#cg x reader

Summary: You regress at work due to seeing blood and the person you least expect to be there for you takes care of you.

Warning: Age regression, crying, comfort, mentions of medical setting/hospitals, fainting, mild confusion, angst with comfort.

Requested by my friend @roadkilledcanine!

You worked at Princeton–Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and compared to other hospitals, this one actually felt good. The staff were friendly, the work challenging but rewarding. Even the bosses weren’t unbearable.

Today, though, was not your best day.

Your alarm hadn’t gone off, and by the time you opened your eyes you had ten minutes to get ready. You threw on scrubs and bolted out the door, no breakfast, no coffee, not even brushing your teeth. By the time you ran into the hospital, lungs burning, you were barely on time.

You stuffed a water bottle and a granola bar into your bag for later and rushed to the morning meeting, then began your rounds with your supplies for blood collection.

Your first stop was Kaiden Road’s room. He smiled politely when you entered. Two doctors were already there, but you were too rushed to focus on them.

“I’m here to collect blood samples,” you said, checking your file.

“That’s for me,” Kaiden confirmed.

You set your things down, prepped the syringe, found the vein and then the moment the blood began filling the vial, your vision blurred. The room tilted sideways. Your stomach flipped.

“I-uh c-can one of you finish this? I don’t… feel good.” You staggered, nearly collapsing. Your knees felt weak, but strong hands quickly caught you before you could fall.

“Kid, take a breath,” a dry voice muttered in your ear. “I’ve got you.”

It was Dr. House.

And that was the last straw. The exhaustion, the hunger, the stress, everything knocked you straight out of your big headspace. The world felt too big. You felt too small. Tears spilled before you could stop them, fat, hot and endless.

House, despite his limp, guided you quickly out of the room, his fellows gawking after him. He didn’t stop until he shoved open the door to an empty consult room and closed it firmly behind him.

“Terrific,” he muttered. “Catch the collapsing nurse, add spontaneous crying. My day just keeps getting better.”

You hiccupped as he sat you down in the chair, trying to make yourself small. Your fists rubbed at your eyes, sleeves bunched in your hands. You rocked slightly, legs pulled up, toes curling against the chair. A soft whimper escaped your mouth, unfiltered.

House paused, tilting his head. He saw it, the way you clutched your sleeves for comfort, the way your voice had shrunk to small noises, the nervous rocking. Not just overwhelmed. Regressed.

“Oh, great,” he said dryly. “Daycare shift. My favorite.”

You hid your face behind your arms, crying harder.

House sighed, lowering himself into the opposite chair. “Hey. Hey, kiddo. Look at me.” His tone dropped, quieter than usual. He tapped his cane against the floor in a steady rhythm. “In. Out. Match the beat, unless you want to hyperventilate and ruin my afternoon further.”

You peeked out, sniffling, and started matching your breathing to the sound. It helped, though tears still rolled.

“That’s better,” House muttered. He reached into your bag, snagged the granola bar you’d packed, and tore it open. He held it out. “You need to eat something. Doctor’s orders.”

You hesitated, lip wobbling, then took it from him with two hands like it was a precious item. Nibbling tiny bites, you kept glancing at him, watery-eyed.

“Don’t give me puppy eyes,” House warned, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “I don’t do lullabies. You eat, you breathe, you stop trying to drown me in tears. That’s the deal.”

A shaky giggle slipped out of you, half-sob, half-laugh.

He smirked faintly. “There it is. Thought I’d lost you for a second.”

Your hands fidgeted as you ate, tugging at your sleeves, twirling the wrapper. When you finished, you whispered, voice small and unsteady, “T-thank you…”

House tilted his head, studying you. “Huh. Polite. That’s new around here.” He leaned back, twirling his cane. “Don’t apologize, don’t thank me. Just… eat next time. Preferably before you reenact Bambi in front of a patient.”

You pouted faintly at the teasing, shoulders hunching.

“Oh, don’t give me that face.” His smirk grew. “You’ll ruin my reputation if people find out I can handle tears and pouts without running for the hills.”

Despite yourself, you laughed again, your giggle being slightly hoarse from the sobbing you had been doing.

House stayed. He didn’t rush you, didn’t tell you to “snap out of it.” For a man who pretended to hate people, he let you curl up, rock softly, and nibble your snack until your tears finally ran dry. Sarcasm aside, his steady presence anchored you.

