling his cane with an annoyed, if undeniably entertained, flick of his wrist. He looks at the three of them like they’re a collection of particularly dim-witted toddlers. 

“Fascinating”, he draws out the syllables. “Foreman’s developed a superpower where he can read a person’s entire political manifesto based on denim choices, Cameron is running her usual charity for the socially inept and Chase is upset because a girl didn’t instantly swoon and tell him her life story.”

Cameron frowns, deeply offended. “We’re just speculating—”

House drops the cane onto the table with a loud smack, making her jump. “The simplest answer is always the right one, idiots, and it consists of her looking at all of you, calculating the exact amount of energy it would take to tolerate your mind-numbing small talk, realizing the ROI is zero, then deciding to save her breath every time you cross paths.”

Right on cue, the glass door slides open. Wilson walks into the diagnostics office holding a folder, with the subject at hand standing beside him: his new assistant. The room goes dead silent. Chase immediately looks down at his tablet, Cameron flashes a sudden, overly bright smile, and Foreman slowly crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair with an unreadable expression. Wilson glances around the room, instantly picking up on the suffocating awkwardness, and clears his throat. 

“Everyone, this is (y/n). I believe you haven’t… officially met.”

The girl grins faintly toward the doctors and gives them one single, curt nod, before taking Wilson by the arm and walking away without waiting for a response. Her steps moving farther leave Chase with his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief, a thrilled smirk from Foreman and a slightly confused Cameron.

House breaks the silence with a barking laughter, yelling behind them. “She’s a keeper, Wilson!”

CHAPTER II: THE ELEVATOR

(y/n)’s coming back from lunch when she sees House limping toward her in the elevator like his life depends on it. A deep, tired sigh escapes her lips as he slips his cane through the closing doors at the very last second, forcing them to slide back open with a metallic chime. He steps inside, panting just a little bit, though he’d never admit it. Once they’re successfully locked in the small, moving box, he presses the button for the clinic floor, turning the cynic blue eyes on her. He leans back on the handrail, unbuttoning his blazer almost as if loading a gun. 

“You let the doors stay open”, House observes with that familiar edge. “A true misanthrope would have repeatedly mashed the ‘close door’ button and pretended not to see the crippled guy limping for his life. You chose the sigh, a calculated display of reluctant altruism.” She stays silent and the elevator jolts feebly as it begins its descent. He shifts his weight, tapping the tip of his cane in a steady pace against the floor tile. “You have them clutching their pearls, creating theories left and right.” House leans in closer, nudging with mock curiosity, “is it because they lack the intellect to grasp your vocabulary, or did Foreman’s jacket just really offend your progressive, online sensibilities?”

(y/n) shoots House an amused smile at last, gazing at him sideways. “Wilson also told me about you. He claims you are the most agonized by my silence because you think you monopolized his friendship. I laughed when he said it, but I can see it now.”

House’s expression lights up at her statement. He looks genuinely delighted she actually hit back. For a split second, the only noise is the elevator echoing through the tiny space as the digital display changes floors, but the doors don’t open yet. 

“You think it’s a power move, don’t you?” He asks after a minute of silence, dropping to a lower, more conspiratorial tone. “The quiet, mysterious aura... Let them talk, let them guess, meanwhile, you sit back and judge from the sidelines. Sure, it keeps people at arm’s length so you don’t have to deal with their messy, predictable emotions, but I’m not agonized by your silence, (y/n). Far from it. I’m just waiting for the moment you get bored of the act.”

“It’s not personal.” She muses, staring ahead. “The only reason I’m talking to you right now is because a dog only chases after you if you start running first.” With a shrug, the girl takes a good look at his wrinkled clothes and winces softly, gazing back up at his face. “No offense, of course.”

House’s eyebrows shoot up, a flash of surprise crossing his features as they melt into an appreciative smirk. He lets out a dry, raspy chuckle. The elevator gives a final, heavy ding and the doors slide back open to the busy clinic lobby. He doesn’t step out, planting his cane firmly as he gives her a scrutinising look. 

“You keep standing your ground like that and I might have to start treating you like an adult, Batman.”

She sneers, walking away without glancing at his direction. “You should stop going after younger women, it’s embarrassing!”

His eyes narrow dangerously, caught entirely off guard. The nerve of this absolute lunatic. “Hey!” He calls out behind her, his voice echoing over the ambient hum of the clinic. He takes a couple of uneven, limping steps forward and gestures wildly with his free hand, “I don’t go after them, they are magnetically drawn to my crippling emotional damage!” 

Two nurses turn to stare, already used to his outbursts yet still mildly entertained. He ignores them and grumbles something unintelligible to himself, adjusting his jacket with an aggressive tug. A begrudging grin creeps back onto his mouth as he watches the clinic door, nevertheless. 

Wilson is definitely going to hear about this. 

CHAPTER III: THE DARE

Like clockwork, (y/n) receives a text from Wilson a few hours later, asking what’s going on between her and House. She calls him back while doing the dishes, “what did he say to you?”

Over the line, it’s possible to hear the lightly chaotic background noise of Wilson’s office; the rustle of patient charts and a long sigh preceding his sentence. “He barged into my office without knocking, threw himself onto my couch and claimed I’m harboring a wardrobe-policing assassin who treats him like a stray animal.” There’s a brief pause on his end, followed by the sound of him clicking a pen. “He spent ten minutes pacing around, utterly offended that someone managed to leave him standing in a closing elevator looking stupid.”

“He had it coming.” The girl huffs, completely unbothered. Then, with a wicked grin, she quips, “ask him if he would go out on a date with me.”

The line remains dead silent until Wilson lets out a choked snicker that cuts off into a cough. “You—what?”

“And tell him to answer me directly.” She instructs casually, putting some washed plates away.

Wilson shifts around in his chair, the phone crackling noisily. “You do know if I tell him that, his ego will expand so rapidly it will crack the drywall in oncology.”

She smirks. “Just do it.”

He sighs again, but the pure entertainment in his voice is unmistakable. “Alright, I’ll pass along the message. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Barely three minutes pass after (y/n) hangs up. She’s just finished rinsing the last dish when her cellphone screen lights up again, this time with a text. Despite being from an unknown number, its format is remarkably too chaotic and revealing of who it is. 

Unknown: 

First of all, a date implies equality, and we both know you’d just spend two hours treating me like a museum exhibit. Second, my brilliant mind is not a tourist attraction for under-stimulated ex-educators. Third, unless the restaurant serves validation for your overwhelming superiority complex, I’m busy.

Another text bubbles up the next second.

Unknown: 

...Although, if you’re paying and the place requires a collar, which I will purposely wrinkle just to watch your eye twitch, pick me up at eight. Bring a lint roller. I know you have one.

Her eyes travel the words with satisfaction as she types a reply.

I’m not picking you up because I don’t drive. Either you drive me or we meet there. In that case, you choose the place. If you drive me, I will pay for your food. If you don’t, we split. Like grown adults.

(y/n): 

It takes exactly forty-seven seconds for the dots to appear on her screen, dance around anxiously, disappear, then pop back up. 

