#turnabout

Chapter 16: Disgruntled, Disenchanted, Disillusioned

Gregory House x reader | set in season 8 after Cuddy breaks up with House | AU where house marries the reader instead of dominika| Please reblog or give feedback if you enjoyed :)

Masterlist | Chapter 14 |

“So,” Wilson says, his hands on the wheel. The wipers swish rhythmically back and forth, beating off the rain. “Where did you live before you moved in with House?”

“I lived with my parents,” you say.

“You guys close?” Wilson asks, and you smile sadly. “My folks were glad to see the last of me when I left for college.”

“We were,” you say, “until I married House.”

“Oh,” he says, turning his head slightly to glance at you briefly. The traffic light turns red, and Wilson shifts the gear to park as other cars form a cage around you.

“It's not a big deal. They were just upset they didn't get to pick out who I married. A nice, respectable, boring guy with the same values as them.”

“Right,” Wilson says slowly, “so you swung the other way? Married the local anarchist?”

“No,” you laugh. “I liked House. I thought he was smart, and funny. And handsome.”

Wilson stares at you and you purse your lips, embarrassed.

“What can I say,” you look down at your hands, suddenly deflating. “Love makes you blind.”

You exhale slightly, crumpling up the receipts. “Why does House hate me so much?”

“He doesn't hate you,” Wilson tries to explain helplessly, “he's just… very emotionally constipated. He's—” he stutters slightly. “He doesn't know how to deal with someone who actually wants him. He can't deal with it, so he pushes them away, and when that doesn’t work—he pushes harder, and panics when there’s distance. And then—“ Wilson exhales. “Yeah, it doesn’t go well.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes. The traffic light switches green and the jam flows like a river recently replenished.

“He’s upset, I think,” you tuck your hair behind an ear, “Because I'm not talking to him anymore. Avoiding him.” You sigh. “I didn’t do it to hurt him. It’s just—before… whatever happened with Cuddy—he told her marrying me was a mistake. It made me stop hoping he could want me like I wanted him. I thought there was no point in anything if I was just someone to warm the bed while he pined over another woman. It’d just hurt me in the end.”

Wilson sighs and nods. “He’s an idiot.”

He parks the car outside your residential building.

“Well,” you say, trying to sound cheerful. “This is my stop.” You smile at him. “Thanks for dinner and driving me home.”

“Anytime,” Wilson says, and he waves you goodbye as you make your way into the building.

You pick at your nails as the elevator creaks and slowly moves up, up, up.

The bell clangs and you step out, the sound of your feet on the wooden floorboards a loud echo in the quiet halls.

Your keys jingle as you fish them out of your purse. You unlock the front door and step inside.

The lights are on. The TV is blaring. House is home.

Splendid.

You inhale deeply, school your features into a façade of indifference, and pad into the living room.

House is lounging on the couch, his arms tucked behind his head as he lazily flicks through the channels on the TV. His eyes snap to yours as you walk in.

“You're home early,” he rasps, dropping the remote on the coffee table. You follow his eyes to the clock, which reads ten pm. Two monster trucks collide and burst into flames on the TV. His face is illuminated by flickering orange and reds in the otherwise dark room.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, toe off your sneakers, and hang your keys on the hook without looking at him.

House scoffs and sits upright. “Guess silent treatment’s next on the list. You crossed out “tantrum” in the hospital bathroom, didn't you?”

“I'm not talking to you,” you say and shut the bedroom door behind you.

The door clicks, and there is silence.

You sigh and throw yourself onto the bed. The mattress bounces as you land face first onto it and then settles, vibrations setting along the frame and the ground.

You close your eyes—

and feel your ears rush with the rhythmic beat of your heart as you hear footsteps and the tap of a cane—getting louder and louder until the door swings open and House stalks in.

“You're pathetic,” he spits out, eyes boring holes into your back, “you won't talk to me, but you'll lie on your stomach and wait for me to waltz into the bedroom and fuck you? You know to have make up sex, you need to make up, don't you?”

You push yourself onto your elbows and stare at him. “Why would I make up with you? What did I do? You cheated on me.”

House opens his mouth, but you interrupt him.

“Oh wait, we're not an item. My bad. So, why are you here again?”

“You've been pissed since I've been back. Funny how self-awareness kicks in a year too late,” he says, spewing vitriol.

“So what? You harass me, you provoke me, you try to seduce me—so we can go back to how everything was before you left.”

He stares at you as you continue. “I liked you. I wanted to be with you—I wanted you to like me back—but then I understood that you'd never get over Cuddy—”

House cuts you off, lurching closer to you. “This has nothing to do with Cuddy. This has everything to do with how self-absorbed you are and how you expect everything to go your way.”

You huff. “Every time I tried to build an actual relationship with you, you pushed me away—”

“Get over it,” House scoffs,”You've had plenty of chances to repair our relationship. Don't act like a baby when I get someone to touch me when you don't.”

You bite your lip and blink away tears. “I would have touched you if you hadn't made me feel like this entire relationship was a mistake.”

House limps closer to you, “Guess you should have waited until your prefrontal cortex came online before latching onto the closest guy you could pretend was your dad.”

“What are you talking about?”

House rolls his eyes. “Don't act surprised. I could smell it from a mile away.” He licks his lips as he looks back at you. “That, and I read your therapist’s notes.”

He inches closer to you and scrunches his face up in mock-distress. “Daddy never loved you, did he?”