Later that day, House limped into his office, dropping into his chair with a grunt. Wilson followed a moment later, coffee in hand.

“You disappeared from rounds. What happened?” Wilson asked.

House smirked. “Oh, nothing. Just caught a nurse before they face-planted into a patient. Threw in some bonus crying. Five stars, would babysit again.”

Wilson frowned. “You comforted someone? You?”

“Don’t get excited. I handed them a granola bar and mocked them. Worked better than your endless pep talks.”

Wilson shook his head, half-amused. “You’re impossible. But… good job, I guess. In your own twisted way.”

House spun his cane between his hands, eyes distant for just a second. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the image of you, small, tearful, clutching your sleeves like a scared kid, lingered.

He smirked again, covering it up. “Don’t spread it around, Wilson. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

But the truth was, for all his cynicism, he’d found himself surprisingly unwilling to let go of you in that moment. And though he’d never admit to it, he’d do it again if you needed him.

(& some SFW headcanons :D)

- Rick gives natural girldad energy and I feel like he'd love to play with and put clips in your hair. I feel like he's surprisingly tolerant when it comes to kiddos and he'd let you put stickers all over his face and arms.

- cg!Rick also loves teaching you science-y facts, reading touch & feel books with you, and cuddling on the couch to watch cartoons.

- His favorite cartoons to watch with you are the Magic School Bus, Adventure Time, Cyberchase, and Dora.

- He reads the boring, complicated excerpts from whatever book he is reading to lull you to sleep.

- I headcanon that he secretly loves Hello Kitty, Minecraft, and mindless pop music. He pretends to hate these things most times, except for when you're little around him.

- He loves to teach you guitar and play Minecraft and Fortnite with you. He also likes card games, checkers, Operation, and Monopoly.

- When he colors with you he always uses the Lisa Frank coloring books and colors the alien pages.

- He's so praise-oriented and gives you stickers all the time when you're good :DD

- You always make him colorful bracelets that he wears happily. His favorite is a green & black one that says "alien" on it. (He's so voidpunk coded.)

Little!Norman Bates x Cg!reader

Contains: Cg/l, littlespace, Cg!reader, Norman is adorable, bottle feeding, fluff, reader feeds Norman a bottle, completely GN!reader

“Wait! Hold on don’t go in-“ Normal said as he trailed behind you, trying to intercept your path to the kitchen as his cheeks and ears burned a bright pink, you let out a small laugh,

Reader age: 2-5

KINK, GORE, 18+ DNI SFW AGERE ONLY

YOUR POV

You woke up only to find your daddies gone. You rub the sleep from your eyes, frantically searching around the room. It looked like stuff was thrown around, like they’d gone in a hurry.

You figured they had to go to a mission last minute, but they didn’t even leave a note or anything. You felt your big self slipping from you, your little self replacing you.

You sat back down on the bed, grabbing your stuffie and pulling it close to your chest as you began to cry. You felt hungry, thirsty, and homesick of your daddies.

You eventually fell asleep again, only to wake up to someone gently rubbing your back.

“Hey sweetheart, wake up. Daddy’s here,” Dean cooed, pulling you into his chest as you hugged him.

“Daddy—you left…” You said, looking around for Sam to see him coming up and grabbing your hand.

“We’re so sorry princess, we didn’t know we were going to be gone as long as we were. Shhh, daddy’s here,” Sam spoke softly, getting Dean to pass you over to him.

“Dove, how about I make you some breakfast?” Dean asked, ruffling your hair. You giggled into Sam’s shoulder, nodding as your stomach growled.

“Pwease don’t leave me alone again like that…” you begged, playing with Sam’s long fingers as Dean paused from making breakfast to come over to you.

“Sweetie, look at me. We promise we will never do that again, okay honey?”

“We’ll leave a note or wake you up before we leave. Pinky promise,” Sam said, holding out his pinky for you to pinky promise him. You smiled softly, putting your tiny pinky on his.

Annoying (CG! Gregory House x GN! Reader)

Warning: Agere, Crying, Comfort/Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Neglect/Feeling Ignored.

Pookie back at it again!

You tugged on House's sleeve for the third time, whining softly, hoping he’d finally give in. House didn’t even glance up from the file in his hand.

“Newsflash,” he muttered, scribbling something down, “annoying me isn’t going to make me less annoyed. In fact, it’s like… doubling down on a bad investment.”

You pouted, tugging again, eyes wide and shiny. He finally looked at you, narrowing his own.