House: 

You don’t drive? Public transport probably feeds your sense of gritty realism. Typical. If I drive, my pristine, vintage 1970 Dodge Challenger gets subjected to your silent judgment, and I have to act like a gentleman. On the other hand, free food. The food wins. A proper diagnostician always follows the path of maximum caloric intake at minimum financial cost. 

House: 

Be ready at 7:45. I drive fast, the heater is permanently broken, and I will be playing monster truck rally audio at maximum volume just to break your precious silence. Text me your address.

(y/n): 

I don’t mind. 

House: 

It’s a recorded demolition derby from 1994 and the commentator has a severe stutter. Don’t act like you’re immune to petty annoyance. It ruins the fun.

CHAPTER IV: THE DATE

At 7:42 PM, a loud, distinctly un-subtle rumble echoes down her street. It sounds like a mechanical beast with a severe throat infection. (y/n) sees a sleek, slightly bruised 1970 Dodge Challenger idling near the curb through her window. Through the windshield, she can spot the silhouette of House sitting back in the driver’s seat, his palms resting casually on the steering wheel, seeming thoroughly impatient as he glances at his watch. He doesn’t get out to open the door, naturally, but he does tap his cane against the passenger window from the inside to let her know he’s arrived. 

As (y/n) walks up and opens the passenger door, the smell of old leather, motor oil and faint coffee hits her immediately. She wrinkles her nose only a bit and House looks over, wearing the exact same pitiful blazer from earlier, a t-shirt featuring an obscure rock band and an incredibly smug expression. The radio isn’t playing monster truck audio. Instead, a strangely soothing, high-brow jazz track is humming faintly from the dashboard speakers.

“Get in”, House commands, revving the engine. “And don’t look at my dashboard like that, the dust is structural.”

“The dust is a failure on your mother’s part.” She mutters, accommodating herself in the leathered seat. Putting on the seatbelt, she adds, her tone rather curious, “are you naturally this rude or do you think if you act like a dick enough you’re gonna scare me off eventually?”

House shifts the car into gear with a practiced jerk of the shifter. The Challenger roars to life, pulling away from the curb with a violent surge of horsepower that presses her back into the worn leather seat. He doesn’t glance at her yet, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead regardless of the terrifying smirk spreading across his lips.

“Oh, it’s a carefully cultivated defense mechanism”, he quips, cutting through the deep rumble of the engine. “Most people are fragile. They have this pathetic need to be liked, so they wrap themselves in layers of social pleasantries and fake smiles. It’s exhausting. If I’m a dick right out of the gate, it filters out the weak ones. Saves me a lot of time on small talk.”

“Huh.” She catalogues his words, mulling them over.

He maneuvers the car around a corner, his hand still resting comfortably on the steering wheel. This time, he gazes sideways at her, piercing blue eyes flashing under the streetlights. “You’re not trying to run away”, he notes, moving into that lower, hyper-observant register. “You’re sitting there analyzing the data. You didn’t flinch when I revved the engine, you didn’t complain about the lack of a gentlemanly door-opening, and you’re treating my hostility like a science experiment.”

“Maybe I’m just unimpressed.” She challenges softly, keeping her own attention forward.

He taps his thumb on the steering wheel in time with the smooth jazz, shaking his head dismissively. “Too obvious, no. You either have a dangerously high tolerance for toxic behavior, or you think you’re smart enough to figure out the puzzle. Spoilers: there is no puzzle. I really am just a dick.”

“You just contradicted yourself, though.” Her brows furrow profoundly at his last statement, and House’s eyes narrow just as deeply. Contradiction? That never happens to him. Ever. “First, you tell me it’s a carefully constructed defense mechanism. By the last sentence, you claim you are naturally a dick. I gave you two alternatives and you wrapped your argument in both of them like a burrito, except the burrito is filled with horse shit and there’s no dough layer, so it’s dripping precariously all over your fingers right now.” She pats her thigh to the jazzy melody mindlessly, then turns up the radio. 

House’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white until a look of unadulterated enjoyment paints his face. He lets out a loud, genuine laugh that bounces off the dashboard, shaking his head again.

“A horse shit burrito”, he tastes the phrase with a wide, manic grin. “Wow. That is a delightfully vivid unsanitary piece of imagery, Teach. Wilson was wrong about you. You’re not quiet because you’re polite; you’re quiet because you’re hoarding a nuclear arsenal of insults.”

That earns a chuckle under her breath. “So you solved the mystery, huh?”

He expertly weaves the heavy Challenger through the nighttime traffic, his mind still rushing for a way to win the debate. “And for the record”, he adds, glancing over at her, his irises gleaming under the passing streetlights, “a defense mechanism can become nature if you practice it long enough. It’s called muscle memory. Look it up.”

House slows the car down, pulling into the neon-lit parking lot of an old-school, sketchy-looking 24-hour diner. The sign outside flashes “DIAMOND DINER” with a broken ‘M’ that blinks rhythmically. The girl watches her surroundings thoughtfully, somewhat humoured by his place of choice for a first date. He turns off the ignition and the engine gives one final, theatrical shudder before dying. He grabs his cane from the middle console, getting out of the vehicle. 

After a moment, (y/n) rebukes, “muscle memory is just a neat term for the exact same thing, though: something you do unconsciously.” She opens her own door carefully, moving outside only to stop and lean on it as she threads her argument. “If you know it’s a defense mechanism and you know when you do it, then it’s not unconscious anymore. One thing can’t be and not be at the same time.” 

House slams his car door shut with a metallic thud, leaning his weight onto his cane as he rounds the hood of the Challenger. He’s staring at her with an expression equal parts annoyed and profoundly amused, akin to a scientist seeing his favorite lab rat picking a lock.

“Ah, the Law of Non-Contradiction!”, House declares sarcastically, roaring through the damp night air as he limps alongside her toward the neon-lit entrance. “Aristotle would be thrilled. You’re just forgetting that human psychology isn’t a geometry textbook, Teach. A reflex can be fully conscious and completely uncontrollable at the same time. You know a sneeze is coming, you watch it happen, but you still spray the room. I don’t choose to be a dick. I simply lack the social antihistamine to stop it.” He uses the tip of his cane to hook the glass door of the diner, mockingly pulling it open for her with a chivalrous flourish.

“How kind.” She sneers, visibly processing his rebuttal to formulate her own.

House ushers her into the warm, grease-scented air of the establishment. The interior is exactly what you’d expect: cracked vinyl booths, a long chrome counter, and a waitress named Dot who doesn’t even look up from her crossword puzzle as they enter. He readily slides into a corner booth, sliding his cane along the inside of the bench. 

He shoots her a quick glance and grumbles, “Slide in, Aristotle. You can order a grilled cheese to analyze the structural integrity of its sourdough.”

