Alma

Y/N worked on patient files quietly in her office after a long day of seeing patients. She shifted in her seat as an uncomfortable sensation began to appear in her stomach and lower back. Y/N took a breath, smoothing a hand over her bump as she waited for it to pass.

Braxton hicks contractions were common, especially as the pregnancy progressed but this felt different. The pain was constant, it felt like her muscles were being torn apart. Y/N stood up from her seat with a grimace, she moved around her desk with a hand on her belly.

Y/N paused, crying out in pain as blood began to soak into the material of her pants. Y/N's hand shot out to her desk, it landed on a pile of stacked files that slipped out from under her palm. Y/N fell, her head collided with the edge of the desk as she landed on the floor.

Y/N had lost consciousness and no one had any idea that she was injured. House was working on a complicated case, Cuddy was supervising him and Wilson was with his patients.

No one had any idea how long she had been on the floor when Wilson finally found her. Y/N was admitted right away and her obstetrician was notified.

Y/N had a partial placental abruption, she lost quite a bit of blood and was having contractions. They were able to get her on a drug called magnesium sulfate in an attempt to stop her labor.

The contractions began to slow, but there was still the potential for an early birth. Y/N was given a blood transfusion and corticosteroids to speed up the baby's lung development.

Wilson stayed by her side throughout everything, "Where is House?" Y/N asked softly. She was weak and exhausted with a possible concussion.

"He's on a case," Wilson said. A pit was beginning to form in his stomach as she looked over at him with a terrified expression.

"Does he know?" She asked.

"Not yet, no," Wilson replied.

Y/N looked down at her bump, hand settling on her skin as she took a shaky breath. Wilson watched her eyes begin to fill with tears as she struggled to keep herself from crying.

"I-I'll go get him," Wilson said, standing up from his seat beside her bed.

"Wait, I don't want to be alone," Y/N mumbled.

"Whatever you need," He nodded, sitting back down.

Wilson pulled out his phone and sent a message to Cuddy.

'She needs him.' He typed.

Cuddy's reply was almost instant, 'How bad is it?' She'd asked.

'Partial abruption, stage two. They were able to stop contractions but are monitoring the baby for distress. She's on magnesium sulfate and corticosteroids but she also needed a transfusion,' Wilson typed back.

'Stay with her. We need him on this case.' She replied, leaving no room for argument

Wilson grimaced before tucking his phone into his pocket, "What's wrong? Is he not coming?" Y/N questioned.

"He's held up with something," Wilson said.

Y/N nodded, fingers brushing lightly across her bump as she sniffled softly.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said.

"It's fine," Y/N said shakily, brushing away a tear with trembling hands.

Wilson couldn't stand to see her upset, the idea of keeping this information from House was eating him up inside. The case that House was dealing with was important, but the life of his wife and child should be more important.

The case was proving to be difficult for the team, their patient was President Dibala and he was an African dictator. Hundreds of thousands of people would lose their lives if he was cured and the ethical dilemma complicated things.

House was able to compartmentalize easily, but Cameron's strong opinions and moral compass made her one of the worst people to be treating the president. Chase tried to keep her in check, but she was struggling to maintain her objectivity.

The last thing Wilson heard was that there was an assassination attempt against Dibala. He could understand why Cuddy wanted House to stay on the case and remain focused, but it still made him uncomfortable.

Wilson stayed by Y/N's side until she eventually fell asleep and he was able to step away. Wilson went straight to House's office, he lingered by the door as they went through another differential.

House noticed him and dismissed his team members, they filed out of the conference room and made their way back to the patient's room.

"House, I need to talk to you," Wilson said.

"I'm in the middle of something, it can wait," House stated, staring at the whiteboard.

"No, it can't... It's Y/N," Wilson said.

House looked over at him, "What happened?" He questioned.

...

Y/N opened her eyes, grimacing as her head pounded under the harsh fluorescent lights. She closed her eyes, hoping that the throbbing in her temples would resolve itself.

"Where does it hurt?" Someone asked.