“Oh, no. Nope. Don’t start with that look. Those eyes are weapons of mass manipulation, and I refuse to be a casualty.”

You whimpered, trying harder.

House leaned back in his chair with a groan. “God, you’re relentless. Did Wilson put you up to this? Cause this feels like something he’d do, dump his emotional support puppy on me and run off.”

The joke didn’t land the way he expected. Your face fell, and the shimmer in your eyes wobbled dangerously. You curled back, crawling away to the far corner of the office and tucking yourself into a ball.

House froze, blinking. “…Really?”

When you didn’t answer, just hugged your knees tighter, he dragged a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. I make one snarky comment, and suddenly I’m the worst person alive.” He tapped his cane against the floor, muttering, “Why do I even open my mouth?”

Still, he got up. His limp carried him over to your corner, where you sat trembling. House crouched down, resting his cane beside him, his tone softer though the sarcasm never quite left.

“Okay, so maybe that was a little harsh,” he surprisingly admitted. “But in my defense, being harsh is my brand. It’s literally what people expect from me. If I suddenly start cooing and cuddling, everyone’s gonna think I’ve been replaced by a pod person.”

You sniffled, not looking at him.

House sighed. “Look, Bambi… I don’t want you to think I don’t want you here. Because, annoyingly enough, I do. I just…” He made a face. “I suck at saying it. There, happy?”

When you still didn’t move, he opened his arms dramatically. “Oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Get over here. I’ll even say please if that’s what it takes.” He smirked. “But only once, so listen carefully.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you crawled into his lap. House wrapped his arms around you instantly, pulling you close. His hand rubbed steady circles on your back, his chin dropping lightly onto your head.

“See? That’s better. No more corner-of-the-room dramatics.” His voice was quieter now, but still laced with his trademark dry edge. “And don’t think I’m doing this because you won. I’m doing it because I… let you. Totally different.”

You sniffled again, hiding against him.

House’s hand stilled on your back for a moment before he resumed. “You realize you’re the only person I let get away with this, right? Anyone else tries puppy eyes, and I’m out the door faster than Cuddy when I mention budget cuts.”

You made a small noise, almost a giggle through your sniffles. He smirked.

“Ah, there it is. Knew I’d crack you eventually. It’s a gift.” He shifted so you were more comfortable in his lap and to lessen the tension on his bad leg, his tone dropping low, almost like he was talking to himself. “Truth is, I can’t say no to you. Never could. Doesn’t matter how many walls I build, you just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You bulldoze right through ‘em.”

Your breathing slowed against him, your body relaxing as you began to drift off.

House kept talking, voice soft but steady, filling the silence like a lullaby he’d never admit to singing.

“You’re ridiculous. And clingy. And way too good at making me feel things I don’t want to feel. But…” He let out a sigh. “I’d rather have you here annoying me than anywhere else.”

By the time he glanced down, you were out cold, curled into his chest, breathing slow and even. He brushed his thumb across your cheek, frowning at the damp trails your tears had left.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Didn’t stand a chance, did I?”

Still, he stayed put, holding you close, filing work forgotten. His arms tightened around you just slightly, as if to make sure you stayed.

And for once, Gregory House didn’t mind being exactly where he was.

I'm lowkey, just a victim that wants comfort fics semi related to my circumstance !!

Anyways, angst time!

Wilson/ house CG duo

Crybaby regressor that's been like in alot of scary, unsafe situations and a patient yells at her it gives her flashbacks and she's in shock still and her face is stuck in a terrified expression, remembering everything that happened. She jerks her eyes down to the ground and hurries out of the room without a word.

House: Seeing her like that worried him so he gets wilson

They find her in stall curled in ball, sniffiling

House knocks on the door, firmly speaking, taking a harsh approach, scaring her, and worsening the situation. Their panic worsens, and they begin to cry harder /shake and whimper

Wilson, the sweeter one has a different approach and is able to calm her down enough to open the door. She's still curled in a ball whimpering and shaking

Maybe then they finally notice scars from past abuse and it finally clicks (?? Not necessary)

Either that happens or they just know her past whatever

They end up having to go through this long drawn out process of like :

"honey...it's me..? Remember"

"You know we wouldn't hurt you"

"You aren't there anymore sweety see?"