(y/n) takes a seat next to him. “I didn’t mention anything about control, I said conscience. And if you’re comparing being rude to a sneeze—a behavioural pattern with a biological phenomenon—then let’s just compare apples to oranges because they’re both vaguely round, but let’s be honest about it. They’re not equivalent.” House squints once more, following the movement of her grabbing the menu and reading the options closely. “Using your terrible analogy, someone couldn’t stop a sneeze from coming in any circumstance, which is just objectively false. There are many external factors, or even better, the interruption by the very biological phenomena you hold so dear—a cough, a burp, you name it—that could stop a sneeze. Knowing or not knowing you do that sometimes, mind you. So. Either you choose to be a dick or it’s a defense mechanism. Which is it?”

For a lengthy, drawn-out moment, House doesn’t say anything. He only gazes at her, his eyes still narrowed, although now evaluating her with the kind of intense focus he usually reserves for a patient whose liver is failing for no apparent reason. Slowly, another wicked, razor-sharp smile paints his features. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, invading her space just enough to be provocative.

“Conscience implies a moral framework. Awareness is just data”, he corrects with a gravelly hum. “You just argued your way into a corner. You claim an external interruption can stop the sneeze? Perfect. I was the sneeze. And your horse-shit burrito comment? That was the cough that ruined my trajectory. You interrupted the pattern, which means it is a defense mechanism, because a defense mechanism adapts to the threat. If I were just choosing to be a dick for the sake of it, I would have ignored your logic and called your shoes ugly.” He taps his fingers steadily on the edge of the plastic menu. “You want it to be a choice because if I’m choosing it, it means I’m in control. And if I’m in control, I’m predictable. However, if it’s a defense mechanism, it means there’s something underneath it that needs defending, and that’s what’s really driving your little brain crazy, isn’t it? You want to dig up the floorboards to see what’s rotting underneath.”

Before (y/n) can fire anything back, Dot slides over, dropping two thick, white ceramic mugs of coffee onto the table with a wet clunk. “You two arguing or ordering?” She asks, her voice hoarse from forty years of menthol cigarettes.

“She’s having the pancakes, I’m having the burger, and we're both having a crisis of logic.” House tells the waitress without looking away from (y/n).

Dot doesn’t blink. “Right. Burger, pancakes.” She snaps her notepad shut and shuffles away.

House leans back against the cracked vinyl booth, crossing his arms, waiting for (y/n)’s imminent yield. And yet, she tilts her head with amusement, unfazed by his words. The smugness from his side falters but a fraction. “God, whoever said anything about morals? I’m talking observation here.” She scoffs and rolls her eyes. She continues, shaking her head once and shrugging, though unable to hide her own pleased smirk. “See, now you’re just stating the obvious. Apples and oranges are both fruit. So what? It was rather clear it’s a defense mechanism and you are fully aware of it. Good. I have lots of those, too.” 

House’s arms remain crossed, but his shoulders have dropped an inch—a microscopic tell he’s still very much alert to the debate. “Oh, please. Don’t try to normalize us.” He reaches for his mug grumpily. “The ‘we both have baggage’ defense? That’s a classic displacement tactic. You’re trying to build a bridge so I stop looking at your side of the river.” He takes a slow, cautious sip of the boiling black coffee, grimacing a bit, before setting it down. Resting his chin on his hand, his blue orbs locking onto hers, he mutters, “let’s say I’ll bite. You have defense mechanisms, clearly. Your entire persona is a masterclass in atmospheric pressure, you keep the room so cold and quiet that nobody dares to bring a match near you. It’s efficient. It keeps the high school dramatics of Chase and Cameron at a safe, sterile distance.”

“Where are you going with this, Mr. Obvious?”

He hits his cane against the leg of the table, a dull, annoying sound. “I’m getting there now. If you’re so fully aware of your own armor, why choose me to test it against? You could have stayed in Wilson’s office, safely alphabetizing his oncology files, wrapped in the cozy blanket of his unconditional approval. You willingly hopped into a moving death trap with a known misanthrope just to debate the philosophy of a sneeze, though. Tell me a little secret, then: what exactly are you trying to prove to yourself?”

(y/n) doesn’t even blink until he reaches the information of Wilson. Her attentive eyes become two slits instantly. “How do you know how I organize his files?”

House doesn’t flinch either. In fact, his beam only deepens, turning almost predatory as he takes another slow sip of his battery-acid coffee. He savors the moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to enjoy the fact he touched a nerve. “It’s basic forensics, Teach. First, when I barged into Wilson’s office to complain about you, his desk was terrifyingly pristine. Wilson is many things—a martyr, a sucker for a sob story, a terrible husband—but he is not organized. His filing system usually relies on a prayer and gravity. Today, his manila folders were lined up so perfectly you could use them as a spirit level. Second”, he points his index finger at her, “when I walked in, Jimmy was holding a folder, staring at his desk with this look of existential confusion. He didn’t know where his own charts were because someone had actually put them where they belong. And third…” House leans forward, his voice returning to that dramatic whisper. “Wilson doesn’t know the alphabet. Oh, he knows the letters, but the concept of chronological or alphabetical order implies a linear grasp of time that a man currently on his third divorce simply does not possess. Ergo, the new element in the room did it.”

“Good catch”, she mumbles shortly, her expression nearly impressed while sipping her drink. “Why did you accept the invitation? Make it short. You talk too much.”

House produces an offended gasp, clutching his chest with his free hand. His tone rises an octave, “I am a master of the spoken word! People pay hundreds of dollars an hour just to hear me summarize their impending mortality and you want the Twitter version?” 

She glares at him. “Get to the point.”

House stops for once, the melodramatic display vanishing. “Fine. You’re boringly predictable when you’re quiet, but when you talk, you actually throw a punch. Wilson spends all day validating my neuroses and my team spends all day terrified I’m going to fire them. You called my logic a horse-shit burrito within ten minutes of meeting me.” He finishes with a shrug, “I was bored and you’re a shiny new toy that doesn’t break when I kick it.”

Dot arrives, sliding a plate of steaming, uneven pancakes in front of her and a greasy burger in front of him. (y/n) grunts, taking in his explanation. “Huh. Figures.”

House grabs a fry and aims it at her like a weapon. “Your turn, Aristotle. And don’t give me the ‘observation’ line. You could observe me from across the street with binoculars if you just wanted data.”

“Good question.” She concedes, stealing one of his fries and chewing pensively. “If I say I find you handsome, you will dissect it into oblivion with some sort of daddy issues theory that fits, unfortunately to me. If I say I’m just using you as a distraction, you will call me out on my emotional distance as if I’m not aware of it and you weren’t emotionally distant yourself. If I say nothing, refuse to answer it, change the subject deliberately and watch the wheels turn in your head for the rest of the night, that will be more fun. To me, of course.” She picks up another fry and points to him before eating, mimicking his action. “So deduce which scenario I’m going with, Sherlock.”

House freezes, a single french fry hovering precisely two inches from his mouth. His eyes widen a little as his brain processes the perfect, multi-layered trap she laid out on the sticky laminate table. The only sound is the low purr of the diner’s refrigerator and the sizzle of oil on the distant grill until he carefully lowers the fry back to his plate. The smug energy drains from his posture, replaced by a sharp intensity. 