Y/N opened her eyes, looking over to find House sitting at her bedside. His eyes ran over her body before glancing up at the machines that were keeping track of her and the baby's vitals.

"My head," Y/N mumbled.

"You have a concussion. It's gonna hurt," House stated.

He stood up from his seat, grabbing his cane and moving over to the door. He shut off the lights in the room before returning to his chair.

"Where were you?" Y/N asked.

"Doesn't matter, I'm here now," He said.

Y/N settled back against the pillows, her hands rested on bump as she looked down at herself.

"Is she moving?" House asked, Y/N nodded.

"I was scared that I was going to lose her... The pain was terrible and there was so much blood," She said shakily.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here, but she's okay and you're okay," House stated.

"The doctor put me on bedrest for the remainder of the pregnancy," Y/N said.

"I figured," He nodded.

"How are we going to do this, Greg?" Y/N questioned, already sounding defeated.

"We'll figure it out. I'll reduce my hours and we can hire someone to help around the house in the meantime," House said.

Y/N took a breath, "Don't worry," House stated.

"I'm not," Y/N replied.

"Your heart rate says otherwise," House said, glancing up at the vitals machine.

Y/N smiled slightly, "Well, I'm trying not to worry," She said.

House stayed by her side overnight, his case was overly complicated and resulted in the death of President Dibala. Cuddy was right to encourage House to maintain his focus on the case but it was an impossible situation.

The circumstances surrounding Dibala's death were murky, but House couldn't bring himself to care. It was true that the president was a bad person and his ideas would damage an entire population, but it was still a black mark on his record.

House's significant other and their child needed to take priority.

...

Y/N had been on bedrest for three weeks and she was absolutely miserable. She read every book she had intended to and watched all the trash television that she could stomach.

House did as he promised and limited his hours, during difficult cases he asked Wilson to check up on her. Wilson had been a vital part of their support system in the last few weeks.

Wilson helped them to assemble the furniture for the nursery and finish painting the walls. He cooked for Y/N when House wasn't able to and had just been an incredible help during this time.

Y/N was incredibly bored, but Wilson did everything he could to keep her spirits up. He knew that it must have been awful to be trapped in the house for such a long period of time.

He never came to their home empty-handed, he always brought snacks, gifts or flowers for Y/N. House appreciated his friend's kindness and let Wilson know that their door was always open to him.

House made his way into the apartment, tossing his keys into the dish and shrugging off his coat. House laid it over the back of the couch, pushing the door shut with his cane and making his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

Wilson sat in the chair beside the bed as Y/N sat with her back against the headboard. A laundry basket of various baby items sat on the bed beside her.

Y/N folded the items and set them in a stack on the bed next to her. Wilson folded the items in his own basket, gaze focused on the television.

"She did not sleep with his best friend, did she?" Wilson asked, not daring to pull his eyes away from the screen.

"Oh yeah, they've been sleeping together for at least two seasons in secret," Y/N said.

"No way. The cameras follow them everywhere, how could they find the time?" He questioned.

Y/N shrugged, "They stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two. They start every day with a pilates class and spend hours binge drinking while arguing. All they have is time," She said, folding a fluffy pink blanket.

"Sorry to interrupt your little watch party, but I'm home," House said.

"We're one episode away from the tell all, you have to let us finish the season," Wilson stated, folding up a baby onsie.

"My god, what happened to you?" House muttered, kicking off his shoes and laying down in the bed beside his wife.

"This is the best show to ever be invented," Wilson said, gesturing to the television.

"Sure it is. Wake up me up when it's over," House said, crossing his arms and settling back into the pillows as he closed his eyes.

Things had been complicated, but they were figuring it out and taking things one day at a time. The baby was growing and Y/N hadn't had any bleeding since that first incident.

She had a magnificent support system around her and she leaned on them in her time of need.

House may not have been everyone's favorite person, but Y/N was. She had always been kind and everyone who met her loved her.

“Greg?”

A pause.

Then, hoarse and gravel-thick:

“Cancel work.”