"We've got you"

"No one here is against you,we love you"

Maybe at some point, she flinches at an attempted comfort, and it like breaks their heart realizing everything she went through

Also, because she's so scared all the time and flinchy/ injured, they call her Bambi 🥺🥺❤️❤️ idk just like a scared little baby deer vibe, yk???

Echoes of the Past (CG! Gregory House x GN! Reader x CG! James Wilson)

Summary: After a patient’s father lashes out, old wounds resurface, leaving you spiraling, until House and Wilson step in to pull you back to safety.

Warning: trauma, (SFW) age regression, child abuse (mentions), domestic violence (mentions), medical angst, verbal abuse, physical assault, panic attack, dissociation, age regression.

I love House AND Wilson together. They're so different from each other as caregivers hihi

Your past never seemed to let go of you. Every shout, every slammed door, every sudden noise dragged you back to a childhood you wanted to bury. Working in a hospital didn’t make it easier. Crisis was everywhere, pain, panic, grief.

You’d worked hard in therapy, carefully exposing yourself to triggers, and for a while you’d been stable. You could do your job. You could even enjoy it. Under House’s sharp mentorship and Wilson’s gentler guidance, you’d carved out something that resembled peace.

But today was different.

You’d woken with a heaviness you couldn’t shake, something quiet gnawing under your skin. Still, you pushed through. It was just one of those days, you told yourself. No reason to quit early.

You should have known the dam would break.

Delivering the prognosis to the young girl’s family, cancer, incurable, was the last thing you wanted to do. But it was yours to give. You’d tried everything with Wilson’s oncological expertise and House’s brilliance. Both came to the same conclusion. There was no cure.

The mother sobbed. The father didn’t cry. He boiled.

“You’re giving up on her,” the mother whispered through tears.

When the father stormed out, you instinctively followed, trying to soften the blow. “I’m sorry, I know this is the worst news you could hear, but-”

He spun around, his voice sharp enough to cut the air. “You should be saving her! Not just letting her die!” His voice rose, drawing eyes in the hallway.

“Sir, it’s not possible-”

The slap landed before you could finish. A crack of sound, a sting on your cheek, the echo of old violence. And suddenly, you weren’t in Princeton-Plainsboro anymore.

You were a child again. The yelling. The heavy footsteps. Your father’s hand. Worthless. Always worthless.

Tears blurred your vision. You clutched your cheek, stumbling backward as security and nurses rushed in. You didn’t wait. You ran. Ran like you used to, searching for somewhere small, somewhere to hide.

You found a bathroom stall, slammed the lock, curled up tight, knees to your chest, arms around yourself. Sobs shook you in uneven waves.

You didn’t know House had seen it happen. For once, the anger wasn’t sarcastic or performative, it was sharp, protective, murderous. He wanted to tear that man apart. But he limped after you instead, ignoring the throb in his leg.

The sound of his cane tapped against tile as he pushed into the bathroom. He stopped, listening. Soft sniffles. Muffled breaths. He lowered himself against the locked stall door, his shadow stretching under the frame.

“Hey, kid,” House said, voice rough but softer than usual. “It’s alright. He’s not here. You’re safe.”

Silence. Your breath hitched.

He frowned, rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’re making me sit on a bathroom floor, you know. Pretty sure that’s against the Geneva Convention.”

Still nothing.

House clicked his tongue. “Those tears? They make your face ugly. And trust me, it’s not a face that can afford much ugly.” He muttered it like a joke, but it fell flat.

He leaned his head back against the door, frustration tightening his features. This wasn’t his arena. He didn’t do comfort. Not well. Not enough. With a grimace, he pulled out his pager.

Minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.

“House, what now-” Wilson’s voice broke off as soon as he heard you. He looked at House, eyes flashing with protective anger. “What did you do?”

House gestured at the stall. “Not me. Dad of the Year. Smacked them. Congratulations, Wilson, you get to do the hugging portion of today’s disaster.”

Wilson’s frown deepened, but he crouched, lowering his voice to something steady, gentle, meant only for you. “Hey… it’s me. You don’t have to open the door yet. Just listen.”

Your sobs stuttered, but didn’t stop.

“You did everything right. Everything. What happened wasn’t your fault. You gave them honesty, and they couldn’t handle it.” His voice was calm, grounding, like an anchor tossed into a storm. “House and I, we’re not going anywhere. You’re not alone in this. You’re safe.”

A quiet pause.

“I know it feels like you’re back there again. But you’re not. You’re here, with us. With me.”