A satisfied grin twists the corner of his lips and he rumbles, “checkmate.” His index finger taps against his chin, “if I choose option A, I indulge my own ego but fall right into the predictable, Freudian trap you’ve already laid for me. If I choose option B, I sound like a hypocritical, armchair-psychologist version of Wilson. However, by laying them all out, you’ve forced option C. You’re not refusing to answer. You’re telling me that the refusal itself is the game.” He points his cane at you, shaking his head. “You evil, manipulative creature.” He grabs his burger, taking a massive, hostile bite, chewing thoroughly while never breaking eye contact. After a thick swallow, he concludes, “here’s the flaw in your little experiment, Teach: knowing you are purposefully withholding the data to watch me squirm doesn’t stop the wheels from turning, it just makes the oil hotter. You didn’t just buy yourself a distraction, you guaranteed I’m gonna spend the next three days figuring out which of the first two options you were trying to hide behind.” 

“Aw…” She genuinely laughs out loud, moving in closer to boop his nose. “Can’t win them all, Diogenes.” 

House flinches backward a tad in a rare lapse of unscripted shock. Nobody—literally nobody in a five-mile radius of Princeton-Plainsboro—touches Gregory House. Especially not on the nose. Especially not while calling him an ancient Greek cynic who lived in a barrel. He stares for a stunned moment, rubbing the tip of his nose with the back of his hand as if checking to see if she left a mark.

“So I’ve graduated from a stray dog to a homeless philosopher who masturbated in public and threw plucked chickens at Plato.” He watches her calmly return to her food, indifferent to his glare. He takes another savage bite of his burger while his orbs remain glued to hers, trying to find a crack in her armor. He says around a mouthful, pointing his fork at her, “Diogenes walked around with a lamp in broad daylight looking for an honest man, but I don’t need a lamp. I just need you to keep talking. Eventually, everyone spills their guts. Even the ones who hide behind ancient philosophy and perfect syrup-to-pancake ratios.”

He slides a couple of his fries onto her plate with the tip of his knife, a bizarre gesture that, from House, is basically the equivalent of a peace offering. She smiles, accepting it. “Thanks.”

He roughly pours a big puddle of ketchup onto his fries, his smirk firmly back in place. “You’ve officially earned the right to watch me overthink my dinner.”

CHAPTER V: THE SURRENDER

By midnight, they’re at her place, lying in bed together. It happened shockingly naturally, not a sound made whilst their steps followed into her bedroom. She’s straddling his lap carefully, mindful of his bad leg, caressing his face as she studies his every pore minutely. The darkness of the room swallows everything but the weighty rumble of his breathing. The only light comes from the weak glow of the street lamps coming through the blinds, casting slanting shadows across the mattress. 

House stays still beneath her body. For once, he’s not twitching, tapping his cane or pacing like a caged animal; his quietness now is almost jarring. His large, blunt hands are resting securely on her hips, anchoring her there, his thumbs tracing deliberate lines against her skin. As her fingers find the sharp line of his jaw and feather over the rough stubble of his cheek, his big blue eyes reflect the dim amber light, wide and unblinking. He doesn’t offer a single sarcastic retort. He doesn’t pull away. He simply lets her look, his gaze tracking the movement of her face with a quiet scrutiny.

“You’re doing it again”, he murmurs, a rasp that vibrates against her thighs. It’s stripped of all the theatrical mockery from the diner, leaving but a raw silence. “Gathering data. Looking for the structural damage.” He shifts microscopically, his hold on her tightening as he tilts his head into the palm of her hand—another unusual concession. 

She beams gingerly and places a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Who says I’m looking for damage?” Her voice comes out as a feeble whisper, her fingertips touching each line on his epidermis. “You’re not a cynic. You’re a pessimist. Always expecting the worst.”

House’s chest rises and falls in a slow breath under her. When her lips graze him, his eyelids flutter shut for a brief second before opening again to stare into her eyes in the dark room. “Pessimist is just the word optimists use for people who are right.” He lets his head sink a little heavier into her pillows, rough palms remaining glued to her hips. His digits keep drawing small circles on her skin, matching the her own pace. “If you expect the worst, you’re either pleasantly surprised or vindicated”, he continues softly, the usual bite in his tone replaced by an exhausted honesty. “You didn’t look for the exit when I gave you every reason to, so you are either highly resilient or incredibly foolish.” He moves his gaze up, studying the line of her jaw, his blue eyes sharp even in the shadows. “So, what happens when the pessimist meets someone who doesn’t flinch at the dark, Aristotle?”

The girl chuckles and leans in for a deep kiss. Her hands find his greying hair and pull ever so slightly, dragging him closer. House growls against her mouth as her fingers tangle in his hair. The carefully constructed layers of philosophy, cynicism, and wit dissolve immediately. A shameless moan rips her throat when he thrusts upward, impatient, showing her exactly what the debate has been doing to his blood pressure all night. 

She gasps and searches his azure orbs with humour. “So it was all textbook sexual tension, huh?”

She only smirks and rolls her hips teasingly, causing him to breathe in sharply. “I accept your surrender.”

House lifts her enough to align her loins before he grinds upward again, a ragged breath escaping his lips. A breathless smirk cuts through the shadows on his face. “Shut up”, he grunts, completely wrecked, his chest heaving. He reaches up, slender fingers tangling into her hair to pull her head back down toward his. He ruts again, deeper now, catching another one of her moans in his throat as his lips smash back against hers. His palms slide up from her hips to grip her waist, as if he’s trying to memorize the exact structural mechanics of how they fit together. He insists, unwilling to let her have the last word even now, “books are predictable. You’re just... an incredibly distracting anomaly.”

CHAPTER VI: THE END

On Monday morning, (y/n)’s inside Wilson’s office when he barges inside, pointing his finger as if accusing her of a double homicide. She sips her coffee calmly, waiting for his rampage to come. “Here we go…”

He slams the office door behind him so hard the frosted glass rattles in its frame. Wilson doesn’t even take off his coat; he just lunges toward the desk, his face a vibrant, concerning shade of crimson. “You!” His voice cracks slightly on the intake of air. “You—I trusted you! I gave you my oncology files! I thought, ‘finally, a civilized human being, someone who understands syntax and boundaries’, and what do you do? You hop into a muscle car with a medical mercenary and let him completely dismantle my psychological equilibrium!” He begins pacing the narrow strip of carpet, his hands flying wildly like swatting away invisible wasps. “Do you know what he did this morning? Do you have any idea?” 

She holds back a laugh, setting her mug down. “What, pray tell?”

Wilson stops, leaning over his desk, his palms flat on the pristine mahogany, and glares at her with profound betrayal in his brown orbs. “He walked into my office, sat on my table, ate a bear claw, and serenely called me a codependent enabler who feeds a savior complex. He didn’t even yell! He said it like he was reading a weather report!” The girl bursts out laughing and he straightens up, running a hand through his hair, looking at her composed posture with utter disbelief. “Oh, you think that’s funny?”

“Very.” She snorts, still gleaming with amusement. 