Speechless, you blink blankly at him for a few seconds, your face flushed with anger and humiliation.

You laugh mirthlessly. “You really, really suck, House.”

He stares at you as you jump off the bed and hurry out of the apartment.

You're jabbing the elevator buttons aggressively—anything to get away, anything to leave before he follows you and makes this unbearably public—the doors open and you're face to face with Wilson.

“You forgot your pho—” He frowns at you in concern. “Don't tell me he fought with you again.”

“He read my therapist’s notes,” you smile tightly.”Unfair advantage, I guess.”

Wilson stares at you.”He—”

“It doesn't matter,” you sigh, taking your phone from him. You step inside the elevators with him, and the doors shut behind you as the two of you descend downwards. “I'm going to take a break.”

Wilson considers it. “Where will you go?”

“No idea,” you say, as the doors open, “but I can probably find a motel.”

“Nope,” Wilson says, “you can stay with me.”

“I can't just—”

“I have an extra room. It has a locked door, a bathroom—and I won't tell House.”

You step out with him into the cold air. It has stopped raining. “Thank you.”

“You don't need to thank me,” Wilson says as he opens the car door for you.

You sit.

Your reflection blinks wearily back at you from the windscreen for a second, and then you close your eyes.

Gregory House tells himself it wasn't his fault.

Yes, revealing he'd crossed several unspoken rules and broken some minor laws to get inside your head was a mistake, but only did it because you weren't giving him a chance to do it organically.

He lies on the bed, the sheets cool beneath him. The lights are dimmed down low, and the fan hits a cool burst of air every time it swivels to look at him.

It's three am, and you still haven't come back since you'd stormed out of the apartment.

House avoids picturing your face in his head, and pushes down that awful, lingering feeling in his chest whenever he thinks about how your face slacked.

It's just acid reflux.

Sleep finds him, fragmented and fitful. He wakes with sunlight creeping coyly onto his face, and blinks blearily.

Half-awake, House reaches out to touch where you usually are—to lightly touch your hip, enough to confirm you're here with him, not to wake—but his hand touches coarse cotton.

He looks to your side of the bed. It was empty, unrumpled. You haven't come home since last night.

He grunts, slowly inches out of bed and limps into the bathroom. The muscles of his leg are stiffer than usual; pain greets him with every step: the nerve firing straight into his cortex with every step, every brush of fabric.

House moans softly as he lowers himself onto the toilet—no one to hear him, he thinks wryly—a thin layer of sweat already sticking his hair to his forehead.

After he's dragged himself out of the apartment, he limps to his car, leaning on his cane a little more heavily than usual.

He can't help but glance around warily, like you might jump out and force him to drive you to the hospital.

Those days are long gone.

House shoves his cane in, buckles his seat belt, and drives to the hospital.

After his fellows bring along a new case and go through the differential, he shoos them out of his office, lounges back in his chair, and plays catch with his ball.

It hits the glass with quiet thumps. The nurses outside gather and shoot his dirty looks, but he pays them no mind.

He's deep in thought when Wilson enters his office.

“Where is she?” House asks, catching the ball when it ricochets back towards him from the ball.

Wilson frowns. “Ah, yes, House. A very good morning to you too.”

“I know she came home with you last night. The bus comes home by seven-thirty, not ten,” House says, widening his eyes for effect as he slides his chair over to face Wilson.

Wilson sighs, rubbing his chin with a hand as he looks somewhere to House's right. “Yes, I dropped her home after I found her crying in the hospital lobby.”

“You've always been a sucker for damsels in distress, haven't you?” House asks, sneering. “What, is she one of your pity projects? Are you going to sleep with her too?”

“You seem awfully concerned for someone who claims to not care,” Wilson retorts, leaning back in his chair.

Wilson purses his lips. “She was upset.”

House scoffs, looking away, and Wilson continues. “No, really. She was upset.”

“I was upset when she ignored me,” House says, shrugging. He spins in his chair, using his cane as leverage. “Maybe I just wanted her to actually care.”

“She did care, House!” Wilson says, and House rolls his eyes. “The day you drove your car into Cuddy's living room, the first thing she asked me was if you were going to be okay! When I told her I was done with you, she looked me in the eyes and asked me how I could abandon my best friend! She moped for months while you were gone—even Foreman tried to cheer her up!”

A beat. House can't meet Wilson's eyes. He looks away.

“What changed?” He mutters, picking at his nails.

Wilson sighs. “She loved you, House, but she finally realized you treated her like crap. She didn't want to be hurt like that again.”

House rubs his eyes. “I might have read her therapist’s notes.”

Wilson sighs again. “You wanted to know if she brought you up. What she really thought of you.” He gets up. “You don't get to just take that, House. If you want it, you'll have to earn it.”

“Her—”

Wilson holds up his hands. “I don't want to know. She's the one you should be apologizing to.”

House watches Wilson leave, the glass door swinging shut behind him. He sits for a moment longer, and then limps out of his office.

Outside, the hospital is busy and bustling. He searches for your face amongst them, and finds you leaning against the nurses’ station, jotting something down on your notebook.

Your eyes meet him and a jolt goes down his spine. You hold the eye contact for a few seconds, your hair falling out of whatever knot you tied it in, dark circles stark against your skin.

He hates that you don't wear your heart on your sleeve anymore. He hates that it's his fault.

House looks away before you do. By the time he looks back, you've disappeared.

He sighs. Chasing you has never been easy, and he doubts you'll make an exception this time.

He's only got himself to blame.