Your grip loosened slightly around your knees.

“Please,” Wilson whispered. “Let me in.”

The lock clicked slowly. The door creaked open a fraction, then wider, revealing your tear-stained face.

Wilson’s expression softened immediately. He didn’t hesitate, he slipped inside the stall, crouching low to meet your eyes. “Hey,” he murmured. “It’s just us.”

When his hand lifted to touch your arm, you instinctively recoiled, a sharp flinch tightening your shoulders as if bracing for a strike. The motion was automatic, carved into you by years you’d tried to leave behind.

Wilson froze. His chest ached at the sight. He didn’t push, didn’t crowd you. He pulled his hand back slowly, palms open, voice steady. “I’m not going to hurt you. Never. Not me, not House. You’re safe.”

Your breath trembled, and the shame of the reflex burned as hot as the tears still spilling down your cheeks. But Wilson didn’t look hurt, didn’t look offended. He just stayed right there, patient, letting you choose.

After a long moment, you leaned forward. This time, when he reached for you, it was slow, deliberate, giving you every second to stop him if you needed to. You didn’t. You let him fold you carefully into his arms.

The first touch made you tense, trembling, waiting for pain that never came. Instead, Wilson’s hold was gentle, warm, protective, steady. Your body shook once more before finally sinking against him, your face pressed into his shoulder.

Outside the stall, House shifted his weight, the cane tapping lightly against the tile. “You flinched,” he said quietly, not cruelly but matter-of-fact, like he’d noticed something important. “Means your brain’s still lying to you. Wilson’ll just have to prove it wrong.”

Wilson shot him a look, but didn’t answer. His focus stayed on you, rubbing slow circles against your back. “It’s okay,” he whispered, low and certain. “I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to happen to you here. Not while we’re with you.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that for once, someone wasn’t going to hurt you.

Safe to Cry (CG! James Wilson x GN! Reader)

Summary: You expect scolding, but Wilson offers comfort, warmth, and the space to let your tears fall safely.

Warning: This fic contains age regression and angst.

Your chest hurts before the tears even start. You know the signs, tight throat, shaky hands, that sinking feeling in your belly. You try to hold it back, to be quiet, because that’s what you were always told to do. Don’t cry. Don’t be dramatic. Don’t make a scene.

But the sob slips out anyway. Just one, then another, until you’re curled small on Wilson’s couch, sleeves pressed to your face, trying to muffle the sound. You’re bracing for the sharp words, for someone to tell you to stop being ridiculous-

But none come.

Instead, there’s a soft shuffle of footsteps. Then a weight dips the cushion beside you. A warm hand, steady and careful, rests against your shoulder.

“Hey,” Wilson’s voice is low, like he’s afraid of startling you. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

You shake your head, unable to answer, the shame burning hotter than your tears.

But Wilson doesn’t press. He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He just eases you closer, guiding you against his chest. His shirt smells like laundry soap and his heartbeat is slow, grounding.

“You don’t have to hold it in with me,” he murmurs. “Crying’s not a bad thing. It just means you’ve got big feelings. And I’d rather you let them out than hurt yourself trying to hide them.”

The words break something open in you. The tears come harder, but his arms only tighten, holding you safe, as though you’re not a burden at all. He rocks you gently, the way you imagine he would with a child, whispering soft things you can barely hear over your own sobs: It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just let it out.

By the time the crying slows, your body feels wrung out and heavy, but you’re cocooned in warmth. Wilson brushes a hand through your hair, kisses your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t ever have to be afraid of crying in front of me,” he says quietly. “I’ll never punish you for needing comfort. That’s what I’m here for.”

You sniffle, embarrassed, and mumble something about being a mess. Wilson just huffs a little laugh, tilting your chin so you’ll meet his eyes.

“Mess?” he repeats gently. “You look like someone who needs tissues, water, and maybe a lollipop. That’s hardly catastrophic.”

It makes you laugh, small and watery, but a laugh nonetheless. Wilson beams like you’ve just made his entire week.

“Sit tight,” he says, easing you back against the cushions. “Doctor’s orders.”

He disappears into the kitchen, leaving the faint clink of cupboards and the hum of the freezer door. When he returns, he’s armed with tissues, a glass of water, and, true to his word, a lollipop, unwrapped and waiting for you.

He presses the tissue into your hand first, dabbing at your damp cheeks with exaggerated care before handing over the water. “Hydration,” he says seriously, as though this is part of a medical protocol.