Wilson throws his hands up again, exasperated. “He told me you paid for dinner. You subsidized him! You are feeding the beast! Please tell me you have a logical explanation for this.”

“We discussed our differences over the weekend, what can I say? I respect his intellect. Mostly.” She shrugs, staring down at the files on the desk, which are all nearly organized in alphabetical order. A loud bang comes from the hallway and (y/n) flinches. She blinks once, trying to make out what’s happening through the frosted walls. It looks like... House and Chase. On the floor. Fighting. At 10:11 AM. “Is this… normal behaviour?”

Wilson doesn’t turn around right away. He just freezes in his spot, closing his eyes tightly as a long sigh escapes his nose. Outside, in the middle of the pristine, glass-walled diagnostics lobby, House is tangled in a highly undignified and low-stakes wrestling match on the linoleum floor with Chase. He is using the hook of his cane to try and trap Chase’s ankle, meanwhile, Chase—noticeably stressed and regretful of his life choices—is attempting to pin House’s good leg down without accidentally breaking his boss’ femur. A chart has flown into the air, its loose papers scattering like confetti over the clinic floor.

Wilson rubs the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumping. He watches Chase successfully dodge a swipe from the cane before glancing back at her, pointing a finger at the glass. “That is the intellect you respect.” 

She remains quiet, cataloguing the chaotic scene in front of her. (y/n) decisively walks toward the hallway after a brief moment of pause and disentangles House from Chase with some difficulty, though rather gently. The man weighs like a goddamn giraffe, but she manages. He’s panting heavily, face flushed as she raises her brows, not saying anything yet, instead dragging him away from the circle of people forming around them.

“Chase was gossiping again.” She deduces soberly, smoothing out the catastrophic, sharp angles of his messy hair. “What did he say?”

House lets out an indignant huff, leaning on his cane now that she’s pulled him into the relative privacy of the nearby corridor. He’s breathing resembling a broken bellows, his cheeks a brilliant mottled pink from the exertion. However, as her fingers slide into his hair to tame the static mess, he goes entirely motionless. He blinks up at her, his pupils blown wide with raw, defensive fury melting into a deeply annoyed pout.

“He didn’t say anything”. House grumbles and swats half-heartedly at her palm, even if he doesn’t actually move his head away from her touch. “He was thinking loudly. It’s a localized atmospheric disturbance caused by his jaw dropping.” He glances over his shoulder back toward the lobby, where Chase is being helped up by Cameron, looking like he just survived a minor forklift accident. House turns back to her then, his jaw tight, thumb twitching against the handle of his cane. “The idiot saw the Challenger parked in your neighborhood this morning. He was making a coffee delivery to oncology, saw the shift in the filing cabinet universe, and put two and two together to get five. He was about to broadcast a running commentary on my personal life to the entire third floor.” He leans in closer, his blue eyes burning into her. 

She shoots him an incredulous look, despite holding back another laughter. “House, you were trying to suffocate him because he knows we fucked?” 

“I was performing a preemptive laryngectomy”, he mutters, a breathless smirk cutting through his irritation at last. “So, how bad is the damage? Do I look like I just wrestled an Australian?”

“You look like an idiot.” She grumbles, regardless of how fond her tone is. “People talk, who cares? You’re letting the social conventions win, Diogenes. Fight back.” Her fingertips search for his cheeks again, caressing slowly. 

House’s defensiveness ultimately gives away under the steady warmth of her digits. He produces a ragged breath that smells faintly of the bakery’s cinnamon, his broad shoulders dropping. “Social convention says I’m supposed to buy you flowers, pretend I care about your favorite color, and hide you from my coworkers like a dirty little secret because I’m a miserable crippled misanthrope who shouldn’t have nice things.” He eyes her intensely and unblinking, ignoring the muffled chaos of the hospital corridor around them.

Her expression softens at his words. “House—”

He cuts her off smoothly, “I don’t care that they talk, Aristotle. I care that they talk wrong. Chase’s tiny, conventional brain can only process this as a cliché. He thinks I’m acting on an impulse. He doesn’t understand the... rigorous, peer-reviewed nature of our mutual data collection.”

She rolls her eyes and he reaches up, capping her wrist not to pull her hand away from his face this time, but to hold it there. “You’re unbelievable—”

“And you’re right. Diogenes wouldn’t fight the Australian, he’d just spit on his shoes and walk away.” House glances at Wilson from a distance, who’s watching the two of them with an expression of unadulterated panic. His smile deepens, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispers, “Jimmy’s blood pressure is spiking right now.”

(y/n) rolls her eyes playfully again, then gives Wilson a thumbs up. “He just proposed!” She lies with the biggest grin ever. 

Wilson’s reaction is instantaneous and spectacular. His jaw drops so fast it seems like it might unhinge, his coffee mug tilts dangerously to a 45-degree angle, and he takes a panicked step backward, colliding directly with a potted ficus. He frantically starts shaking his head, his hands flying up in a universal ‘time out’ gesture, mouth moving rapidly in silent, horrified syllables that look suspiciously like ‘no, no, God, no’.

House turns his head to gaze down at her with worshipful awe. The shock vanishes from his face the next second, replaced by a grin that borders on manic. He doesn’t skip a beat. Before Wilson can recover enough to open his office door, House grabs her hand, lifts it high in the air like a referee announcing the heavyweight champion, and points frantically to her bare ring finger while nodding vigorously at Wilson.

“She said yes, Jimmy!” He yells through the corridor, his voice bouncing off the walls and drawing the whiplash attention of three passing nurses and an orderly. “We’re registry hunting at Target during lunch! You’re the maid of honor!” House doesn’t drop her hand. Instead, he leans his hip against his cane, pulling her to his side whilst Wilson sprints toward them like a man defusing a bomb with a butter knife.

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. 

Frank grumbles, marching toward his door and slamming it open. “Fucking shit—” 

He blinks, taken aback by your state. There’s absolutely nothing of the femme fatale, despite the familiar mischief in your words just now. You are covered in blood—his guess wouldn’t be human, considering how thick and dark it looks—from head to toe, your fangs showing precariously under your bloody lips, the ones once so meticulously painted with another shade of red. Less dramatic, of course. Frank tries to speak, yet any statement of fact dies in his throat at the visceral sight of you. He steps aside to let you in, shutting the door behind him with a decisive thud. 

“Thank you.” You hug your own body, seeming self-conscious of your appearance. 

“No trouble. Now, talk.” Frank shows his palms in an impatient, though appeasing, gesture. “Because you look like you ran into an alligator and he lost the fight, sweetheart.”

“More like a snake.” You snort humourlessly, looking around his apartment before turning back to him. “My uncle and I had a fight, yes. I usually don’t respond to his provocations, but tonight I decided enough was enough.”

Frank lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “The family feud again. Fuck, what, you want me to put in a good word for you? Pretty fucking sure I’m on borrowed time as much as you here.” He leisurely walks toward the sofa, grabbing a neatly folded sweatshirt and handing it to you. “Go, go on, clean up. We’ll talk more when you’re not ruining my carpet with vampire goo.”