You blink. “You’re not my boss.”

“I am your husband,” he says weakly. “Higher authority.”

You walk closer.

His hair is mussed, eyes glassy, cheeks faintly flushed. He looks… soft. Disarmed. Human.

You press your hand to his forehead.

Hot.

“Oh my God,” you breathe. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m dying.”

“You have a cold.”

“It’s meningitis.”

“It’s not meningitis.”

“It could be.”

You lean down and kiss his forehead anyway. He closes his eyes immediately, like you’ve just given him morphine.

“…Don’t go,” he mutters.

You pull back slightly. “I have clinic.”

“Call in sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You’re about to be,” he threatens, attempting to pull you down with one arm.

He succeeds.

You land against his chest, and immediately he tightens both arms around you like you’re the last life raft on the Titanic.

“Greg,” you laugh softly. “I have patients.”

“They’ll live.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I’m the genius diagnostician. They’re all dramatic.”

He buries his face in your neck.

And freezes.

“…You’re cold.”

“Yes. That’s how normal body temperature works.”

He groans and presses closer, sliding one leg over yours, trapping you completely.

“You’re staying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Gregory.”

“Wife.”

The way he says it is petulant and affectionate at the same time.

You try to sit up.

He makes an offended noise and clutches tighter.

“Unacceptable.”

“You’re acting like a koala.”

“I’m a very sick koala.”

“You’re a manipulative koala.”

“Same thing.”

He shifts, dragging the blanket up around both of you, cocooning you together. His nose is stuffy, breathing uneven, warm breath against your collarbone.

And then—

He sniffles.

You freeze.

Did Gregory House just—

He sniffs again. Irritated.

“This is humiliating,” he mutters.

“You’re adorable.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m a terrifying medical icon.”

“You’re a congested medical icon.”

He groans and presses his face against your chest to hide.

You feel it then—how warm he is. How tired. His usual sharpness dulled by fever.

“…My head hurts,” he mumbles quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

That’s when your heart caves in.

You thread your fingers into his hair and gently scratch his scalp.

He melts.

Actually melts.

A soft, involuntary exhale leaves him.

“Traitor,” he whispers.

“What?”

“My body. It likes that.”

“Your body likes affection from its wife. Groundbreaking.”

He shifts again, hand sliding under your shirt just to press his palm against your bare waist. Not sexual. Just anchoring.

“Don’t go,” he repeats, softer now. Not commanding.

Asking.

You hesitate.

He opens one eye and looks up at you.

And God, he looks wrecked. Fever-bright eyes. Pink nose. Vulnerable in a way he almost never lets himself be.

“…You’re really not going to let me leave, are you?”

“No.”

“You have a hospital full of competent doctors.”

“They’re idiots.”

“You trained them.”

“Which says more about them.”

You sigh dramatically.

He tightens his grip in response.

“You love me,” he says, muffled against you.

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is.”

“It’s emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective.”

You try one more time to shift upward.

He immediately whines.

Actually whines.

“…Cold,” he mutters when the air hits him.

“Oh my God.”

“Cruel woman. Abandoning her dying husband.”

“You are not dying.”

He sniffles again.

“…Prove it.”

“How?”

“Stay.”

You look at the clock.

Then at him.

Then at the way his thumb is absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your side like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“…Fine.”

He stills.

“…Fine?”

“I’ll text in. Half day.”

He goes quiet.

Then slowly tightens his arms around you and presses a fever-warm kiss to your shoulder.

“Marry me again,” he murmurs.

You laugh. “I already did.”

“Do it again.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

You feel him relax fully for the first time since you woke up. His breathing steadies. His grip softens but never lets go.

After a few minutes, he mutters, half-asleep:

“…If you get sick too, we can both stay home.”

“Gregory.”

“Worth it.”

You pinch his side gently.

He makes a sleepy protest noise and pulls you even closer.

And as he drifts off, still tangled around you like you might disappear if he loosens his hold, he whispers one last thing—

“…Don’t leave.”

You kiss his temple.

“I’m right here.”