Then he offers the lollipop, raising his brows like he’s testing you. “Now, this one’s optional. But I find sugar has a decent success rate in post-cry recovery.”

You giggle, the sound surprising even yourself, and take it. The strawberry taste is sweet on your tongue, grounding in a new way.

Wilson watches you with soft eyes, leaning back but staying close enough that his knee brushes yours. He doesn’t fill the silence with questions or try to fix what made you cry. Instead, he lets you sit there, warm and safe, sharing quiet company.

Eventually, when your breathing is steady again, he nudges you gently. “See? Crying doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you human. And I happen to like you just the way you are.”

Your throat aches, but not from tears this time. You lean against him, and he wraps his arm around you without hesitation, pressing a kiss to your forehead like he means it.

And for once, you believe it.

Would you do a traumatized little like 5-6 who suffers with PTSD/flashbacks and is weary to trust house because she thinks Noone intends well for her so he lowkey has to be nice to her and treat her softer than others but is still like a cocky jerk but in a nice way

Fractured, Not Broken (CG! Gregory House x GN! Reader)

Summary: After surviving an abusive childhood, you cope with PTSD while working as an intern under Dr. Gregory House. When a trigger pushes you into regression at the hospital, House unexpectedly steps in as a caregiver, showing you safety and trust for the first time.

Warning: Abuse, emotional trauma, physical trauma, PTSD, age regression, self-harm triggers, violence, mentions of burn injuries, anxiety, flashbacks, hospital setting, sensitive mental health themes

But I want to be spammed by your requests so please dont worry. I like requests! And I liked this one!

Since the day you were born, luck had never been on your side. Your parents were cruel, emotionally, physically, in every way that left scars long after the incidents ended. Your father’s anger had left permanent marks on your arms, burn scars from cigarettes that still ached sometimes, both physically and emotionally.

Your mother never intervened, she was silent, compliant, and as invisible to you as you had always been to the world.

Growing up, you learned quickly that you were a burden. Teachers didn’t notice you, classmates avoided you, and your voice barely seemed to exist. Your self-worth was practically nonexistent. And even now, years later, the past still reached out for you in sudden flashes, a scream, a screech of tires, a slammed door, triggers that hurled you back to moments you desperately wanted to forget.

You didn’t have a childhood. You were forced to cook, clean, and fetch things for your father, carefully navigating his temper while trying to survive.

When you finally turned eighteen, freedom felt like the first breath of fresh air after decades of suffocation. You left that house and never looked back.

Your therapist suggested age regression as a coping mechanism, and at first, it seemed strange, but you realized you’d already been doing it instinctively. Whenever trauma resurfaced, you retreated mentally to a younger, safer version of yourself. It was your shield against the world.

Moving to New Jersey for university was the first real step into independence. Studying medicine, you swore you’d dedicate your life to preventing the kind of pain you endured from happening to others. And somehow, despite all your lingering doubts, your resume earned you a place at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It felt unreal, like you’d finally achieved something for yourself. Yet even with that success, the echoes of your past lingered, whispering that you didn’t truly belong.

Your attending was Dr. Gregory House. You researched him out of both admiration and curiosity, brilliant, unorthodox, mercilessly blunt, but undeniably gifted. You were eager to learn, to prove yourself, to finally be seen.

On your first day, you got lost navigating the hospital corridors. When you finally arrived outside House’s office, three other doctors were there. Your heart pounded.

“I-I’m (Y/N) (L/N), the new intern,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, offering a small, shy smile.

House’s piercing blue eyes studied you, narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher you. “Ah, (L/N). Great start, late on your first day. I’ll let it slide this time. This is Cameron, Chase, and Foreman.” He gestured to each of them. Cameron smiled politely, Foreman nodded respectfully, and Chase’s easy grin made your stomach twist in nervous anticipation.

House launched into his case discussion, scribbling symptoms on the board, pushing the team for insights. You racked your brain and, almost automatically, recognized the pattern. Amyloidosis. Rare, serious, fitting perfectly. You muttered it quietly, almost afraid someone would hear. House did.

A faint, approving smirk tugged at his lips. “Not bad, (L/N). That’s a strong first guess.”

From that moment, you had caught his attention. For reasons he couldn’t quite name, he wanted to know you, beyond the intern, beyond the intelligence, to the person beneath. One late night, curiosity led him to your medical records. Each page pulled at him, your history gnawing at something in him that he rarely let surface.