The bathroom door clicks shut. Frank stares at the dark stains on his hardwood floor, his chest heaving. He can still smell it—coppery, old, and viscous. Beneath the blood, that invisible tether is pulling at his ribs, dragging his focus right back to the closed door. He can’t help but wonder why, in your little vampire dial list, his name was the winner. Surely you weren’t expecting him to save your ass against Kristof, seeing as you could easily handle the old bastard by yourself anyway. Or that’s what Frank desperately wants to think. He’s had enough from this family’s drama to last a lifetime. 

When you return, the scent of his cheap lavender soap is mixed with the heavy, hypnotic weight of your presence. The dark vampire blood is gone too, however, the skin under your collarbone is marred by deep, jagged punctures that are sluggishly knitting themselves back together. His sweatshirt hangs off one of your shoulders. You look uncharacteristically small compared to him, no matter the intoxicating gravity you still hold.

You step into his space and mumble, completely ignoring the physical boundary he’s trying so hard to maintain, “you’re still shaking.”

Frank tenses up, his knuckles locking at his sides as he tries to fight the fog rolling into his brain. “I don’t like uninvited guests, that’s all. Especially the ones who bring a body count with ‘em.”

“The only body I brought with me is my own.” You hiss, growing tired of his wariness. You had your own shitty day. “You’re a target too, you know? You should know better than to trust Lazaar.”

“Because you say so?” He scoffs, blue eyes hardened behind his glasses. He lowers his voice, his glower deepening, “what do you really want from me?”

“I need you.” You sigh, crossing your arms and shooting him a skeptical glance. “I know, I know, sounds stupid. But I really don’t have anyone else to go to.” 

Frank holds your gaze for a few seconds, scratching his temple to buy himself time to think. Fair enough. He never actually believed Lazaar was going to keep his word after he got the kidnap money, which is why he had arranged plane tickets for a rather indefinite-timed vacation in Honduras next week. However, now that you just gave him evidence Kristof’s vampire-family business is crumbling from the inside, first with Abigail’s death, then with you barely making it out alive… Suffice to say, Frank’s not exactly relieved. In fact, it means Lazaar’s most definitely really fucking pissed and really fucking desperate after losing control of his assets—and that equation involves him directly. He lets out another heavy curse under his breath. Great. Now he has got to make one more deal. 

Fucking shit.

Whilst Frank processes the new information, you take a seat on the couch and hug your knees. Your fights with Lazaar often made you shaky afterwards, but this time, you only felt a deep sense of freedom. No more begging for scraps of his attention, no more doing his dirty work in foolish hopes of finally getting him to love you. The leather creaks with Frank’s weight beside you, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You purse your lips. “Was it you the one who killed Abigail?”

He doesn’t answer right away, resting his arms on the back of the sofa, keeping a deliberate distance from you. “It was him.”

“Huh. That cold fucker.” You shake your head slightly. “You really helped a guy kill his own kid?”

Frank’s scowl remains unchanged, his words clipped, “she was hardly innocent.”

“Men.” You smile bitterly, staring at the ceiling and leaning back, mirroring his stance. “You’re all the fucking same.”

“Oh, don't give me that saintly bullshit.” He spits, the leather creaking again as he shifts, turning his head to glare at you. “I was a contractor. A guy hired to do a job. You think I wanted to spend my weekend dodging a pint-sized psycho in a tutu? Your uncle is the one who put a hit out on his own flesh and blood and just tried to drain you like a Capri Sun. If you’re looking for a monster, princess, look at your family tree, not me.”

You don’t flinch. If anything, the ugly truth of his words only make the weight in your heart feel heavier. “I know what they are. Why do you think I’m sitting on a cheap sofa in a corrupt ex-cop’s apartment?”

“I’m a businessman.” He continues, his tone sharp, unbothered by your insult. Regardless of being this close to punching his face, you let him finish his piece. “Right now, the business we’re both in is called not dying.” He leans forward, azure orbs dead-locked on yours. “Lazaar killed Abigail because she was a liability he couldn’t control anymore. If you just walked out on him, you’re a liability too. And me? I’m the guy who knows too much and has a bank account full of his cash.” He pauses, looking away and clenching his jaw. “As it would appear, we’re the two highest priorities on his hit list right now. So you can sit here and judge my moral character all you want: unless we figure out a way to get out of this city tonight, we’re both going to end up in a ditch.” 

There’s a long moment of silence. Your serious expression slowly morphs into one of pure smugness, your mouth stretched in a wide, satisfied grin. “So you will help me.”

Frank rolls his eyes and stands up, growling as he leaves, “don’t push it.” 

You can hear him rummaging through something in his bedroom, the muffled sounds of his silent curses causing you to smile to yourself as he seems not to find what he was looking for. His heavy steps approach the living room with his usual confidence, and his attire is comically different from a few minutes before; combat boots, black clothes, matched with a beanie and a backpack hooked on his shoulder.

You let out a sarcastic, thoroughly amused whistle. “Wow. Superhero gear, I presume?”

Frank glares daggers at you. “If you’re gonna be this insufferable all the time, I’m already rethinking this whole—”

“Oh, cheer up, will you? I’m the one who just had to fight off a freaking vampire gangster to save my skin.”

He huffs, casually adjusting the gun in his pants. “Right, you, the damsel in distress—give me a fucking break.” Frank stops what he’s doing. His cynical blue eyes scan you up and down, taking in the ridiculous discrepancy of the scene: him, preparing for the worst and you, slouched back on the couch wearing only his sweatshirt, furiously unbothered by the situation. A nervous, fake laugh leaves his throat. “Your sweet uncle is on a rampage wanting to kill everybody in his path, which supposedly made you come here seeking my help, and you’re just sitting there looking like… this?” The indignation in the last word is dangerously close to announcing itself as blatant sexual frustration, but he reigns it in just in time.

Except you caught it. His lingering stare on your legs is rather obvious. Another smirk creeps in your lips and Frank swallows thickly, looking away. You move to face him properly, watching him fidget with his backpack strap to check its length unnecessarily. “Come here, Frank.” You command softly, mapping his reaction.

Frank gulps and keeps his gaze on the floor, dropping his hands to the sides and bowling them into fists. His jaw is set painfully, his breathing becoming shallower by the minute. There it comes again; the pull. It’s resemblant to a magnetic force, drawing him nearer naturally if he doesn’t use all his strength to stop it. You tilt your head, mildly impressed by his effort.

“Look at you. A man with a strong mind. Now, that I don’t see everyday.” You muse, raising your brows.

“Stop it. Just fucking—stop this shit!” Frank snarls, lunging in your direction and pulling you to your feet with ease. He grabs your arms harshly, shaking you a bit, completely blind by rage. “Stop this fucking… whatever this bullshit is that you make me feel! We gotta focus here.”

You eye him silently, unfazed by his emotional outburst. “I’m not doing anything. Your desire is yours, Adam.” Your voice sings sweetly, making him shake his head as if somehow trying to get rid of the spell.

“Stop. Stop calling me that.” He growls, staring at your alluring eyes. Frank lets out an unsteady breath, his fingertips sinking into the sweatshirt you’re wearing. He whispers once more, this time at the verge of a breakdown, “stop.”