Burn scars. PTSD. Trauma that didn’t fade. And yet here you were, functioning, surviving, striving. Something inside him softened, a rare, unexpected empathy tugging at him.

The next day, House had the rest of the team handle their own tasks, leaving you alone with him. He approached slowly, cane tapping softly against the floor. “Can I see your arm?” His voice lacked the usual sarcasm, replaced with a gentle, careful tone.

You hesitated, looking away, blinking back tears. You hadn’t let anyone see this side of you, not anyone. Not in years. But somehow, it felt safe with him.

His hands hovered over your arm, tracing the scars lightly. “What happened?”

No witty remark, no puzzle to solve. Just genuine concern. You shared your story, the words spilling out in a trembling whisper. And for once, someone didn’t dismiss you. Even your age regression, which he lightly teased as “adorable,” felt safe enough to admit.

Months passed. You stabilized, therapy helping, confidence growing. But stability was fragile.

One day, you were assigned a patient with burns. The moment you stepped into the room, the past hit you like a physical blow. You were back in that smoke-filled living room, your father’s anger pressing down, the sting of burning flesh. Panic surged. Your knees nearly buckled, and before you could think, you regressed to the age you were at that point of time, five years old.

Hiding in the bathroom, you clutched your lab coat, sobbing quietly, trying desperately to gather yourself. But the fear refused to release you. You couldn’t go back out there, not yet.

Then you heard it, the soft tap of a cane against the tiles.

House was here.

“Hey.” House said. “You’re safe. I promise.”

You sniffled, burying your face further into your arms, but the sound of his voice, calm and grounding, made your trembling slow just a little. He crouched slightly so that his eyes were level with yours. “Look at me, kiddo.”

You hesitated, fear still prickling at your skin, but curiosity and a strange trust nudged you. Slowly, you peeked. His blue eyes were different than usual. No sarcasm, no judgment. Just patience, and for some inexplicable reason, care.

“I know it’s scary,” he said quietly. “I get it. Things hurt, they leave scars. You don’t have to face it alone.” He reached out carefully, letting his hand hover near yours, not forcing contact. “I can’t fix the past. Nobody can. But I can… help you survive it. Right here, right now.”

The words sank in slowly, almost painfully. Nobody had ever said anything like that to you. Not your parents. Not teachers. Not friends. But here he was, offering something you didn’t even know you needed, safety.

“You s-stay..?” you whispered, voice barely audible. Your words were messy.

House’s smirk flickered, he could never resist a little teasing, even now, but it was gentler than usual. “Yeah. I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you insist on turning into a five year old mess in a bathroom, I’m sticking around.”

That tiny touch of humor made something inside you relax enough to let out a shaky laugh, muffled against the lab coat. He waited, patient, letting you regain control at your own pace.

After a few long moments, you felt brave enough to speak again. “I… I don wan be seen like this..”

House shook his head slowly, leaning closer. “Then don’t. You’re not showing this to anyone but me. And if anyone ever tries to… we’ll deal with it together. Capisce?”

You nodded, a little of the tension seeping out. You dared a small smile. “Okay…”

He offered his hand, half as an anchor, half as a lifeline. Tentatively, you took it, smaller fingers gripping his rougher, stronger ones. “Good,” he said, squeezing gently. “Now let’s get you through this. Step by step. One breath at a time.”

For the next few minutes, House guided you through grounding techniques you had practiced in therapy, slow breaths, naming objects in the room, counting to ten. He didn’t rush you, didn’t speak too much, just there, a constant presence in the storm.

When your sobs finally faded and your body stopped shaking, you leaned against him, still small, still vulnerable, but feeling… safe. For the first time, you realized it wasn’t weak to need someone.

“See?” House murmured, resting a hand on your back. “You’re okay. You made it. And I’ve got you.”

You rested your forehead against his chest, heart still racing but steadier now. “T-thank you.” You whispered.

House’s rare, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re the one who survived it all this long. I’m just here to make sure you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

For the first time in your life, the idea of letting someone in, letting someone care for you didn’t feel terrifying. It felt possible. And with House at your side, you felt, maybe for the first time, like it truly could be okay.

He stayed with you until you felt ready to leave the bathroom, guiding you gently back into the world outside, step by step. And though the world beyond still held its dangers, for the first time, you knew you didn’t have to face them alone.