You let your hands slide up his chest tauntingly, the tips of your fingers resting against the pulse point roaring in his neck. His skin is blazing hot compared to yours. “Why?” You murmur, leaning in close enough for your own breath to fan over his trembling lips. “Because it reminds you that you’re human? That you’re not just some cold-blooded contractor?”

Frank’s jaw tightens so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek. For a second, anger and desire blur into something purely feral. He doesn’t let go; his hold only tightens, pinning you against his chest as if trying to prove he still has some semblance of control. “Don’t play with me”, he snaps, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register whilst his icy orbs pierce through yours. “You keep pushing me like this and neither of us is making it out of this apartment.”

“You talk too much.” 

Frank opens his mouth to protest, nevertheless, you devour his lips in a swift movement. He moans loudly, searching your hips with his hands to dig his fingernails with all his might, like a thirsty dying man finding fresh water in the middle of the desert. He deepens the contact and tilts his head as much as it is humanly possible just to feel every single inch of you inside his mouth, his restless tongue assaulting you shamelessly, still quietly roaring with the rage from moments ago, yet deeply bathed in lust. 

You match his ferocity, your fingers tangling in the knit fabric of his beanie, pulling him down until the room feels like it’s spinning. Frank groans into you again, a sound of utter defeat, his tactical vest pressing hard against your body as he pins you back on the kitchen counter. For a second, the impending threat of Lazaar ceases to exist. There is only the scorching heat of the kiss and the desperate, bruising grip of his hands on your skin. 

After a few minutes of aggressive makeout, it’s Frank who eventually breaks away, gasping for air as though he’d just surfaced from underwater. He doesn’t step back, his forehead pressed heavily on yours. His glasses are crooked as he pants, “fuck…” He then gulps, his hands trembling on your hips, refusing to let go just yet. “Fucking... shit.” He lets out a breathless, uneven laugh, shaking his head. “You’re gonna get me killed. Literally.”

You chuckle along with him, cupping his face gently. “I better get ready…”

Frank follows your lips on pure instinct, a desperate, pathetic whimper catching in his throat before he nods. “Right, yeah… Survival plan.” The fog in his brain is a thick, unshakeable wall, and he looks at you with a mix of intense longing and sheer, unadulterated fury at what just transpired in the middle of this fucking chaos. “I’ll, uh, find you something proper to wear. Hold on.”

Frank’s gone again and you sigh, catching a glimpse of the window. There are some blue pansies arranged carefully inside a vase, ready to open up at the first rays of sunshine painting the sky. You approach and close the blinds, taking one of the flowers and smelling it with a little smile. It seemed you weren’t to be alone anymore and neither was Adam. In all your centuries roaming the earth, never had you encountered this feeling. You didn’t even think it existed, but the hammering in your chest was proof enough.

“Earth to Frank.” His buddy, Austin, raises his thick brows at him, snapping his fingers twice. “Where did you go for a second there, man?”

Despite the minor interruption, Frank’s eyes stay glued to the figure who just entered the café. It’s you; wearing all black, a striking gaze hidden behind your irises, cherry lips and a crooked smile that seems to pull him into a deep trance. He swallows. He actually swallows. Him, the most insufferable, full-of-himself, arrogant bastard who ever set foot on this planet. 

Austin frowns immediately at the strange behaviour. “What, you ain’t got laid that long?” He snorts. 

This time Frank finally turns his attention back to his friend, blinking. “Sorry, what?”

“You almost followed the lady like a goddamn cartoon smelling food.” Austin murmurs, genuinely amused by the sight.

Frank still places you with his blue, attentive orbs, but more controlled now. “Huh. Whatever. Yeah, things have been hectic since the Abigail girl. I haven’t had much time for sex.” He shrugs it off, sipping his espresso slowly.

Austin grunts in acknowledgement, “so, as I was saying, Lazaar’s assets will be delivered at this address…”

Come the night, Frank kicks the door shut into his apartment and locks it with a practiced motion. He’s fucking knackered. His footsteps are heavy and unhurried toward the kitchen, his blue eyes reading over the mail, distracted. He inspects his fridge in search of anything edible and finds none. No surprise there. With a brief sigh, he drops the mail over the countertop and orders some Italian on his phone, turning his heels back to the living room.

Then he hears a quiet sound and his whole body tenses up. Frank pulls out his gun and removes the safety, keeping his breathing to a minimum. He walks backwards quietly before turning to face the empty kitchen again, which makes his confused frown deepen. Could the damn girl have found out where he lives? Fucking shit. He should’ve known better than to take a fucking vampire’s word at face value.

After a long moment of silence and no sign of the demonic ballerina appearing, he relaxes his shoulders ever so slightly. He keeps his weapon aimed up at the walls, just in case, as he reaches out to grab the mail he left on the counter with his free hand. It was probably some rat causing trouble in the ceiling. He’d had to find a better fucking place once Lazaar’s payments…

“You look anxious.” You murmur in his ear, cutting his trail of thought, and Frank jolts as if he’d been burned. The sensation of your voice touching his skin was certainly akin to it. A soft chuckle escapes your red lips and you add with a smirk, finding his reaction different from the other humans who are met with your spell, “don’t be.”

“What the fucking—” He scoffs and points his gun directly at your chest, his hands already shaking, his bloodstream bathed in pure adrenaline. “How the fuck did you get in my house?!”

“I’m not here to hurt you.” You take a step closer and he backtracks in reflex, causing you to raise your hands in surrender. “Really. Calm down.”

“Explain why you broke into my house. Now.” His authoritative tone comes back as he grips his weapon tightly, his jaw set.

“You know my uncle...” 

“Quit the fucking prologue!” He snaps.

You narrow your eyes dangerously for a split second, eventually relenting. “Kristof. The guy you made a deal with? He’s my unc and honestly, you’d be better off with the devil.” You can’t help but scoff.

Frank doesn’t react at first, though he is, in fact, quite fucking taken aback by the revelation. His finger hesitates over the trigger one last moment before he puts down the pistol reluctantly. “Huh. What the fuck are you doing here, then? My deal is with him. Not you, princess.”

“Mmm. Wrong answer.” You say lightly, your eyes filled with amusement at his simple reasoning. 

Frank gives you a skeptical look, yet a shiver goes up his spine as he scans you up and down. You’re wearing the same black outfit from earlier in the café, the one which shows off your curves rather clearly. And those eyes of yours, they seem to imprison him this close. His pants suddenly feel a bit uncomfortable.

He gulps and takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself in reality. “What do you want, princess? And make it quick, ‘cause I’m on a fucking schedule.”

“What I want?” You quip, brows raised, walking leisurely toward him. “More like… what I need.” Your hot air reaches his face and his mouth hangs open. He’s unable to move or speak, the blue irises but a thin ring around his dilated pupils. Your smile only widens, your next words coming out honeyed. He’s falling just like all the other men, regardless of how much he fights it. But it’s cute that he tries. You whisper, “aren’t you gonna ask me what that is, Adam?”

Frank scowls faintly, doing his best to overcome the trance-like state you’ve put him in. “How do you know that name?”

“I know it because we’re meant to be.” You hum, the tip of your nose rubbing against his stubbled cheek weakly. His breath hitches violently and he grips the edge of the counter behind him until his knuckles turn white. You gently remove the gun from his hand, letting it hit the floor with a loud thud. You hold his gaze unblinking. “Say it.”

He hisses, his feelings a mix of annoyance and anticipation. “Say what?”

“What you want me to do.”

“I…” Frank closes his eyes firmly, the sound dying in his throat. “I want…”

“(y/n)!” A growl descends upon the both of you, and you scramble to get away from Frank. It’s your uncle, Kristof, and he’s pissed. He glares at you, showing his fangs threateningly. “What have I said about toying with my business partners, you unruly child?”

You keep your head down, shrinking completely in the presence of him. “I am sorry, uncle. I was just playing games.”

Frank, who remains a bit shaky, his blue eyes alert and utterly lost in the middle of the family feud, lets out a disbelieved laugh. “Playing games. Right. Fucking right.”

“I apologize for my niece’s… terrible manners, Frank.” Kristof mutters in a low baritone, casting one more disapproving glance at your direction. You flinch as he sinks his sharp nails into your cheek just enough for you to feel the pressure. “And you. We are going home. Now.” He lets go harshly, making you stumble backwards.

Kristof walks away and you move to follow, not without shooting Frank a small smirk and a wink. “I had fun, Adam.”

His real name leaving your entrancing lips makes him step back unconsciously, the spell dragging him closer to you against his will for a minute. It fades away once when you vanish through his front door. The trance is gone by the time his food arrives. He blinks and takes the order, paying the guy on autopilot and locking himself inside again with a deep, tired sigh.

It’s been two weeks like this and House, out of anyone, is obviously freaking tired of your miserable brooding. He promised Wilson he wasn’t going to interfere, very aware of the fact you had to learn for yourself that everything sucks and the only thing that matters is practicing good medicine for him, yet he just couldn’t hold back. Not this time. And so, here you both were, locked away in the lab because he demanded your specific presence for something as trivial as a sample test in search of encephalitis. 

After a few minutes of silence, he throws the file he’s been pretending to read on the table with a loud noise, startling you. “Alright, listen up, kiddo.” House stares daggers at your direction, though his next words don’t carry quite the same animosity when he sighs, “wanting to change people is a nasty, unjust and fruitless desire. They’ll be who they are. You can either accept them as such, or let go. You can’t mold anyone else but you, and even when you do it, you have to be careful not to… cut off your wings so you’ll liken yourself to someone who can’t fly.” He hums, almost like he’s trying out the laughable phrase on a self-help book he saw on Wilson’s shelf. Which is definitely what happened.

In shock as you assimilate what he said, you mumble, “for an insufferable asshole, you sure give good advice.” 

House scoffs, his tone still measured but as sarcastic as ever. “You’re welcome.”

However, when you turn to look at him properly, what you find in those commonly detached blue eyes is something else; something foreign. Seems awfully… gentle? “Tested negative.” You murmur, clearing your throat. “And I just wanted what’s fair for everyone. I didn’t cut off my wings or anything like that.”

House smirks at that with harmless amusement, not his usual mockery. “You and your girl scout code. Most people suck, especially men. You’re old enough to know that by now.”

“Love does exist in many forms, you know?” You can’t help but insist, despite sounding defeated. “Even when people’s actions suck.”

“I’m sure a victim of abuse would agree with that logic.” He narrows his eyes in challenge.

You shrug. “The world isn’t black and white.”

“It’s not what’s fair and what’s not, either.” House quickly retorts, getting worked up at your arguments. “All that hope you got for people, it will kill your spirit.”

You shoot him a disbelieved look. “It’s like your nature to always be looking for a fight, isn’t it?”

“Oh, please. You’re the one blindly trusting people and when they let you down again and again, you spend whole weeks walking around my office with those sad dog eyes and not one single good idea. It’s affecting your job. Deal with it.” His words cut you like knives, and the gentleness in his gaze is completely gone. He just keeps going, back to being House. “You’re pathetic. And you shouldn’t be, not this much at this point.” 

Your gaze moves from your phone to the doctor’s striking blue eyes. He’s not the conventional-looking professional, with no lab coat or stethoscope hanging from his neck, walking around with a cane. He seems more like a madman than anything else, if you were being honest. But you’ve been told he’s the best at this, so he’s probably earned the right to be crazy. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that substance is.” You shrug, feeling a bit mushy because of the sedatives.

House sighs, holding back an eye roll. “Formaldehyde is the liquid they use in science labs to preserve animal organs and other biological specimens. It has a very strong and unpleasant smell. If you were a science teacher, it’s likely you’d know what it was.”

“And the sky would be black if it wasn’t blue. What’s your point?” Your voice comes out soft and amused. He’s way too grumpy for such an early hour and your head hurts a bit.

He studies you for a moment. “You’re surprisingly coherent. I was expecting some sort of slurring or nonsensical babble by now.”

“Maybe I’m Wonder Woman, who knows?” You laugh quietly at your own stupid joke, taking a deep breath. Everything about hospitals makes you feel sick—ironically. The white walls, the smell so distinctive, the worried faces. It’s as if all stages of grief morphed into a physical space.

The doctor narrows his eyes, his tone flat. “Okay, Diana Prince, let’s get you checked up.” He approaches your bed with one more limp, listening to your vitals intently. They sound pretty faint. Too much for his liking, in fact.

You frown, feeling the cold metal against your skin. He smells like coffee and alcohol, a very weird combination in your mind. “I suppose I’m not leaving anytime soon, doc?”

He lets out another sigh, shaking his head as he scribbles down a few things in your file. “Your vitals are all over the place. We need to keep you here for observation for at least two or three more days.”

“What is your name again?” You hum, finding his obvious defensiveness at the question funny. “You don’t wear a lab coat, sorry.”

House’s lips quirk into a half-grin. The first time he’s genuinely smiled in days, but you don’t need to know that. “Gregory House. Most people just call me House.” He finishes up with his notes, turning his full attention onto you.

“Never heard of you, and by the look on your face, the way you carry yourself… You probably were expecting I did.” You assess, sitting up and adjusting your pillow weakly. These damn beds were not designed for comfort at all.

There’s silence before House leans back slightly, taking in your whole figure with a full body scan, top to bottom. “Now, why would you say that?” 

He reaches up to help with your pillows, and his movements are oddly gentle, his eyes still locked on yours. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head, trying to understand your statement. For a while, the only sound is the feeble beep of the machine that tracks your heart rate. Suddenly it beeps a little faster, and you quickly open your mouth to hide the change from him. Foolish of you, sure, because it’s the first thing he notices.

“You look quirky.” You shrug, eyeing him with amusement. You really didn’t mean anything by it and his puzzled reaction was strangely endearing, in a way. You add, looking down at his feet, “those gym shoes are a no-no, though.”